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psalloacappella · 4 years

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Red (oneshot)

Title: Red Pairing: SasuSaku legit i don’t write anything else Word Count: 3400~ Rating: E, for like explicit, not for everyone. NSFW. Ya get it. Tags/What you’ll see: Sakura getting the office and oral she deserves

Summary: An old dress, a new office — Uchiha Sasuke offers regards to both.

Ao3 | FFN | ↓

(I have to preface when I post this that my top-tier amazing friend convinced me to do so and reminded me not to delete it this morning in the cold sober dawn lol. I consider this absolutely self-indulgent)

“Ah, Sakura?”

Jade eyes alight and ringed with red, her subordinate regrets interrupting what seems to be a bout of sickness or sadness; she’s been busy lately. They all are.

Spine bent in bass clef camber, in exhaustion, she straightens at his words into a ramrod illustration of diligence. Over scrolls and haphazard paperwork, empty mugs sitting in their own fossilized dregs, she snatches up a fountain pen to preserve her dignity and reputation. At her age she’s been handed enormous tasks that she only imagined in her wildest dreams, and most of those, in the past, were of love and marriage and not the nightmares and duties which replaced them.

Extreme stress manifests in mysterious and chaotic ways; she intuitively knows this, especially today, as she basks in the quiet glances, the way their eyes follow her long, long legs leading into ankles in heels that feel like cages. Her choice of a dress underneath her white coat today feels like a wanton beacon, but her battle reputation precedes her, legendary and terrifying; no one will dare blithely approach legs like those or earn the ire of her dangerous hands, so delicate until they’re crushing mountains and throats.

Electricity, a buzzing in the marrow of her bones; she taps the pen on the desk in a stilted rhythm.

She regards the young medic with a hazy gaze for a moment, then waves a hand. “Sorry, I’m just—”

He steps over the threshold; Sakura raises her chin, lips taut.

“No no, I’m sorry,” he insists. Under her bright eyes he feels the beginnings of idiocy and bumbling; his boss makes him tongue-tied, stupid. Younger than him, in a league of her own as she stands at shoulders with new legends; lethal, inured to all the stories about herself.

He notices the ochre on her lips like an invitation.

“I wouldn’t come too close today,” she says. Grants him a demure smile, the type that doesn’t quite fool her friends but still works with fools like him. “I’m not feeling the best. It could be contagious, and that wouldn’t be helpful to our operations right now.”

“Yes, of course.” Agreeing, nodding fervently with the obedience of a particularly compliant breed of dog. “If I may — you work so much. Too young to be feeling so tired.”

A laugh, it bubbles — starts from her chest as a giggle and drips from her lips as honey. Makes her quake, mottled red seeping through the skin of her chest as a sieve, collarbones sharp.

She looks feverish; she looks like a dream.

In turn she struggles to keep the waver out of her voice, knowing she’s lit up as fulgent as rouge festival lanterns and there's no way to kill the current.

I’ll never live this down — have to get him out of here

The cough she musters up is weak and if this was Ino, or gods forbid, her teacher, they’d call it pathetic. For a young man trapped in her sphere of admiring attraction, it does nothing but induce sympathy. But her legs are shaking, the situation is dire, and she’s loath to have another round of torrid rumor on the flapping lips of civilians and staff.

“Ah!”

At her cry, she lets her temple fall into her hand and her subordinate rushes forward. Gasping, she raises her other one, trembling.

“No, please. That sounded worse than it was. Just a headache coming on. In fact,” she rasps, “if you can let Shizune know I’ll be taking the next hour to recoup? A nap, maybe that’ll help.”

“I don’t know if I can leave you like this.” His tentative step earns her sharp gaze again, pursed lips that start his mind wandering in a way that makes him blush. Physically shaking his head to clear it, he nods slowly, finally, backing out of the doorway.

The hollow sound of Sakura’s kneecap hitting the underside of the desk rings in the space. Her gullible underling starts forward again, but the foreboding slap of her hand on the desk stops him cold. Acute, like it’s one to the face.

Sakura brings her knees together, swift, crushing his damn near regal bone structure and the handsome high bridge of his nose between the muscle of her thighs. A warning.

She glances down at him, he’s slicked with sweat — the glimpse of his glittering black eye and swirling purple one bring her too close to a wave she can’t indulge; she’s still this unwanted visitor’s boss until he closes the fucking door.

“Just me being clumsy! Do as I’ve asked and let her know, and,” here her breath hitches, hand leaving the desk, fingers burying themselves in dark messy hair, “th-thank you for worrying. I appreciate it.”

She’ll pay for the smile she gives this man, a sparkle of hope, like he’ll ever earn his boss’s favor in that way, as if he’ll measure up in any lifetime to the man that has her heart, the man on his knees under her desk.

“Sure. I mean,” horrified at his own too-familiar tone, “of course, right away, ma’am. Miss. I—”

“Oh go now. ” It stutters out in jete musical meter, resembling pain — or other things. “Please.”

She doesn’t have to tell him to close the door, though she’s surprised he didn’t find another excuse to stay with her. Oh, he has it bad. But there’s no time to think —

Sinking into her chair, her hands grip the armrests with an intensity that forces music from them, cracking underneath her fingers. And now all the words of the last few minutes tumble from her lips, an unintelligible medley of curses and pleas cradling the half-formed shell of his name.

Without warning, she yanks him back by the hair and almost comes right there: His eyes scalding her, the mess on his stupid and incredibly fuckable face, a talented and dangerous mouth settling into a smirk as he thumbs an errant bit of her off his lip.

“That was close. Ah, so are you.”

He says it with such smugness and vanity. Quivering in her office chair under nothing but his stare, still in the grips of the unrelenting buzz and hum he’s enticed, and he absolutely notices.

“One of these days, we’ll be caught!” Tries to sound stern even as he rolls his neck and shoulders with a pithy nonchalance. “Stop that. So arrogant, preening like that—”

“Me? That’s rich.” He lazily trails a finger from her swollen, hot clit to her opening, lingering and lush to force all the heat and sounds he’s craving — her fingernails dig into her thigh while the pallor of her skin and dress seep and marry, reflections of one another. “Why did you wear this, Sakura?” Nudges the fabric with his nose, and she mumbles something hazy under his resumed touch; lost in orbit, in a void, in a place unearthly.

He starts the routine again, pressing his mouth to the inside of her thigh. Frowns at the irritating strip of fabric that constitutes clothing; it’s been twisted and pushed aside anyway. Her skin burning against his face, a lean cord of muscle taut underneath her pale skin. Vaguely threatening, but she’s yet to crush him to death and he’s on the second round of bringing her there and back again, and close calls such as those seem to stoke something smoldering. Some days, it feels like the only thing worth pulling himself out of bed for.

He fucks like he fights: Relentless, consuming. But that essential difference for the former is he never gives an inch; here, he pours it all in, something like an endless apology. Maybe she knows and that’s why she wears the red dress he won’t admit he prefers and paints her lips and runs the entirety of this village hospital system with grace and her own brand of gentle ascendancy — why he’s desperate for just the ragged edge of danger.

One of her legs shudders, the frenzied tap-tap-tap of her heel stammering against the floor in a cadence fit for instruments. “Sasuke-kun.”

Between the presses of his lips leading a hot, agonizing march back to her core, an arrogant noise in his throat escapes, rich and amused. “So this — is your new office?”

“Mmm,” she confirms, still clinging to the chair. The only support she has; the room’s spinning and every cell is vibrating, pink eyebrows knitted as she fights to remain upright and solid and somewhat human because the door’s not locked and she knows he knows, knows he doesn’t care and frankly neither, really, does she. Melting like basalt in unending, stifling heat.

Calloused fingers walk up the soft skin of her calf, catching and searing, sundering the delicate layer where they brush to release the pent-up steam underneath.

He’s fire; she is earth.

Always, all of him ablaze — possessive in its own discipline but a thing begging for taming. He builds the pyre here, as he has been for the last hour or so, to focus himself, patiently coaxing it into something chaotic but fruitful. Lately all he’s felt is the joyless, sober embodiment of a tool to be used though perhaps this is the same, a compulsion by any other name.

But it can’t be, not with her looking like this. Striding down her hallways with purpose while bending the horrors and ills of the world to her indomitable will. Certainly this dress is no accident, as it never is, not with him coming off a mission full of blood and necessary evil.

Dragging the thin, sorry excuse for fabric down the burning skin of her leg, Sasuke’s tongue finds her clit with terrifying precision and rips a moan from her throat, pulling a jerk of her hips against his mouth. The shockwave shared, vibrating as wires intertwined, a forcible current.

Leans back, takes her in: Her trembling, knuckles white from the fatal grip on the arms of the chair, knees sinking inward toward one another. The sight of this rich red dress against the stark, starched white of her coat blending with the mottled pinks and crimsons painting her cheeks and chest. Unraveling before him, extraordinary, even while this space belongs to her.

This, sometimes, feels like undeserved forgiveness.

Because she is always, always in living color.

Adjusts his own knees, shifts, a catch of air in his throat as he accommodates the hard length of his own caged cock. They’re no stranger to claiming desks and other surfaces as their own, but she has strings on him and there's authority in here now, where she holds men at the door with a flicker of her gentle jade eyes borne of the grueling process which created her.

Sliding the useless fabric into his pocket, raises his chin to her. Stares as she bites her lip and struggles for composure, though it’s difficult under the gaze of a man like this.

He waits, and the only sounds are ragged breathing from both.

“Please,” she whispers. Quivering, even at the ask. “Before someone comes back.”

“You worry so much,” he says. “Relax.”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“What did I tell you,” he hisses, “about apologies?”

She blinks, startled, and her lips part. A sparkle, a brilliance emerging in her eyes as she clenches and unclenches her fingers. Still, they shake a bit, the anticipation and remnants of the rise and current before still lingering, lying in wait. Predatory. A wetness floods to her lips and she swallows it down, leveling her eyes to his glittering, savage gaze.

With a deep inhale, she spreads herself before him, knees apart. Blushing invisible, lost in the red that’s already dappled every inch of her, she exhales the rest of her timidity with an edged, sharp expression and hopes she’s being clear—

Sakura just barely glimpses the fierce red in his gaze before he answers with his tongue, deft, ardent, and divine.

Breaking the chair arms beneath her delicate hands again, scrabbling to stay on the beautiful planet before it turns her loose. Sinking, again, the boundaries of atoms dissolving — they are nowhere but bliss.

Like before, the careful building of a fire, the agonizing escalation: He drops a kiss here, employs a firm tongue there, skirting the easy option in favor of the tease as he peels her back, layer by layer. Running it the length of her slit, heart skipping a bit at the dangerous quake of her thigh muscle; how long it's taken to differentiate between pleasure and impending crush. Again, the sensation of crawling into the den of something prized and feral. He feels it, her writhing and the pace and canter of her breathing and she’s liquid gold, fucking melting —

Her hips jerk, hard, when his tongue swirls around her clit, the cry coming from her jagged as broken glass and trembling like music, all things that make his own situation difficult to manage but he will, because these sounds entrench him firmly in reality. Alive. Knees screaming on the hardwood floor, unyielding as his cock cradled only by fabric and not as he wishes, by her hands or her red, red lips like the kind she’s wearing now.

Instead he slows her down again, pendulum swings between teasing and a furious rhythm that coaxes the full spectrum of human sounds from her beautiful throat. Rewarded for it with a whiny gasp as if breaking the surface of water, mingling with his own as he catches his breath. The end of it careens into words, something rough, he’s not even quite sure what he’s saying but he imagines, neither does she.

This—fucking dress—!

Nice, isn’t it?

Gets you attention

But only from you, S-Sasuke-kun

And her hand lands on his head again, thin fingers yanking his hair and guiding him as he splays her open, lays her bare. His name never quite fully leaves her lips, dancing with fragments of alternating pleas and curses. Just for that, for something he’d never thought he’d ever hear in his life, he grimly knows he’d write a fucking sonnet just to hear her like this — and with his tongue, he does, or at least approximates. The tremors of her shift deeper now, approaching release; she’s so slick it feels vile, indulgence in sin. All of which is smeared on his lips, his face, tasting of tang and salt; how many times has he been told he’s selfish? Guilty. Greedy, too, as he pauses to breathe—

looking up at her, he has an idea but can’t possibly know the extent of this, how she’s absolutely wrung out and beyond this dimension, hell, this galaxy, every inch of her humming in tune with the universe and brimming with absolute, inescapable heat, muscles taut and and begging for climax. Though the soft edges of her green eyes that see through him and everything else, rolling back, mouth open and lips parted in mimeo of an oracle, sunken in the weight of divinity, might give him some clue.

Don’t stop, please—!

— he’s there, with his fingers buried and soaked and deep, playing that just-right rhythm with a thumb on her clit that’s been worked to the edge and back again over the span of her busy afternoon. Hairs part from his scalp without remorse; her nails scrabbling and fingers clinging as she prays and sighs and curses occasionally, quietly, into the limp back of her hand. As if she’s really still trying to maintain a semblance of professionalism in the throes of being launched into orbit.

So very close. He knows by the slightly erratic rhythm, the pulsating of muscles inside and out and around him, tight and he steals a quick breath to endure and ease his fingers out to redouble effort with his mouth because the way she’s sounding, that sharp icy note on the ragged edge of pleasure and pain, tends to be the signal, the tipping point. The tremor her free hand sends through the bones of the chair. Knees apart as far as she can manage and desperately meeting him at the hilt —

Steady through until the end.

Release comes as glass shattering, atoms splitting. Unintelligible words trapped in amber, in a moment, in desire. With a mouth full of fire, he rides it with her through every wave, persisting through her slow and ebbing tumble back down to earth. To him.

He leans back at last, groaning at the pain in his knees. Watches her tremble and twitch, wringing out the very last dregs of her orgasm, displacing everything coherent left in her head.

Seconds stretch into minutes, and he gets to his feet as she languishes in a pool of pleasure, steeping as scalding tea.

At some point her hand rises to her own lips, limp and wavering, to clean her own unabashed drippings with an expression of dizzy surprise. The white dissipates from her vision and she finds his eyes on her again, one still richly red in its sole mission of memorizing the glowing after.

“Oh.” That’s all she says, breathless.

Sasuke brings fingers across his own mouth, rolls his jaw side to side, and something about his expression of smug satisfaction resonates, strings of a plucked instrument, a pull again of desire that threatens to ruin the sanctity of this brand new office and the role that comes with it.

For a moment she leverages the chair to rise, then loses strength — she lowers herself back in it, arms still quaking.

She reaches for him, plucking at his shirt. Hair flyaway, askew from her frenzied fingers, still in his mission gear.

Yanking him down by the collar, she crashes her mouth against his, red and hot, the tang and taste of herself immiscible with his own. Whatever sound he makes, this growl or rumble or ache, splits them open.

What pulls them apart is the grating sound of their former sensei’s voice: “I heard from a bird that someone in here was sick?”

Sasuke feels them in the room now and pulls away. Half-turns, finds himself leaning on her desk in a way that’s almost too casual, but necessary — his knees are shot through. Sakura smiles too widely, masking a secret; after all, both still feel the pinpricks of liquids drying in the new air.

“From your darling subordinate,” Kakashi twinkles, grinning underneath his mask.

“That one who follows you around like a puppy,” Naruto supplies, pouting.

Kakashi tilts his head toward him, both still lingering over the threshold. “Terrible, hm?”

Naruto misses the jibe and instead turns his wide ocean eyes on her new space. Whistles. “Man, Sakura-chan, this office is niiice. I’m jealous.”

“You’ll be in your new one soon enough,” she says, and there she is, her usual self. “I have faith. Anyway, this office comes with responsibility.”

“Well if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“He was under the impression you were sick. Looking at you now, though,” and here Kakashi pauses in a manner all too deliberate, eyes sweeping over Sasuke’s cloak and belongings in a chair, and ends it with looking right at him, “you seem all right. Exhausted, I imagine.”

Her flush threatens to undo them both.

“He’s . . . sweet. To care.”

“He’s a fool,” Sasuke mutters.

“Perfect, you’re dressed nice,” Naruto crows. “How did you know we’d come make you celebrate? You didn’t eat, I bet you didn’t!” He eyes Sasuke up and down, at his unusually ruffled appearance, and clicks his tongue. “You didn’t even go home first, did you? Shitty boyfriend.”

The damage he committed on his recent mission pales in comparison to the crimes Sasuke wants to indulge now.

“Anyway, we’ll wait out here. After all,” Kakashi says, inclining his head, “this is your space now.”

Sakura exhales long and slow as they step out into the hallway. Covering her face with her hands, she groans. “No matter my job, I’ll never escape embarrassment, huh?”

Standing at last, she readjusts her clothes and kisses the underside of Sasuke’s chin. She reaches for his pocket and he moves easily out of her grasp.

“Sasuke-kun!”

“Pointless now. I’ll keep it.”

No matter what time, season, dimension, he regards all of her — the dress, the lips that held their color, the new flush simmering on her neck and chest — and craves, endeavors, to always love her red.

#sasusaku #psalloacappella #sasusakufanfic #smut #sasusaku smut #uchiha sasuke #haruno sakura #sorry it's shameless #whatever ya'll #give me good head or give me death

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snusbandxknifewife · 4 years

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So @the-chick-of-the-air mentioned something about wanting to know what Cardan said to Randalin and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since. This is my attempt at writing what went down during that conversation, I hope you all like it!

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As Cardan Greenbriar drags his advisor into a separate room, all hints of a spoiled faerie boy are gone, replaced completely by the grace and danger of a High King who has been faced with treason.

“What vile, worm-hearted god spoke in your ear and gave you even the faintest idea that it was appropriate to enter the room of your wounded queen?” He hisses in the larger man’s ear. “And how, pray tell, did it convince you to stoop low enough to then question her sovereignty?”

A colossal, thorn-covered vine sprouts from the stone floor by the chamber door, actively shattering a brick as it moves to slam the door shut.

Randalin visibly swallows. “Your Majesty, please—“

“I must admit, Randalin, I thought you wiser than that,” Cardan continues. “I thought that you, for all your sniveling and spinelessness, would have enough foresight to see that your little plan could’ve never succeeded.”

The delicate pink roses in their little porcelain pot, set on the windowsill to capture sunlight, wither and die. Where their rotting petals fall, nightshade rises.

“I would’ve thought you would know my wife would never back down from a challenge. Especially one put forward by such a cowardly and insignificant man as you.”

Randalin stands, rooted to the floor by brambles growing over his feet, their thorns digging aggressively into his leather shoes. He watches, unable to move, as the boy king walks to where a cask of wine has been left on a table.

Cardan forgoes a goblet, instead gripping the neck of the wine bottle between his lithe fingers and turning it up, his eyes never leaving his advisor as he takes a long drink. When he sets the cask back down, wine as red as blood drips from his lips and down his chin, staining his moon-pale skin the same way castoff stains a wall during a murder.

“I would’ve thought you would realize that, even if it had worked, I’d find out about your meddling.” His voice is deadly quiet, his eyes swirling like whirlpools. “And I surely would’ve thought you smart enough to realize I wouldn’t appreciate someone taking away the woman I worked so hard to get back.”

“Your Majesty—“

“Have you ever been in love, Randalin?” Cardan cuts him off, his head tilting to the side and causing a stray drop of wine to fall onto his undershirt. “Have you ever looked into the eyes of another and felt your heart stop? Known that, as long as you live, no one will command your thoughts as this person does now?”

He steps closer, his boots clicking against the stone floor and the brambles at Randalin’s feet tightening with each step.

“Have you ever been given love, against all odds, and lost it?” He whispers in the shell of his advisor’s ear, a growl low in his throat as he does. “And were you then given that love back, only to find that someone you’re meant to trust is trying to rip it away once more?”

“The people of Elfhame will never accept a human queen.” Randalin tries, his face reddening with pain as a thorn succeeds in working its way through his shoe and into his toe.

“The people of Elfhame can all be damned.” Cardan smiles wolfishly, stepping back so he can loom over his foolish council member. “The land has chosen her, and it is the land’s support that proves a ruler’s worth here in Faerie.”

“Just because she said she was healed with the land’s help doesn’t mean we can believe her. Humans are liars, Your Majesty.”

Cardan Greenbriar walks away and turns towards the window, towards the land he and his wife will rule over until they choose for it to be otherwise. Beyond the gentle swaying of the curtains, a robin flaps by and the stars twinkle with the light of a thousand little suns.

“If you do not believe your queen’s word, believe Grima Mog, for she saw it happen.” The High King announces as he continues to look out the window, leaving the council member sweating behind him. “Jude stuffed her gutted belly full of soil and Elfhame chose to heal her. Flowers grew from the ground where her blood fell. The land answers to her, as it does to me.”

Randalin’s eyes widen. A human, a mortal with magic gifted by the land—

“How many people do you think my wife has murdered, Randalin?” Cardan’s voice is soft, the tone of a boy in love talking about his partner’s knack for making flower crowns. Not the voice of a ruler discussing his queen’s violent tendencies.

“I’m well aware that Lady Jude is—“

“High Queen Jude.” Cardan corrects, his voice void of all softness once more. “She is High Queen Jude. If you refer to her as anything else ever again, you do so at your own peril.”

“Your Majesty, if you would let me finish—“

“I shall let you finish a sentence when you begin to speak something other than nonsense.” Cardan’s tar-black eyes have the same devilish coldness in them that they had when he ripped that faerie boy’s wings at a revel so many moons ago. “Now refer to your queen by her proper title, or face the consequences.”

Randalin lets out a sigh and grits his teeth. “I am well aware that High Queen Jude is a woman with violent tendencies, but I do not know just how many lives she has claimed.”

“Nor do I.” Cardan smiles the smile of a man besotted. “She has a talent for swordplay that is unrivaled. Any night she is in my bed is a night in which I do not fear assassination, for I know my wife could kill anyone in her sleep.”

“Even you, Your Majesty.” Randalin tries to impart wisdom into his king, tries to show the boy just how dangerous this mortal girl is for both him and the kingdom.

“Especially me.” Cardan smiles as he catches Randalin’s eye, completely aware of what the older man is trying to say and also completely aware of just how wrong he is. “But she has had many chances, and she has yet to take them. Death at the hands of a god so sweet would be a gift, indeed, and yet I seem incapable of receiving such blessings.”

The brambles are growing up Randalin’s legs, cutting into his thighs and wrapping around his wrists as his arms stay by his sides.

The young man in front of him has danger etched into every line of his very being. The High King standing in this study is not the High King of days past, nor is he the High King one would ever wish to meet. Cardan Greenbriar is poison personified, malice dripping from his fanged smile and echoing in the light tapping of his fingernails on his elbow.

For the first time since hearing a doomed prince’s prophecy, Randalin feels true dread gather in the pit of his stomach.

“Do you think me a violent man, Randalin?” Cardan, who has always taken after felines in both his look and his mannerisms, seems far less cat-like than usual. It’s like his fangs hide venom, his body readying, not to pounce, but to strike.

“I’d never insult my king by suggesting something so rude, Your Majesty.”

“But you insulted your queen by suggesting that she abdicate her throne.” Cardan’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks and his smile grows cruel. “So do humor me this once.”

If the fae had warning sirens, they’d be blaring in Randalin’s head right this very moment.

“No, Your Majesty.” A bramble works it’s way under his doublet, drawing blood the entire way. “I think you do not have a taste for bloodshed. At the very least, not one as strong as the High Queen’s.”

Cardan smiles as the council member finally refers to Jude by her correct title.

He steps away from Randalin once more, walking over to the bookshelf by the desk and pulling a random leather bound volume out, fingers tracing over the lettering on the spine and longing for a more familiar title.

“You know, I’ve read my fair share of mortal stories in my day,” he announces, outwardly calm even as the thorns continue to torture his advisor. “The humans have a saying, a warning of sorts, about how even the devil runs when a good man goes to war.”

He opens the book to a random page, completely ignoring the words as his nails drag down the binding.

“Now, for all my distaste in violence, I wouldn’t call myself a good man,” he continues with a small quirk to his mouth, just a little upward tilt. “I am cruel, I am petty. I delight in the suffering of those who wrong me and I’ll settle for hurting those who are lesser, if I’m unable to harm someone I feel truly deserves it.”

His foot starts tapping, a quiet beat to him but a deafening war drum to Randalin. His ears pick up the sound of a racing heartbeat and his smile grows.

“I tortured even the woman I love for years, albeit not in the ways she likely would’ve preferred, but what good is torture if someone likes it?”

He snaps the book closed and Randalin jumps as best he can in his thorny prison.

“I suppose that makes me more dangerous in war than a good man would be,” he thinks aloud as he slowly turns his gaze back to where Randalin appears to be in the process of soiling his pants. “Surely if the devil runs when a good man goes to war, he would sprint when a man of questionable morals joins the fray, don’t you think?”

“Please, Your Majesty, my recommendations were only voiced out of a concern for the well-being of the kingdom.” Randalin, a man used to lording over those beneath him, sounds dangerously close to begging. “I did not mean to offend you!”

Cardan laughs, a joyless and wicked sound. “But you have offended me, Randalin,” his eyes are wild and his grin reckless. “You have questioned my ability to choose what is best for my kingdom and you have insulted the woman who occupies my every waking thought. You have even made the grievous mistake of disturbing my wife in one of her extremely rare moments of weakness, a moment where she undoubtedly needs all her time and energy to rest.”

The nightshade occupying the rose’s former home overgrows it’s pot and begins spilling down the side of the windowsill, flowers reaching towards Randalin like little fingers.

“Your Majesty, I beg your forgiveness,” Randalin’s voice almost catches in his throat. “I won’t ever suggest that High Queen Jude abdicate again. I promise!”

“Good,” Cardan says as he steps within reach of Randalin.

Randalin lets out a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing forward.

And it’s all a moment too soon, for the High King lashes out in the blink of an eye, his long fingers wrapping around the advisor’s throat and pushing his head back against the stone wall with an audible crack!

“Because I am the man of questionable morals, and this is war,” Cardan continues as Randalin’s spine screams in agony at the angle he’s been forced into. “I, Cardan Greenbriar, High King of Elfhame, declare war!”

His fingers tighten around Randalin’s throat, his nails already leaving bloody half-moons in the older man’s skin as he presses his forehead to the council member’s.

“I declare war on everyone who opposes my wife’s right to rule beside me as my queen and my equal,” his eyes are wild, barely containing his rage. “It is a war that is unending, a war that is complete and total, a war that I have no qualms about getting violent during.”

Randalin tried to swallow, but he can’t as the king’s hand digs into his throat even harder.

“I, a man without a love for swordplay, will take up a blade. I, a man without a taste for bloodshed, will slit a thousand throats,” he continues, “if that is what it takes for my people to respect my wife.”

Randalin’s vision swims in black, his face beginning to turn an impressive shade of purple as blood starts to gush from bramble-inflicted wounds.

“And as for you,” Cardan is close enough to see tears gather in his advisor’s eyes. “You who was bold enough to openly question the High Queen, I reserve my greatest act of violence.”

The nightshade from the windowsill has reached Cardan’s feet. It begins to grow up his legs, over his waist and down his arms, forming a crown atop his head as Randalin watches in horror.

“I will skin you alive and bleed you dry, forcing you to watch the whole time,” he leans down to whisper in Randalin’s ear. “I will break your bones and tear your flesh, and when I’m done, I will find a way to erase every mention of you. No book in Elfhame will bear your name, even the stars will rearrange when I tell them to.”

“Please—“

“And then I promise I will use your hollowed our skull as my wine goblet for the rest of my days, just because I can.”

Randalin’s knees quake as his body gasps for air.

Cardan lets him go, watching in disgust as the man falls into a pile of blood-stained brambles with a sob.

“I promise this on my honor as High King, and on the vow I made with my Wife, Jude Duarte Greenbriar,” Cardan’s voice is the voice of an executioner. “So help me gods, I will rip the world apart for her.”

“Your Majesty, how can I atone?” Randalin is reduced to weeping, his hands covering his face as he cowers at his king’s feet.

“Never question the High Queen’s sovereignty again, and see that anyone else who dares to speak treason against her understands exactly how far I’m willing to go to support her right to rule beside me.”

The nightshade around Cardan disappears, withering back into the pot before dying and being replaced by pretty roses. The brambles around the room fade into nothingness, only a broken stone and a few blood smears left to remind anyone that they were ever there.

“And do hope that I don’t have to resort to violence again,” Cardan smiles that cruel little smile he wears so well. “Jude is so much more adept at wielding the hospitality of knives.”

~~~~

Tag list: @cardan-greenbriar-tcp

#cardan greenbriar #randalin #tfota #queen of nothing #jude duarte #mentioned #tyrannosaurus lex writes #hope yall enjoy #hope i didnt make it too violent #but that it was violent enough yknow #cant have someone do a 180 that hard without a little threatening

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pocketfulofrogers · 3 years

Text

HWBL Part 4

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: How far would you go to save the life of the man you love?

Notes: It’s been like a year since I last updated this series... oops.

“You’ve been at this too long.” Steve startles you from behind and you have to resist the urge to slam your computer shut. “When was the last time you ate?” He asks.

You send a haphazard wave in his general direction as you turn back to your screen. “I can eat when I figure this out.”

It was a bet. One you had no business participating in. What had started as an innocent conversation about childhood tales with Sam and Tony had become a frenzied search for proof that Fury hasn’t always been a grown, joyless, hardass.

“He did not just manifest out of thin air.” You grumble when your forced to start another public record search. At this rate, you’d waste away before you even found photographic evidence of a smile.

Steve leans forward and your concentration fizzles as his jaw grazes your ear. He watches as your fingers lose steam, and the edge of his lips draws out a smirk when they freeze to hover over the keys. Slowly, he reaches an arm from behind you to lower the screen while his other presents a muffin.

Still warm, the sweet aroma lures you out of the small trance he’s managed to put you in. A smile breaks out and you reach for it quickly, promptly shoving it to your nose.

He laughs. “If anyone asks, you didn’t get this from me.”

“I’ll be sure to finish the evidence before Clint comes stomping around.” He laughs as you take a comically sized bite before leaning close again to whisper in your ear.

“There’s a false bottom in the third drawer in Fury’s desk. Latch is at the back. You should find what you’re looking for there.”

You shove the remainder of the stolen breakfast in your mouth before taking off, Steve’s eyes glued to you until you disappear around the corner.

Natasha Romanoff may be many things, but a fool is not one. She decides to give you the benefit of the doubt for exactly two hours, setting a timer and everything. When she calls and you don’t answer, she curses herself for even letting you leave her sight.

“These fools are going to get themselves killed.” She mutters as she starts a track on every alias she knows you to have. No luck.

Clint picks up on the second ring, almost as desperate for information on their friends than she was. Before she’s even finished her request, he has your face plugged into every tracking program SHIELD has available.

A security camera at the international airport in Rome catches a portion of your face for a fraction of a second. He offers to flag your passport, but she tells him no.

She wants to handle you herself.

You find Raleigh, North Carolina to be an odd place. Beautiful, almost deceptively so with its old architecture and the brilliant greens of the Elm trees in the square parks. Known as part of the ‘Research Triangle’, you have to laugh at how easy it was for you to be kept at such a horrid place under the false guise of ‘research’.

Three blocks from your destination, the hair on the back of your neck prickles and your posture tightens, but you maintain your pace regardless. You scan your surroundings, picking through reflections in store front windows, simultaneously keeping the perfect depiction of ease.

When that doesn’t appear to be working, you pick out a large man to stumble into. He quickly apologizes as you make your way behind him and offer him a sweet smile before you slip into the crack of an ally to wait.

Of all the people it could’ve been, or of all the people you would’ve rather it been, you weren’t exactly expecting to see the bright red hair of Natasha peeping out of a dark hood. She continues past you, eyes peeled and scanning. A quiet string of Russian curse words slip from her lips.

When she lowers the hood, preoccupied with rethinking her next moves, you walk silently out into the light.

“What are you doing here.”

If you’ve startled her, she doesn’t show it. “Did you really think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

“Not until it was done. Guess I shouldn’t have stopped for breakfast.” You smirk and raise a brow- tilt you head with a hint of a playfulness she finds irritating.

It’s short lived.

“Come back with me.” She pleads. A request you’ve heard before. “We’ll put a team together, and with all you know about Yates, we’ll get him back. Why would you rather give yourself to the man who destroyed you?” She furrows her brow, confused.

Because it insures Steve’s life. But you don’t respond, you can’t even meet her eyes.

“You let him get to you.” She states simply. There’s no need for her to specify who.

“Not willingly.” You say softly.

“You’ll recover.”

You laugh lightly and gaze back up at her and shake your head softly. There’s a small smile on your lips and Natasha knows she’s fighting a losing battle. “That’s the thing, Nat, I’m not so sure I want to.”

She makes her way closer to you, feeling slightly more desperate. “This is not our only option.”

“You don’t get it. You don’t understand what I owe him.”

Her heart pangs because she does. She had watched you both for the better part of a year, had a front row seat to whatever it was the two of you were. You had gone from some fable most could never believe to a real member of the Avengers.

Before all of this, she had allowed herself to believe that you called them home. You did too, if you were honest with yourself.

She rests a hand on your shoulder, not knowing what other pleas or promises she could make, and you’re finally able to force yourself to meet her eyes. So sincere, so hopeful.

For a moment you try to believe that with the power of teamwork and well wishes or whatever, Steve could come home whole and unchanged, but she does not know all that you do. She doesn’t know what horrors Steve has already faced. Who wouldn’t want to break the legendary Captain America? Chip away at all of that good and fill him with something sinister. Walk around having broken one of the greats.

There’s nothing they love more than a challenge. You had been a testament to that.

The relief that flashes through her eyes when you place your hand on hers cuts you almost as deep as the guilt does when you twist her arm behind her back- kick her legs beneath her and leave her unconscious.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper.

“A movie? Like in a crowded theater” You question, your apprehension thick in your tone.

Steve was the first to be so good at getting you to take a break from your work. Just to do normal things- things you never thought to do. Most of them were far out of your comfort zone, but there was something about him that calmed you. Something deep within him that soothed the ‘what ifs’ that usually plagued you.

But a big, dark room surrounded by people with very few exit strategies was definitely not something you were up for.

“Not a theater, a drive in.” He beams. “We take one of SHIELD’s cars, tinted to your comfort, eat popcorn and maybe something fried. The cars are bullet proof and I’m pretty sure they fly. There’s like five different escapes they alone offer.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why?”

He chuckles. “I’m trying to show you how much more there is to this world then what you’ve seen.”

The Institute looks the exact same as it was. Behind the towering iron fencing, tucked behind a curtain of old oak trees lays a grey stone building. The swooping arches and intricate iron work alone is enough to distract the average person from the lack of windows.

It was one of the things you loved the most about the Tower and the Triskelion, all of that natural lighting.

The hole you blew in one of the walls seemed to be a good enough reason to add an extension to the building. There’s a shiver that runs up your spine when you try to imagine what may be inside.

Despite already having made peace with what may become of you, pressing the call button just before the gate still sends ice through your veins.

“Sorry, no tours today.” The voice says.

“That’s alright, I believe you boys should be expecting me.” You look up to the camera in the corner, tip up your baseball cap, and smile. Adding a little wave for good measure.

There’s silence and then a buzz. The gate swings open but you’re surrounded by automatic weapons before you’ve even crossed the threshold.

You had once let word spread that one day you would return to this place to balance the scales, so they probably expect a fight from you. Their fear drips from them, standing before the deadliest tale they’ve heard.

The only one to have ever escaped.

The ghost story whispered to new guards in locker rooms to remind them those they try to control are not to be underestimated.

The dramatic interpretation is downright laughable.

A segment clears in the group of men surrounding you, and you do your best to keep up the façade of being unphased.

A tall man with dark grey hair peppered silver on the sides saunters forward, an unmistakably sinister glint in the steel blue of his eyes. He stops just before you and places his finger under your jaw to tilt your head up to his.

Your breath freezes in your lungs when he smiles down at you.

“Welcome home, darlin’.”

#steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x reader #Steve Rogers #natasha romanoff

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scourgeincarnate · 4 years

Text

in your memory.

@argxntcm is giving me ideas when i really shouldn’t be having ideas. Content Warning: (attempted) suicide, death

A king only in name.

Ardyn taunts and he teases, even now at the end of all things, all the hatred he feels, the betrayal, the disgust for his brother’s bloodline pouring out of him through his words and his actions. Next to the fate of the entire world Noctis has one other thing to carry on his shoulders, and that is the entirety of Ardyn’s feelings of anger and despair that he had two millennia to accumulate and foster. It’s hardly fair on the boy, but this is not a game the Scourge created. It is the Astral’s playing field, their rules, their fault. All of it. Noctis and Ardyn are but pitiful pawns in their game of fates and prophecies. Alas, they both play it too well.

It’s not joy Ardyn feels at the prospect of finally reaching the end of this accursed journey, of killing Noctis and ending the Caelum line. Joy is something he barely remembers, its memory ashen and distant in the far corners of his tainted heart. What he feels when his blade strikes the young king and sends him falling to the ground, bleeding and broken, is closer to relief. ---Regardless of what the outcome will be, at least it’ll be an end.

But Noctis keeps getting up, keeps fighting, keeps surviving. Despite his words Ardyn acknowledges the strength in him, the light that shines inside him as the only weapon against his own darkness. He is the chosen king, after all. ----but even chosen kings can fall. Is he not living proof of this? He knows his destined fate but he has not bowed to it yet, not completely. There is another vision of the future, however dire and dark, at least it would be one of his own choosing. (Free to be sacrificed or choose his own damnation; what a lucky man he is.)

And then the inevitable moment seems to be upon them.

Noctis falls to his knee, Ardyn’s sword sailing down on him - hallowed blades cross with a terrible sound and a rain of sparks. Their unbridled force and determination clash against each other in an apparent stalemate - but it won’t last forever. Noctis is giving his all.. and it’s not enough. His strength is fading, his will crumbling. As he grows weaker, Ardyn grows stronger and the world around them yet a little darker. He pushes, eyes locked on the fear in Noctis’ eyes, his blade forcing back the King’s, closer to his neck, closer to his demise..

..and then something cuts through Ardyn like a gunshot.

Precisely like a gunshot.

He gasps, caught off guard by the pain that grips him with an iron fist. A look down, but there is no wound in his chest, no bullet or dagger pierced through his flesh. His body, as it were, is unharmed, but his soul took a hit he wasn’t expecting. “No---” he breathes out, eyes widening with realization. He acts on instinct alone, all kings and prophecies forgotten as he steps through the shadows, withdrawing from Noctis and rushing over to where the infamous trio was left behind.

The shadows spit Ardyn out just in time to catch Prompto before his body hits the ground, the gun still dangling from his fingers for a heartbeat or two before it falls with a clatter. Blood is running down his temple, staining his hair, his pale skin, dripping down the side of his face and his cheek like grotesque tears. Even in death he looks beautiful. “No..” Ardyn says once more, confusion just ahead of the rest of the plethora of emotions that run through him in this moment. Why now, why him..? The pain inside him grows stronger, their bond still there but stretching beyond its capacity, trying to keep them connected even as Prompto fades from this world into the next.

Looking down at him as the color fades from his skin and the light from his eyes Ardyn is haunted by a memory he chose to bury a long time ago. A memory of warm eyes and soft blond hair, a memory of love so pure it almost saved his corrupted soul. It stings unlike anything he’s felt in centuries, tears his heart right in two, and for the first time in an eternity his thoughts are clear and his own. Damned be the Six, the chosen king; damned be this whole world. What does it matter if he wins? What good will his vengeance do him when he is all alone in the darkness, cursed to rule it for all eternity to come--- without him?

His arms curl around Prompto, pull him closer to his chest. He feels so small and fragile, like a porcelain doll that used to hold a soul but now it’s cracked and all the life is streaming out of it faster than Ardyn can catch it. --Just one more time he wants to see his smile. Just one more time hear his laugh, the sound of his breath when he sleeps, feel the warmth of his skin. “Come back..” he whispers, though on the inside he is screaming, running to reach him as he is pulled away from him, desperately watching their bond grow thinner and thinner.

He cannot bear to let it happen.

Darkness spreads from his hands, engulfing them both, seeping into Prompto’s body, filling the void that’s left behind by the light he embodied. He won’t be the same but he will be there. At least--- at least..

No.

His calling is to save lives.. not take them. ----Or perhaps it’s just a cosmic joke that despite all the cruelty and bitterness that festers inside him he cannot ever take the life of the one he loves the most.

Damn his pride and damn his revenge. A joyless chuckle breaks from Ardyn’s lips. “Alright then.. I bow to your will after all.” The darkness penetrating Prompto’s body disappears, replaced by a warm light. What the darkness tried to take the light restores, mending wounds and drawing the soul back into its vessel. It feels good, for a moment. The clarity remains a little longer; long enough for Ardyn to see the color return to Prompto’s cheeks and feel the heartbeat in his chest.

Until his own begins to stutter.

As Prompto grows stronger what’s left of Ardyn begins to fade, his life and energy the last gift he has to give. He was never a healer, he realizes, merely a container for the corruption of their beloved star. He cannot save Prompto with his own strength, not without the ultimate sacrifice. ---But that’s alright. This time it is his choice, even if his hand was moved without his knowledge. A smile forms on his lips as Prompto’s eyelids flutter and then their gazes meet. Time stands still for them, for this moment of seeing one another truly for the first (and last) time. There is only one thought left on Ardyn’s mind as it dissolves into nothing, drowns in the darkness that finally spreads and grows unhindered by the memory of being.

Let history forget about me once more. As long as you remember me.

His eyes turn black with the last essence of humanity inside him gone, pure darkness staring down at the boy in its arms. A moment passes, two, then its arms open and it drops Prompto on the cold hard ground. With unnatural movements the creature rises to its feet, turning back to the citadel from which the King of Light emerges with a look of dread on his features. Its shape becomes less human by the second, claws and bones sprouting were they should not, skin turning to scales and chitin.

Free.

Free at l a s t.

#argxntcm #d. argxntcm #v. unbreakable souls; you and i #( drabble. )#tw attempted suicide

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ghostofbambifanfiction · 5 years

Text

Sneak Peak of Bee’s Birthday Fic

So @bcdaily may have three-and-a-half hours to wait until her birthday, it is indeed the 11th of March here in England, so as far as I’m concerned the celebrations can start now. The fic that I’m writing her as a gift is a gargantuan beast and possibly one of the most ambitious fanfiction projects I’ve ever worked on, and though I’m plugging away at it relentlessly, it’s not finished yet, but my girl deserves a present on her birthday, so I’m posting a sneak peak in the form of the fic’s first complete scene.

Bee, my darling, you may actually recognise some of this from a concept I sent you ages ago. I’ve been pondering a bunch of different office romance ideas for over a year, and it wasn’t until I mashed two of them together that I actually came up with the idea for this one. I’m really, really pleased with what I’ve done so far and I’m excited to share the whole thing with you, but for now, please enjoy this little slice of what is inevitably going to be a very, very, very large pie.

Happy Birthday, my dearest, most darling friend. You are my heart home and I love you so, so much (and can’t wait for brunch!!!!!)

May 14th, 2018, 8:09 a.m.

Day One

"Lily, good morning," says Remus, smiling like a docile lamb. "This is James."

The office manager has popped up out of nowhere to make this announcement and does so with very little fanfare, much in the same way one might say "this is a baked potato," except James is certainly not a baked potato, but the only child of the CEO, and Lily Evans has just shoved a bacon baguette into her wide open trap.

She has been expecting Remus to get her back since she covered his desk in printouts of John Travolta, who makes Remus uneasy for reasons he can't or won't explain. She prefaces all of her emails to Remus with "Yo, Adele Dazeem!" for that very reason.

So...yes, his vengeance was expected.

Sneaking up on her with Fleamont's son in tow while Lily is inhaling her breakfast like a wildebeest—admittedly, with flagrant disregard for the office's policy on eating at one's desk (don't do it)—and neglecting her morning's work in favour of shopping online for a new mattress, though, is beyond devious, beyond dastardly.

It's also extremely characteristic of Remus, who approaches pranks with effortless sardonicism and knows that Lily's Achilles' heel is appearing unprofessional to important strangers.

Strangers like her ultimate boss's son, for example.

Understandably, she's startled.

Anyone would be startled, were they happily eating their breakfast and considering the benefits of natural latex foam without a care in the word, only to be assailed by man who jumps out at her unexpectedly to offer a slyly angelic smile and an innocent "this is James," as a cunning counter strike.

Particularly since she isn't meant to be meeting "this is James" for another hour.

And especially since she had been hoping to impress upon "this is James" the notion that she is not a woman to be trifled with, schemed against, or otherwise mistreated.

Her mild fright results in a minor ketchup spillage, which is unfortunate. It dribbles down her chin at speed and fails to land upon her blouse only because Lily swipes her hand over her face and catches most of it before it can drip away. Her breakfast is set down on her desk and she grabs a paper napkin to wipe both chin and hand, the latter of which she waves repeatedly towards her own chest (once clean) to indicate that she's still chewing. That's the thing to do when one is caught with food in one's mouth, as if anyone should have to apologise for needing sustenance to survive.

"Should we come back?" Remus asks, eyeing her mostly uneaten baguette. "I can take him downstairs if you're not ready and—"

"Nnnnmp!" says Lily, shaking her head, and swallows. "S'all fine. Hi."

She will murder Adele Dazeem for this.

He just had to catch her at a gluttonous moment and nab his revenge at the cost of her poise. No chance of him stopping by as she was nibbling on a rice cake or laughing prettily over a salad the way women in lifestyle articles always do. "Ooh, what a healthy and fulfilling life I lead!" they seem to cry, their plastic smiles stretched widely across their unnaturally white teeth. "Greens! Pilates! A beetle in my chopped zucchini! Laugh away the sadness!"

Silly Lily. She never nibbles rice cakes, and she eats salads for the sake of nutrition, but it’s an utterly joyless experience.

"Yes, hello," Remus replies, visibly battling a laugh. "As I'm sure you're aware, this is James Potter. James, this is Lily Evans"—he gestures towards her—"otherwise known as the woman who took your job."

"It's very nice to finally meet you," says James Potter, holding out his hand.

"Likewise," she returns as she shakes it. "Though Remus has just made me sound like some kind of corporate supervillain."

"I'm sure I didn't," says a much-amused Remus.

"It's fine," James assures her. "I couldn't expect my dad to keep the job open after I quit—"

"Your poor mother certainly did," Remus puts in.

"So I heard," is Lily's droll response. Euphemia's determination to dislike her son's replacement had lasted a solid ten seconds into their first meeting, at which point she'd abandoned her resolve in favour of a new plan—adoring and admiring and shamelessly favouring Lily.

"She tells me you're a wonder," says James.

Lily shrugs lightly. "Christ the Redeemer, Machu Picchu, me. Sounds about right."

"You slot right in."

"Lucky for your dad that I do. Euphemia's not afraid to voice an opinion."

"Well, he hired me back as soon as I asked," James continues, a slight smile forming around the corners of his lips, "so Mum can rest assured, nepotism is still alive and well."

Instantly, strangely, disconcertingly, Lily thinks that she would like to have sex with this person.

Preferably on her new mattress. Her current one has a spring sticking out in an inconvenient location.

The photos that Fleamont keeps on his desk are woefully out-of-date, so while Lily had the vague idea that she'd be welcoming a rather handsome fellow onto her team, her only frame of reference was an awkward, gangling teenager. The real life, adult James Potter is tall and lean and healthy-glow brown, with thick black hair that performs wild, multi-directional acrobatics and cries out to be tugged in the heat of passion. His glasses are on trend, his full lips delicious, and his crisp white sleeves are pushed up to his elbows.

Women are forced to conform to so many bullshit, patriarchal dress codes in the workplace, but nobody ever thinks about the risks of forearm exposure on a really fit bloke.

Not that it matters, when she's splashed ketchup across her face and almost certainly marked herself out as an undesirable.

More importantly, she's technically his boss.

And he's likely secretly wishing that she wasn't.

Or planning a hostile takeover.

Or both.

He probably looks real good without a shirt on.

She'll be screwed if he turns out to be interesting.

#sneak peak #fanfiction #Bee's gift

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libraryscarf · 5 years

Text

turn/return ( ao3 / ff.net ) fandom: noragami length: 1k pairing: yatori

It is a mystery to Hiyori, how someone could be homesick for a person. She has felt the cloudy ache of separation: in her older brother’s half-truancy, in the increasingly lengthy pauses before her grandmother remembers Hiyori’s name.

Hiyori comprehends distance. But she does not really understand - not until recently - how to be sick with missing a person. How to withstand being halved.

Then Yato leaves, and Hiyori is handed a curriculum of this new, unfamiliar grief without speaking its language. She is thrust haphazardly into lesson one: how to breathe as though your heart has not been scooped clean of its meat. How to present wholeness to the world, when inside you are eggshell-hollow.

Which, coincidentally, is also the name of lessons two, and three, and all the rest.

“Are you all right, Hiyori?”

She hears this question quite often, though Hiyori thinks she’s doing a fairly good job of not washing up on the rocks. But this time it’s from her grandmother, who has the gentlest hands for braiding hair, and who has forgotten so much already.

So she just says, “No. Not really.”

“Is it that boy?”

Hiyori jerks forward, shocked. Her grandmother’s hands catch in the snarls of her hair, tugging her back by the roots.

“That pretty boy,” her grandmother muses, working her fingers patiently through knots as stubborn as silk thread. “He was here before. I remember that.”

“Yes,” Hiyori says, barely above a whisper. “You wanted to shoot him.”

Her grandmother chuckles. “Maybe I should have.”

Hiyori’s lips twitch, and for a short time the raw, throbbing void in her chest is less intense. Her grandmother works for a few more minutes, then pats Hiyori’s head when the braid is finished. She kisses her grandmother on her furrowed cheek, and goes to her room.

; ; ;

Hours after she falls asleep, the hair on the back of Hiyori’s neck lifts. The uncanny tingle of a fellow presence shivers across her skin. At the corner of her eye, something slips in through her bedroom window: a shadow only a shade more dense than the room’s natural darkness.

Hiyori springs out of bed, hand flying toward the bedside lamp. In her haste she knocks it to the floor, where it rolls off into an invisible corner.

And then she is alone, in the dark, in her nightgown, with the shape of something tall and black blotting out the moon. Hiyori’s lungs spasm; she is frozen right down to her blood.

“Hiyori…?”

Her name, spoken so softly, has the same effect as a slap. Hiyori’s ears ring. The floor rolls under her like the deck of a ship.

She sits down, but entirely misses the edge of the bed and lands hard on the floor. Shock blunts her senses, and she barely feels the pain in her tailbone.

The silhouette crouches next to her.

“Are you okay?”

Yato’s voice is worried.

She opens her mouth, wondering, even as she does, what might come out.

“You.”

His eyes are easy to see now, even in the dim light. They widen at the force behind Hiyori’s tone. He opens his mouth, but she cuts in before he can speak:

“You idiot.”

There are tears in her voice. Her throat is thick with them, sinuses clogged and burning. Because upon the dim architecture of his face, her memory overlays that gentle, joyless smile: the hauntingly patient resignation she had seen him wear when he handed Hiyori’s heart back to her and told her to take care of it.

“Hiyori,” he says, reaching for her.

“Be quiet.”

Yato sits back on his heels, empty hands outstretched. Hiyori drags her knuckles across her eyes, and takes a long, fortifying breath - which is a mistake.

The smell - almost too good. If she were half-spirit, Hiyori wouldn’t be able to think straight. As it is, it’s more than enough to break the floodgates. She sobs, deep and wet and unattractive, and Yato makes a terrible noise and moves toward her, but she pushes herself back against the side of the bed, away from him, and he stops at once. Her whole body curls in on itself: a quaking, wracked thing that has too long been denied its heartache.

He waits for her to pull herself together. With no small effort, Hiyori suppresses her moist hiccuping long enough to speak.

“You went to get yourself killed.” Her nose is dripping aggressively, and she has to take a moment to sniff.

“You can’t just...show up.”

Yato’s entire body seems to sag.

“I know.”

His voice is heavy and scraped raw. Hiyori looks at him then, and her stomach flips when she sees the shine of tears in his eyes. There are other things about him, too.

Now that she’s adjusted to the darkness, Hiyori sees the wicked stripes of new scars on his neck and hands. His face is thinner and whiter than she’s ever seen it. The shadows beneath his eyes are deep, the sick violet of an old bruise.

Hiyori meets his eyes, and the fatigue in them summons stinging tears back to her own.

“I’m really sorry,” he whispers, clearly expecting rejection.

Hiyori scoots forward on her knees. Her hands are shaking violently, the overdue panic from finding an intruder in her bedroom finally manifesting.

“Good,” she says.

Then she launches herself forward, wrapping her arms around his neck. Yato grunts as her weight hits him, and they nearly tip backwards onto the floor. His arms tighten around her, squeezing her ribs almost painfully tight.

Hiyori buries her face in his shoulder, and his scent hits her system like a drug. Her galloping pulse slows. Her eyes flutter shut.

Yato gives a shuddering exhale against her neck, sending delicious shivers down Hiyori’s arms and spine. He nuzzles his face closer into her, his nose pressed against her jaw, eyelashes skimming her cheek.

Before Hiyori lets herself think, she lifts her head from his shoulder, craning her neck so her lips meet his temple. She gets a nose full of hair, but the noise Yato makes - half-whine, half-sob - triggers a rush of adoration that is almost frightening in its intensity.

Hiyori is home now, arms full of her fragile, wandering god, to whom she whispers:

“Please - don’t ever, ever do that again.”

#scarfwrites #yatori fanfiction #yatori #noragami fanfiction #noragami #hhheywhatsupnoragamifandom #we're trying this new thing called 'stop looking at what you wrote bc it's probably fine and your standards are insane and unrealistic'

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dyaz-stories · 5 years

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Meeting

Back with a Gajevy one-shot for the Bonus Day of the Gajevy week! Hope you will enjoy it ^-^

Word count: 2,330

Prompt: Canon Divergent — if Gajeel and Levy’s first contact hadn’t been what it was.

“Gajeel?”

The voice is soft, but the Dragon Slayer still hears it distinctly in the loud rumble of the guild’s hall. Maybe it’s because of the wide, empty circle that has formed around him, leaving several stools free from either side of him at the crowded bar, or maybe it’s because it’s just that rare to hear his name being spoken without hatred or disgust.

Anyway, he’s half-drunk and he doesn’t think about any of that. He turns slowly, almost threateningly, to face the person, and finds out an almost ridiculously short and frail young woman. It’s only when he notices the vibrant blue of her hair that he identifies her, and his lips curve into a bad imitation of a smirk. It’s half the alcohol and half the feelings he gets just looking at the bitch that make his voice full of animosity when he speaks.

“The fuck d’ya want?”

The small woman tenses and frowns. There is no shock nor hurt on her face, though she does look a bit uncomfortable, and he’s almost disappointed.

“I’m… I’m Levy McGarden, I—”

“I know who you are,” he interrupts her, already fed up with her bullshit. He’s fed up with the entire fucking guild’s bullshit already, actually, but tonight he has exceptionally low patience for whatever she wants. “You’re with the two guys who couldn’t stop bragging ‘bout beating me up.” His smirk widens, revealing his sharp teeth. “Is that why yer here? Yer mad at me for teaching them a lesson? ‘Cause they had that one coming, shrimp.”

She vaguely recoils, but she doesn’t exactly looks scared, and it really gets on his nerves. Since he’s joined Fairy Tail — not like he had a fucking choice — most people are scared of him. They know of that one time when he was attacked, but they also know of how he got his revenge. Sure, he lost against the sorry excuse for a Dragon Slayer, but just because that one guy could beat him doesn’t make him any less deadly.

Point is, people fear him, and he likes it. He doesn’t get lonely, even though the ambiance is quite different here. Even though people talk and laugh and just all seem to get along everywhere around him and he’s not a part of it.

He can’t be a part of it, and it’s not just because he doesn’t want to. He nearly killed several people here. He has nothing to do here.

At least they leave him alone, so he doesn’t have to think about any of that, about how he doesn’t belong here, like he’s never belonged into any place where pain and violence aren’t a simple fact of life.

Maybe that’s why he wants the midget to leave him alone. Because they’re clearly not from the same world.

“I… don’t like violence,” the girl answers him, slowly. “I don’t agree with what they did to you.” She wrinkles her nose. “Not that I agree with what you did to them afterwards, or to the other people in the guild.”

He almost feels relief at her words. Anger and disapproval? He knows just how to deal with that. It’s like she’s taking a step in his world, putting herself on the same level as him. He rests his elbow on the bar. He’s grinning already, he can feel contempt and mockery dripping on his tongue as he opens his mouth.

“But that’s not why I’m here.”

That takes him by surprise. His grin disappears and he stares at her in confusion. This time, she avoids meeting his eyes, but it’s not in fear, and that only confuses him more. He can’t recognize her attitude.

“I came to say I’m sorry.”

That’s when he manages to find the word for how she acts.

It’s guilt.

Her right hand is gripping her elbow and she looks clearly uncomfortable, which was not the case just a minute ago, when she was answering to him. It does make him wonder what the fuck is wrong with her but also, though he has no intention to admit it, even it to himself, it kinda makes him curious. That girl… she has something new about herself. Something he hasn’t seen before. He’s seen women not being scared of him, he’s faced women who were just as strong as him, and even women who stared at him dead in the eye even though they knew he was going to kill him.

But he’s never met anyone who feels bad about things he’s gone through. Not the people who hurt him on purpose, and certainly not a complete stranger with basically no responsibility in it.

Well, too bad for her. Because he’s definitely going to take advantage of that.

“They shouldn’t have done that,” she adds, her voice turning into even more of a mumble. “You were our enemy at the time, but that didn’t make it okay. You hadn’t done anything wrong.” She doesn’t say ‘then’, but he hears it loud and clear.

Gajeel’s a lot of things — a lot of horrible things, he’ll admit it — but he’s not a liar. This isn’t even fun. He should find it hilarious, to hear her say all of that, but there’s a weird sincerity to it that doesn’t make him feel too good about himself.

“You know I’d have done the exact same thing to you if I’d gotten the chance, right?”

This time, she flinches. It’s the first time since the beginning of the conversation, and it makes him wonder if she just doesn’t realize how dangerous he is. Normally, he’d take this occasion to growl and scare her away, but he doesn’t even want to right now.

He’s not sure why though.

“They got lucky. They found me first, they had the time to prepare a trap. Otherwise,” he gives her a joyless grin, revealing his teeth, “don’t think they’d have stood a chance. And don’t think I wouldn’t have taken it.” Because he would have, absolutely. Just to send a message, he would have wrecked her and her friends.

It wasn’t a problem for him at the time, but he has to admit, he’s not feeling too good about it right now.

Not that she needs to know that.

She bites her lower lip, and something strange stirs within him. She’s refusing to meet his eyes, and now it annoys him. If she looks at him, she’ll get it. She’ll understand just who, what he is. Would be better for her.

“It doesn’t make it okay,” she mumbles. “They’re the ones who did it, and now, you’re part of the guild.”

Ah. Is that what she’s worried about? That he won’t fit in? This is fucking ridiculous.

“Ye remember I kidnapped Blondie and could’ve killed the other Slayer?”

He sounds almost incredulous now, and her cheeks flush pink. He thinks she’s ashamed maybe, of even trying to play nice with him, but then she looks up, and her eyes shine with something he’s just too familiar with. Anger.

“I do remember,” she says. Despite the emotion, her tone isn’t quite as biting as he would have expected. “But we started it.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “We’d already tried to kidnap her once. You make no sense.”

He’s the one who feels uncomfortable now. He wants to end this conversation. Normally, he wouldn’t have a problem to do that, but he’s not one to flee a scene.

“No, I mean… We are the one who started it with you.”

Her eyes soften, and Gajeel wants to scream at her that she’s wrong. He doesn’t give a fuck about them attacking him, that’s for sure. She’s imagining things, making him look better than he is. Or maybe she knows all of that, and she just wants to feel better about herself. Yeah, it has to be that. That’s easier to understand. Easier for him, too.

“Okay, yer done?”

She blinks.

“You accomplished yer good deed, talked to the monster and apologized,” he growls. “Feeling better now? Can I go back to my glass or d’you need more for you fucking charity act?”

Hurt flashes in her eyes, and Gajeel kinda feels like a piece of shit, but hey, he’s used to it.

“This isn’t about me,” she protests, and it’s obvious that she means it. He rolls his eyes anyway. He’s not going to run away, but he wants her to.

“Get it over with then.”

It’s clear that he’s shaken her up more this time, but she doesn’t look like she’s going to give up. She’s brave, he’s gotta give her that. Most people here did everything they could to stay as far away from him as they can. He leans against the bar, and takes a sip of his drink.

“I… I thought maybe we should take on a quest together.”

He almost chokes. What? Where the fuck does that come from?

“It would be good for your integration here; it would show people that at least you’re trying. And it would show you what it’s like, to be in Fairy Tail.”

A smile graces her lips as she says that, and the truth is, that sight is breath-taking. It’s almost bitter for Gajeel to remember that she doesn’t smile like that because of him. He’s incapable of making anyone react like that, and he knows it. He can cause pain and fear. He certainly cannot cause joy.

He’s pretty sure it’s the first time he has ever regretted it, and he doesn’t like the taste it leaves in his mouth that much.

He needs to get her away from him. He doesn’t want her to plant all these ideas in his head, of what it would be like if he could make people happy like that, namely her, if he could be accepted, if he could be treated like everyone else is around here. Gajeel isn’t one to flee though — which means he has to make her run away.

He stands up, and she looks a bit startled, but once again, not scared. He realizes how much taller he is than her then. Girl really is ridiculously tiny, and it’s absolutely not adorable.

He towers over her, and though he definitely intends to be threatening, he knows part of it flirtatious as he curves his neck, putting his hand on the bar and trapping her between him and it. Of course, she can still get away, because it’s the fucking point, but there’s something about this chase that is absolutely thrilling to him.

“You and me, and the two morons?” he asks, his voice a low growl. “Are you sure I wouldn’t do something you’d regret?”

She seems shocked, and frankly, so is he. He should be implying that he’s going to murder them all, not that he’ll— whatever the fuck this meant.

Her lips part as she struggles to find an answer, and he feels his lips curving into a smirk. Her hand moves up against his chest, not really pushing him away, which sends a jolt of adrenaline down his spine.

“Hey. What do you think you’re doing with Levy?”

Gajeel takes a step back. He almost feels disappointed, but seeing the blush he’s leaving on the girl’s cheeks does make him feel a bit better about it. This may not be over.

“Got a problem, asshole?” he questions, folding his arms as he stares disdainfully at Jet and Droy. The two of them are certainly doing their best to be intimidating, but everyone here knows the truth.

Gajeel can easily destroy them, if he tries.

Things in the room tense, conversations’ volume gets lower. He doesn’t give a fuck.

“Calm down, guys,” Levy almost immediately interferes, stepping in between them. Her voice is soothing and she sounds surprisingly fine in this situation. “I’m the one who came to talk to him.”

Jet shakes his head. “Levy, really, you’re still going on with that idea of yours to go on a quest with him?”

Droy chimes in, looking genuinely worried. “You don’t know what he’s capable of!”

They start arguing, but Gajeel doesn’t really listen, even as the heat rises, the small blue-haired girl clearly getting more and more angry at everything they say. The truth is, they have a point. This is a terrible idea. He is a terrible person. They’re right, in not wanting someone they care about being around him. He probably wouldn’t want that either — if there was someone he cared about, that is.

“Well, then I’ll go with him alone!” the girl finally hisses.

That brings him back in, and he, as well as the two other guys, simply stare at her. They open their mouth to protest, and frankly Gajeel wants to do the same, because what the fuck is she talking about, but she’s already turned back towards him, and there’s something beautifully fiery burning in her eyes.

“Right?” her voice wavers just a little as she asks him.

He looks at her, then back at the two guys. They look both furious and dumbfounded. Nothing would anger them more than for him to say yes, and that’s totally why he does.

“Right,” he answers with a toothy grin. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. Better be there, shrimp.”

He doesn’t bother to stay behind as the guys protest loudly, and he doesn’t see the amused, almost tender smile she gives to his back while he walks away.

Levy knows she’s taking a risk with this. Maybe Jet and Droy are right, and she doesn’t imagine how much of a risk it is, but she’s far from being stupid. Still, she has this feeling, deep inside her, that it’s going to be worth it.

Gajeel looks at the night sky once he’s out of the inn. Behind him, he can hear the loud shatter. Everything’s cold and dark outside.

But it feels a little less cold and dark than it usually does.

#gajevyweek #gajevy #gajeel #levy #fairy tail #my writing

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tkmedia · 3 years

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Will England have failed if they lose to Denmark?

It’s England v Denmark time. And the mailbox is here to ask whether defeat would be seen as failure. Send your mails to [email protected] Forza Italia Itza coming Rome! Calvino …Cometh the hour, cometh the Mancini. Chris Hardy (sorry, not sorry) …What a game. Was watching thinking England are going to struggle against either of these if we make it to the final. I expect Italy to win now to be honest. So looking forward to thisevening. I really hope we make it to the final. Also to the guy who was talking about co-commentators… I much prefer Jenas to Murphy. I really can’t stand listening to him. James EFC …Credit to Italy for making it to the final. They gave up so much of the ball in the first half but barely gave up chances on goal. I think it was always their intention to let Spain have the hall and I think they had the confidence that they could contain whatever came their way. In some respects they possibly should’ve done better because Spain should be knackered having already played 120 minutes twice in the past week. I actually thought Italy would look much worse without Spinazola and Emerson definitely took away some of their flexibility in terms of what positions he took up when Italy were on the ball but they were still threatening. Chiesa and Barella are stand out players. Unai Simon clearly hadn’t done his homework for the shoot out because he fell for Jorginho’s hop thing. I’ve literally never seen a keeper fall for that and the only explanation is that he didn’t know it was coming. Italy are probably the worst opponent for England to face in the final, should England qualify. Tactically so astute, some wise old heads and some really attacking quality. Minty, LFC Scouting report Just on my way back from the match; we can take ‘em! Come on England! Andrew, Banbury If we lose to Denmark… If we lose to Denmark tonight, would it be seen as a failure? When we went out of the World Cup to Croatia in the semi-finals of the World Cup three years ago we missed a great chance to get to our first final since 1966 but it wasn’t viewed as a failure because we had gotten further in the tournament than we were expected to and done better than fans and pundits thought we would. But this time with ‘home advantage’ at Wembley and playing a team we are apparently fancied to beat if we were to lose in a semi-final would it be seen as a failure? Dan Factor, London Fanmail for Andy Andy starts his dismal grunt of an email by claiming he doesn’t want to piss on anyone’s chips. Andy, why lie? The only thing you set out to do was exactly that, I’m not sure why you want to pretend otherwise. However if you genuinely do not want to soak the collective tatties may I suggest you f**k off with your rubbish opinions and keep them to your grim self? Thanks. Jesus, I thought I was a miserable c**t. Well, I know I am. I just didn’t realise that I’m also a ray of sunshine piercing through the grey world of Andy. thayden Fanmail for Paul I read your e-mail regarding the Euros and England. Its true you must be Irish because that e-mail was dripping the colour green. I was going to write some classy comeback but then I thought, why bother. Instead… GO F*** YOURSELF!!! Paul Norris …Paul (Dublin) in the afternoon mailbox is just one of many who has made the claim that England have had the easiest run to the semi-finals. Is this really true? For starters Spain had an easier group – Sweden, Slovakia and Poland is a much easier set of opponents than England had in their group and then had Croatia and Switzerland to dispatch on their way to the semi-finals. Am I going crazy or is that a much easier route to the semi-final? Denmark had a group with one titan but also had Finland and Russia and then faced Wales and Czech Republic in the knockout stages- is that really a tougher set of fixtures than England have had? Italy did have a tough quarter-final but had an easier set of opponents in the group stages and had Austria in the round of 16 while England was facing Germany. Hmm, I wonder which team had a tougher assignment. What am I missing here? Turiyo Damascene (PS: I hate the use of the word ‘easy’ in this context but it’s the only way I can properly engage with the people making this argument), Kigali, Rwanda Easy draw? Really? Mailers are consistently using the ‘easiest draw ever’ argument to quash any shred of optimism around the England team’s route to the semi-finals – but I have to wonder the point of this criticism. In sports like football, once you’ve actually won something people – specifically fans – rarely seem to linger much on how you’ve done it. In this spirit – are any tournament wins generally rated above others due to the quality of opposition faced? In Euro 2016, Portugal surely had an unbelievably easy run until meeting France in the final – with group stage draws against Hungary, Austria and Iceland, then knockout games against Croatia, Poland and Wales. All teams that, on paper, they should have beaten easily – and only scraped by in the majority. Not sure if they care. The ‘easiest draw ever’ argument is proactively critical of England in case they do win the Euros. It seems based on the expectation that people will assume that a team that wins a tournament is the best team at that tournament. This is of course not always the case. From my perspective football is as much a celebration of luck as it is of prowess – about narrative and emotion rather than a process to find out the objectively best team in the tournament. CR7 would probably punch me in the head for saying this but maybe winning isn’t necessarily about being the best. Portugal could barely beat a team in Euro 2016 and would unlikely be considered a particularly good side from that era. Wigan wasn’t the best team in England because of their FA Cup win – playing Bournemouth/Macclesfield/Huddersfield/Everton and Millwall on the way to the final. These wins are more about things going right at the right moments – quality and fortune in the right measure. Celebration of victory isn’t necessarily celebration of dominance/prowess – it’s just about being happy to be there at the end with a nice shiny bit of metal to take home with you. Basically, if England lose to Denmark these criticisms don’t matter – because they lost anyway – if they win the tournament then who cares – because they’ve won. I don’t know if I’d prefer England to win by steamrollering the seven top-ranked teams in the tournament 5-0 each (I definitely would) – but there’s something about that which seems a bit joyless.

I don’t consume a massive array of media but the sense I get is that not much of the optimism around England’s performance in this tournament is based on them being objectively the best team in Europe. Hoping you can win a tournament and liking a team isn’t necessarily the same as thinking you’re better than everyone else. I get how pretty harmless things like the emotion around winning a football match can be used/exploited by more nefarious forces – and would cringe at the prospect of a gloating British establishment on the off chance that England does go all the way. But it seems pretty innocuous at this point. (Anon) Just chill out F365 weirdos Wow some of the recent mailboxes have been strange. From being torn about wanting England to win in case Boris does something annoying, to the group of people complaining about English arrogance, it’s all very weird. Aside from the fact that people are just having a laugh as our team is performing vaguely well for once, have these people considered that the fans chanting might not actually think it’s necessarily coming home, but they actually just enjoy singing the song? Nobody was complaining at fans claiming Will Grigg was on fire and I’m pretty sure about 20 different clubs sing ‘we’re by far the greatest team the world has ever seen’. Just chill out and enjoy the scintillating show of attacking football England are providing us all… Louis (I thought football was meant to be fun?) A message from Germany My name is Nik and I am writing to you all to say, just enjoy it. The negativity, as well as the positivity have both been brought to the fore, but it is now time to just enjoy yourselves. A semi-final of a European Championship or a World Cup does not come around too often. Take it from a German who before 2018 and 2021 thought a semi-final was more of a formality, it is not. I am already looking forward to our next (whenever that may be). Southgate, the Players, the media, everyone just needs to enjoy this game. Win or lose. No one is to blame for failure. Everyone to laude for success. Enjoy it. Us Germans have not been able to enjoy one for five years. Nik (Hansi Flick is going to win in Qatar though isn’t he? won everything else…), Munich Spotting the w**kers You know that action film you really like, that one someone told you was crap and not as good as the 1970s black and white French masterpiece they liked? You know that album you said you like but someone insisted you were an idiot because it wasn’t as good as their first one when only they liked them? You know when you thought that someone was a wanker? They are the same people who are trying to argue that England aren’t any good and cant be enjoyed because they aren’t 1970s Brazil. And you were right, they were a wanker then and they still are now and you can enjoy this England, this manager and this team as you please. Sykes Read the full article

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fandom--desires · 6 years

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I’ve Got You

So as part of a coping strategy for my depression I run this scenario over in my head and I wondered if maybe it could help other people too. It obviously centers around depression and there is in-depth detail of cutting, so if this bothers you or may trigger you please don’t go any further.

If you read this on a laptop please use chrome and download this extension. You can use it to change H/N to the name of your chosen character.

That being said, if anyone feels that they do want someone to talk to then PLEASE talk to me. I’m always willing to listen.

Your name: submit What is this?

It had started after the fighting. So many had died. Entire families wiped out. Your family wiped out. Those who hadn’t died from foul beasts had died from orc iron. Something had shattered inside of you as you condemned your brothers to their mass grave. Your heart became heavy and dark thoughts whispered through your mind.

At first everything had just seemed joyless. You weren’t surprised. How else was the world to look after you had lost everyone and everything you had ever loved? But even when you had made a new home for yourself nothing had changed. If anything it got worse. You couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror anymore. All you saw was a failure and a disappointment. Why hadn’t it been you that had died? Why had it had to be your family? Your parents had been important and influential and your brothers’ skilled fights but they had all died. Instead you were left to carry on your family legacy and you just couldn’t do it. You held no sway in court and your voice almost always seemed lost to the throng of the lords.

Everything bugged you and you had such a short temper that you found it impossible to keep friends. You have truly never felt so alone in the world. No friends, no family and no one to love you. No one to value you.

The first time you had sliced your skin had been an accident. You had been preparing potatoes in the kitchen and had cut the back of your hand by mistake. It had hurt, but as you watched the blood drip onto the floor you felt your worries drip away with it.

From that night on it had become a night occurrence. Arms, legs, chest and stomach. Deep red scars over white ones. You deserved the pain. It made you feel something other than hatred. It was a dangerous addiction to have.

Others had seen your arms, there was no doubt about that, but nobody raised concerns or spoke to you about them. So you kept going. You didn’t care and nobody else did either, so why not let your life drip into the sink.

On this particular night you had cut the backs of your arm deep. Blood was flowing rather than dripping and you couldn’t help but stare, transfixed on the blood as it fell away from you.

You didn’t hear the knock at the door.

You had once wondered what your parents would think of you, but you had punished yourself by slicing hard and fast. They were gone. They were all gone. You were alone so why worry about that. You had failed them all and your cutting problem wasn’t going to change anything.

Another slice down your arm, longer and deeper than the one before. Pain and then release. This was what you craved. What you needed.

“Y/N, what are you doing!” Fingers tore the knife from your hand and cast it aside. You looked up to find H/N staring down at you with absolute horror in his eyes. He catches your wrist in one hand and pulled your arm close to his face. The colour drains from his face. “What are you doing?” he repeats.

“It’s nothing.” You say truthfully, attempting to reclaim your arm. “It will stop soon.”

H/N doesn’t relinquish his grasp. If anything it gets tighter. He tugs the cuff of your sleeve down and exposes more cuts at various stages of healing. “How long?” he asks with a pained voice.

You shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I’d does to me.” He spits and drags you to the kitchen table. He forces you to sit before grabbing a dishtowel from a draw. He soaks it in water and drops to his knees in front of you.

“What are you doing?” you frown. He was mopping up the blood on your arm. Why? He didn’t answer you, just mopped diligently until all the blood was gone. Then he fetched another towel and wrapped it tightly around your arm.

“I’m taking you to a healer.” H/N says, pulling you to your feet.

“No, you’re not.” You insist, trying to fight him. “I’m fine.”

“No you are not!” H/N shouts before pausing. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to shout. How could you do this to yourself, Y/N?”

You laugh dryly. “What do you care? Nobody cares.”

“I care.” H/N insists. “I thought you were grieving. I should’ve seen the signs. I should’ve stopped you.” He continues to try and drag you towards the door.

“No, you don’t.” you snap and successfully manage to drag your arm from his. “No one cares. That’s the point. No one has ever cared and they never will!” Angry tears are starting to burn the back of your eyes. Weakling. You chide yourself.

“I care.” H/N says quietly. “Y/N, I have always cared for you. Forgive me for not having told you or made any indication of it, but I thought you were too lost in grief to worry over love. Please, let me take care of you.” He pleads, taking your hand gently.

You stare at him. Surely this must be a trick. Surely he didn’t actually care for you? But there was no sign of deceit in his eyes, no indication that he was lying to you or trying to hurt you, so you allowed yourself to be pulled towards a healer.

H/N kept you in the shadows out of sight of others. You had never really been concerned as to who had seen your arms, but maybe others were being polite when they didn’t say anything?

Maybe.

Was nothing in your life destined to be certain?

H/N stayed with you whilst the healer silently stitched you up and said nothing when you refused ointment to help your scars fade. Once all was said and done you found yourself in his kitchen, a warm cup of tea being pushed into your hands.

“I need you to promise me something, Y/N.” he said gently. “The next time you feel like this is the only solution, come and find me. Tell me. Talk to me. I want to help you. I don’t like to see you hurt.”

You still can’t wrap your head around the face that someone cares, especially someone as important as H/N. Quietly you agree to his request. You look down at your arms, your vision blurring with confused and pained tears. Where had your life gone wrong? How had you screwed it up so badly?

A sob wracks your body and H/N pulls you close, folding you into his arms and whispering sweet things into your hair. “It’s okay, Y/N. I’ve got you and I’m never going to let you hurt again.”

#thorin #fili #kili #oin #gloin #ori #nori #dori #bifur #bofur #bombur #dwalin #balin #bilbo #elrond #thranduil #legolas #aragorn #gimli #depression #triggerwarning #selfharm #reader insert

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solisetlunaxx · 5 years

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Stranger in the Mirror

I am supposed to write an observation of people I have no connection too. To observe them and take note of everything they wear, say, body language, and whatever else stands out to me about these strangers. But to be honest, I haven’t been able to get out of bed today due to some bullshit I really don’t want to get into right now. The idea of having to go into public and watch other people right now, makes me want to vomit. The sight of another person smiling is truly gag worthy. And, if I am going to be straight up with you, there’s a stranger staring across from in the mirror right now. I’ll go to a café and properly observe strangers and email it you, but for now, I am only capable of giving you this. Of telling you about this really sad looking stranger in the mirror

Actually, I don’t think sad is the right word to describe how she looks. She appears more miserable. As if misery was a pill, she certainly swallowed it and its now circulating in every part of her body. She’s laying in her bed wearing a black tank top that says, “Pet all the dogs”. The letters of the text are white and in all caps. Parts of the letters have little cracks them, making it seem the girl wears the shirt a lot and might never even take it off. When the light of the room hits the black of her shirt, I can see what appears to be dried boogers. She must have been using her shirt to wipe her nose. Oh! That makes sense. Her nose is really red and she keeps sniffling. She must have been crying. And for a while too. Her hazel eyes have specks of green, but a very specific green -the type you only see grow on elm trees during autumn in New England – are bloodshot. Her eyelids droop a little; she looks exhausted. Her head keeps falling down, like all she wants is to drown in the silence sleep forever. But her on going sniffling jolts her awake. The girl’s eyes are extremely bloodshot. She reminds me of a bloodhound. Bloodhounds, I love those dogs. One of my favorite movie characters is a bloodhound, Todd, from The Fox and the Hound. I remember Todd whimpering in one scene, he goes and hides in his doghouse. His tail is down, ears sprawled on the floor, puppy dog eyes, and his little whimpers. That what this girl reminds me of – a sad, sad, puppy dog

Not to be mean, but there’s something truly pathetic about her. The mascara from last night is smudged under her eyes from her crying. There’s still some snot dripping from her nose and oh, she just wiped it with her left hand. Her skin is very, very pale. Porcelain like a doll. Appropriate for her considering how fragile she appears to be right now. The veins in her hands that crawl up her wrist like vines are the same color of blueberries. And her hair, can it even be considered hair right now? It looks more like a family of birds decided to build a nest and lay their eggs in it. When was the last time she brushed it? Hours? Days? Weeks? I will say her hair color is beautiful. I’ll give her that. It also almost makes up for the true mess that her hair is. It’s a hue of red, but not stereotypical ginger red. It has elements of dark brown undertones, honey gold highlights with the overall glimmer of auburn. The light piercing through from the window hits her hair, causing it to glitter like the sand on a sunny day. It has immediately transformed into a fiery, fierce red; a color full of power, magic, and allure. But suddenly the clouds come back again, and the light is gone. Her hair is no longer something made of fairy dust.

Why did the light fade so quickly? Does the weather know of this young woman’s pain and suffering? Does Mother Nature know when her children’s light has faded so she takes away her light to stand in solidarity with them? I’d like to believe it is a gesture of comfort from Mother Nature.

The girl still looks so sad. I wonder what or who hurt her. Her phone begins ringing the same ringtone everyone who owns an iPhone has. She picks it up, and her bloodhound like eyes glaze over. She shakes her head and all of sudden she is crying. The joyless girl is bawling her hazel eyes out. I see the phone screen for a split second, but I couldn’t make out the name on the Caller ID. I’m guessing it wasn’t a person she wanted to hear from. That whoever called her is not the same person who has made her so, so sad. The girl buries her head in her porcelain hands. My attention is drawn away from her tears and goes to the silver ring on her right ring finger. The ring is a skull, surrounded by engravings of seashells and rolling waves. She keeps twisting the ring around her fragile hand and I can see a very faint tan line as she twirls it. The girl removes the ring and examining the inside which I cannot see. Through all her tears, the girl sighs and mumbles, “Go with the flow. So much for that bullshit mantra”. She slides the silver ring back onto her finger, runs her doll-like fingers through her what could have been recently nested locks, and sighs again. The girl shuts her eyes and for a moment she looks peaceful. Like someone I might know. But, she reopens her eyes and all that pain and suffering comes flooding back into her face.

This girl is most certainly a stranger.

- February 25, 2019

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7r0773r · 6 years

Text

Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin

We were not like father and son, my father sometimes proudly said, we were like buddies. I think my father sometimes actually believed this. I never did. I did not want to be his buddy; I wanted to be his son. What passed between us as masculine candor exhausted and appalled me. Fathers ought to avoid utter nakedness before their sones. I did not want to know--not, anyway, from his mouth--that his flesh was as unregenerate as my own. The knowledge did not make me feel more like his soon--or buddy--it only made me feel like an interloper, and a frightened one at that. He thought we were alike. I did not want to think so. I did not want to think that my life would be like his, or that my mind would ever grow so pale, so without hard places and sharp, sheer drops. He wanted no distance between us; he wanted me to look on him as a man like myself. But I wanted the merciful distance of father and son, which would have permitted me to love him. (pp. 16-17)

***

For I am--or I was--one of those people who pride themselves on their willpower, on their ability to make a decision and carry it through. This virtue, like most virtues, is ambiguity itself. People who believe that they are strong-willed and the masters of their destiny can only continue to believe this by becoming specialists in self-deception. These decisions are not really decisions at all--a real decision makes one humble, one knows that it is at the mercy of more things than can be named--but elaborate systems of evasion, of illusion, designed to make themselves and the world appear to be what they and the world are not. This is certainly what my decision, made so long ago in Joey’s bed, came to. I had decided to allow no room in the universe for something which shamed and frightened me. I succeeded very well--by not looking at the universe, by not looking at myself, by remaining, in effect, in constant motion. Even constant motion, of course, does not prevent an occasional mysterious drag, a drop, like an airplane hitting an air pocket. And there were a number of those, all drunken, all sordid, one very frightening such drop while I was in the Army which involved a fairy who was later court-martialed out. The panic his punishment caused in me was as close as I ever came to facing in myself the terrors I sometimes saw clouding another man’s eyes.

What happened was that, all unconscious of what this ennui meant, I wearied of the motion, wearied of the joyless seas of alcohol, wearied of the blunt, bluff, hearty, and totally meaningless friendships, wearied of wandering through the forests of desperate women, wearied of the work, which fed me only in the most brutally literal sense. Perhaps, as we say in America, I wanted to find myself. This is an interesting phrase, not current as far as I know in the language of any other people, which certainly does not mean what it says but betrays a nagging suspicion that something has been misplaced. I think now that if I had had any intimation that the self I was going to find would turn out to be only the same self from which I had spent so much time in flight, I would have stayed at home. But, again, I think I knew, at the very bottom of my heart, exactly what I was doing when I took the boat for France. (pp. 20-21)

***

“Love him,” said Jacques with vehemence, “love him and let him love you. Do you think anything else under heaven really matters? And how long, at the best, can it last? since you are both men and still have everywhere to go? Only five minutes, I assure you, only five minutes, and most of that hélas! in the dark. And if you think of them as dirty, then they will be dirty--they will be dirty because you will be giving nothing, you will be despising your flesh and his. But you can make your time together anything but dirty; you can give each other something which will make both of you better--forever--if you will not be ashamed, if you will only not play it safe.” He paused, watching me, and then looked down to his cognac. “You play it safe long enough,” he said, in a different tone, “and you’ll end up trapped in your own dirty body, forever and forever and forever--like me.” (p. 57)

***

I smiled. “Things my father never told me.”

“Somebody,” said Jacques, “your father or mine, should have told us that not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour--and in the oddest places!--for the lack of it.” (p. 58)

***

And this was perhaps the first time in my life that death occurred to me as a reality. I thought of the people before me who had looked down at the river and gone to sleep beneath it. I wondered about them. I wondered how they had done it--it, the physical act. I had thought of suicide when I was much younger,, as, possibly, we all have, but then it would have been for revenge, it would have been my way of informing the world how awfully it had made me suffer. But the silence of the evening, as I wandered home, had nothing to do with that storm, that far-off boy. I simply wondered about the dead because their days had ended and I did not know how I would get through mine. (p. 103)

***

“I have never known anyone like you before. I was never like this before you came. Listen. In Italy I had a woman and she was very good to me. She loved me, she loved me, and she took care of me and she was always there when I came in from work, in from the vineyards, and there was never any trouble between us, never. I was young then and did not know the things I learned later or the terrible things you have taught me. I thought all women were like that. I thought all men were like me--I thought I was like all other men. I was not unhappy then and I was not lonely--for she was there-- and I did not want to die. I wanted to stay forever in our village and work in the vineyards and drink the wine we made and make love to my girl. I have told you about my village--? It is very old and in the south, it is on a hill. At night, when we walked by the wall, the world seemed to fall down before us, the whole, far-off, dirty world. I did not ever want to see it. Once we made love under the wall.

“Yes, I wanted to stay there forever and eat much spaghetti and drink much wine and make many babies and grow fat. You would not have liked me if I had stayed. I can see you, many years from now, coming through our village in the ugly, fat, American motor car you will surely have by then and looking at me and looking at all of us and tasting our wine and shitting on us with those empty smiles Americans wear everywhere and which you wear all the time and driving off with a great roar of the motors and a great sound of tires and telling all the other Americans you meet that they must come and see our village because it is so picturesque. And you will have no idea of the life there, dripping and bursting and beautiful and terrible, as you have no idea of my life now. But I think I would have been happier there and I would not have minded your smiles. I would have had my life. I have lain here many nights, waiting for you to come home, and thought how far away is my village and how terrible it is to be in this cold city, among people whom I hate, where it is cold and wet and never dry and hot as it was there, and where Giovanni has no one to talk to, and no one to be with, and where he has found a lover who is neither man nor woman, nothing that I can know or touch. You do not know, do you, what it is like to lie awake at night and wait for someone to come home? But I am sure you do not know. You do not know anything. You do not know any of the terrible things--that is why you smile and dance the way you do and you think that the comedy you are playing with the short-haired, moon-faced little girl is love.” (pp. 138-39)

***

Inside me something locked. “I--I cannot have a life with you,” I said.

“But you can have a life with Hella. With that moon-faced little girl who thinks babies come out of cabbages--or Frigidaires, I am not acquainted with the mythology of your country. You can have a life with her.”

“Yes,” I said, wearily, “I can have a life with her.” I stood up. I was shaking. “What kind of life can we have in this room?--this filthy little room. What kind of life can two men have together, anyway?” (p. 141)

#james baldwin #book quotes

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