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turtletaubwrites · 2 days

Text

Numbers Game ~ Part 22

Pairings: Cross Guild x Fem!Reader x Shanks

Numbers Game Masterlist

Word Count: 4300

Ao3 Link

Series Playlist: Youtube Music Link | Youtube Link

Summary: It's the morning of the big event, and these lovers are distracted, stuck in their own minds. Too many truths, and too many fears seem to pull everyone apart.

Author's Note: This chapter contains big DRAMA, GUILT, & SMUT. Pretty much no one's having a good morning until they decide to blow off some steam. Our lovely reader is NOT in a good mental state right now with all of her fears looming today, but the majority of the chapter is from the boy's POV. I apologize for all the angst, I swear this story won't be so angsty forever! 😭😬

Alternate POV Symbols:

!!! SPOILER WARNING !!! Fic contains spoilers for the end of the Wano arc

Rating/Warnings: Author May Choose to Exclude some Warnings to Avoid Spoilers for Certain Chapters, Explicit Sexual Content, 18+ ONLY, MDNI, AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, Use of Y/N, Dark Content, Blood & Violence, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Dissociation, Grief, Swearing, Alcohol, Cigars, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Guilt, Drama, Jealousy, Manipulation, Pet Names, Power Imbalance, Cross Guild boys are VILLAINS, Possessive Behavior, Pain Kink, Teasing, Threats, Size Difference, Daddy Kink, Gagging, PIV Sex, Creampie, Hair-Pulling, Scratching, Inappropriate Use of Akuma no Mi | Devil Fruit Powers, Shameless Shameless Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

~~~🐊🐊🐊~~~

“Shh, babygirl,” Crocodile soothed, kissing Y/N’s temple to quiet the hint of that sick laughter on her lips. She’d woken up with the word ‘daddy,’ on her tongue, but the tinge of sorrow in her voice, and the sheen of sweat on her skin told him she hadn’t been calling for him.

The sight of that red haired bastard in his bed would have sent him into violence, but he couldn’t look away from her, from her quivering lips. He brushed the hair from her face, trying to smile, trying to be comforting.

Don’t leave me, sweetheart. Not before I can help you with this.

The thought of his girl all alone after that trauma, all alone without her father to care for her so young hit him deep. It felt like he’d been gutted by his own hook.

It’s my fault. She’s gonna leave because I’m a monster.

The image of her terror filled eyes wouldn’t shake loose from his mind, just as she couldn’t shake loose from his hook around her neck. Her feet had dangled, tears staining her cheeks while she held her tongue to protect her lover.

Told her I’d kill her. Told her I’d sell her. Told her–

Crocodile had to look away from her, clenching his eyes shut to ward off the vision in his mind.

The vision of hurting her. Hurting something, someone precious to him. Skewering her on his hook like a piece of meat, the scent of her blood on the wind as it soaked into the sand below her.

No.

Shanks was distracting his boys. Buggy’s eyes were wide as the red haired pirate leaned over to kiss his shoulder, rubbing his hand along the swordsman’s thigh while he did.

But Mihawk was looking at him.

Crocodile glanced away quickly, telling himself it was because that sight was too annoying to deal with this early.

It was.

“Come with me, sweet girl. Since these boys clearly have better things to do.”

“Looks like someone woke up on the—“

“Don’t be an ass, Shanks. We have a lot to take care of this morning,” Mihawk scolded. Crocodile clenched his jaw at the teasing lilt in his little prince's voice. More than sex.

More than what he'd shared with him.

Y/N crawled out of bed to take Crocodile’s hand, his clown following close behind to kiss her on the cheek.

She’s the one that needs our attention.

Shanks looked too pleased after Mihawk’s reprimand, apologizing while he kissed up the back of his neck. The swordsman’s argument was weak, his eyes fluttering shut when that red haired bastard nibbled on his ear.

He lied.

~~~🐊🐊🐊~~~

~~~~~~

The world was a blur, and you let yourself be guided, cared for. Breakfast was held before a line of servants and officers, all taking their turns in front of your intimidating group to give their reports, to take their orders.

“I need to check with Alvida about the party favors. Why don’t you relax for a while, sweetheart? You’ve done enough.”

Your clown had already chugged his too-sweet coffee, running off to his chaotic day. He'd left his head behind just long enough to plant a soft kiss on your lips.

“See ya, star.”

Of course, Shanks had snatched that blue hair, stealing a kiss from your grumbling clown before letting him loose.

Crocodile smiled down at you, his eyes looking strained while you tried to understand what he’d said.

“I’ll be checking in with security, but I’ll be back with plenty of time to help you get ready, darling,” Mihawk purred, his voice breaking through your fog to make you shiver. “Not that my little rabbit needs any help looking exquisite. You look good enough to eat this morning, love.”

“Mm, you are a tasty, little bunny.”

“Enough.”

Crocodile’s voice sliced through the air, bringing all eyes to his. He shifted his hook onto his lap, the movement only bringing attention to the thin line scraped across the table. He cleared his throat, turning to you while he spoke to the other men.

“This will be a stressful day. Y/N has to pander to a bunch of rich idiots she hates, just so we can all make some berry. My sweet girl deserves to be treated like a princess today. Don’t you dare ignore her, and if you two treat her like one of your fucking toys, then she and I will be drinking your blood instead of wine tonight.”

A look almost like regret flashed across his face when your eyes went wide, but you took his offered hand, ignoring the men he’d just threatened for you.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he soothed, his thumb rubbing along the back of your hand almost nervously before he pressed it to his lips. “Daddy’s gonna be scary today. Never to you, though. Never again, babygirl. I swear it.”

Your mind was still keeping you behind a wall, trying to protect at least the deepest parts of you from the sting of their inevitable betrayal. Yet… Silver eyes pulled you in, chains tightening until you couldn’t breathe. He swore it.

He hates liars.

Chills ran over your skin while you nodded, but you still couldn’t. Couldn’t risk it.

Never.

“I’ll go double check the seating arrangements,” you decided. “Make sure the ushers don’t accidentally cause an international crisis.”

“My girl,” Crocodile hummed, kissing your cheek before scowling at the remaining pirates. You stared at the expanse of his back as he disappeared down the corridor, until you gasped at the touch of Mihawk’s cold fingers on your thigh.

“I won’t be long, darling. I’ll come, and find you. We can… relax before the big show. I’ll help my little princess forget all her worries.”

“Don’t call me that,” you breathed with no bite, aching for whatever distraction he could give. “Please, sir. Just call me–”

“Rabbit,” he purred, taking your lips in a slow kiss that made you melt, dropping the fork you forgot you were holding.

“The prettiest bunny rabbit I ever did see,” Shanks praised, his sweet words sounding so delightfully filthy while Mihawk trailed his lips down your jaw to your neck. You found those brown eyes looking at you with even more wicked mirth than usual.

“Executive Dracule, sir…”

“Don’t try interrupting on a normal day,” Mihawk warned, leaving a few more kisses on your skin before following the security officer down the hall.

“Can I walk you to work, bunny?”

You took that offered hand, letting the red haired pirate’s charm distract you for a little while.

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

This is a dream.

Waking up to a world where both Buggy and Mihawk were with him, touching him, smiling at him, kissing him…

It was unreal. Shanks didn’t think anything could sour this feeling. Not that big, scaly villain. Not the stupid, greedy party on the way. Not even the strange distance in her eyes.

Not until that distance grew around her, throwing a bucket of ice over him.

What’s wrong…

That worry brought guilt, not just for his selfish desire to ignore everything besides his long awaited bliss, but for the feeling that he’d caused it. He’d pushed her further than he meant to, even though he had wanted to help her.

I wanted Buggy more.

There it was. The bliss was fading fast, replaced by the reality of what he’d done to get it.

This sad, empty girl. She hadn’t been empty when he got here. She’d been feisty. Brave. She’d cared.

“Y/N?”

She ignored him, calling for one of the servants. Shanks watched her work, watched her body shift into someone else. It was unsettling, like a doll that was almost perfectly lifelike. Almost real.

The twisting in the pit of his stomach only grew.

“You don’t have to stay here. You can go find Buggy, or Mihawk,” she suggested lightly, a smile that was too serene on her face.

“Is it alright if we talk, sugar? Away from…”

Y/N’s eyes unfocused for a few seconds before she nodded, leading him to a conference room connected to the large banquet hall. Leaning against the oval table, she was still frighteningly unreal. She tilted her head, waiting, but Shanks had to force himself to speak. Force himself to get out all the words he knew he should say, no matter how much it made him want to jump out a window.

I can do this. She deserves to hear it. Just say it.

“I wanted to tell you,” Shanks started weakly, gaining momentum, “I’m sorry, Y/N. I didn’t consider your feelings enough when I… I’ve missed Buggy for so long, but that’s no excuse. I’m sorry I put so much pressure on you. I used you, and I’m so sorry. It wasn’t right, no matter how much pain I was in.”

Y/N stared, eyes wide, unblinking.

“Everything I said is still true,” he promised, caution pulsing through him. “I’ll protect you, both of you. I would love to have you on my ship, if that’s what you want. But I’m sorry I–”

“You love him?”

Movement in her eyes, movement as she touched his arm. Shanks could breathe again when he saw life return.

He didn’t realize that he didn’t hesitate at all.

“I do.”

Sweet, sad smile. Why…

“Take him.”

…

“What,” Shanks rasped, his brows scrunched together as if he couldn’t hear, hadn’t heard her.

“I forgive you. Please, take him. You should be together.”

“Y/N, what about–”

“I want him to be happy,” she ordered, and his eyes flared at the sudden fire in her veins. The anger. “I can’t go with you. Please make him happy.”

This isn’t right. She’s not right.

“Bunny…”

“Don’t tell him,” Y/N hissed, a bit of herself in her eyes as she leaned toward him, pleading. “I’ll convince him. Just promise me, please.”

Shanks’ lips parted, staring down at this strange girl. She fisted his shirt in her hands to pull him in, and he couldn’t resist, drawn toward her like a magnet.

“Promise you’ll love him,” Y/N demanded, fierce words almost spat against his lips. “Promise you'll make him happy.”

“Y/N–”

“Promise me.”

He couldn’t lie. Not against that beautiful, tortured look in her eyes. Not against the desperation in her voice.

Shanks couldn’t lie.

“I’ll love him with everything in me.”

She relaxed, letting Shanks hold her to him, and he felt her body sink into a looseness that was more concerning than comforting. Guilt filled him. Guilt and fear for what he’d put her through. For what she was running from, refusing their help with. It wasn't right.

“Please, let me help–”

“I just need a minute, thank you,” Y/N soothed. She pushed away from him gently, her voice calm, empty. “I’ll be fine.”

“Bunny, I can–”

“I asked you to fucking leave.”

Her fists had clenched, nails digging in while they shook over her lap, eyes going vicious when she snarled at him.

What have I done?

“I’ll be fine. Just need a minute,” she smiled. The dissonance between those pleasant words, and the rage she’d just shoved down deep made this Emperor of the Sea’s hair stand on end. “Please.”

“Of course,” he gave in, leaving her presence slowly, backing away as if she were going to transform before his eyes. She didn’t. Y/N kept that empty, almost smile, and it made him want to throw up.

What the fuck have I done?

“Don’t tell anyone.”

Ice slid down Shanks’ spine when he stared at her from the doorway, her bland face still hiding that wrong voice.

“You owe me.”

Shanks didn’t know he could feel this nauseated. Didn’t know he could feel this disgusted with himself while he looked at this sweet, sick girl that he’d played with too recklessly.

“I won’t tell,” he breathed, the words feeling like bile in his throat. “I’ll just say you wanted a break.”

She thanked him.

Shanks’ body walked away, but his mind couldn't. His guilt wouldn’t let him.

She thanked him for stealing her love. She thanked him for leaving her with that poison in her smile, that evil in her voice. The red haired pirate left that empty girl sitting on the conference table. He ran away from her like a frightened child.

He had no fucking idea what to do.

“There’s the layabout,” Mihawk drawled as Shanks charged into the corridor. “Need me to find you a job to–”

“Y/N’s taking a break in the conference room,” he choked out, wanting to keep his promise, but still send her help, knowing that his eyes were crazed. “I think she could use some company.”

Mihawk knew him. Hawk could read him like a fucking book. The swordsman’s nostrils flared as if searching for her scent on the air, and he didn’t say a word before charging past Shanks.

Charging past the coward that hurt her. That hurt the girl that both of his…

The man that hurt that sweet girl.

Fuck.

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

~~~~~~

That’s good.

That’s better.

That means everything else is fine.

Your feet dangled off the edge of the table while your eyes floated, not pulled toward anything while you imagined Buggy smiling, adventuring with his true love. The thoughts were relaxing, taking you out.

If that happens, then everything is okay. Nothing else matters.

“Little rabbit?”

“Hi, Mihawk,” you smiled, wanting him to take the rest away. “Are you here to help me relax?”

~~~~~~

~~~🤡🤡🤡~~~

“Who’s having a breakdown in the dressing room,” Buggy sighed, surprised at how well everything else was going. “Eliza? Why?”

Buggy stomped backstage, eyes scanning everyone, every stage hand, every performer, every prop lined up on the table. He sent a hand just to nudge something more into place, an unnecessary action as he’d done so well at preparing for this night.

Too well.

Buggy felt on edge without things to fix or people to yell at before a show. He couldn’t just sit around and wait, he’d go fucking insane. Especially with the confusing picture of the extra lover on the bed this morning stuck in his head. Especially with Y/N's smiles, so fake that he couldn't break through, couldn't find her. Especially when the weight of everyone’s happiness seemed to be on his fucking shoulders. How was he supposed to…

Nope.

Thinking was bad. Out of the question, especially before the show.

Luckily, his best aerial dancer was having issues. He almost whistled on his way over there, but didn’t want his crew to think he was happy, to get complacent.

No one takes a happy clown seriously.

~~~🤡🤡🤡~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Everything was right there. Everything he’d ever wanted.

More than that.

Shanks had spent decades wishing that one of his loves would be his. He’d tried to find another, but there was no one like Buggy. There was no one like Mihawk.

He’d built this moment up in his mind for years now. This would be his chance to be with Buggy. To offer him the life they should have had. Find him, take him away, and have that adventure they’d always dreamed about. Finally hold him, keep him, make him smile.

The Emperor of the Sea was pacing through the corridor, his mistakes playing on a loop in his mind while he tried to figure out what to do, what to say.

Shanks scoffed at himself for his confidence. All these years of dreaming, and worrying, and hoping, yet he’d just walked in here fully believing that Buggy would take his hand. That Buggy would leave everything behind.

That Buggy wouldn’t have anything to leave behind.

Piece of shit.

He had to lean against a wall, staring down at his feet while even more nausea flooded through him. This place had shoved a mirror inside his mind, forcing him to look.

Red Haired Shanks didn’t fucking like what he saw.

I didn’t think anyone else would love Buggy.

Sinking to the floor, Shanks wallowed in guilt. He was about to spill his shame across the fancy carpet, the burning in his throat too fucking much.

Buggy.

All those years spent telling him the truth about how wonderful, how beautiful, how talented he was, yet Shanks didn’t think anyone else would see it. Not like he could. He couldn’t decide what that said about him, but it was foul.

Resting his head back against the wall, Shanks realized how fucking greedy he’d gotten.

They fucking tortured him! Crocodile is a tyrant!

Somehow those truths were sounding more and more like excuses. Especially after Shanks saw what they had here. That sweet girl that he’d prodded until her pain came out, breaking her into pieces…

Buggy loved her. Jealousy had taken him over, but the more he saw, the more he wanted it all. He needed to take them both away. To have that sort of love for himself. To have Buggy, to see him smile like he does with her.

The greed only got worse the more he watched the men touching his clown, how they all seemed happy, and the pain of Mihawk got all wrapped into it.

Shanks had woken this morning with greed instead air in his lungs. The sight of Crocodile last night with his three beautiful lovers. The sight of the four of them together like that was more than he’d ever imagined, and after last night with Hawk, the red haired pirate knew what he needed.

All of them. I’m taking all of them.

Everything had been at his fingertips. He’d seen something so bright that he had to take it for himself.

A butterfly, crushed to death by the child that wanted to look at its pretty wings.

I’m losing them all. So close. I ruined it. I hurt… I don’t deserve…

He wasn’t used to this. The guilt he still felt with Buggy felt distant, the mistakes of youth, and he was just waiting for the day he could make up for it all. This new guilt was caustic, too fresh, and made him question the kind of man he thought he was.

A hateful laugh left Shanks' throat while he stayed slumped on the floor, pathetic pity and self loathing drowning him deep.

I guess I’m the villain here.

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🗡️🗡️🗡️~~~

Why is she? What happened? I should have been listening to her. I should have–

“You said you’d help me forget all my worries.”

Mihawk stood just inside the conference room door, almost trembling at the sight of her.

Beautiful.

Wrong.

“Please, sir. I need you.”

These last few days had shaken the world’s greatest swordsman to his core. He’d always taken what he wanted. Didn’t care. He never hesitated.

Yet, Y/N had trapped him. Mihawk’s lips parted, almost dizzy from the battle within him. Paralyzed.

Need.

She needs help. Something’s not right. She needs me. She’s trying to use her body against me, to manipulate me. She needs me.

“Mihawk,” she begged, and the hint of pain in her voice sent him to her. He touched her, felt her cold hands, kissed her temple, pressed her against his chest while panic set in.

“Tell me what’s wrong, darling.”

Need her to be alright.

“I’m fine,” she lied, but he wouldn’t tell. “Just waiting for you. Do what you always do. Be mean. Hurt me. Make me need you. Make me forget.”

Guilt.

He’d been so caught up in Shanks, that he hadn’t seen her fall this far. Guilt at the thought of pushing her, of not listening to what she wanted right now. Guilt for his aching need to punish her, take her.

Gods, her scent… Can’t. Can’t.

“Please, love, let me help– fuck.”

“Help me by hurting me,” she ordered, releasing the flesh from her mouth where she’d bitten his chest. He’d thrown his head back, moaning at how perfectly she’d controlled him. Moaning at the need to make her pay for it.

Pulling himself out of that chaos was almost painful.

“Y/N–”

“Pretend.”

She sliced up his back, brutal nails down his skin under his jacket. He lost it.

She needs me.

“You’re fucking lucky that we need you pretty for the party, darling,” Mihawk growled, loving her desperate yelp when he grabbed her, cruel hands flipping her, shoving her face down onto the table. He held both of her wrists in one of his hands behind her back, using his free hand to lift her dress.

“So wet for me,” he taunted as he pulled himself free, teasing his cock over her pretty pussy, still hidden beneath those soaked panties. “This what my little rabbit needs?”

“F-fuck me– fuck!”

The delicious sound of her panties ripping as he tore them from her was nothing compared to the sweet, muffled cries she let out when he shoved the wet fabric into her mouth. Her eyes were fluttering for him, her body writhing, her hips trying desperately to move toward his, begging, fucking begging for him.

“You haven’t been very polite today, rabbit,” Mihawk drawled, satisfaction running through him as he forced his cock into her. She was always so wet, so ready for him, but with no prep, and with her legs trapped how he had her bent her over the table, he couldn’t hold in a moan at how fucking tight she was. “So you’ll get just what you asked for. How’s this for mean– Ha, my little vixen. Coming so soon?”

He could barely hold on. The swordsman could still feel the sting where she’d scratched his back, deep enough to draw blood. The thought of his red on her fingertips made him forget, made him hold her down, made him fucking take her.

“Mine.”

Mihawk fisted her hair, yanking until her back arched painfully over the table. Seeing the drool from her stuffed mouth just made him fuck her harder, blind to everything but her perfect, pliant body. He hadn’t realized that he’d released her hands until she reached up behind her, clawing her nails into his wrist while he pulled at that pretty hair.

“My wicked angel,” he praised, a dangerous chuckle following the moan her lovely pain had pulled from him. He had to fight to keep from slamming her face back down on the table, from fucking her throat until she choked and cried, from slicing his own red lines across that gorgeous skin.

Just enough presence of mind to remember that he shouldn’t wreck her too much, although he couldn’t remember why.

“Fucking mine,” he growled, spellbound by her sweet, greedy cunt, and her weak, little fingers still trying to hurt him. Her body danced for his again, struggling against his rough grip while she spasmed, milking his cock like she was made for it.

“Hear that, darling? You’re mine. My rabbit. My love. Fucking need you, fuuck…”

His last, dangerous words were snarled like threats as he thrust so fucking deep, making her cry while he spilled his hot pleasure inside her, stuffing her full until it dripped down her shaking thighs.

Ragged breaths, and their frantic hearts were all they could hear as he released her soft hair from his cruel fingers. Still twitching, he was unable to resist the urge to watch his cock sink back into her a few times before leaving her body. Leaving a sticky, beautiful mess that he almost cleaned up with his tongue.

Until the world returned.

“Fuck, are you alright, rabbit?”

“Mhm,” she hummed lazily, tugging the ruined panties from her mouth. She kept humming, and sighing for him while he helped her move. He was extremely grateful for the box of tissues on that long conference table while he wiped up his extravagant mess.

Mihawk focused on her, focused on caring for her, focused and focused, and didn’t think about the things he’d said. That was easier than he expected once guilt crashed over him again.

Y/N. She’s hurting. She’s lost. And I just used her again. Used her like a toy.

I’m still a fucking monster.

“Thank you,” she purred, resting her head in the crook of his neck while he carried her to the suite. Carried her to where he’d been looking forward to getting her ready. Looking forward to dressing up his pretty doll.

All the relief that last night with Shanks had brought him seemed stale. Too little, too late. No matter how much forgiveness he was granted, nothing could take away everything he’d done. Nothing could fix what he’d done to her, and now his greed was twisting him further.

What was the point of deciding not to be a monster, if he would just give in to this compulsion, this sick need? A need that he knew he was going to succumb to. Had to give in to.

Mihawk hoped he wouldn't have to be a monster for this.

I need her. No matter what happens.

I need her by my side.

~~~🗡️🗡️🗡️~~~

~~~~~~

You felt so good.

Relaxed.

Buggy would be safe and happy, and they would keep pretending until the end. You wanted to hope that you’d have more time than just tonight, that they hadn’t made a deal so soon, but you couldn’t afford to hope.

So you accepted it. Whatever they did, whatever happened, you’d made your deal with yourself. Buggy safe. They pretend. You enjoy every last moment with these beautiful villains before they send you back…

Send you back to choose your fate. Pros and cons.

If he even gives me a choice now.

Mihawk sat you down on the edge of the bed. He kissed your cheek, and called you pretty things, and you followed your own orders while he dolled you up.

Time to pretend.

~~~~~~

Likes, comments, and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you!!

a/n: Oh gobs, how y'all doing? I know things seemed like they could be hunky dory at the end of the last chapter, but I hope you'll forgive me for exploring the messy minds of our big bad pirates. I just couldn't let them off scot free, alright? They needed to sit down, and think about what they've done 😅

Part 23

Operation Olive Branch has compiled a working spreadsheet of ways to help families fleeing from the genocide in Palestine. If you enjoyed this fic, and are able, please click the link to find a list of GoFundMe's, as well as other ways to help.

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goldnsyren · 1 day

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— When will it be enough? (m.) pairing: gojo satoru/oc (noa hasegawa) genre: angst, touch of fluff wordcount: 𝟷920 cw: JJK 261 SPOILERS

tags:

Note: Does it count as a comfort fic if all I comforted was myself?? Anyways, spoilers so don't read. Can be read as reader since technically no descriptions given.

“Why are you so upset?” “They’re talking about you like you’re dead!” “It’s just a backup plan. I’m fine . I’ll be fine, promise.”

“Satoru,” his name was like a prayer on her lips. A siren call he had no choice but to follow. Gojo stopped and turned to appraise his wife. Noa’s brow was furrowed, and her bottom lip jutted forward disapprovingly as she stayed at the doorway. Oh. She was serious.

Doubt darkened her expression. “I don’t like it. What if-”

He grabbed her by the chin, silencing the rest of her argument with a kiss. “You worry too much.”

“Always.” She didn’t deny it. As far as she was concerned, someone had to look after the idiot— her idiot. He certainly wasn’t going to.

Gojo couldn’t help but smirk as he wiped away the steak of blood from her cheek.

His stupid smile, calm and confident even in the face of such overwhelming power, lulled her as it always did. She should have seen the mischievous-manic glint in his eye. Instead, she was distracted by the foolish promise she had desperately wanted to believe. “Have some faith. I’ll see you later.”

Those had been the last words he’d said to her.

There was no “goodbye” because that would be overdramatic. No false promise of “I’ll be careful!” - he never was. And certainly no gut-wrenching sentimental “I love you” - it wasn’t their style.

Just -

I’ll see you later.

He lied.

Noa stared unblinking into his eyes - a new emptiness to their once lively blue hues - searching for that glint once more. The vortex of calculated curse energy and cheeky mischief that swirled within them was gone. Dull and lifeless, it felt almost like a stranger starred back.

She brushed the hair from his face, calm and steady - with the most delicate of pressure massaging his forehead and scalp. The same way she always did when he had a migraine and overworked himself. Again and again, her fingers comforted him. A soothing motion - if not for him than for her. The air vibrated in her chest, a song just for him, even if she had no voice left to hum.

With vivid imagination, she could picture them at home. Satoru would throw himself on the couch and drop his head in her lap like a spoiled cat. A tell-tale scrunch to his eyes, he’d pick up her hand and plop it on his head in wordless command.

No one does it like you, Gojo whined. It was the closest admission to ‘ I need you’ he’d ever make. Noa never made him ask after that.

“Better?”

“Much.”

Noa continued anyway. His migraine would fade, his shoulders would ease, and the deep, steady breaths of sleep would slowly take him.

She’d keep her hand in his hair as he softly exhaled, relishing in the soft rise and fall of his chest.

But this wasn’t home.

His head rested in her lap as she knelt on the dust and glass-strewn street. The hand that didn’t thread his hair cupped his face with a lover’s gentleness. Bowed over him, she silently wept.

“Get down here before you fall on your head.”

“C’Mon, you’re telling me you don’t wanna try the Spider-Man kiss, not even a little?”

She didn’t care about the blood soaking her. Some hers, some his, and a lot of others spilled in there, too, she was sure. What did it matter anymore? Her thumb rubbed back and forth across the cold skin of his cheek. It smeared the congealed blood that hemorrhaged from his mouth.

She regretted every kiss she didn’t take.

“Hasegawa-sensei,” Yuta’s voice seemed hollow.

She didn’t respond.

“Noa,” Shoko tried this time.

Her back and arms ached something fierce. A sharp pain seemed to weave between every joint and vein in her body, pulling taunt and beckoning her towards the ground. The exhaustion of overtaxed curse energy.

The weight of grief.

And yet, like an excellent little sorcerer, she persevered through the pain for the sake of the mission. The same mission she had dedicated her life to since she was tasked with it.

Protect Satoru from himself.

Noa may have been oblivious to the tension and strife of the sorcerers around her, but she was hyper-aware of every almost invisible pore on her husband’s face.

“Will you love me when I’m old and wrinkly and as ugly as those old farts?”

“Satoru-”

“Even if I looked like gramps-Gakuganji?”

“That’s just ridiculous.”

“...is that a no?”

The corner of her mouth twitched on its own accord at the memory. Her fingertips caressed the wrinkle-less forehead below her, her nails lightly scratching against the soft white strands of his temple as she pulled away to repeat the motion. Touch, oh, what a profound thing it was to be able to TOUCH him. She could count on one hand the number of times he’d turned off Infinity outside their home the past ten years. He hadn’t gone a day without it since -

“I’m here, Satoru. You can sleep; I’ll keep watch.” It was as much a promise then as it was now.

“Is she even listening to us?”

“Give her a minute-”

“We don’t have-!”

“Hasegawa-sensei,” Yuta’s voice broke through the back argument as he stepped closer. “we have to start-”

“ No.” Cold and firm, the croak was enough to still them all. What little curse energy she still had flared around her wildly in warning. No one dared move closer.

Protectively, possessively , Noa remained bowed over Gojo’s corpse. A renewed anger steeled her features as she kept her eyes on the vacant stare of his unseeing gaze. Aren’t you tired, Sato’?

Exhausted. But I suppose there are no days off for the strongest, he’d humbly bragged.

“Noa…” She felt Shoko more than saw her. The reverse-curse user kneeled beside her, a hand resting comfortingly on her shoulder. “It’s what he wanted.”

“Don’t - “ Noa mouthed, the sound lost in her constricted throat. She flinched, forcing Shoko’s hand off her. A new set of heavy tears squeezed from her eyes. Don’t encourage it. Her initial lack of refusal to this plan had been enough of a betrayal already.

Shoko folded her hands in her lap but did not break from Noa’s side. The raspiness of her breath gave away her stifled tears. Of course, she hadn’t objected to the plan. It was a fleeting idea, a one-in-a-million possibility that she never thought would come true.

Satoru Gojo - the Strongest sorcerer - was dead.

“I’m sorry,” Shoko whispered. An apology for so much more than just silence. Her voice was lower than expected, burdened by what had occurred and the part she was about to play after.

“It’s our last chance.” Kusakabe reminded her.

Noa’s breathing stopped. The pulverized mass that was once her heart seemed to sink further. With every ounce of strength she had left, she raised her head to look into the eyes of Kusakabe in challenge.

“He’s my husband .” The word cracked and squeaked as it was forced from her choking throat. She stared the sorcerer down until he looked away, ashamed. Noa’s torment was clear as day as she looked at her students and peers with an undercurrent of anger and mistrust.

“Sometimes I think you forget I’m the strongest. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“They treat you like a god; someone needs to remind you you’re a man.”

“You humble me.”

“It’s my job.”

“But I’m your man, right?”

“Till death do us part, baby.”

Fuck Death. They’d have to pry him from her cold, dead hands.

Noa’s voice gained its strength as her anger rose. “He’s not some cursed object, you shit-head. He’s-he-” She couldn’t find it in her to finish. No word seemed apt.

Nonetheless, Yuta understood. “I know.” His mouth was set in a grim determination as he crouched before her. Haunted eyes showed his remorse, but the set of his jaw conveyed his determination. He was certain she would forgive him for his betrayal one day, even if he didn’t live to see it.

“Love’s the most twisted curse of all,” Gojo had once told them. It makes Monsters of us all.

“You don’t ,” Noa replied, just as a matter of fact. They had protected their students from so much... Their strength had been paid for in blood, and pain, and the destruction of youth. All for the sake of the children in their care. And now one such boy stood before her, waiting - begging - to be stolen away from his own youth and transferred into a man who’s soul was already shattered. Did Yuta know what it was like to watch a child beg you to let them die? No. “You wouldn’t ask me if you did.”

“I’m not asking you,” Yuta nodded to the corpse she still cradled so dearly. “ He is.”

Noa’s gaze fell on Gojo’s vacant one.

“What do I care what happens to my corpse?” His voice rang in her ears. “I’m dead!”

I care, she thought. I care so fucking much. Heavy tears spilled anew as she forced herself to be objective.

She had never deluded herself into believing in some fairytale about retiring and starting a family in the countryside. The elders, the curses, the world wouldn’t allow it—not for someone like him, not for The Strongest. But there had been plans—so many plans …

“I’m so tired, Satoru. When will it be enough?”

“When we’re dead.”

Again, Satoru was wrong. Not even that freed him from his curse of strength. Was it too much to ask to be left alone in death?

We are good people, and we’ve suffered enough.

“He knew what he was agreeing to.” Shoko’s glassy brown eyes shared her anguish. “He knew we needed him.”

“He didn’t know it was an option.” She thought aloud. Rest had always been a foreign thing to him. Her conflict was evident as her eyes darted across his face. She search for a sign, any at all, of what he truly wanted her to do. His once blue eyes, always a reminiscent twinkle of the boy he once was, were now dark and cold. They stared up at something - and yet nothing - above.

Who are you? , she wanted to ask the corpse.

“If the option is a proper burial or you living ?” Shoko interrupted her dilemma. “I know which he’d take.”

The widow’s face twisted in new grief. Gojo had never been the type to say love , but there wasn’t a day that passed that she was sure of what he felt.

Her right hand clawed desperately at the shoulders under the black T-shirt to anchor herself. It’s just flesh, she reminded herself. Heavy tears spilled anew, following the dried tracks of her previous silent bout. She stifled the angry scream that threatened to tear from her.

He’s gone.

They don’t have to be.

With a wobbling lip, Nao could only find it in herself to refute the logic of her head with the anger in her heart. The only argument she could form in her grief-addled mind.

“You’re wrong-” Even defeated, Noa’s voice was steady. Her hooded gaze turned to Yuta. “He never wanted this. ”

Yuta Okkosu and Megumi Fushiguro would surpass Satoru Gojo as the strongest sorcerer. They would die because of it.

Noa released her death grip. She did not move, nor speak, as Gojo’s corpse was taken from her. All she could think was

When will it be enough?

“When we’re dead.”

Every last one.

…Suguru was right.

#jjk spoilers #jjk 261 #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x oc #gojo x reader #gojo x oc

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tomaytow · 2 years

Text

and the birds will sing and wedding bells will ring

— afab reader, fairy tale retelling (kinda), cursing, self–indulgent

in which: all fairy tales (apparently) happen in mondstadt.

Once upon a time, in the city of song and wind, a woman, not older than 30 and definitely not younger than 20, sighs at her desk frustratingly.

She drums her fingers over the paperwork. [Name] lifts her head to examine the beautiful girl in front of her – she has a crown perched on top of her combed hair (she’s definitely one of those princesses), she has skin white as the clouds outside (she wonders what her skincare routine is), and she has lips a stunning shade of red (where’d she get that lipstick?). Right now, said beautiful girl is sitting in front of [Name]’s desk, and has her fingers intertwined together in concern. Wow, even though her eyebrows are scrunched, she still looks pretty.

How unfair.

“So let me get this straight,” [Name] starts as she checks the details of the commission again, before turning back to the prettier girl. Yep. It’s definitely not the time for [Name] to deprecate herself. Definitely not the time to compare her haggard appearance over a ten. What’s important is that she doesn’t stutter or slur her words or else there will be miscommunications. She needs to be professional, after all. “You have a, uh, a friend—”

“A very, very nice friend—”

“Who’s stuck inside a lair—”

“Inside Stormterror’s Lair, no less—!”

“And I’ll have to save them through—”

“A kiss! A true love’s kiss,” The girl finishes for her, and [Name] narrows her eyelids. She’s supposed to do the talking here but unfortunately Miss Drop Dead Gorgeous won’t shut up. Well, understandable – the girl’s commission has been way overdue due to the endless commissions flooding their way. And yep, it’s definitely the reason why [Name]’s stressed 24/7. “And only you can save my friend. With a true love’s kiss!”

Of course, this is nothing new in [Name]’s field of work. She’s fought a crazy wolf dressed up as a grandma before, or even a powerful sorcerer over the custody of a lamp, so this may be a piece of cake. Though, she can’t help but think how familiar this is.

“Riiiiight,” She stamps the paper and shoves it to the left – where other messy folders and binders are scattered. There are still more commissions that she has to do, and it’s not going to be finished soon. Good archons. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Snow White,” the pretty girl answers, and now it’s all making sense. “Princess Snow White, and please, help my friend, please—”

She’s starting to wail. [Name] watches in astonishment when birds suddenly approach her. Are they comforting her? Wait, where did the rabbits even come from? Goats?! Turtles?!

“It’s been weeks now, and I–I’m worried! Please, oh please! Save my friend!”

“Alright, alright, alright! Please tell your squirrel pals to lay off my drawers!”

In this line of work, anything can be possible.

In Mondstadt, where literally every mythical creature resides, magic is abundant. There are a thousand tales waiting to be told, but also a thousand requests to be done.

[Name] didn’t plan on working in Ms. Lisa’s business. Even more so, she did not ask to be one of the heroic saviors; she doesn’t know what to feel anymore whenever she visits the taverns lately, when the majority of the drunk men chant the adventures of the Unparalleled Knight with the bards. At first, [Name] thought how nice the tunes were, until the lyrics slowly sank in and she realized that the song was all about her.

It was embarrassing.

But at least the pay is good – it’s enough to feed her Sweet Madames every night. Not to mention how she has connections now! Like Dorothy and her dog. Rapunzel and her strange chameleon. (Also, Rapunzel paints with the notorious Calx on Dragonspine. [Name] loves visiting their annual art exhibitions.)

And yet, she can’t help but admit how sometimes annoying the clients are. It’s their fate; they can control it, they can fight it, they can beat destiny up and write their own story. Why does [Name] have to be involved with their issues?

“It’s fun,” her boss, Ms. Lisa, had said one time, when she was sipping her usual cup of tea. There were books all over the floor and [Name] was in so much fear. She wouldn’t be coming home tonight like she had planned because she knew that Ms. Lisa would leave all the cleaning to her. “Aren’t you glad that you’re given a chance on venturing into the unknown with this job?”

[Name] was glad. But it was draining, when she couldn’t even take a fucking break.

“Cutie, you just need someone to accompany you. Or rather, you should acquire your own happily ever after soon!” Ms. Lisa winked, and sent her a finger gun, as if she was shooting bullets right through her heart. [Name] blocked it with a nearby book. “Though dearest Jean doesn’t recommend a significant other, I’ll be giving you a pass.”

[Name] doesn’t recommend having a “lover” either. It’s a waste of time, and it will definitely distract her. She appreciates Ms. Lisa’s treatment of her, but what she needs is a week off. Not… happily ever afters. They sound stupid, and even if [Name] wants to yell that she doesn’t believe in that junk, she can’t—because it’s literally everywhere.

Fucking princesses and princes and their extravagant weddings.

Anyway. Back to reality.

Right now on her right hand holds a piece of paper that she’s sure is perfumed (she wants to cough) and is so damn pink. This is supposed to be clues for the friend’s whereabouts but why does it look like a love letter?

According to Princess Snow White, a spell was cast onto her friend because he ate the apples her evil stepmom—who was disguised as a creepy old woman offering free fruits; the Case of the Poisonous Apple was insane—left on her cottage. [Name] rolls her eyes in exasperation, because of course this little bastard friend of Princess Snow White will eat those toxic apples.

(Those fucking lazy dwarves of hers didn’t even bother throwing it away after they got invited to her wedding and honeymoon. Like seriously though, who invites those mofos in your most intimate night or week with your husband???? Ew.)

My friend loves apples, so there’s no hesitation in munching them once sighted. Okay. So the friend has an apple obsession? Also, the perfume really, really hurts her nose.

And I do not know how my dearest friend got to Stormterror’s Lair, and [Name] doesn’t either, but hey, this is Mondstadt – things are not supposed to make sense due to the magic lingering in the air. Due to the magic lingering everywhere. Or even the happily ever after trend.

Also, does her friend even have a name? Why is the princess being fucking redundant? But my animal friends told me that they were informed by the winds that my friend is in there. So please, save my friend! Save my friend with a true love’s kiss!

True love’s kiss my ass, [Name] grimaces when she sees the kiss mark left on the paper, so she crumples it before hiding it in her pockets. There won’t be any kissing involved. Not gonna waste my first kiss for this.

Stormterror’s Lair being huge is an understatement. It’s freaking big. Though, she’s thanking the archons above (no matter how unjust they are), for finally blessing this location. There are no more storms anymore, so what’s left is just the peaceful soon–to–be–setting sun penetrating her skin. No one really comes here anymore, because who will even visit the ruins, when there’s a lot to explore in Mondstadt? Like digging up cursed treasures, fighting off evil wizards, and eating delicious meals cooked by a former frog.

Ah, Tiana. [Name] should definitely head to Good Hunter after this to devour some of her delectable beignets.

The wind will guide you if you ever get lost, [Name] recalls Princess Snow White’s advice, as she starts to trek the broken bridge that leads up to Decarabian’s Tower. Broken debris and splintered rocks are everywhere. The plants seeping through the cracks are full of life. It’s mother nature taking its course.

She adjusts the belt of her heavy armor.

[Name] thinks she got this. Despite being a human, Ms. Lisa still calls her extraordinary. She doesn’t have any magical powers, but she does have a huge headache due to sleep loss. And she’s still alive.

Ah. She can hear music being played already, and – oh.

Oh.

She halts in her tracks and bends down, meeting the gazes of the unknown creatures before her. If she’s not mistaken, these are anemo wind wisps, and man, she can’t understand a thing what they’re saying. All she knows is that they’re really lively, they’re all jumping up and down, as if excited to see her. Again, she can’t understand what they’re trying to convey because all she can hear are the tinkling of bells.

[Name] yelps when five? No, seven of them rush in front of her, and thankfully, with her fast reflexes, she manages to gather them meticulously in her arms.

Wow, they’re all soft and fluffy. It’ll be nice to have one (that is, if it’s allowed…?)

But her ears are ringing due to the continuous noises they’re emitting. The princess said that they may be able to aid her in this mission but she doesn’t speak wind wisp.

A wind wisp nuzzles with her finger affectionately. Adorable. And oh, it seems another wisp wants that too. And another, and ano–

“Hey, hey, calm down, everyone. I’m not going anywhere.” And surprisingly, they’re all obedient, because they all went quiet. Now there are pairs of dotted eyes staring at her soul, waiting for her to utter something. Great. The attention is all on me now. Also, it’s fascinating that they understand human language, considering that they listened to her. “Can you take me to the uh…”

Wait a minute, what is the role of the princess’ friend here anyway? Moreover, who even are they?

“To the uh… I don’t know, to the someone who’s in need of saving?”

Thankfully, they do. They all gleefully glide and pull each part of her body with their own little dark blue feet(?), and she wonders why they’re all so enthusiastic upon her arrival. It’s evident that they’re not strong enough to make her move, but she entertains them anyway by walking again. One wind wisp attempts to tug her by the sheath of her sword, but gives up in disappointment when it can’t lift it up.

[Name] suppresses an amused chuckle. She opens her palm, and said wind wisp sends her a closed eye smile after dropping its form on her hand. It doesn’t have any lips but it’s safe to assume that it’s smiling.

The trip to Decarabian’s Tower is a disaster.

At first, [Name] asks the wisps why they’re surrounding her figure, until she realizes that they’re all trying to carry her upwards. But it’s futile. Their wind powers aren’t enough, so after five minutes, the exhausted wisps rest in her satchel for a well–deserved break. They get tired easily, it seems.

“You did great, guys,” [Name] pats one of them, who just rubs itself more with her tender touch. Really affectionate beings, huh. She lets them be after a while and assesses the situation. The wisps were helping her get up, since the staircases are damaged.

[Name] thanks the wisps mentally, because that means that the friend is upstairs, since they’re all trying to lift her up there. She doesn’t have to find the friend anymore.

But… there are no damn fucking stairs, so how did aforementioned friend even get there?

As always, there are a lot of things in Mondstadt that don’t make sense.

Like the faint elemental energy engulfing this area.

[Name] considers stripping off her armor because it’ll hinder her ascension, but since she doesn’t have any superpowers or knowledge regarding spells for defense (damn you, fairy godmother), she has no choice but to still wear it as she climbs the walls of the tower.

She just hopes she’ll have enough stamina to reach the top.

And good archons, of course she does. Thank archons that she has mini supporters or else she’ll question her sanity for choosing the wrong decisions that has led her in this scenario.

When she lays on her stomach on its cold floors, [Name] observes the chamber while panting for air. Why the fuck does it reek of alcohol in here? It’s so gross!

But the wind wisps chirp in delight. [Name] watches them go and approach the gossamer curtains.

Oh, right. Here it is.

The climax.

[Name] gets up, dusts off the dirt she accumulated, and saunters close to the bed. She can discern the sleeping silhouette, and there are lulls of true love’s kiss entering through her ears.

She draws the curtains.

There’s a boy. There’s a beautiful, ethereal boy lying supine on the bed sleeping peacefully, with his hands attached to a bouquet of fresh cecilias placed on his chest. Which is strange, because they haven’t wilted even though it’s been weeks. Said boy’s chest heaves up and down as he breathes.

So the apple did indeed put him in a deep sleep.

[Name] inches closer to the boy. He has porcelain soft skin—it’s unblemished and flawless. It almost rivals the Princess Snow White’s.

There’s another cecilia on the left side of his hair. And he has ombre twin braids on each side of his head.

And he has too many bows on his outfit. The outfit looks comfortable enough, and it’s absolutely a Mondstadt clothing—the white ruffles on his button up shirt? Hah. Mondstadt.

Also hm. Shorts and stockings? [Name]’s never seen a male wear those before.

[Name]’s guessing that Princess Snow White’s friend must be a prince. The bows look high–priced…

[Name] inhales. She doesn’t mean to take a whiff, but he smells like petrichor. He smells like fresh flowers. But he also smells like wine.

Oh, the combination of those scents is fantastic—

Ah. Focus. Now let’s get this over with.

[Name] brushes her locks behind her ear, puts a leg on the mattress (making it to squeak), a hand beside the boy’s pillow, and slowly ducks her head down. The wind wisps start to squeal in anticipation, and giddiness, and

She pokes his cheek. Her finger dips from his squishy it is. “Wake up, it’s time to get up.” [Name] ignores the stunned stares of the wind wisps. She grunts and pokes his cheek again twice. “You’re not fooling me. Wake up, or I am going to smack you instead.”

A loud, mirthful giggle escapes from his throat, and [Name] resists the urge to click her tongue in irritation. Finally, the young man reveals his turquoise eyes, mesmerizing her for a second. Holy hell, why does everyone look so fucking nice in Mondstadt!? “Aww! Do not do that, please. Moreover, what gave it away?”

Breaking out of her dazed stupor, [Name] scowls at the smirk, “You were playing an instrument, weren’t you? I knew I wasn’t hearing things. It wasn't just the wisps, but it was you, too. And are you serious? There are lotsa bottles of wine on the floor. Who would even drink them? Unless, I don’t know? Maybe the one who’s pretending to snooze?” Then, she pokes his round cheek, again, making him snicker from the contact. “You also puckered your lips—hah! True love’s kiss? You ain’t getting that.”

“Eh! I was just playing the part! You’re not supposed to be acting like this—where are the declarations coming from your heart? You’re also supposed to sweep me off my feet, rescue me from the dragon, and take me to my happily ever after! For it is such an important matter!” [Name] blinks when arms hook around her neck, and she feels breath ghosting on her lips. He whispers in a low voice and with half–lidded eyes, “Though, I’m so glad it’s you—you’ve come at long last. My warrior, you’ve worked so hard. Please allow me to conquer those lips of yours for your reward?”

[Name] increases the distance almost immediately, making him whine from the abrupt withdrawal. She really can’t stand Mondstadt people and their wild fantasies. “In your dreams,” Then she searches around for the basket. The princess did add about the retrieval of her basket—it was probably important to her. “Where are the apples? What happened to the apples?” It’s for protocol, so this won’t happen again.

“Why don’t you come here and find out?”

“On second thought, please shut up,” [Name] picks up the wooden material after discovering that it hung on a stand. Now it’s time for the next agenda: the treasure. She needs the treasure because this is her payment for this commission.

She spins around to meet eyes with the young lad once more, but he’s too occupied cuddling with the wisps on the bed.

“Thank you for bringing her here,” he muses, and the wisps respond in chorus with their bell sound thing. Wow. So he can understand the wisps. “Yes, she’s really unprecedented, but that’s what makes her so dear.”

[Name] is confused, but shrugs it off anyway and approaches him again. “Hey, you.”

“I have a name, my fair maiden,” He looks up at her, still with that mischievous grin. “But my children here have names as well, so do not be mistaken.”

“Children? You have children? The fuck? Wait. The wisps have a name?” The wisps reply with tiny bobs of their head. Now this is something [Name] did not really expect. Mondstadt, what the hell? She’ll never get used to this. “Okay, okay, sure? I’ll ask later, um. What’s your name, then?”

“Venti the Bard, at your service.”

So he’s not a prince? He’s not part of any royal status? He’s just a normal person? That thought is comforting, anyhow. But the bows? (Maybe he saved up for it?)

“If you’re still wondering about the apples, they were already consumed by I,” Venti says, and leads one wisp on his shoulder. “They were absolutely yummy, and it is no lie.”

[Name] squints at him. She doesn’t know if she’ll be worried or relieved – so the apples have no effect on him? “The apples were poisonous. It contained chemicals. And they were from the princess’ evil stepmother.”

“Ah, indeed. The wench who initiated all this – but fear not, for she already would be punished for her greed.” Venti summons his lyre, and plucks its strings casually. He’s not a normal person. He can use magic. “Is my warrior troubled that I would get sick? Maybe you should come close and take a quick peek.”

“There’s no need for that,” [Name] swings the basket over her arm, and yanks him, making him stumble. He chuckles—”forward, are we?”—the wisps produce anxious rings, but she ignores them yet again. “I am impressed by your rhyming, but I think you should stop now.”

Venti smiles with his eyes closed. The lyre in his hand disappears, and he takes both of her hands in his own. “I would comply with your wishes, but you must give me something in return.” He opens his eyes again, and they’re sparkling. Okay, the sun is setting, and how can they look so enchanting? (Wait, did she just rhyme? Shit.) “One true love’s kiss, for it is urgent, so then the barriers shall burn.”

Archons. Mondstadt people really make no sense, and [Name] ponders if she should move soon. It’s too much romance. “Urgent? Barriers? And again with the true love’s kiss? I am not your true love. We’re just strangers. I implore you to keep that retained in your memory,” She tries to separate from his grasp, but she’s appalled when Venti shakes his head. He has a tight grip? How, with that lithe body of his? Or maybe because… “Venti—”

The chambers quake when a shadow passes by the windows—darkening the room for a moment. Venti hides his lips behind his fingers, whispering a “he’s here,” and [Name] gives him a questioning look. He? Who’s he?

The loud roar that vibrated the stone walls is enough of an answer.

[Name] facepalms. Of course, the damn dragon he mentioned is real. Of course of course of course.

She unsheathes her sword, but the wisps quickly come together to stop her from wielding it. Before, they were all joyous and victorious, but now, the wisps are apprehensive and adamant. They’re all shaking their heads disapprovingly, like their… father(?) from earlier. “…What?”

Clingclingcling. But it’s Venti who interprets for her, “Dvalin is a dear friend of mine, and he’s here to check if I am fine.” Dvalin? He means the so–called dragon of the four winds? One of the survivors of the archon war? What the fuck. And he’s friends with the likes of this bard?

Venti places his hands on his hips and raises a brow smugly. “Unfortunately, Dvalin hates trespassers, especially when they bring something that can be harmful. I can just tell him that you and I are acquainted, or better yet, each other’s one true love! But you did say that we are strangers, right, [Name]?”

He stopped the rhyming. Venti’s dead serious though it’s obvious from his tone that he’s clearly enjoying this. [Name] groans. She wants to ask how he knows her name but—

Why. Why must she live like this?

Out of all the things in the world, the possible cause of her death is because of an ancient dragon.

Well. At least she dies with honour. This will be a great story for the bards. Sigh.

“I hate my life.”

Then she casts her sword aside, grabs a startled Venti by the waist (“huh, w–wait—“) and then crashes her lips with his.

There’s a gush of wind outside Decarabian’s tower when Dvalin finally senses that the curse has been lifted.

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smilebug · 2 years

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spoilers for my fic!! kinda

after a lot of work jesse finally gets to show off his cabin 😌

#guys lmk if i should do anything with tagging spoilers for my fic if you’d like #honestly i don’t even know if i’ll follow thru with writing the fic as much as i’d like to so…spoilers question mark?#we’ll just have to seee #anyway look at how gay lukas is HAHA #gay.#jesskas #mcsm #minecraft story mode #lukesse #mcsm jesse #mcsm lukas #arts #sdv au #update: fuck i meant to schedule this post for later woops my bad #guess u guys are being bombarded with content in One day!#hoo man this is an older one lmao it hurts

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llettucestuff · 8 months

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This was supposed to be a short thing about a hc I have where Chase’s frame is a bit colder than normal, and Heatwave’s a bit warmer. Instead, this kind of derailed and became… whatever this is. It’s very self-indulgent and probably a little OOC lol. This particular fic has Chase and Heatwave as Amica Endura’s btw, but I won’t always write them like that.

ALSO I haven’t written for Transformers in like, a REALLY long time so please excuse any missed terminology :]

ALSO ALSO Chase is kinda inspired by @/delkios HCs here on tumblr from like 2016, and this series on AO3, which is also inspired by delkios. More on that in the tags. Enjoy!

———

Chase muses about the general nuances between him and his Amica, and their overall relationship in relation to Griffon Rock.

Or, Chase runs cold. Heatwave runs hot. They make it work.

—

Despite his core temperature being at an optimal point for functioning, Chase still ran decidedly cold, through no fault of his own. He’d been that way ever since he was a sparkling, sitting in front of heaters trying to warm up his endlessly cool servos and pedes, never really feeling truly warm, servos always either burning hot or in their natural state of permanent cold.

His Amica, the mech after Chase’s own spark, on the other hand, ran hot like an earth furnace. Chase recalls being told various stories of Heatwave trying to cool himself down, sneaking into freezers and other places mechlings like him shouldn’t be. It was almost funny, the way they were trying to achieve the opposite of what the other was. Maybe that’s why they work so well together.

Chase’s servos were always a touch too cold to be pleasant or fully “normal,” digits sometimes stiff with inclement weather coupled with a chilled frame, Heatwave’s palms always warm and grounding, frame hot like his temper.

They were equilibrium for each other, opposites in the regard of outward frame temperature, always ready to cool one down or warm the other up. It worked, and that’s why they were Amicas.

(Not just for that sole fact, Chase would input, musing that Heatwave’s companionship meant much more to him than his admitted handiness as a personal heater).

That fact, that is, their cool and heat swapping tendencies, hasn’t changed in the many, many vorns that they had known each other, even pre-Amica Endura status. So, given that, it isn’t expected by either of them for it to change once they meet the rest of the Sigma-17 rescue team, where they meet Blades and Boulder, or when they hit Griffon Rock and discover their new mission— and it doesn’t, as they predicted so.

(It’s a touch curious and a bit of a wonder how neither Boulder nor Blades discovered their Amica status before Griffon Rock. It’s not like either we’re being particularly subtle, but they supposed that their combined general professionalism probably skewed the other two bots’ perception of them, and any private time between themselves was usually during recharge time, or so subtly done that it was overlooked. Chase would find it funny if he wasn’t so concerned about his friends perceptiveness.)

Apparently, after scanning their new vehicle modes, Chase and Heatwave’s frame temperature translated, to a degree, to the inside of their cabins. This doesn’t necessarily cause a bad problem, but, minor complications do arise.

Sometimes, Kade would gripe about the heat during the summer months, complaining that the heat made him sticky. Sometimes, Chief Burns would be a touch chilled when first entering Chase’s cab, though he never really commented on such.

Both were easily fixed and placated with the flick of a dial that had the Chief murmuring gratefully, sinking in to the warmth with a subtle but firm pat to the dashboard. On the other hand, it had Kade and Heatwave grouching at each other loudly until Heatwave finally cranked the AC as high as it would go, and, in a most petulant manner, they would spat for a few minutes longer, then acquiesce; although both Chase and Cody were proud to announce the fact that these spats and arguments had become fewer in frequency over the course of time, a fact that they took immense satisfaction in: it meant they were getting along, working together, tolerating each other’s presence. They still fought, surely, because that’s just who they were as people (and cybertronian).

(Chase would not divulge Heatwave’s late-night ramblings about his parter, ranging from words not meant for the likes of little audials, to worries about his human friend. Heatwave was shudder-to-think that Kade would actually realize that Heatwave listens to him, much less cares about him, in the covertly roundabout way that Heatwave does when he meets new people that seem to grow on him. Yes, Chase was sure Heatwave’s quiet affections were born out of nothing but pure concern about the fragileness of his squishy human partner and the rest of the Burns family.)

At the end of the day, when they had the time to spare and a near-certain guarantee of no impending emergencies to disrupt them, Heatwave would sit on the bot-sized couch, Chase’s helm cradled delicately in his lap, and they could bask in each others’ presence and talk in their native vernacular, occasionally watching human TV or reading datapads and books alike. Of course, they would swap positions interchangeably— it all depended on how the two felt on that particular night.

Heatwave’s heat would leach into Chase’s cool, and the two mechs would sit there, basking in the steady, familiar equilibrium of their soothed sparks and evenly-temperatured frames.

Sometimes, one of them would instead lay down on the couch like it was a squishy berth, and the other could lay on top, trading coolness for warmth (and vise versa), and let the steadiness wash over them, EM fields melding lazily, and systems shutting down to fall into an easy, quiet recharge.

It was peaceful. Routine, when they could afford it. Nice, even, though they would argue on separate fronts that any one-on-one time with their Amica was beyond just “nice”.

It was the perfect way to recharge, Heatwave thought, never one to shy away from physical affection (in the many gruff forms he typically dished it out in) with someone he loved. If Chase could have it his way, they would do this every night, holding servos and muttering halting words and conversations half-thought out to each other into the gentle quiet of the bunker.

Chase’s normally rigid, borderline inexpressive field going almost wiggly and boneless, blanketing over them as he grumbled tiredly over his Amica, shifting as he knocked their helms together gently in a spur of the moment bout of (what sometimes felt like an overwhelming amount of) affection.

Heatwave gave his servo a gentle squeeze, making soothing little sounds to calm the policebot back into recharge and settling his own field over the two of them, engine purring quietly in contentment. Heatwave was quick to glare and snap at any of the other bots that might come near them that were in the “living room” part of the bunker with them, mostly for fear that they might make a nasty comment on their admittedly compromising condition, though that happening in and of itself was a rare occurrence due to the timing of their little quiet moments, and the sheer respect the other two held for them.

It was actually Boulder who found them the first time it happened on Earth, Heatwave recharging so deeply his engine was stuttering, with his helm cradled in Chase’s lap with one of Chase’s servos supporting his neck plating.

Boulder had stopped and looked, eyeridge quirking up in a decidedly learned human gesture, to which Chase merely brushed him off with a wave of his free servo and a flick of his field dismissively, returning to his datapad. Boulder, ever the calm, non-confrontational mech, had never mentioned it after the fact, drawing his own conclusions in the privacy of his mind (with maybe a few snapped photos for his memory files, just in case).

The second time, it was Blades who found them, Chase soundly recharging while leaning against Heatwave, their servos clasped between one another even in his recharge. Heatwave glanced up from the TV and glared at Blades with a viciousness that would earn him a scolding later, who skittered off without a word of question, a touch too skittish to try and ask the angry firemech until much, much later.

Heatwave was protective and touchy when it came to his Amica and their status, sue him.

Over the months, Boulder finally gathered some courage to ask Chase about their potential relationship, with all the grace of a thudding ballerina.

“We’re Amica Endura,” Chase had simply said after Boulder’s shy, stuttered question, almost smiling and most definitely pleased with himself, if the way tender emotion seeping onto his faceplate was any indication, “and have been for many vorns.”

“I see,” Boulder had replied, grinning and nodding, grateful that admittedly tactless way he asked the question hadn’t upset the policebot. “You two were partners back in the Academy.” It’s more of a statement than a question, prodding at the prospective double-meaning of the word.

“Heatwave was the only mech who wanted to be around me back in the Academy, given my… unique circumstances.”

“Unique—? Oh. Right. Sorry, Chase, I didn’t—“ realize, didn’t remember, didn’t know it affected your life like that— a frown, field tugging in, then Chase’s reassurance:

“It’s quite alright, Boulder. No bodily damage or any vulgar obscenities said, as the Chief says.”

“You mean ‘no harm, no foul’, Chase?” Heatwave entered the room with thudding pedesteps, looking between the two with half-formed suspicion lingering in his optics, arms crossed right against his chest. “What’s this about?” His field tugged at Chase’s with question and apprehension lingering between them, a silent what’s going on both said and not.

“Boulder was just inquiring about our Amica Endura status,” Chase informs, tone bordering on bright, his audial twitching in a different direction— most likely he heard something from upstairs, “And I find that we are the most probable source of reliable information about the subject, Heatwave, and our friend was merely curious.”

“Right.” Heatwave grunted, field tugging Chase’s briefly in something like relief and acceptance before patting his shoulder armor firmly and moving on, the brief contact exchanging both pleasant warmth and much-needed coolness.

“I think he’s a little…” Boulder trailed off, searching for a word that was less-rude than “prickly” or “overly worried”.

“Protective?” Chase hummed in question, helm tilting to the side, “I feel the same, but it is entirely warranted, given our past, and he is my Amica.” Chase says, like it explains everything, and, well, maybe it did, “I will stick by him, rites-willing.”

Boulder smiled in that soft, knowing way of his, optics warm. “Must be nice, having a sparkner all this time. I’m glad you have each other.”

“As am I. I’m grateful to have Heatwave for so long, and I’m want for nothing more in a partner.”

“That’s awfully sweet,” Bounder’s field went all soft, his affection tugging at Chase’s stiff field. “You balance each other out, now that I think about it.” Remembering all of the times Chase was able to calm Heatwave when he was on an irate, angry warpath with a servo to the shoulder plate and some hushed words exchanged in soft Cybertronian; all of the times Chase was stuck in a cyclical, logical thought-process and couldn’t see things from a different light had Heatwave telling him the facts point-blank, trying to drill his way through and urging Chase to attack the issue from a different, still somewhat logical connection.

Now that he thinks about it, Boulder recalls how Heatwave was always the mech that ran the warmest when they were on the Sigma, practically radiating heat in the endless, desolate cold of space that even they could feel. Chase was always the coldest, seemingly emanating a unique sort of cool that seemed permeated the space around him in some circumstances.

Opposites, indeed. But, Boulder thought, it was kind of fitting. Chase’s mouth tugged into that half-grin of his, “That we do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Boulder, I have some studying to do.” And with that, Chase sauntered off, likely in search of his police manual.

“Huh. Wonder how we didn’t see it before.” Boulder mumbled to himself, shaking his helm fondly and turning around to go back to the bunker through the garage.

“See what?” Blades asked, turning the corner, “If there’s any gossip, I want to know!” Primus, he was sounding more and more like Dani every day.

“I, uh. Well, you see,” Boulder attempted, still unsure if the two Amicas wanted their relationship aired out.

Blades shot him a look, both teasing and intrigued. “Well?”

Scrap.

#OKAY SO quick lesson on the headcanons for Chase:#he’s something called a NET patient #which was a series of experiments on bots to make them behave a certain way #like certain bots of certain frames already had some similar personality traits #but NET took this to the extreme and shut of parts of mechs sparks in order to cut off certain emotions #Chase is one of these NET patients and struggles a little with things that aren’t totally logical #I don’t lean into it TOO too much BUT #spoilers for the fic past THIS tag so yk:#the part where Chase mentions ‘unique circumstances’ is reference to how he struggled to fit in during his Rescue Academy days #with mechs just in general being rlly mean to him EXCEPT for heatwave #then they became partners then amica’s (I called it sparkners at one point cuz like. spark-partner. sparkner. I thought it was clever LMAO)#but ANYWAY GO READ THE THINKER THE FEELER #I feel like it’s a bit of a fandom staple and I love it #I read it a few years ago when I was a little younger and as someone looking for rep in media #seeing chase portrayed like that will always be something near and dear to me #tf #transformers #tfrb #rescue bots #transformers rescue bots #tfprb #rescue bots heatwave #heatwave #rescue bots chase #chase #rescue bots Boulder #Boulder #rescue bots blades #blades #Cody burns

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wolfwarden · 2 years

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Whumptober Day 5 & 24- Blood Loss, "I don't want to do this anymore."

Word count: 3,703 Fandom: Linked Universe Characters: Time & Warriors (@gintrinsic-writing this is at least partly your fault. 😅) -

Time wakes slowly, his heart stuttering oddly in his chest. The wound in his shoulder burns and overshadows the aches flaring all along his side from where he hit the ground. He struggles to raise his head, but a steady hand presses down on his chest, trapping him.

“Stay down. You’ll only make yourself dizzy.”

He hates how easily he’s held down. Is the person beside him that strong or is Time that weak? He frowns and tries to blink the world back into focus. “I hit my head, didn’t I.”

“No. But you’re bleeding a lot. Take it easy.” The tone is gentle and fond and familiar. Time finds it hard not to relax into those words. They make him feel very young, like when he first met the Captain in the War of Ages. It had been an odd adventure, with a different hero looking after him instead of- Wait. His thoughts are sluggish but he tries to push through. That is the Captain’s voice. I'm with him but he’s Warriors now and I… I was hit. He tries once more to sit up.

“Old man!” Warriors snaps at him and grabs Time’s arm, grip strong and steady.

The world dips and sways for a moment before leveling out. Time leans closer to his support, his pulse thundering in his ears as he sucks in a shaky breath.

“Stubborn cuss. I told you.”

Once again the hands push him forcibly back to the ground. “Ah. It’s the blood loss, I take it,” Time says, avoiding Warriors' exasperated gaze by focusing on the rosy sky behind him. The sunrise has painted the morning a deep pink.

“The- of course, it’s the blood loss. You had an arrow in your shoulder!”

Time tries to inspect his tunic, fingers fumbling over torn and bloody (but thankfully arrow-free) fabric. Warriors bats the probing fingers away. Time’s fingers instead follow a trailing bloodstain up to the captain’s beloved scarf, reaching up and tugging at the stained fabric just under Warriors’ chin. “Getting sloppy.”

Warriors’ hands give a rough jerk as they wind a bandage around Time’s wound. “Don’t worry about it.”

Is it normal for the world to tip so unnervingly? Time feels he might topple over despite already lying flat on his back. Or maybe he’ll fall up into the sky. He fights to pull his thoughts back in line as his mouth babbles on. “You’re normally so careful. Probably ‘cause you’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Doing what? Patching you up?” The words are lighthearted but Warriors seems distracted, eyes flitting from side to side. “I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime, Sprite.”

“Sorry.” The shadows at the edges of Time’s vision darken and stretch for a moment, so he tries to slow his breathing, fighting the pull of unconsciousness. But the air feels too thin. It whistles in and out of him in quick, shallow bursts. “I might pass out.” His voice sounds wondering, like a child’s.

“Yes, you might.”

But that wasn’t right. He just woke up. He’s recovered from worse injuries than this without feeling so heavy and weak. Stubbornness makes him clench his fists and gather himself for another attempt at rising.

He fails.

It rankles to think Warriors will have to take care of him on top of leading the others. He’s been taking on too much recently, Time thinks, and he’s going to burn out… Memories from the past couple of weeks crowd forward in his mind: Warriors jumping to patch everyone up after battles no matter his own injuries; Warriors insisting on seeing to tasks alone so the others could rest; Warriors wandering back into camp with an unconscious hero in his arms, stubbornly putting himself in charge of their recovery.

Frankly, it was alarming how frequently that last one had been happening, and Time wasn’t about to become the next burden. “Help me up,” he says.

“You’re too weak.” A gentle hand sweeps over his head. “Rest now.”

“Silly to go back to sleep this early in the morning. It’s time to be up. So I should be up.” Time tries for a teasing smile but Warriors’ answering look is still tense. He tries for a more sincere tone, searching for the key to let him win this argument. “I’m not that kid anymore. I should be taking care of you.”

“You do.” The words are soft and difficult to catch. “You are.”

“Not enough,” Time insists.

Warriors hesitates before answering in a near-whisper, “Too much.”

Something in those words isn’t right. Time tries to sit up again, to get a closer look at Warriors, but weariness has him bound to the ground. He wants to assure Warriors that he sees him and everything he does for them. Everything he did was for the good of the group.

Warriors sucks in a shaky breath. “You were already so pale… but I couldn’t…” His face twists into a pained expression before he gives his head a sharp shake. “No more. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

There’s something amiss here, Time thinks, like Warriors is trying to convince himself of something, but Time’s sluggish brain still won’t cooperate.

“It’s okay. It won’t happen again.” Warriors finally turns to look at Time, eyes bright, cheeks flushed from the recent fight. He looks more energized now than before the fight began. He slots his arms under Time’s shoulders and knees and in one motion has him hoisted into the air.

But that can’t be right. Time’s vision floats in and out of focus but he knows this can’t be real. Warriors carry him in full armor? The captain is strong but not that strong, so what on earth is happening…

Time blinks and finds himself on the ground again, armor and weapons removed, bundled in a blanket and soaking in the warmth of the mid-morning sun. Legend is lying close to his side, similarly bundled up. Their veteran still hasn't fully recovered from yesterday’s battle, where he’d taken a hit meant for someone else. He seems to be sleeping peacefully now and Time can’t bring himself to wake him and ask how he really made it back to camp.

“Need something warm to drink?” Wild crouches next to Time, steaming cup in hand, looking much less pale than he did yesterday though he still wears a bandage around his neck at Warriors’ insistence.

“Thank you.” Time reaches for the cup but pauses as his hands shake. He glares at them, trying not to feel too irritated with his body’s weakness. Malon would put up such a fuss if she knew how hard he was being on himself again.

Wordlessly, Wild helps him into a slightly more upright position and guides the cup to Time’s mouth. The homey taste of milk and honey floods his mouth, but a bitter aftertaste has him grimacing.

Wild watches him with far too innocent an expression.

He laces his question into a single word, “Wild.”

The young man snorts. “Sorry. Mixed a bit of red potion in there.”

Even as he says it, Time can feel the ache in his shoulder ease considerably. “You shouldn’t have wasted it.”

“It’ll only be a waste if you don’t finish it. Drink up.”

He begrudgingly raises the cup only to have his hands tremor again, slopping honeyed milk over the side.

“Careful!” Wild steadies him. “I guess,” he asks disappointedly, “you’re still feeling weak too?”

Time frowns. “It would appear so.” This was not the first instance of this happening. Another injury that felt worse than it should. Another potion that healed flesh but did not restore strength. The puzzle nagged at Time.

“Warriors thinks we might have gotten a bad batch of red potions at our last stop, but Four thinks that there’s something about this era that’s affecting us.” From the pinched expression on his face, Time can tell the mystery is bothering Wild just as much.

Time tries to push his cup back to Wild. “Give the rest of this to Legend.”

“Oh, no, you’re drinking that. Besides I’ve already had Legend drink a potion.”

Time looks over his shoulder at Legend, still sleeping through their whispered conversation. He already senses the answer but can’t help but ask, “No change?”

“No. His wounds are all closed up but he still seems so drained.” Wild sounds tired himself. “But then again, there was a lot of blood….”

Indeed there was. Time can remember it clearly. The crack of a metal blade splitting a shield. Legend’s shocked cry of pain. Warriors' blinding panic as Legend fell back against him, blood splattering across the captain’s face. He recalls the way Warriors curled over Legend, equal parts protective and manic, shouting at them all in a near scream “stay back, I know what to do, just give me space!”

Time shudders, a chill snaking through him.

“Time?” Wild lifts the cup again. “You need to drink.”

He obeys if only to spare Wild from having to worry over another patient. Despite its offensive aftertaste, the warm drink does its work and by the time it’s gone Time feels the irresistible pull of sleep. He doesn’t fight it. “Wake me in an hour,” he mumbles. Perhaps after a short rest, his thoughts will stop tumbling over themselves. Later, in the clear light of day, perhaps things will make sense.

~~~

When he wakes, there is no sun to greet him. Cold moonlight paints the campsite and Time is groggily counting the Hylian-sized shapes on the ground before his thoughts properly crystallize. He reaches seven, counting himself, before his ears catch the harsh whispers of conversation from deeper in the woods.

“They’ve settled in for the night but still close enough it makes me uneasy, ‘specially considering we’ve got injured.”

That was Twilight. Was there danger nearby?

“But not many?”

Warriors’ voice, his tone sharp and focused.

“Four Bokoblins, a single Lizalfos, and a couple Like-Likes. Easy pickin’s.”

Time could almost hear the eye-roll in Twilight’s voice.

Twilight continued, "I'll keep an eye on 'em for now and we can pick them off just before daybreak."

Ah. Nothing too out of the ordinary then. Twilight was adhering to Warriors’ standing “orders” (though he was careful never to frame them as such): No splitting the group to pick off unaware monsters. No solo hunts. And certainly no unplanned attacks at night.

"No.”

"No?" Time feels his own surprise mirrored in Twilight's response. "But you-"

"Look at them, Rancher. Our companions are all exhausted. I know I don't normally condone this, but let's clear these monsters on our own."

Time can't see Twilight's expression, but the silence drags on uncomfortably long. There's the soft sound of a few footfalls drawing closer, then Warriors’ voice sounds again.

"We need to look after them. Time especially… he was so pale after the fight today…"

"You think he's getting sick?"

Twilight's concern is an almost tangible thing, the weight of it pressing down on Time. He wants to roll over and object that he's fine, but he holds still. There’s an awful creeping feeling, born from years of adventuring, cautioning him to wait.

Warriors hums in contemplation. "Yes, that might explain a few things. A sickness."

"Four told me yesterday that he's concerned about Legend and Wild. They haven't been acting right either."

"How so?" Warriors’ voice has turned harsh. Time knows how seriously Warriors takes sickness running through his camp.

"Too weak, too lethargic."

"Rancher, they are recovering from massive injuries. Of course, they're extra tired."

"Legend barely sleeps through the night injured or not,” Twilight replies, sounding unconvinced, “but he's been in and out for almost two days."

"Blood loss, Rancher."

"Then what about Wild? Bruises and broken bones don’t equate to blood loss there. But he's just as weak-"

"He was just as weak. He's much better now and he'd be horrified to hear you call him that."

The sound of Twilight's teeth snapping shut is audible. "I didn't mean it like that!" came the growled reply.

A low chuckle responds, "I know, I know."

“He insisted on watching over Time in case he woke up, but did you see him afterward? He helped Time get a single drink and then had to sit and rest. Wild. Sitting still voluntarily! The both of them out at the same time is just….” The anxiety in Twilight’s voice made Time feel guilty like he was peering into fears Twilight hadn’t permitted him to see.

Warriors says, “Do you think I want them to be hurt?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Good. I don’t want it to happen. But sometimes it does. All we can do is take care of them afterward. It’s a cycle of loss and regrowth, but we can manage,” he whispers intensely. “We can survive this.”

There’s a pause, then, "I don't know that I ever thanked you. When he fell. You jumped down after Wild faster than anyone."

Time could supply the rest of Twilight's thoughts. ‘Faster than me.’

Twilight continues, "And then you carried him all the way back up the mountain path." Time hears a quick shuddering breath. "The whole time you were gone I kept imagining-" his voice cuts off abruptly.

Time remembers. He remembers the relief of seeing Warriors crest the ridge, Wild tucked carefully in his arms. He remembers how Warriors had laughed off their panic, doing his best to put them all at ease. He remembers Warriors teasing them about being old mother cuccos, shooing them away from Wild so they wouldn't wake him and aggravate the pulled muscle in his neck that the defective potions couldn’t seem to touch. He'd been so attentive and careful to keep ice chu jelly on the bandages, changing them out himself. Time had been proud of how Warriors had practically adopted all the boys, acting almost apologetic as he’d looked after them all.

Everything Warriors did was for the good of the group. Time clings to that.

There’s a shuffling of feet in leaves and Warriors says, "You're a good man, Twilight. You care about others and you protect them.” Warriors’ voice drops low and Time strains to hear more. “All I ask is that you let me help this time.” There’s a shuffle, perhaps the sound of Warriors clapping Twilight’s shoulder, and he says in a much more lighthearted tone, “No need to wake everyone for a few Bokoblins.”

There is a moment of silence where Twilight doesn’t answer.

Surely not, Time thinks. Twilight has sharp senses. He’ll realize something isn’t right here.

“…Unless you think Wild would be willing to sit out for the fight in the morning?”

There’s a snort of derision and the sound of footsteps trailing away from the campsite.

They’re leaving. Time couldn’t put into words why the realization filled him with dread. He didn’t know what he suspected, if anything, but there was a warning screaming in his head that bad was going to happen.

I have to follow them. I need more information. He rolls carefully to the side, shivering as his blanket is left behind and exposes him to the chill night air. Legend, toss-and-turn-through-the-night, and lightest-sleeper-of-them-all Legend doesn’t even twitch. Time plants his hands flat on the ground and carefully lifts himself to his knees. A wave of dizziness hits him but he holds steady until it passes. And it would pass. He would wait it out and make it to his feet. Precious minutes tick by until Time feels steady enough to rise. He does so slowly, hating how wobbly his legs feel, but he’s up. He allows himself one small triumphant grin before he takes his first careful step forward.

He falls.

“Time!”

The half-whisper half-yell startles Time and he whips his head around from his undignified sprawl on the ground. Four scuttles over to him, leaving a hastily abandoned bedroll behind.

“What happened? Why are you on the ground?”

“Nothing happened. That’s rather the point,” Time grumbles, breathing much too hard for a man who had only attempted to get out of bed.

Four gives him a narrow-eyed look. “I guess the better question is ‘Why are you getting up unassisted in the middle of the night?’”

And what can he say to that? ‘I got up to eavesdrop on our mutual companions?’ ‘I went to stop a foolish risk?’ ‘I have a bad feeling?’

Four waits patiently.

“I hardly know myself.”

Four does not look reassured. “Did you hit your head?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s at least get you back to bed.”

Time thankfully (or shamefully) is only a few steps away from his bedroll so Four manages easily enough to support Time’s awkward crawl back. He’s shivering uncontrollably now and Four tugs on the blanket, trying to tuck it in snuggly around him.

“I’m all right now. Don’t fuss.”

Once again Four pins him with a look that conveys his disapproval more than words could, before grabbing a spare cloak from someone’s bag and layering that over Time as well.

Time is hit with the urge to laugh at the image Four presents. The littlest of all the heroes but with such a solemn, world-weary look. But Four has seen the world, Time reminds himself. He is an ally, not a child to be protected. He repeats that fact often, especially with Wind. Sharing a burden is not something that comes naturally to him, Malon of all people could attest to that, but he’s learning. He’s trying.

Perhaps tonight he should try harder. “I’m worried about Twilight and Warriors.”

“Oh?” Four’s gaze flicks over the camp. “They’re on watch tonight. I assume they’re scouting now?”

“Yes. But I-“ The words are hard to get out, sounding even more foolish spoken aloud, “I have a bad feeling.”

“You feel worse?”

“No.” He grits his teeth and then glares up at the stars, pointedly ignoring the pale face of the moon grinning back at him. Anxiety twists up inside him, warning him that something was coming that he wasn’t ready for. It’s old paranoia. Don’t let it control you. You have no proof of anything.

“You really need to rest, Time.” Four pats Time’s leg as the older man forces his body to relax. “The fight today was brutal. Honestly, I’d be more surprised if one of you didn’t come back injured after Warriors had you two pull away from us like that.” Four rubs his face tiredly. “I know he’s trying out new strategies, but I don’t see the benefit of isolating a few fighters from the group after we’re already engaged in combat.”

“Wait, he-“ An icy knot forms in Time’s stomach as he tries to recall details of how he was shot. “He did that intentionally?”

Sticks snap and crunch underfoot as Warriors himself walks back into the clearing, drawing their attention. The sight that greets them has Time going rigid with shock. Twilight is slumped against Warriors’ side, an arm slung over Warriors’ shoulder, head hanging limply to his chest.

No. Not him. It’s now a horribly familiar sight, another injured boy brought back to camp. Hurting. Unconscious. Cursed, Time thinks. Perhaps we’re all cursed in the moonlight.

"What happened?!" Four calls, rushing over, but Warriors holds out a hand.

“No! Stay back!"

Four jerks back in confusion, gaze bouncing between Twilight, deadweight against Warriors’ side, and Warriors, who holds him upright easily.

Time’s heart races and the shrieking warning in his mind reaches a crescendo. He dares not make a sound.

"You were right, Four," Warriors says earnestly, eyes glittering black in the moonlight. "Twilight told me. There must be a sickness going around.”

“What’s wrong with Twilight?“

“He collapsed.” Warriors lays Twilight gently down, careful not to jostle his head. Even from a distance, Time can hear Twilight’s labored breathing. “Must’ve been hiding how sick he was feeling. Typical Rancher.” Warriors shakes his head and holds a warning finger up to Four. “You must have sensed it before anyone else.” Then he smiles admiringly. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised. You've always been the clever one. But now we should take care to spread out and keep the sick quarantined from the healthy."

It makes sense. It sounds logical. Time wants to argue against it. But he lies still and doesn’t open his mouth. Warriors seems to not have noticed him and that feels like the only good luck he’s had since the last portal brought them to this cursed land.

"But-"

Warriors snaps, "Please, Four, we need some of us to stay healthy. We're defenseless if everyone is sick at once!” The fierce look is turned off in an instant, replaced with the former pleading and gentle manner. He places a hand on Twilight’s chest without breaking eye contact with Four. “I'll look after him, you know I will, but I need you to guard the others and keep them from getting too close and infected. Will you help me?"

Don’t do it. Time wants to scream but he can’t articulate why. He won’t imagine why. The only thing that would make sense of this is if Warriors wanted them to be hurt. But he couldn’t. He didn’t.

Four nods. "Of course."

Warriors smiles back, and to Time it seems a sinister thing.

But the nights of the full moon always set him on edge like this. They made him paranoid, seeing shadows in the dark, making his heart race. Yes, that must be it. Not my brother’s fault, Time thinks. Not the captain. Everything Warriors did was for the good of the group.

Time tells himself this, but finds it harder to believe it.

He digs his fingers into the dirt on either side, fearful of the world lurching around him, tossing him into the night sky and into the maw of the cruel moon. He holds on and prays for daybreak when everything will make sense again. He can’t trust himself at night. Old paranoia. Yes, that was it.

The moonlight incites accidents that should never have happened. It paints the face of his brother into hard panes and a harsher smile.

It glints on white teeth, making them seem unnaturally long in the moonlight.

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lovelesslittleloser · 11 months

Note

I heard about that one au. With Grian who knows Minecraft mechanics but nobody else does-

Sounds interesting. Please give

(If you still wanna share it)

Boy am I glad you asked!!!!!

So the premise is that grian’s a watcher and kind of a god? Sorta? At least partially. And he’s been building on a private server of his (as one does) for a few millennia, and he starts to get a little bored, and decides to join a multiplayer server, because player interaction is good every once in a while. And it’s been forever since he’s seen kristen (the goddess of death) so he joins her server!

But when he joins, he notices that everything’s a little. Strange? He didn’t get a communicator on login (which always happens, so he’s very confused) and when he asks some players walking by they look at him weird and ask if he means a ‘phone’ (which he has no clue what that is). Plus, everything’s just kinda… odd. Off. The lighting’s too dim for a place with that many people (which, wow), there are barely any trees and no one’s punching any (even when some say they need wood for a project they just walk past), and no one’s using their inventories.

So grian checks out the details of the server, and hardcore is on. He’s confused at how this many people are still playing with hardcore on, especially with skipping nights by sleeping off, and with such poor lighting. And there’s a huge death count to something called ‘old age’, which he’s never heard of before, and the server-wide pain reception is set to max, and apparently no one had logged in and all of them were bred like passive mobs??? And the only reason he could join like normal was because he was a god and kristen had whitelisted him before the changes were made?????? At least it’s on peaceful mode???

As grian has a very minor meltdown on a bench a chunk away from the empty lot of land that is spawn (which was even more confusing because there’s always some sort of welcome at spawn) and this very polite man with a lovely mustache who introduces himself as mumbo (though grian can see that, since even though name tags are turned off too, he can still see it due to watcher/god) asks if he’s alright, then offers to house grian until he finds a job and can get his own place.

Grian, while at first a little confused at having to buy a house (why not just build one?), he does quickly come to learn that the land costs ‘money’ (why not just use diamonds as currency, like everyone on every server ever??), so the next day (mumbo insisted that he sleep for some reason) he announced that he was going mining a thousand blocks out or so, and left to find a relatively untouched piece of land (leaving a very confused mumbo jumbo in his wake).

He mines for most of the day, and due to the server being on peaceful mode, he is unbothered by monsters, and though he’d assumed that there wouldn’t be anything valuable left to mine due to all the players, all the recourses were practically untouched! Which is also worrying, but he won’t complain if it makes him wealthy! So he returns to mumbo’s home, already having forgotten that land costs ‘money’, and asks mumbo where and how he should build, as the city has a general cohesiveness that he doesn’t want to interfere with.

So mumbo reminds his new friend(?) about the cost of land, and the existence of money, and takes grian to a place that would buy his numerous diamonds, all of which are carbon copies of each other, to a place that would buy them for a fair price, and not ask how he got his hands on them, or how they’re all indistinguishable from one another.

Thus, mumbo whisks grian away to a pawn shop that is admittedly quite seedy, and run by a man named quackity. At first, the man seems to think he’s being targeted by a shabbily-made scam, but once mumbo convinces him to test the diamond’s validity, he becomes thrilled to buy each and every one, his grin somehow widening with every diamond confirmed real. He didn’t ask where the diamonds came from (in a literal sense, as grian brought them out of his inventory one-by-one), and mumbo didn’t ask how buying all these diamonds wasn’t making him bankrupt. A fair trade in many ways.

So grian then uses his new money to buy the largest adjacent plots of land available (which is quite a few, in the richest-people section of the city, where very few people live, which is on the edge of the city and pretty much the middle of nowhere), and he gives half of the rest of the money to mumbo as thanks for helping him out, then sets off to build his new home!

~visual signal that the rest of this is no longer part of the story~

At present, I have 10,761 word of bullet notes of plot points, so I have a full plan for what will probably end up being ~50k words at minimum to the most recent events I have planned, since I tend to drabble on, plus I’ll have to be less vague for… everything! Even what I’ve written here’ll be expanded on a lot when I write it for real, I’m just really excited to talk about it :D

Thank you so much for the ask!! I’ve been wanting an excuse to talk about it for a while, and I’ve only now realized that talking about the stuff I really want to would be spoiling it. But I have so much planned, and it includes so many things!!! I’ll want a beta reader to make sure my plan is coherent first, but even without one, I’ll get it done eventually.

#grian #minecraft #fanfiction #minecraft fanfiction #there’s a lot of series included in the fic so I think it would be best if I don’t mention them all #since some of them barely get a quote or two’s mention #plus I’ll have to find that one tommyinnit-centric fic before I post it to ao3 so I can give it the ‘inspired by’ it deserves #time for a few spoilers because few enough people look at the tags to make me feel like it’s secret when it really isn’t…..#there will be nether shenanigans. it’s literally he’ll come on #also grian knows every language because he’s been around since forever. sue him for downloading duolingo to pass the time #lots of building. lots and lots of building. I might actually make a Minecraft map that’s just the setting of the fic #probably not but maybe #end shenanigans & dragon shenanigans & egg shenanigans & ranboo Beloved live #also I wrote out some how-to videos on minecraft physics. by grian #almost forgot to say that this is a superhero/supervillain/vigilante fic? that too #how come vigilantes are never super? you’ve never seen a ‘super’ vigilante. they’re always just heroes but illegal or villains that help #or they get hired by the heroes. which is lame #also……. minecraft monday #heehoo #my fanfiction #my fanfic writing #[|87

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puppyeared · 2 years

Note

Pick up Bart 👀

Ok you got me. It’s more fic art (based on the link between us by @cleflink ^^ go check it out!!!)

#for anyone who doesn’t get it the reason why it’s called pick up Bart is because Bart Simpson is a telepath and one episode he’s trying to #get homer to pick him up from outside by sending him telepathy messages and shit. and the spoiler alert the link in said fic is a telepathic #link so I came up with the title on the spot LMAO #i like how it takes advantage of the link when you’re thinking OF your soulmate without necessarily needing a name. really spices it up lol #the good thing about being really into these two without really being into dcmk is I have no idea how out of character any of these fics are #i am just putting them all in my mouth they’re all so GOOD #it’s fun seeing everyone interpret their relationship and characters differently like there are some consistencies like shinichi being by th #book but they’re all unique and it makes each work interesting <3 #I’d like to do one for one of alshoruzens works ehehe.. I was thinking of that forest dream bc I have a lot of fun imagining what #spirit!kaito looks like? personally I imagine him with antlers and a tail? idk about clothing tho cause I don’t have a good idea of the #time period it’s set in. but definitely some fox like features lol #anyway. idk if cleflink is on here but if they are pls feel free to tag them!!#EDIT: nvm I found them we good!!!#my art #doodles #kaishin #Kuroba kaito #kudou shinichi #detective Conan case closed #case closed #magic kaito #dcmk au #?#detco #detective Conan #ask game

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faeriescorpio · 4 months

Note

hey! so I know you from your writing on ao3, and I know you haven't updated it in almost a year, but do you think you'll update/finish "second chances come so rarely"? I got really invested in the concept and would love to see where it goes next.

my damien time travel story! 0w0 admittedly i have been struggling a bit when it comes to updating any of my ao3 fics lately... or drawing.... '=_= but i dont intend on abandoning it i do have the next chapter planned out, i keep rewriting it >n<

im glad you like it enough to come ask me about it on tumblr!

#damien time travel au #codi don’t look #hmmmmmm spoilers in tags:#i write all my fics with no idea of where theyre going or where its going to end #i am hoping for a happy ending #Damien is certainly going to go through it chapter 13 but Mark is very self-confident sooooooooo his guard will be let down eventually.#and damien can strike then

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alexxmason · 1 year

Text

Me thinking about any interactions w Thomas and Teagan

Don’t read this 🙄

So technically always believed that Tom would be on the side of the resistance (as much as he could though they’d never accept him with his past with Eden’s Gate); but I don’t think that’s true anymore. Yeah he’d want for help his friend take down the Seeds, a family that exploited him and abused him and took his future, but not Eden’s Gate.

A community that he called home for 10+ years, one he watched grow and evolve. We’re talking families he has know, friends he’s created, people who have adored him like their own. Tom knows the project members so personally and intimately (as we’ve seen through hanged man) that would he have the ability to fight the people called family? Which would put him against Teagan is so many cases(?) while she is just being used up by the Project/Resistance and even suffering so much due to this holy war in the county. But he just can’t bring himself to fight people he called family even if the one person that truly cared for him needs him (again).

#tbd #spoilers i guess #he sucks omg #i still stand by Thomas being the reason for the collapse #cannot clog my tags rn #fic: hanged man #don’t look at me 🤨

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irisintheafterglow · 7 months

Text

if he's a ghost, then I can be a phantom

summary: the strawhats are summoned back to baratie so sanji can cook for a high-class diner. they can't figure out why zoro is so nervous. (opla!zoro x you)

wc: 2k

cw/tags: swearing, mentions of food and eating, established relationship, pet names (sweetheart, doll, lover, pretty), spoilers if you squint, sanji being himself and zoro having absolutely none of it

note: this was requested by an anon a few weeks ago and i finally got around to writing it!! every time i write for zoro, i have a new favorite fic i've made because he's just so fun to write for. hope you enjoy!!

likes, reblogs, and replies are always appreciated <3

“You know, they’re a lot hotter in person.”

“Shut your mouth, waiter, or I’ll skewer it closed,” he mutters with palpable distaste. Another swig of rum burns down his throat and, for the first time that the crew can remember, Zoro seemed nervous. It wasn’t obvious, but they’d sailed long enough to know that he never stopped surveying a room for threats, no matter how familiar he was with it. Today, though, the only thing that took his attention was the rim of his glass and he was subtly avoiding the eyes of the crew’s target. “This is the dumbest idea you’ve had in a long time.”

“Thank you for your input, Zoro. I will, however, be belaying it,” his captain replies brightly, unfazed by the blank expression of his first mate. The uneasy faces of his crew only makes him beam more, giddily excited for the anticipated challenge. “C’mon, guys. We’ll be fine. They just need to see how awesome we are and they’ll totally give us a new sail!”

“Loud, loud, too loud,” Zoro warns in response to the increasing volume of Luffy’s voice. They were already causing enough of a scene, as is, and he damn sure didn’t want other guests looking in their direction. To make matters worse, the amount of alcohol in the table’s bottle was dwindling too quickly for comfort.

“Hey, if we’re lucky,” Usopp offers, “we might just get a whole ship. You know, maybe one that Captain Usopp can command as the second ship in the Straw Hat fleet.”

“You think we’ll get a whole fleet?”

“Hell yeah. Maybe, we can all captain our own ships–”

“Alright, let’s get our heads out of the clouds,” Nami cuts in. “We still need to figure out how we’re going to get over there, in the first place. And just for the record, I’m with Zoro on this one.”

“First time for everything,” he deadpans. She smartly elects to ignore his sarcasm and continues to argue why the plan is a bad idea. The call from Zeff came at an opportune time and during an unfortunate situation when the Merry sailed straight into a torrential thunderstorm that ripped the main sail clean down the middle. Despite their best efforts to patch it up, it was beyond repair; with the Marines constantly on their tail, having a working sail was a matter of survival. Zeff’s reluctant summons for Sanji to cook for a special guest provided a means to buy a new sail and have a little extra spending money. But, in his wildest dreams, Zoro could not have predicted that the special guest was you. The smug look on the chef’s face snaps him out of his thoughts. “Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen, waiter?”

“Shouldn’t you be downing the rest of this bottle, drunk?”

“I’ll smash this damn bottle on your head, I swear–”

“No, no. Zoro has a point,” Luffy agrees. Sanji gives him an odd look and he quickly realizes what his statement insinuated. “Not about smashing the bottle on your head. We need you to bring them your food so then I can go over and talk with them.”

“You don’t think I can charm them on my own?”

“Don’t look so aghast, blondie,” Zoro answers and receives a knife-sharp glare in response. “This is not someone who will entertain your theatrics.”

“How would you know anything about them, hmm? I believe you’re a little too dead inside for their liking,” Sanji baits and Zoro’s on the verge of biting before Nami steps in again.

“Sanji, get in the kitchen. Let’s just get the money and get out of here.” Zoro silently thanks her in his head for effectively ridding the chef of the table for the time being. His gratitude turns into a grimace when she turns to him expectantly. “You’re gonna hate me for asking–”

“Then don’t ask,” he finishes. She doesn’t relent.

“How do you know them? It seems like you’re nervous about being here, but we’ve never met them before as a crew.” Hitting the damn nail on the head. “So, you must’ve met them when you were still hunting down pirates. Am I right?” He grumbles an unreadable response, but the slightly pink shade of his face tells the table everything they need to know. “You’re terrible at covering up secrets.”

“I don’t remember asking.”

“Ah, you’ve got him on the run, now. He’s deflecting,” Usopp chuckles, immediately shutting up when Zoro shoots him a deadly scowl. He hated that all of them were right and would never admit it to save his life. After all this time, seeing you still made his heart rate skyrocket and cause his hands to clam up with boyish nervousness. You were just as beautiful as the last time he saw you, instances that were too few and far between for his own liking. Your father would have a fit if he saw you in such an unregulated environment as Baratie, but he knew that you were safe. As long as you breathed the same oxygen, he vowed no harm would come to you.

“I met them when I first started hunting,” he admits and the words felt wrong on his tongue. Every nerve in his body was telling him to stop revealing his relationship to you. It didn’t matter if he’d almost died surrounded by his crew; his connection to you was sacred and something he was going to take to his grave. It was mostly for your safety, the late-night sneaking out and stolen displays of affection. In another life, he wouldn’t have to hide you from other hunters that wanted to see him fall. “Their father is a captain in the Marines. When I first met them, they were training with Mihawk. Their father wanted them to be the most feared Marine in the seas.” The jaws of his friends fell to the table and he knew how wild it sounded, a legacy Marine trained by a pirate lord. “But, Mihawk taught them more tricks than just swordfighting and their father fired him on the spot.”

“He taught them sympathy for pirates,” Nami concludes and he nods. “Why are you so shifty around them?” He shrugs half-heartedly and tries to make it look like his face wasn’t on fire.

“Just haven’t seen them in a while,” he states, zeroing in on the blonde asshole waltzing to you with a plate. Your surrounding guards stiffen, hands flying to the weapons at their belts. You, however, roll your eyes and tell them to stand down. He knew you hated going out with security because they were always watching, watching, watching. “Eyes up. The waiter’s making a move.”

A strange sense of nausea washes over him as he watches you smile politely at Sanji, laughing softly at his jokes and kindly nodding as he explains the dish to you. You trust them, Zoro keeps telling himself. That waiter doesn’t stand a fucking chance. All the reassurances don’t stop his gut from churning when Sanji does his signature lean-down-and-whisper-suggestively into your ear. To his surprise, however, you don’t immediately meet the chef’s eyes. Your attention flicks to Zoro, instead, with a look that he knows all too well.

Please get me out of this.

Despite the protests of the table, he’s standing in an instant and walking with his hands on his swords like your guards didn’t even exist. His sight becomes tunnel-vision on nothing but you and he bypasses your guards with ease. Your shoulders relax when he stations himself protectively behind you, much to the confusion of the chef in front of you. As subtle as he can, he rests his hand on the back of your chair, inching closer until he’s just barely touching your shoulder. It’s small, but speaks wonders for his presence.

“Zoro,” you murmur without looking up, your fingertips brushing against his knuckles. Your touch on his skin after so much time away feels electric.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Sanji stiffens at the term of endearment so easily leaving Zoro’s mouth and you can sense the boost it does for his ego. “Whatcha got there?”

“My new friend was just telling me about the dish he made. He said he crafted it especially for me, with his own hands,” you inform him with a sly sparkle in your eye. His jaw clenches unconsciously. You knew exactly what was going on in Zoro’s mind and he knew it, too. “Apparently, he can work wonders with his hands,” you remark casually and you can hear the chair crack under the force of the swordsman’s hand gripping it. To your delight, Sanji’s face has also taken on a slightly darker shade of red at how crassly you echo his suggestion. And in front of his rival, no less.

“Was he, now?” His tone is lethal and it sends goosebumps up your arms. “Well, it best be time for him to get back in the kitchen, no?”

“Mmm, but he said he had a proposal for me–”

“I had one for you too, though I did ask you in a much finer establishment than this one.” You can’t help the smirk that spreads on your face and you have to look to the side to keep from laughing aloud. Zoro’s jealousy was rearing a very indignant head; you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find it a little hot. “Got that stone on your left hand to prove it.” Sanji’s eyes darted to the band wrapped around your finger, a ring that looked suspiciously like the one hanging from a chain around Zoro’s neck. “Give us some time alone, yeah?” His question becomes rhetorical as he pulls out a chair next to you and tugs your seat closer until you can cross your leg across his. His palm rests possessively over your thigh and the chef gapes for a few moments more before turning back to the kitchen.

“That goes for all of you, please,” you order your guards without looking at them, absentmindedly tracing Zoro’s jawline with the back of your pointer finger. “Take my bag and buy however many drinks you want. I’m safe,” you state with absolute certainty. Once they’re gone, all you see, feel, and know is him.

“Hi,” he breathes.

“Hi,” you smile just as softly. “What’re you doing in a place like this?”

“I can ask you the same question, pretty.” His eyes shine with nothing but adoration. You forgot just how much you missed him.

“Took a detour to prolong my time at sea. I didn’t want to go home just yet.”

“Your old man’s being an ass again?”

“You know how he is,” you reply. “Why are you here?”

“Believe it or not, that blonde shithead is my crewmate. We’re here to get some extra Berry for a new sail.”

“Sail, hmm? I always knew you had a little pirate in you,” you tease and he sticks his tongue out immaturely. “Heard you fought my esteemed mentor. I don’t know what the hell you were thinking.”

“You don’t think I can beat him?”

“I don’t think I can fathom what will happen if you don’t,” you say quietly, swallowing a lump in your throat. “Don’t do any dumb shit, okay?”

“You’re acting as if I’m already leaving you again.”

“Aren’t you?” Your smile is sad and it makes his chest ache. When he beat Mihawk and killed your bastard father, he was going to give you the life that you deserved.

“Not yet,” he promises. “I don’t wanna go yet.”

“I don’t want you to go, either. How much do you need for that sail?” He gives you a number and you don’t even blink. You just nod and reach into your coin purse, fishing around and deciding to just give him the entire pouch. “Will that cover it?”

“Doll–”

“It’s a yes or no question, husband,” you say with lighthearted sternness. He shakes his head in exasperation but can’t hide the grin painting his features.

“Yes, lover. It’s more than enough.” He presses a kiss to your forehead and you hum in contentment. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Of course. D’you mind introducing me to the rest of your crew besides the flirty waiter?”

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#zoro x you #zoro x reader #zoro x y/n #roronoa zoro x you #roronoa zoro x y/n #one piece x you #one piece x reader #opla x you #opla x reader #opla x y/n #zoro fluff #opla fluff #ask iris!#one piece x y/n

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davosmymaster · 1 year

Text

No Time To Die

TAGS AND WARNINGS - +18, Minors DNI, no explicit smut but sexual themes, whump, a lot of angst, blood, graphic wounds and procedures (?) probably not medically accurate, could be almost gore if you squint, hurt/comfort, two dorks in love, canon-typical violence, near-death experiences. Not based on the game, I don’t know anything about the game and I don’t want spoilers please.

PAIRINGS - Joel Miller x fem!reader

WORD COUNT - 9.6k.

SUMMARY - The main difficulty of being Joel’s closest friend is not falling in love with him, but you still do. Those feelings are buried until you join him on a mission to trade supplies with Bill and Frank. With your life now hanging by a thread, Joel is determined to get you to safety, but the clock is ticking faster than he can run.

A/N - I honestly don’t know what this is. I tried to look for angsty and whumpy fics and couldn’t find any that hit the spot just right; so I wrote my own. This story is set in some time between 2010 and 2020, or so. Bill and Frank are still very much alive. The only warning apart the amount of blood in this, it’s my own knowledge of the English language.

'Breathe'

With a shiver, you try to comply with your own command. The action itself confuses you, and you don't know where exactly in your mind that thought came from; or why. All you know is that a moment ago you were nothing, absolutely nothing, not even human. You forgot your own existence in a still ocean made of black thick ink. The ink is now backtracking, though, but the remnants of it stay in your foggy mind, clouding it as your consciousness comes back in waves.

Waking up from a dream is easy, you just come back into yourself from a nice trip to your own imagination. Regaining consciousness, however, is a little more difficult. Instead of going somewhere, you go inwards into yourself. Your overworked mind, already tired and busy with keeping you alive, doesn't care much about bringing you to any other place so you can die peacefully. No. And the awakening is not as it should be either.

Coming back into yourself is your body crawling its way to the land of the living, with your flesh drenched in tears, blood and sweat; and nails digging firmly into the dirt. At least that's how it feels as you go back and forth between the two worlds, rocked violently by the waves threatening to drown you in its heavy never-ending dream.

You wake up tired, and cold. The first sense that returns is touch; and with it, a pulsing pain radiates from under the right side of your collarbone and all the way down to your chest and back. The —obvious— wound is warmer than the rest of your body. It's like you've grown a second heart right at the borders of the wound; it throbs relentlessly. The second is taste. Your mouth tastes like salt and melted butter; despite not having eaten either in at least three days. Around the dryness of your tongue you feel a sticky liquid swirling around in your mouth, plastered to your gums.

Whatever it is, you cough it out of your mouth. The old blackened blood splatters on the wooden planks below your mouth. Then, a second later, you feel a sprawled hand on your back; and the rest of your consciousness returns with it.

He calls your name. And he, whose presence you'd have recognized even blindfolded, even miles away from there, doesn't appear in your mind for a few seconds. But even half-conscious and at death's gates, his name leaves your mouth with a sigh of relief.

Joel.

"I'm here," he says, his palm now pressing a bit harder into your back, trying to comfort you somehow. If you had been fully aware, you'd have been embarrassed at the relieved groan that had escaped your lips while saying his name. "How are you feeling?"

His voice sounds less muffled now, but the pulsing pain intensifies the closer you are to the surface. A second groan escapes your mouth as the warmth under your collarbone becomes impossible to ignore.

"I know, I know" he says.

Your eyes flutter open. From your point of view there's not much to see except torn wallpaper, your blood stains, and the shadow of a window. You're on the floor, your cheek pressed against the dusty carpet, your body very still laying on them, and Joel rubbing your back.

The room is dark. His fingers enter your field of vision, they dip on the wet blood stains and turn around so Joel can see the sticky fluid staining his fingers. He takes a breath, a gasp, really.

"Goddamnit," he mutters under his breath. His hand stops rubbing your back, and as black stains crawl from the corners of your vision, trying to take you under the waves again, he talks to you:

"I need to turn you around..." he says with a gentle voice. It's like the icing on top of a sour and burnt cake; he's trying to sound caring, but that doesn't change the fact that it's going to hurt like a bitch. "You hear me?" he says, and his voice breaks for a second. Your ears ring, the next thing he says your brain doesn't process it, your vision has been clouded by darkness again...

A scream tores your throat as a shooting pain lights your body on fire. It feels like lightning going through your backbone. Suddenly, the waves are very far away and you're feeling way too conscious for your liking. Despite your pain, Joel is still as careful as he can as he lays you on the floor, now facing the ceiling instead.

The throbbing pain continues, and you blink to get rid of the tears that distort Joel's face. His hand wipes the tears from your face.

"I know," he says. He has a crease between his seemingly angry eyebrows that you had never seen before.

Both hands are roaming your ribs now, before you can even say anything. His warm hands give you shivers as he touches your naked skin. The pain is so unbearable that all you can do to mitigate it is hold your breath. If you could move, you'd be right now curled on the floor like a pretzel. You are not crying anymore, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't close.

"Can you breathe?" he asks then, when he doesn't find any cracks in your ribs by touch alone. You don't respond because you can't find your own voice, and he sounds desperate at this point. "You coughed blood, I need to know if any of your lungs are collapsing."

"It-it hurts..." you wheeze, your eyes tightly shut. For a split second, you wish you were back to being nothing. Being nothing sounds way better than having a gunshot wound in your chest. The bandages, tight over your bones and shoulder, don't mitigate the pain either. If anything, they worsen it. It feels like a tight sock over a painful pustule on your heel.

Worst part is you know all this pain is for nothing; you know you won't make it. If you go back to the QZ, you will be executed. If not, there's nobody to help you except Joel. But even if there were doctors or hospitals, you highly doubted you could find the necessary tools to extract a bullet and stitch the wound. That is, if you manage not to die of blood loss.

"Where?" Joel asks. Even beyond all this concern and well-hidden panic, he seems to cling to an ounce of hope. "Tell me where it hurts."

Your fingers gently trace your skin until they reach the area under your collarbone, and you sign to your back too. There's a bandage there, but nothing else, and that's when you notice you don't have a shirt on, just your blood-soaked bra.

"Is it bad?"

"Not that bad. The bullet went through," he said. That explains the pain on both sides of your body; you have a literal hole in your chest. "And it clotted soon enough to stop the bleeding, but you lost too much blood anyway... Anywhere else?"

Your whole body hurts and this abandoned house suddenly feels like penance, but you don't want to scare him further, so you shake your head no very slowly.

"Alright," he mumbles. Joel nods once, and it looks like he is reassuring himself. His eyes betray him, he looks like he is very far away from here, very buried under all the scenes playing on his mind; but despite his stillness, his lower lip quivers.

You can't move your right arm at all, but with the other hand, your fingers lightly touch his knuckles still resting on your stomach. He winces, and your fingers are wet with his blood too. He must have beaten to death whoever shot you, that you are certain about.

Your voice, little more than a weak breath, whispers:

"I-I want you to do it."

The crease between his eyebrows deepens. He seems confused rather than angry; the reaction you were hoping for. You take a breath to repeat your own words, but he squeezes your hand.

"Don't," he says.

"Joel..."

"Don't even think about it," he snarls. "You are perfectly fine, don't be dramatic."

You don't know what hurts more; his pain or yours, but his denial makes your eyes wet with tears again. This is already hard, but he is making it even harder. All he will achieve by trying to keep you alive is either prolonging his pain or getting himself killed. You both know this is no world for the injured and the sick, not out of the QZ, at least. And in most cases, not inside either.

All you ask of him is to not leave you for the infected to find. Is that too much to ask?

You want to insist, but you know he won't have it. Joel has lost so much already that the thought of losing what little left he has is not even going to cross his mind. Not until it's too late, at least. Also, you don't want your last moments with him to be a fight. You are tired of fighting, of swimming against the current. You just want to let go for once, give in to the external forces, close your eyes and peacefully breathe.

What's more, you should have already known that he wouldn't do you that favor. He is too selfish for that.

He pats your cheeks gently with his large hands, and your eyes, already rolling back into your skull, get focused on him again with a few blinks. You breathe slowly, trying to focus on him, on the world around you slowly twisting and turning.

"...that's it," he says, it doesn't sound like his first sentence, so you guess he's been talking to you before. When you look back at him, his breathing is shallow, and you know he is trying to take a hold of himself too, trying not to give in to panic. "Good girl, that's it. Keep your eyes on me."

Exhausted and hurting as you are, keeping your eyes open it's like asking you not to drop a weight that you cannot, in fact, handle; but you try nonetheless. It's your fault, really, for letting yourself go, for trying to give up on your fight earlier than you should. Joel is here trying to keep you alive, mending all your broken ends and stitching them together —he has always been good at that— while you're just trying to give up on him —you are really good at that too—.

Giving up on Joel has been one of the hardest things you've ever had to do; and now you're letting him go for the last time. Part of you is glad you don't have to keep watching how he chooses Theresa over and over again. You are even relieved that fate —or whatever there is out there— is forcing you out of the equation. After all, you would never have given up fully on him.

He refuses to kill you, what he doesn't know is that you've been dead for a long while now. Him being your executioner would be the kindest act he could have with you, the most intimate thing you'd ever share; your last moments. You want it to be him, you want him to free you from this torment.

He refuses, though; and it feels like a punch to the pit of your stomach. You shiver.

He gets up from his place on the floor, where you are lying just over the carpet. You follow him with your eyes and see a fire cracking up in a fucked-up chimney. He stokes the fire, throws some more wood on it and then comes back to you, covering you with his jacket, the very same jacket you had on before he turned you around. It's warm, his, and you have to stop yourself from sinking your nose into the collar.

"I had to take off your shirt to patch you up," he says, but he doesn't say sorry. Ever. So you guess it's his way of apologizing.

You simply nod, aware that you had wished for this very moment to happen many times before. You had dreamt of his rough hands over your naked flesh, caressing the sides of your body. You had dreamt of him watching you with those chocolate eyes as you took your shirt off, deep black pupils spreading over the brown as he watched the lace fall like a helpless witness.

But now the bra was covered in blood and he was watching you anywhere but the lace. He had a frightened and concerned look on his face, rather than aroused. A look that would have made you feel guilty and ashamed if it had happened in the other scenario. And instead of undressing you, he was covering your body with his jacket as if you were his child.

"What's wrong?" he is asking now, instead of whispering 'I want you' and it hurts all the same to know he's not ever going to say it, and that Tess now will have all those words for however long their lives are.

You guess they were made for each other. And it makes all the sense, really, no one like Joel would ever look at you twice. You were grateful that he even allowed you to be his friend.

"Nothing," you respond.

It's always 'nothing' when it comes to Joel. It's always that nothing whenever he notices you are under the weather. It's always nothing when you are hurt, when someone tries to rob you and they leave an angry black eye on your face. It's always nothing; and he never believes you.

"I don't make promises, you know that," he says, taking your left hand in his. "but you will be fine, I swear."

You don't know what to say, how to explain that you are not scared of death, that you are just scared of not seeing him again. But you can't, so you say nothing and just nod.

Does he want to hurt himself? Okay. You can't do much while lying on the floor anyway.

After that, both of you stay silent. Joel seems to be avoiding looking at you. His eyes are stuck in the fire creaking in the chimney, but they are too restless to be present and conscious of the yellow and orange haze.

Your palm lands on his thigh, your fingers gently brushing the denim. You want to comfort him somehow, but, at the same time, you are scared he will reject your touch and reassurance. That's all you can do for him: no words, no further touching, just a featherlight touch that indicates you are still present. There, with him.

"I thought we couldn't make a fire."

"Don't be dumb. The windows are all broken, it's winter and you are in shock. How else would you heat up?"

"Got it. You're not in a talking mood," you huff. "Alright."

Silence settles between both of you. However, one of his big, rough hands travels to where your fingertips are gently brushing his thigh. At the touch, even if you don't want to let go, your fingers begin to back off. He's not in a good mood, and you seem to be pushing his boundaries a little too much. Except that, instead of letting you go, he catches your hand in his and puts it back over his jean. This time, it's him who brushes his thumb over your knuckles.

For a minute, the only sound in the living room are both your breathing patterns, the flames licking the air and the wind rushing through the broken windows.

"I'm sorry..." you start. And immediately, his brown eyes are all over you again. Your voice sounds exhausted, more than you'd have liked. "...I fucked up the mission. I know-"

"You haven't fucked up anything," he interrupts. That's Joel, all stoic, swallowing his feelings and denying everything that it is not up to his standards. "Would you mind to just rest-"

Your eyes well with tears.

"Joel, for once... Just for once, don't lecture me, don't ignore what I'm trying to say just because you don't want to hear it," you tell him. Then, he thankfully presses his lips together in a pained grimace, but stays silent nonetheless. "I fucked up the mission getting injured. I know it isn't my fault, but it doesn't matter whose fault it is. If you wanna go on without me, I won't blame you."

His fingers are now squeezing yours, but you know he is not even conscious of that. He leans in a little, his cheeks now reddened in anger. He looks like he is about to spit on your face.

"I'm not leaving you anywhere," he says. He looks offended that you even thought he was capable of that. "You and I are gonna get to Lincoln, either if you like it or not. There, Bill and Frank will help you. We have traded all kinds of things with them, and I know they are very well supplied."

"Why would they help me?"

"They are not just people we trade with," he says. His fingertips brush a strand of hair out of your face. "I know they will."

"What if they changed their minds?"

His pupils lock into your own, his jawline swells as he grits his teeth.

"I'm persistent."

The mission was supposed to be an easy one. Walk out of the QZ undetected, walk fifteen miles to the town of Lincoln, just outside Boston, get our things and come back. Our cargo were the two last spools of aluminum that Joel had promised to trade with them and two packets of seeds. Theirs? Two pounds of rolling tobacco and a gun. Tess couldn't make it, she had appointments with other smugglers, probably the ones who snuck the drugs in; which was more than half of their business. If it wasn't that important, she wouldn't have stayed in the QZ for anything in the world. But Bill and Frank were also important, and Joel couldn't go alone.

The two of you should be home by now, and you wondered if Tess was regretting her decision of asking you to go with him. Last night you had both snuck out of the Boston QZ; and it usually didn't take more than six hours to get to Lincoln. But just outside the city you had bumped into raiders; and a stray bullet had hit you. Now you were stranded in a small cabin lost in the woods, about seven miles away from Lincoln; and unable to walk a single step.

And to top it all off, Joel was enraged and neurotic.

Still with the same expression, he takes your wrist and squeezes two fingers into it. Even if you had preferred him not to, knowing that your heartbeat got wild whenever he was around. You let him check on you, hoping that if your symptoms got better he would let you have a quick nap. Your nervousness, however, doesn't improve despite your efforts of trying to calm yourself down.

"Since when are you a doctor?"

He lets your wrist go, then gets back on his feet and gets his rifle.

"You should rest. You'lll need it," he says, now heading to the entrance. He's gonna be standing on guard all night, you are sure of that. "We're leaving tomorrow morning."

That is when you lose it. You can't believe he is that blind, that caught up in his own world.

"I know in your perfect fantasy this is just a scratch, but I truly can't move, Joel. Even laying here awake is hard. How am I supposed to follow...? Joel!"

But he's out of the house before you even finish the sentence.

[***]

Joel doesn't keep his word.

A few hours later, not even near dawn yet, you get pulled back from a dream. Your eyes take a few minutes to register your surroundings; again. And the memories gallop back to your mind in a rush; accompanied by the burning and piercing pain on the upper right side of your chest. Your eyes shut tight, and you inhale a shallow breath. Even breathing hurts.

"We need to go," Joel whispers. His voice sounds muffled, especially over the sound of your beating heart. "C'mon, wake up."

He is once again rocking you rather than shaking you awake. Just to be able to fall asleep you had rolled back into your chest, cheek once again firmly pressed against that twenty-year-old dusty carpet. When he came back from checking the perimeter, not even five minutes after your argument, he placed his backpack right under your stomach so your right side was elevated. You wouldn't have been able to fall asleep if it wasn't for that. The pain was maddening, atrociously painful. Joel had found you gritting your teeth even in your sleep.

He had said you'd leave the next day, but you felt like not even minutes had passed.

"Morning," you complained, half a grunt accompanying your words. Joel shook you gently again when he saw you relax a second time, and your voice came back. "Y-you said...mor-"

"I know what I said but we can't wait any longer," he answered. "I'm gonna sit you up."

Fear pumped enough adrenaline into your system to wake you up. The ache from before rushed back into your mind, and your 'please' and 'wait' left your mouth like a prayer.

"I can do it," you said, but it sounded more like begging than an affirmation.

"I know you can," he lied. As your eyes opened and you saw his expression —eyes focused on you, trembling hands, half of his face hidden in the shadows, the other half gently licked by the orange-like haze of the dying fire— you understood that you had to be in a really bad condition for him to look at you that way, and feel the need to lie to make you feel better. But then, a second right after that, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes fluttered between your face and the surface of his jacket over your shoulders. His stoic mask was back on. "I'm just gonna help you, okay? But you do it."

He did not, in fact, let you do it.

You had managed to lift yourself barely an inch over the carpet, using all the strength left in your healthy arm, when both his hands curled around your side and pulled you up to his chest. Clenching your jaw, you allowed him to drag you a few feet back and into a seating position against the wall; your whole weight over the left side of your body.

"Don't lean on the other side, your shoulder blade is broken."

"Oh..." you almost chuckled. "Great."

For a second, Joel looks at you as if you were completely insane. He reaches for his backpack, crouching on the place where you were lying just seconds prior. Then takes his flask and doubts when passing it on.

"I'm not that desperate for water," you respond, reaching for the flask and drinking a gulp of the liquid. You swallow despite the soreness in your throat. "Next thing you'll do is spit food into my mouth."

"Not even getting shot shuts your fucking mouth, does it?" he says, grossed out at your comment. However, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Relaxing him has a calming effect on you too.

You try to pass him the flask again, but he refuses.

"No," he says. "Drink it all. You'll need it."

You look at him with narrowed eyes, confused. It's hard to keep a single thought in your head other than the throbbing pain in your chest and back, but you still try. Rather than asking him how you are supposed to walk seven miles, with the aluminum and his pack, you try to approach the matter another way.

"What's the plan?"

He takes a deep breath.

"You're not gonna like it," he says, his deep voice almost slurring the words. It's barely a whisper. He looks into your eyes, then. "I'm gonna carry you."

"What?"

"You heard me."

There's not an ounce of doubt in his eyes. Joel has that look of determination, the one you only really see when he has his eyes set on something really fucking important for him; most times that includes his own brother or not talking about the times before the outbreak. And with that look on his face, you know there's nothing you could possibly say or do to make him reconsider his own words. He's stubborn like that.

You still try.

"It's seven miles, Joel..." you tell him on a thready voice, a whisper. And Joel sighs through his nose —as if he had forgotten. "And we have to carry..."

"We leave everything here," he says. "Come back for it later."

"They won't let us in empty-handed."

"You don't know them."

For Joel to be so certain about it, certain enough as to put both your life and his on the hands of strangers; you understand that their relationship goes beyond trading. Joel had told you about them, about their situation and the first time Tess and him had shared dinner with Bill and Frank. Still, you were suspicious of them, and you thought that he was too; up until now, at least.

"It's still seven miles," you tell him, and you know him, you know he's about to stop talking to you and leave the room if you don't, at least, partly give in to his reasoning. "...are you sure you wanna do it?"

His pleading brown eyes engulf you, then, with an emotion he had never showed before. His gaze diverts for a second to your wound, to the bandages that, as you look at them, you find they are once again covered in blood. They are soaked in it, the skin surrounding it has a large black bruise —internal bleeding, you guess. And when you try to take a full deep breath, you find yourself unable to, at least not at full capacity.

The understanding hits you, then. You don't have much time left.

"I don't have any other choice," Joel says, but what he means is 'I don't want to lose you'.

"Okay."

Not even a full second has passed from your reluctant acceptance, but he is already on his feet. Joel walks to the only table in the room, takes your gun and puts it in his hip, right inside the jean. The only other thing he takes apart from ammo is another set of bandages —and he silently thanks whatever it is out there that he put those there a month ago—. He doesn't have anything to clean the wound, though; and one of his biggest fears is that it might already be infected. Even bandaged it looks bad.

He approaches you, crouches down so he is facing the wound.

"I'm going to tighten the bandage, and I have to keep the pressure," he says, loosening the knot. His fingers are once again stained with you blood, and he has to fight the images of him pressing on your wound from a few hours ago, when he had found you and, with trembling hands, had tried to stop the bleeding coming out in waves. He looks at you, trying to forget the awful picture of your eyes closed, your body limp on the ground. "Bite something."

You reach for the sleeve of his jacket, the one hanging from your shoulders; and put the padded cuff of his jacket into your mouth.

Joel doesn't give you a warning; and you're not sure if that's a good or bad thing, either. He presses the heel of his hand right over the covered hole in your chest, with such strength that you wonder if he will end up breaking your clavicle in half. As he presses your body against the wall, you can almost feel the cracked bones in your back smashing against each other.

Needless to say, the pain is blinding. The view of the room, the feeling of his heat around you, the scent of him under your nose... all gone in a matter of seconds. Your vision turns white, all your senses stop functioning. Over the scream that falls from your lips, muffled by the jacket, you hear him say:

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He lets go, and your vision immediately darkens, the shadows flowing from the corners of the room quick to reach you. With your last grip on reality you feel yourself melting against the wall, slowly slipping to the side. Joel catches you before you hit the floor.

Cold water is what brings you back. Your breathing quickens at the coldness of it, and the next thing you feel are his wet hands palming your cheeks, throwing water from his flask all over your face.

"C'mon," he mumbles. "I need you awake."

Your eyes flutter open, your whole body relaxed now that he's not applying pressure; but alert enough that your unfocused eyes make a single shape out of him.

While coming back into yourself, Joel does not have any time to lose. He takes his jacket over your shoulders and slips your left arm inside the sleeve, the other, where the wound is, he decides to leave it as it is; and buttons it over your chest so you're not exposed.

"You good?"

In any other situation you'd have said some joke, or just something to piss him off. But as of right now, nothing comes to your clouded mind; and even if something did come, you're too exhausted to even do the mental effort to say it. So you just nod.

"Okay," he nods too, talking to himself inside his head, then takes your face in his hands and looks into your eyes. "You're fine, you hear me? I'm gonna carry you and you're gonna be on my back; so I need you talking all the damn time, alright?

You nod again.

"Starting now."

"Y-yes... okay."

"Good," he says. His hand crawls to the back of your neck, and he joins both your foreheads. He takes quick breaths. He's terrified when he whispers. "You're doing so good. I'm so proud of you."

"Y-you... are?"

"Mm-hmm," he says. And as his words settle into your brain, you feel your chest warm. When you open your eyes and he separates, there's a tear on his cheek, but he's quick to wipe it off. "I'm gonna open the front door."

It's just an excuse, you both know it, but neither dares to say anything. None of you wants to talk about the elephant in the room, the fact that your chances are slim even if this works.

Joel returns quickly, with his lashes wet and reddened eyes. It makes you speechless, to know that all this effort and tears are for you. You'd have never, in a million years, thought you'd ever see Joel Miller cry; let alone for you. He had always been so quiet, so detached from everyone, even from Tess.

Without a word, his hands get hooked on the underside of your thighs. He lifts you up, seemingly effortlessly, and your inner thighs surround his hips. You take a deep breath, again —or at least try to— as you try not to blush and show those feelings you buried long ago. This is not the time, nor the place; so you allow your head to follow his range of motion; forwards. Soon, your nose is pressed against the lapels of his denim shirt. With your good arm, you grab one of his broad shoulders. The other falls limp, and even that little movement hurts like hell.

He freezes, his shoulders now stiff under your hand. His beard grazes your jaw as he tries to look at you, so still in his arms.

"You okay?"

"Yeah..."

Better than okay, you want to respond. Better than I've been in a long time. But you don't.

He leaves you on the table, on the edge, with your legs dangling. His eyes waver for a second as he leaves you there, his hands squeeze your knees in such a brief movement that you wonder if he was even conscious of that. He looks like he wants to say something, but he can't think of what, so he turns around and bends his knees a little to get you to a good height.

"I need you to push yourself up with your good arm," he instructs. "and keep the other still, okay?"

"Okay," you respond, fighting the urge to just nod instead.

Not even following his instructions to a t saves you from the pain. The effort, even with your arm limp in the air, makes your body shudder and an agonizing stab runs through your whole spine. The scream that tores from the depths of your throat is so intense that Joel hesitates to put you back on the table, his back trembles for a second as his body shivers in distress. But, in the end, he has you in the air with a good hold.

He waits, but doesn't hear anything except shallow breaths, doesn't feel anything but the weight of your head over his shoulder.

"You with me?" he asks. He is seconds away from aborting the mission.

"Y-yeah..."

Your arm surrounds his neck loosely. Your fist is closed tightly, grabbing the other shoulder, and he wishes he could touch you, give you some kind of comfort, but he can't let go from his grip under your knees.

Joel does not have the privilege of time, every second is precious, so not even giving it a try, he starts walking as if you weighted nothing. He crosses the front door and the freezing cold wind of the East Coast cuts your cheeks. If he notices —and you know that he has, wearing just his shirt in the middle of the night— he doesn't react.

"Remember what I told you?" he asks.

In less than a minute he has crossed the space from the cabin to the highway, where you were surprised by raiders. You look around, see the bodies of five men sprawled on the floor; lifeless, drowning in a pool of their own blood. One of them has his face mauled to nothing. The sight is so sickening —or maybe you are getting so ill— that a sudden dizziness takes hold of your shivering body.

"Hey..."

"I'm sorry..." you start, teeth chattering from the cold. "I'm sorry I screamed into your ear earlier."

A sound, half a relieved sigh and half a chuckle, leaves his mouth.

"I'm half deaf from that ear anyway."

A light chuckle falls from your lips too. Joel keeps walking west through the highway, and you keep yourself desperately clinging to him for dear life. The moon is your only other companion; without her, you both would be completely blind in the darkness of the night.

[***]

Joel probably hadn't thought about the possibility of taking breaks along the way. That's why, fourty-five minutes later, and under a beautiful sunrise of orange tones, he's struggling to keep going. His knees are screaming for him to stop, his biceps and hands tired of walking with a person's weight over his shoulders. And for the first time in years he remembers the times before the outbreak, when he was capable of lifting and moving huge pieces of furniture; often times on his own, other times with just Tommy.

He might have overestimated his own strength, assuming he was as strong as before. But it seems that not only his mental health has deteriorated after Sarah's death, no. All of him has become older and darker and more broken since then. He hardly recognizes himself in the mirror anymore.

"Joel?"

"Yeah..." he gasps, out of air. "Sorry, I got distracted. You were saying...?"

It is in moments like this that he hates not to be that same person he was before. He wonders if he is, finally, paying for his past sins, for all the people, infected or not, that he has killed.

It is unfair, the fact that you're paying for his piper.

"You should stop for a while," you tell him, your voice low like a whisper. The warm air from your mouth slithers across his skin, up his neck, over his ear, and almost sends a shiver down his spine.

"No."

"Joel..." you huff. Before speaking again, you take a big gulp of air. "We are not getting anywhere if you don't take breaks. You'll just wear yourself off before we reach the halfway mark."

His mind refuses to agree, but it's as if his body takes a relieved breath when he hears the words. Little by little, his body starts to listen to you before his mind does. His thighs are screaming, sore from the pain of exertion; and before he acknowledges, even, his body has stopped moving.

"Okay," he gasps, quick tired breaths quickly entering and leaving his lungs. "...but just a minute, we don't have time for this bullshit."

"Okay," you say, in the same tone he used earlier with you; when he lied and said he knew you could sit up on your own. "Just a minute."

He pulls to the side of the road, and with the last of his strength he kneels down and tries to lay you on the ground as carefully as possible. You fall on your ass on the wet ground, but at least you don't hurt yourself on the spot. He asks you for the millionth time in the last twenty-four hours if you are okay.

"I think I'm doing better than you," you respond, but your voice is so exhausted that Joel would love to just lay next to you and lull you to sleep.

He turns around, his whole weight sitting on the grass as he takes gulps of oxygen. His eyes shut tightly, he wipes off a tear of sweat from his temple and looks at you.

Wide-open eyes stare back at you, but just for a split second. He gets closer, his thumb brushing the shoulder of the brown jacket, his brown jacket. His eyes pierce yours.

"Are you sure?"

"That bad do I look?"

Joel doesn't look at you, not at your face getting paler by the second or the dark circles under your eyes, or your hair now dishevelled. He sees you on his memories and can barely recognize you; your skin and eyes always glowing under the sun, your hair always perfectly done. Your job was often to act as an HR for their clients, and very rarely took actual FEDRA jobs that stained your hands; you weren't like Joel, you didn't care about rations or money or whatever.

Expert fingers gently tug at the buttons, unbuttoning them so he could take a look to the wound. He had barely a glimpse of it when your fingers stopped his hands. Joel looks at you with those puppy eyes, as if you were about to faint in the next second.

"If you wanted to see me naked you didn't have to wait until I got shot, you know?"

You had said it in a playful manner, kidding, as a joke; but he saw beyond that. Part of you had only expected him to laugh, the other was dying —not pun intended— for him to kiss you. You'd have never said it if you weren't in this position, you'd have never gotten in between Joel and Tess.

However, he didn't laugh, didn't make any funny remark. The way he looked at you, from under his eyebrows, lit a spark of hope somewhere inside you. Deep, deeper than your conscious mind would have ever reached. Joel didn't say anything, not even chuckled. His eyes came back to the wound, and uncovered the full sight of it.

He had to fight a shocked gasp. His eyes fluttered, while holding his breath, between your own face and the wound. The bandage was still soaked in blood, that he had expected, but not the large bruise growing into your neck; or your right hand slightly paler than the other. He lifted, with trembling fingers, a corner of the bandage, and his action caused a trickle of dark blood to gush out, as if he had crushed a piece of watermelon between his fingers and it was now running down his arm. He looked below, inside his jacket, and saw a trail of blood that landed right into your navel.

This time, it was impossible for him not to react. Not only his face, but also his body. He tried to get back on his two feet again, but before he finished the action, your fist closed around his wrist.

"Joel..." he heard you call.

"We need to go, now."

Pressing your lips in a sad smile, you pulled him to the ground and he sat, mesmerised on that face he had only yet seen once; that time when he got too drunk on a Friday night and told you about Sarah at three in the morning. He felt his pulse quicken, his heart beating at the ends of his fingertips.

"It's okay," you told him. Your gentle touch brushed his palm, danced around over his tan skin. "You can rest."

Joel felt like he was in a fever dream. The setting certainly felt like it. You hadn't left the Boston QZ in a long while, and he had never pictured you out of those big silver walls either. He had not agreed to Tess' idea either, the dangers beyond the walls were almost impossible to escape. Still, Tess and him knew the city, they could get out fairly easily, had done that for a couple years to share stories over dinner with Bill and Frank. And Joel had loved the idea of seeing you sitting at that dinner table next to him, surrounded by a garden full of flowers, going through the dresses in the boutique that Tess had sworn you'd love.

He had not signed up for this.

"We need to go, please..." he tried a second time, but you just shook your head. He understood, somehow, what you meant.

"A minute won't make a difference," you told him. In reality, you wanted to tell him that you'd be dead when he got the both of you to Lincoln, anyway. "If you are tired we will never get there."

Useless and powerless as he felt, his only option was waiting. He took your hand, intertwined his fingers with yours and took a deep breath. You had never seen him so upset.

"What are you so scared of?"

At your words, his lower lip quivered slightly; it would almost have gone unnoticed if it wasn't because you had been watching him attentively for so many years. He looked at you, eyes barely half open, from under his eyelashes.

"You're very important to me," he said. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, he seemed to be even more breathless than he was before. Joel had a hard time admitting his feelings, even to himself. "I don't know if you understand to what extent you're important to me."

"I know..." you answered, nodding, your hand squeezed his for a second, trying to give him strength. "But you have Tess home, and your brother loves you... It will hurt for a while..."

"Shut. Up."

His eyes were tightly shut when he said it. It was a metaphor, almost, the way his eyes were closed not just to the physical world, but to the whole situation too that he couldn't escape from.

The tip of your tongue wetted your lips.

"What I'm trying to say is... it will pass..."

His chest heaved, his gaps the only sound that filled the space between the two of you. And you continued:

"People die all the time, Joel; and most times we can't do anything about it."

His body rushed at you, his hands locked perfectly on both your cheeks, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally in place.

"Not you, you hear me? Not you," he almost growled, his face a mixture of anger, determination, and grief. "Never you. You're not allowed to leave me. I will never forgive you."

There was something hidden between the lines, something Joel wasn't saying. It was something you had denied yourself for a long time, for years, something you had insisted on not seeing because you didn't want to see it. Because, deep down, you were afraid that Joel would never love you back, that he would break your heart, that the only good man you'd ever known inside the walls of the Boston QZ would also be the one to abandon you to your luck.

Joel had been your family for so long, and you had unconsciously protected yourself from seeing him as something else. But now there it was, clearly, latent in his confession. Your punishment for years of silence was now time, or rather, the lack of it.

"I'm not giving up," he said. "and I need you not to give up either."

He's close. His hot breath smells sweet -so instinctively Joel- and it's all around your face. His flesh is warm over the freezing skin of your cheeks. His body around you is shelter, is home.

Joel is soon leaning in. He's all erratic breathing, rapid heartbeat and trembling hands; and as you close your eyes to allow his presence to swallow you like a black hole, he closes his eyes too.

He doesn't let go, not just yet. He breathes in into your quick breaths the same way you revel in his.

"I need an answer," he whispers over your mouth.

"I won't, either."

At first it's like a collision. He kisses you angrily for a split second, demanding and impatient; then, once he knows this is really happening, once he does understand that this is —finally— not a dream, he relaxes into your touch, your fingers delineating his jawline, caressing the beard there.

He's quick, quicker than you'd have expected him to be; definitely quicker then he would have liked. He separates, then; and looks down at his jacket and the drops of blood staining the insides of it. It's not enough blood to send you into shock again, but it means part of the wound is ripping. You need stitches, not just a couple of bandages.

"Enough resting then," he says.

[***]

Seven miles is usually nothing for Joel. In the first few months trading with Bill and Frank, Tess and him usually walked the fifteen miles that separated the city and the town at least twice a month. But this is all the more difficult, not just carrying you there, but knowing that he is running out of time.

And you seem hellbent on making the journey even more difficult.

"So...Tess?"

"Pass."

You huff, and the warm air sends a shiver down his spine; but he says nothing.

"Okay."

Your voice sounds so disappointed that he feels a pang of guilt. You know him better than to insist, and he knows that too. The guilt increases, though; and now he's inhaling a big gulp of air while still walking as fast as he possibly can without hurting his own knees.

"We fucked a few times, before," he says. "but that doesn't mean anything. She's my colleague. That's all."

If he was better with words, and feelings, he could say that he didn't feel anything for her. He could say that their hookups were nothing, just a fun thing they used to do before, before he realized that the one who he really wanted was you. A few months back he had realized that it never actually satisfied him, that those moments with Tess weren't as fun and innocent as they seemed to be before. They had talked about it, of course. He didn't want to play with her feelings, and that had been the end of it. She was just as fine without him, anyway.

"I thought you two were dating."

"If selling drugs for a living is what you call dating, then yes."

Without even looking at you, he knew you were smiling, he could almost feel your lips stretching over his shirt.

"I..." you said, then he heard you take another deep breath before talking again. "I'm sorry I asked you," another breath. "I... ran out of things to say."

His brow furrowed in confusion.

"You can say anything," he says. "Anything you really like, even a story."

Anything just to know you're there...

"Well..." you started. Then, a wheezing noise filled the air, followed by a gasp. "I... liked rock music-" silence. "...back in the day."

"You okay?"

Your fist tightened around his shoulder, your forehead pressing against his trapezius. He heard that wheezing sound again, followed by a pant. His hands squeezed harder the tender flesh under her knees.

Joel tried to look at her, but all he could see from his peripheral vision was the top of her head and one eye tightly closed. His throat turned into knots.

"Baby..." that was the most gentle tone you had ever heard coming from his mouth. "C'mon baby. Hold on, we're almost there."

His whole body felt paralyzed, and he had to force himself to keep walking.

What he didn't know was that your lungs were burning. They felt like a pair of balloons squeezing against your ribs, trying to expand beyond its cage. And it made all the pain in your back, from the shot, double as painful. The air you tried to swallow so bad, sounded like a whistle, like the breeze through an almost closed window. You were suffocating.

"Talk to me, c'mon."

With a painful drag of air, you complied.

"I can't..." your fist tightened around the fabric of his shirt. "I can't."

"Goddamnit..." he was panicking now. "Okay, that's okay baby. Just hold on to me, don't let go."

Unable to do anything else, you just nodded as best you could and kept on holding on to him. His eyes desperately looked for signs of the town, and far away, in the distance, the row of trees ended; and he walked faster, hoping that Bill had already seen the both of you through the cameras.

"J-Joel"

You struggled to find air, and, therefore, the words.

"Easy, easy" he said. "Just a bit more. You can do it, I know you can."

His words lingered in the air, unanswered, not even him fully believed them. Joel was starting to feel his own shirt wet with blood from your wound. The feeling made him sick, his own imagination as he pictured what Bill was watching through the cameras, made it all a hundred times worse.

He kept hearing the panting, the wheezing, becoming more desperate by the second. He realized, with horror, that you were suffocating righ there, on his back; from a collapsing lung, he guessed.

He shouted Bill's name as he saw the fence that separated them from the town. Joel wasn't sure if he could hear him, but tried anyway.

He felt your grip on his shirt hesitate, and he had to fight the instinct to squeeze your hand; if he had done it, you'd have fallen from his own grip. He heard you try and say his name.

"Save it," he responded, even if it came out not as reassuring as he would have liked. "Don't try to talk."

Before he reached the fence, it was already opening. Bill came out running, yelling something that he was too distracted to distinguish, Frank came behind him. Joel felt his knees wobble once through the gate. And now kneeling on the floor, he called your name, tried to turn his head to take a glimpse of you.

"You did it. We're here."

He noticed, then, that everything seemed all too silent. Everything that happened after that, happened very quickly. The hand that had been gripping his shirt slipped, limp over his shoulder.

His mind disconnected, completely unaware of the other two people approaching. He released you with all the care that a person could have had, and his arms immediately caught you in an embrace. The sight of your closed eyes made him panic, and not having even checked your pulse, he buried his face into your neck and sobbed.

Trails of blood ran through his forearms, and he threw up all the words that passed through his mind; a string of 'please stay' and 'I'm sorry'.

"Joel," Frank struggled with him, fingers digging into his shoulder. "Joel you have to let go. Let us help her."

He was too far gone, so much so that once your body hit the floor, Frank didn't allow him to touch you again. He sobbed, and, for a second, Bill saw himself in him. He would have never thought he would see Joel in this state, but yet there he was. He kept pressure on the wound, and saw himself in Joel, and Frank in you; and promised he would never let this happen to the two of them.

Never.

[***]

The sun comes out the next morning. As it always does, as it always has. Orange light and blue skies illuminate the room, the clouds shine a different color; and Joel blinks; absolutely exhausted, devastated.

His body is heavy, even if he's not holding any of his weight. He's sitting on the cold tiles, on the floor, his sore knees and thighs in the space under the bed, his head lying on the mattress, his whole body is bent over and it feels like jelly. His eyes are the only thing moving, they look at the window and see the night sky turn into daylight.

Joel couldn't possibly say that he slept in that position; because he didn't actually sleep. He hasn't had a second of sleep since you got shot two days ago. Lying on the bed, is you, dormant; and his thumb draws circles on the back of you hand even if he's not paying attention to it. It comforts him to a degree, at least.

Suddenly, pretty much everything has lost its meaning. Frank opens the door an hour later, almost tripping with the tray of food and water that he left the night before for Joel. He hasn't touched any of it. In fact, he forgot about it, but if it bothers him, Frank doesn't say anything. He takes it in his hands so he can take it to the kitchen downstairs.

"We played 'I will survive' in the radio" he whispers before leaving. "It's a 70s song, but Tess will get the meaning."

"Thank you," he mutters, his mouth pasty from barely speaking in the last twenty-four hours. Funnily enough, the only word he's said to them is 'thank you'.

"You're welcome, Joel," he says. After a few seconds, waiting, he makes a dissatisfied sound. Frank approaches Joel, his palm squeezing his shoulder. "You should eat something, at least. Is there anything you want?"

Joel looks at him, lifting his cheek from the mattress for the first time. His eyes are blood-shot and black circles adorn his eyes.

"Coffee."

"Not coffee, you need sleep."

He huffs, his eyes lost in the window again. Frank, knowing he won't get anything from him again, vanishes behind the door and into the kitchen. He will bring him warm food later, hoping the smell will make him eat something despite his unwillingness to listen to any signal of hunger from his own body.

A few moments later, your hand slips from his. As he loses your touch, a pang hits the pit of his stomach. But then, as he lifts from the mattress again, your fingertips lightly touch his chin, your thumb lovingly brushing his beard.

"Baby?"

Maybe he lost his sense of time, because he didn't expect you to wake up yet. In any case, when he sees your eyes open he practically pounces on the bed. He sits on the edge, and swallows the image of you looking at him.

"Morning."

He smiles at your words, feels his strength coming back into his body.

"You're here," he says.

Even beaten up as you look, he thinks you are gorgeous. Your face has regained its usual color, the bruising is coming down, changing colors little by little, the wound is stitched and bandaged, and the blood flow seems to reach your fingertips normally once again. Joel has no idea how Bill fixed the collapsing lung, he had said something about medical knowledge being necessary in the field too, but he hadn't paid attention. He doesn't care about the details, though. He just cares that you're safe and sound, and despite the close call, that has seemed to be the end result to this whole dilemma.

There's no blood in sight, not even in the bandages. Frank had washed the blood from your hair the day before, and Joel had helped with the rest. He wished he could have you like this everyday: happy, clean, safe...

In the last few hours Joel had discovered he was jealous. He wished he had a town like Lincoln all to himself, just so he could see you picking flowers in the front garden.

"I'm here," you told him. The words felt like strawberries in his mouth. "and I'm not giving up on you."

He released a breath he didn't know he was holding, leaned in for both your foreheads to meet, and kissed you.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fanfic #tlou spoilers #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x female reader #the last of us fanfic #pedro pascal x oc

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tripleyeeet · 9 months

Text

FEAR OF LOSING IT (4)

SUMMARY: When it's discovered that Astarion's being hunted, you take matters into your own bloody hands.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 4,235

WARNINGS: Teasing, spoilers for BG3, canon typical violence, minor character death, pining if you squint a little, feelings realized!!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Day 4 is here! Prompt is "you're not scared, are you? Of Me?" So hopefully I did it justice?

Also sidenote, to anyone wanting to be on the taglist. I had a few issues tagging some people but I still put your name. Not sure why it won't let me tag so check your settings and next fic I'll try again.

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

The sun beams down as you walk along the water’s edge, carefully stepping over damp rocks and foliage with narrowed eyes. As per usual, you and Astarion are trailing behind the rest of the pack —you because of the hangover you’ve been nursing all morning; him because he lives to irritate you.

“I don’t understand how you feel so ill. You barely had more than a few drops of that ale.”

Slightly in front of you, Astarion steps around a patch of suspicious-looking rocks, turning to grab your arm and guide you out of the way as you scrunch up your face in disgust.

The air is way too hot to be touched. Beneath the fabric of your tunic, you can feel your skin grow increasingly sticky, prompting you to brush off Astarion's hand but reluctantly still follow with a groan.

“I drank more at camp,” you confess, feeling a pain radiate inside your head. One that’s almost reminiscent of the tadpole, pulsing in angry motions that make you close your eyes and quietly wince.

Picking up on your discomfort, Astarion slows his pace, opting to walk alongside you rather than ahead. “And why in gods name did you decide to do that?”

Immediately, you shrug your shoulders, offering him nothing despite knowing the reason. Last night at the party you embarrassingly drank to forget all those thoughts. The ones filled with visions of hands and mouths gliding across your wanting skin.

Even now you hate to admit it, but after parting ways, you were still a bit riled up. A mixture of anger and annoyance coating your soul once you finally got situated inside your tent, knowing deep down there wasn’t much you could do. Gale had already returned to camp before you so you definitely couldn’t do the deed yourself without the possibility of further embarrassment, and you sure as hell weren’t going to wander back to Astarion with your hands between your thighs, begging for release.

In the end, the only other option was to get pissed drunk, so you did. And now, you were greatly suffering the consequences in the form of a whole day’s worth of walking under the beating sun alongside an overly stubborn and nosy vampire.

“All by your lonesome?”

Without even having to think, he looks at you with the kind of false pity that makes you want to drown him. To lace your fingers in his perfect locks so that you can better shove his face into the water, never to hear that damned voice again.

Gods, is it ever tempting...

Rolling your eyes, you swear under your breath and shove him aside instead, feeling the edge of your elbow make contact with his chest before you attempt to step forward, feeling his hand pull you back.

Overall, the motion is quick and painless —a twirling rush that sends you hurtling into his frame, boxing you in in the form of a hand that rests against your lower back— but regardless it still surprises you.

“Was it because you wanted it?”

His hand lingers against your leathers as he awaits your answer. Barely putting enough weight to truly hold you back, it quickly becomes obvious that your current stance against him is of your own volition. A choice you’ve made during a moment of weak desire as you deeply inhale the dewy air.

“Wanted what?”

“You know.”

At this point, you’re positive he knows that you secretly like it when he touches you. When he physically guides you through difficult terrain or lets your fingers brush when trading trinkets after a day of looting. You’ve never made it known that you dislike it —never protested, even during times of tense discussion. All you’ve ever done is make faces of annoyance, hoping he’ll take the hint.

He never does. Not even now, as you press both of your palms against his chest, applying a bit of pressure as you stare him down, does he think to move. To let his hand fall to his side to let you continue your stride. Instead, all it does is remain perfectly still, resting against the small of your back, waiting.

It makes you swallow hard as you take a step back, feeling the resistance of your hip as it brushes through his fingers.

“You’re really not going to admit it?” he asks then, watching you pause. Feeling you stop mid-step to cock your head and flash him a grin so utterly snobbish, that his facade of confidence finally slips.

“What? That I want to fuck you?”

Your voice is patronizing. A pointed tongue laced with poison gunning for his throat. You want him to taste his own medicine. To feel what it’s like to be on the receiving end of taunting words that fluster, so you don’t say much more. All you do is stare, waiting for him to break.

“No, that you want me to fuck you,” he corrects almost immediately, his courage returning ten-fold. Doubling down on the way your mouth slightly opens in annoyance, because even in your boldest of moments he still manages to throw you off.

It makes you want to drown yourself instead, realizing just how persuasive he can be. Without trying, it’s as if he’s perfected every potential conversation before it’s happened. In his mind, he can look at a face —hear the beginnings of their voice and already have the correct response at the ready.

“Do you spend all your time thinking of ways to seduce anyone that gives you the time of day?” As you speak, you fully step away, turning on your heel to let out a shaky breath you pray he doesn’t catch.

“Only the attractive ones, I suppose.” He laughs and follows behind, his footsteps echoing through the water as you attempt to catch up with the rest of the group.

“Attractive ones, huh?” You peer over your shoulder with a raised brow. “Is that a genuine compliment you’re offering or another one of your usual deceptions meant to butter me up?”

He doesn’t tell you. Instead, he just offers you a shrug and purses his lips, leaving you guessing —an expression that only tightens the tension that’s seemingly begun to grow.

Well, at least for you.

Since the night you let him feed, even you have to admit that you’ve found it increasingly hard to resist his charms, remembering how good it felt to just let go for a couple of moments. How, when it happened, there was an inkling of freedom that you felt was found. A new sense of clarity that arrived just as your lifeblood left.

As much as you’d deny it if asked, you think about it often. At night, when you’re lying in your tent trying to sleep, you frequently attempt to replicate that feeling, calling upon your tadpole to replay the memory of the cold, numbness deep inside your throat.

As you step out of the water onto a patch of grass, you wish you could feel it now instead of the hangover. Instead of the sweltering heat and Astarion's piercing gaze penetrating the back of your head, waiting for another response he’ll just counter.

It’d certainly make the daily trek you’re experiencing all the more bearable. Being able to forget about the aching in your skull for just a moment would solve at least half of your problems, maybe even two-thirds of them depending on how Astarion proceeds to act. On whether or not he walks in silence or—

“Do you smell that?”

You release a sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose, feeling your impatience begin to build. “Smell what?”

He loudly sniffs beside you, his nose scrunching upwards dramatically before he turns his head, narrowing his eyes. “You’re telling me you don’t smell that?”

“Smell w—“

Before you even have time to react, it hits you. The foul stench of metallic burning through your mouth and nose, forcing you to cover your face with your hands.

“It’s awful, isn’t it?”

You nod, tightening the hold around your face as you continue forward, realizing you’ve somehow lost the rest of the group —something Astarion notices too, causing both of you to slightly panic.

“Oh, for fuck sakes, really? They couldn’t at least wait for us to finish our…”

As he trails off, waving his hand in the air to replace whatever words die in his throat, you catch a glimpse of an unfamiliar man up ahead, watching as the both of you continue.

“They’re probably over the hill,” you point out then, trying your best not to let the sudden nerves inside your chest get the better of you once you see the nameless man raise his hand, beckoning you closer.

“Who the bloody —do you know him?”

You look at Astarion as if he’s just said the stupidest thing known to man, still moving forward. “Ah yes, the mysterious man standing out in the open! Yes, I know him well, why?”

“Alright, no need to be cruel.”

“Says you.”

Once again, his response fades to nothing. The argument slipping down his throat once the voice of the man calls out to you.

“Maybe he saw where the others went?”

Astarion scoffs. “Or maybe he’s the one who’s been setting up all those traps.”

“Traps?”

You don’t remember seeing any traps. But then again, you’re not very perceptive when your head feels like it’s on the verge of splitting in half.

“Yes, traps. The one’s I’ve been guiding you through like a fucking cattle dog!”

Letting your frustrations get the better of you shove him aside before you can think, turning to let both hands lay waste to his shoulder causing him to stumble sideways. As he does, he looks at you with hesitant curiosity; knitting his brows together while his mouth falls open into a half smile.

An awkward laugh sounds through the pounding in your head as the footsteps draw near, prompting you to look ahead, noticing the man a few steps away, looking between the two of you.

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”

His words sound sincere —cautious in a way that has you peeling your gaze away from Astarion's wild expression to shake your head.

“No, sorry, just a, uh—“

“A lover’s quarrel,” Astarion finishes. “You know how it is.”

Angrily you inhale, paying his obviously entertained face no mind as you continue to survey the man now in front of you, noticing the plainness of his clothes and the unkempt hair that circles his face like a halo.

It’s apparent then that he’s been on the road for some time now. He’s not necessarily dirty looking but quickly you realize he’s the cause of the smell, making you swallow hard in an attempt to suppress the sickness that follows.

“Ah yes, of course. My apologies.” He laughs —as does Astarion— while you just frown in between, trying not to blow another fuse.

“I’m sorry but can we help you?” You crane your neck and smile sweetly, letting the more deceptive side of your mind take over, prompting Astarion to quickly clue in and do the same.

“I was just speaking to your friends up there. They told me you were falling behind.”

“And that’s your business because?” Raising your brow, you watch him falter for a moment.

“I’ve set some traps along the path. Nothing too hidden if you’ve got a keen eye like all of you, but still, I informed them of their whereabouts.”

Informed them of their whereabouts? Please. This man’s trapping skills are abysmal at best.

You have to bite your lip once you hear Astarion's insult in the back of your mind, knowing he’s right. It’s one thing for him to notice the traps but for the rest of your party to as well? There’s no way they would’ve noticed if not for the lack of effort put into their placings.

“Well, uh, thank you. That’s decent of you.” You nod but make no effort to move. Instead, you just stand there motionless, staring him down, waiting for him to elaborate further so that you can better gauge this man’s intentions.

You’re certain they’re anything but innocent. Given the smell wafting off his leathers and the way he keeps glancing over at Astarion with a slight twinkle in his eye makes your suspicion only grow. Your defensive walls rising to their highest point as you look at the vampire, allowing your tadpole to reach out.

He’s up to something.

“Yes, well, I’m not hunting the likes of you so best avoid the unnecessary conflict and clean up.” The man’s gaze slowly turns to you, a hardened grin creeping through his features, causing you to twitch.

There’s definitely something off. Something far more sinister underneath that polite expression and overly eager attempt at making small talk but you’re still not sure what it is. Or what it means when he offers you his help.

“Fair point, but what are you hunting, may I ask?”

“Something terrifying?” Astarion questions. “Perhaps a dragon or a kobold?”

What if it’s you?

Your partner’s eyes shoot to yours. Immediately, they fill with something you’ve never seen before. Bordering on fear, you’re quick to notice their unexpected vigilance. The building of a thought that drives his mind to something new.

Suddenly in an instant, he’s overly alert, the movements of his shifting pupils making you wonder if maybe this is the man Astarion's been looking out for. That somewhere in his past he took advantage of the wrong person and they’ve been enacting their revenge ever since. Honestly, it’d make sense. Vampires aren’t the most well-liked of creatures, and although, aside from Astarion you’ve never experienced the company of one, it’s become increasingly obvious he’s a special case. A vampire that excels in all deceptive measures and tactics, preying heavily on whatever victims he can get his hands on. So, it wouldn’t be far off to think this man was hired to kill him.

Making use of the tadpole again, you reach out silently, feeling no reluctance as the face of a man appears at the back of your mind, towering over you. Black as the night itself, he shrouds you in an ocean of thick shadows that conceal his face but not his presence, and because of this, there’s a panic that rises through your chest. Clutching your lungs with clawed fingertips that threaten to burst them like balloons.

You force yourself not to look at Astarion as the memory continues —as an angry voice echoes through your ears telling you you’re his. That you belong to him and no one else and that if you so much as step a hair out of line he’ll hunt you down.

Before you can even react the memory fades, leaving you there to piece together the man in the vision and the hunter standing before you, knowing they’re connected by a common enemy. Strung together by a tether of motivation that ties around Astarion's throat like a tightened noose.

He’s not here to kill him but to take him away. To snatch him right under your noses by playing the unsuspecting hero.

“As exciting as those options are, I'm actually on the lookout for a vampire spawn. His name is Astarion but I fear he’s already long gone.”

His confirmation is all you need to let your guard rise further up. Allowing your fingers to stretch against your sides, readying their need to reach for your weapon, you merely nod your head and let Astarion take the reins.

“Oh, what a pity. It’s always like that for creatures to run away at the illest of moments, isn’t it?” He leans in with that same devilish grin, tossing aside all previous fears in favour of this newfound information.

“Isn’t it,” the man parrots, shaking his head with a fake laugh. “Rather unfortunate considering I’m only trying to bring him home.”

“Home?”

The word pours from your lips with such desperation that even the hunter questions your response. Raising his brow, he only slightly leans forward with interest, clicking his tongue as he glances between the two of you. “You wouldn’t happen to know this Astarion character, would you?”

“I don’t think I’ve heard of him.”

“Nope.”

You sound like two opposing sides of a coin. Astarion, ever the charmer responds with subtly, the structure of his body remaining calm and collected while you remain a ball of nerves. A tightly wound set of muscle and bone too quick on the draw for your response to be deemed believable.

“He’s dangerous, you know. A wicked thing. Or, so I’ve heard.” He’s speaking solely to you but regardless Astarion continues to control the conversation, pulling it all back with a loud hum.

“Wicked you say? Care to elaborate.”

There’s confusion for a moment. Then acceptance, prompting the man in front of you to explain. “While he’s nothing more than a vampiric spawn, he’s still got quite the head on his shoulders. Cunning, but nothing compared to a real vampire.”

You know Astarion’s fuming beneath his facade then. Eagerly awaiting to rip this man apart, limb by bloody limb once the opportunity arises. You can feel his emotions through the tadpole —the way they pulse in angry waves, threatening to spill out at a moment’s notice.

Almost instantly, it forces you to push him back. Closing your eyes for a second or two, you shift thoughts of comfort to his head, letting him know that you’re there. That if the moment comes where this hunter makes his move you’ll be ready to defend him.

Thankfully, it calms him down —steadies the rousing anger that you know is still there, lingering beneath the surface. Allowing him to take a few breaths, resetting himself for the inevitable.

“I mean, I’m no expert but considering they’re still technically vampires I feel it’s safe to assume you’re still at the risk of… oh, I don’t know, injury? A good maiming perhaps if the spawn were to be particularly famished?”

“You’re not wrong, I suppose. Spawns are particularly powerful compared to the average but considering the sun’s high and dry I’d say we have the advantage.”

“Do we now?”

The two of you share a glance. Astarion's tadpole squirms in time with your own and in an instant a plot is formed.

“Actually, now that you mention it I have heard tell of this Astarion fellow,” you muse, watching the man’s expression. How it changes from innocent hero to hungry hunter at the drop of a hat.

Next to you, Astarion nods his head, echoing your words.

“You don’t say?”

“We were actually a part of a camp not far from here last night. A big group. So, it makes sense why the name didn’t come to me sooner.” You push out a fake laugh, acting as if the whole thing’s some silly little mistake while you wave a hand through the air. “Now that you’ve reminded me though, he was definitely there, lurking about like a little leech.”

You wiggle your fingers for dramatics, earning a scoff inside your mind that has you forcing back a genuine laugh, sensing Astarion’s annoyance.

“You wouldn’t happen to know what way he was going?”

This time Astarion pipes up. “I remember him saying something but, honestly, my uh, memory is a big foggy.”

As he raises a hand to his face, gripping the bridge of his nose, you motion the man to move close. “Perhaps a bit of coin could remind my uh, lover here of the information you seek.”

Lover, huh?

Paying no mind to his internal dialogue, you rub your fingers together to signify your partner’s needs, watching intently as the man leans back and looks at you with slight annoyance before taking a moment, realizing he’s got nothing to lose.

Considering the payout will more than likely cover such costs, he quickly turns his attention to the bag resting on his hip, opening it up with slow hands that you jump at the chance to catch off guard.

Pulling a dagger off your hip, you make no sound as you drive the blade into the side of his throat. All you do is press a hand to his mouth, covering the groans that swiftly coat your fingers in blood, following him toward the ground.

“I’d say be wary the next time you come snooping in other people’s business but I’m afraid it’s too late for that, isn’t it?” you tell him, feeling him struggle. Seeing him reach out to grab the knife that sits tightly in your hand, wedging itself further into the apex of his neck. Suddenly, it makes you realize what you’ve done.

You’ve just killed a man in cold blood. And for the life of another killer, no less. Without so much as a thought, you drove this man straight to his grave, knowing that if you didn’t the probability of him gaining the upper hand would only grow. That if he survived and caught on to your ploy, he could’ve taken Astarion away.

You realize then that you’re anything but ready for something like that to happen. Sure, he may be the cause of a lot of your frustrations throughout the day but somehow he manages to balance them out with his charm. With his innate ability to provide you with a space that’s begun to border the lines of comfort the more time you spend with him.

It’d hurt too much to let him go. But it’d hurt even more knowing he’d be going back to his old life. To the one you still know so little about but feel its pain. The never-ending threat of a figure controlling his every movement. He may not have spared the details but you know the last thing he wants is to find his way back there, so you did what you had to do to prevent that. To keep him safe just as you so subtly promised.

Breathing heavily, you let go of the knife and look toward him, asking him if he’s okay.

“Okay? Darling, you can’t be serious!”

“What?”

He’s kneeling on the ground beside you before anything else, reaching to grab your shoulders, pulling you roughly into his chest. “You just asked that man to pay us money and then jabbed a knife through his throat. If anyone should be asking who’s okay here, it’s me.”

“I’m fine. Are y—“

“Shhh.”

Up until now, it hadn’t occurred to you how badly you’d been shaking. Against his chest, you can feel the tremors of adrenaline take over as your head slowly lowers to his shoulder, releasing a loud and shaky breath.

You know exactly what came over you at that moment. The fear of losing the only person that’s ever made you feel happy despite your flaws became too real and it caused you to lose all sense of preservation.

Almost instantly, you became nothing more than a weapon —a striking blade shoved through opposing flesh. You felt the threat of the moment and your mind flew through all the other possibilities, landing on the only ending where Astarion's safety was ensured.

Realizing this, you slowly move to wrap your arms around his waist, feeling him hesitate halfway through.

It’s obvious then you’ve crossed some sort of boundary, so you go to pull away, apologizing under your breath as you feel his grip only tighten.

“Are you okay?”

You’re not sure why he’s asking. Or why he refuses to let you go. “Astarion, I said I’m fine.”

“Yes but are you okay?”

One of his hands moves to cup your cheek, pulling your focus back to him. Forcing you to see the uncharacteristic care inside his eyes as he thumbs your skin. It causes your tadpole to wriggle almost uncontrollably, discovering the connection that’s there. The unspoken bond he shares with you now that you’ve proved your loyalty. It’s enough to earn your honesty. To admit that you’re not okay while he continues to hold you.

You’re not sure why you care so much for him. Maybe it’s the attention he offers in a world where loneliness is often rampant or the way he makes you laugh even during the most unsightly moments. Either way, all you know is that in this moment you’re afraid he’ll hate you for it. For letting the curtain of snide remarks and harsh jokes slip to reveal a body of emotions too big for you to carry by yourself.

“I couldn’t let him take you.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. So inaudible against the sounds of the world around you that for a second you think you’ve spoke to his mind.

“I see that. You struck him before I could even ask him to sweeten the deal.”

“I’m sorry.”

Astarion snorts and moves his hand, letting it glide across your cheek until it finds purchase beneath your chin. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You saw a dangerous man and took charge. Honestly, it was frightening.”

“You’re not scared, are you?”

“Of?”

“Of me?”

The laugh he lets go of is so full that this time you feel him shake, his frame rattling against yours as he taps your chin. “Not in the slightest, my dear. Impressed, maybe. A little bit turned on too if I’m being frank but no. Not scared.”

TAGLIST: @poohxlove @gaiasmight @sassy-stupid @novarex @v-gremlin @sapphiccloud @lipstickghoulie @kuroitsukyo @jjfchk @idiotsatan @kay24sstuff @bluestuesday @mopeyghost @bloopthebat @art-by-greenie @heneralmoon @80spuppetfantasy @sukunababe @dreamingaboutyousworld @ranfithegood @haniscrying @ghostys1mp @liadamerondjarin @the-lake-is-calling @marina-and-the-memes @rookieoftheyear @zraloci-cpr @kaetmo @snickerdoodle-daydream @wowowwild @d1anna @raswiet @conniesbbymama @sweetrollgal @venus-wrts @demonicthorns @kihten @deadglamsheep

(if you'd like to be added to the taglist fill out this form)

#fear of losing it #astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion fan fic #astarion series #astarion x female reader #astarion x reader #astarion x you #haunted hoedown #summer writes

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duckytree · 2 months

Note

Could I have an overview of your big brother dick concept au? I back scrolled a ton and looked at your tags and the art I could find, and I just….its so cool and I want answers on like the ✨idea✨ or even just a more specific ✨vibe✨

i’m trying to soft release the details cause honestly i’m still figuring some things out lmao

but here’s the basics:

this is an au where jason is a bit younger than he is in my “dear jason” series, which is my main universe. everything else in this timeline WOULD be the same, except around a year before the beginning of the story, something happened to bruce and now he is out of the picture. alfred left after, not because he abandoned jay and dick but because he needed to in order to keep their family safe (spoilers)

so dick is a senior in high school and living a single father life. those who read the fics and comics of the dear jason series would know that dick and jay didn’t get along before jason died and they continued to have a strained relationship, but in this case, dick and jason are closer. they also don’t go crime fighting anymore for reasons related to bruce

it’s mainly fluff and wholesome day to day stuff about dick trying to figure stuff out, but there’s also a plot that i’ll reveal slowly

they also lived in the manor up til the spider incident and now they live in an apartment.

#big brother series #dear jason #dick grayson #nightwing #jason todd #red hood #batman #asks #duckytree

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undercovercameron · 11 months

Text

sunspent

summary: you're relaxed and calm in the obx summer heat, and rafe simply cannot have that.

notes: filthy filthy filthy! sorry not sorry bout it. also minor obx 3 spoilers; ie his parents are on that damn island and its just him in their big ole house. semi public sex kink and def a choking kink beware or be scared! i truly cannot write anything without that damn hand around reader's throat.. that's my b. enjoy! also thank you so much for all the love on my fics and the followers... so excited for all i will write in the future and so incredibly full of love from you guys <3

tags: rafe cameron x fem!reader

word count: 2542

The whole day had been perfect.

You woke up around 9:30, brushed your teeth, and went downstairs to have some oatmeal. By 10:30 you were in a bikini and setting out a towel on the back deck.

The sun was fairly hot, but the early warnings of a storm gave a cooler breeze. Your towel was in the perfect spot between the shade where you could get full sun coverage without moving too much.

Gentle music was playing from your speaker, something that sounded like what your mom listened to in highschool, and a couple vodka seltzers laid unopened in a small cooler for you to enjoy later. You were also halfway through a mystery book, and between the pages of every chapter you let the time drift away from you.

The most relaxing part of the start of your day? Rafe had left the house around 9 and had yet to return by the time you cracked open your seltzer at 1 o’clock. No ranting, no typical Rafe-isms— just sunshine and Paula Abdul. You wished he was able to do this with you.

It was so relaxing that you drifted off to sleep a little more than halfway through your drink, head resting on your folded arms.

“Y/N.” Something rigid and distinctly shoe-like nudges your arm. “Baby.”

You just groan and turn over onto your back, arms following to protect your eyes from the sunlight.

“Hi,” you croak, squinting, and peer up at him. He looks like the Statue of Liberty in this light— if the statue of liberty wore light wash jeans and slutty little beer brand t-shirts. (So on brand for him.)

“How long have you been out here?” He asks, bending to pick up what’s left of your seltzer for one final swig.

“Since like 10:45.” Your face breaks in a yawn and your arms fall to the deck as your eyes get used to the light. A smile creeps onto your face. “What’ve you been doing?” You sit up on your hands, scanning his body. He looks kinda sweaty.

“Um,” he starts, scratching at his forehead with a sigh. “Buncha shit. Went into a couple places to close Ward’s accounts with them—oh, I saw your mom at Cold Stone by the way.”

“Why were you at Cold Stone?” You grin, crossing your legs and pushing at his calf with your foot. He makes an innocent face, hands on his hips. He looks to the trees, playfully exasperated.

“Sometimes I need a milkshake, Y/N. What kind of question is that?” You snort. “Anyway— I think we should go out for dinner. It’s getting to be—shit, it’s almost 4.”

You’re silent, save for some puny, whiny noise you make at the mention of going out. You struggle to get up, a little wobbly on your feet, but Rafe catches you and hauls you up with a hand on your waist.

“What?” He brushes the wispy hairs out of your face. “You don’t want to go out?” He searches your face, blue eyes squinting down at you, and you just pout. In the most mature way a 20-something can when faced with leaving her very rich boyfriend’s very nice house who has asked her to stay with him graciously for the very near future while his parents are retired on some island in the middle of the ocean.

You curl a finger around the collar of his t-shirt, playing with it while you formulate an answer.

“Where would we go?” Is what you settle on, ever the people pleaser.

“I don’t know…” Rafe thinks, gaze drifting from you as he chews at his lip. You wind your arms around his shoulders, hands splayed across his wingspan. You pet the skin of his neck with your thumb, warm all over. You’re content just looking at him forever.

“What if I’m hungry now?” You ask, ever so innocently, and Rafe thinks you’re serious until he catches the look on your face.

“That right?” He grins, hand sliding down your back. He grabs at your ass and you squeak. “How hungry? Wait until after dinner?” He’s just teasing you honestly; it’s almost a hobby to see how desperate you get for him.

“Rafe.” You pinch his shoulder. “That’s not funny.”

He just hums noncommittally, and dips to press a kiss to your neck. You shift up onto your tiptoes, wanting to be closer, and he hikes one of your legs up onto his hip. You can’t help the noise you make.

“Rafe,” you breathe, grabbing at him. “We have to go inside.” He bows forward, dangling you towards the wood of the deck, and you just hold tighter onto his shoulders.

“Why?” He murmurs, lost in your taste, and presses a kiss to your mouth that makes you shiver. “I don’t see why we have to.” He falls into a kneel, bringing you with him, and you suck in a surprised gasp. “Nobody’s around.”

“Somebody could be, baby,” you say, chancing a look around, and huff out a sigh when he lays you onto your back. This man.

“I don’t care,” he says, shrugging his shoulders with not a care in the world before following you down.

This bikini might be his favorite. He likes anything that will leave as little to the imagination as possible, but this one is his favorite shade of blue. Almost matches his eyes.

Your warm skin feels like silk on him, and when you wriggle when he presses a hand to your inner thigh, his dick jumps.

“Relax, Y/N,” he breathes. You roll your eyes.

“How can I, Rafe? You’re so—aggravating.” You huff. He’s still wearing his shirt, too. You tug at the sleeves of it.

“Oh, yeah?” He cocks his head, lips pursed. You just nod, pulling again at the fabric of his shirt. “Why’re you so wet, then?” He fumbles with the buckle of his jeans and your eyes lock on it.

“I’m not.” You look back up at him, self-assured to a fault, and try to will the dampness between your legs away. He just stares down at you, unimpressed. “I-I’m not.” Your thighs close.

“That right?” He murmurs, and wrestles your legs open again with an arm. His fingertips brush the crotch of your bottoms and you jolt, breathing hard out your nose. He lifts your hips and pulls them clean off, tossing them to the side.

He’s silent then, gaze locked between your legs, and he carefully guides your legs back until you can grab them by the back of your thighs and keep them out of his way.

“Not wet, my ass,” he murmurs to himself. His thumb rubs at your clit, and your sigh of pleasure ends in an impatient whine. He spits. “This pussy—,” he starts, but can’t finish.

He just bows and gets his mouth on you like he’s been thinking about since he left the house. Your head slams back against the deck almost immediately.

His large palm flattens to the back of your thigh and pushes your leg even further. The muscle strains but you can handle it.

“Fuck, Rafe,” you cry out, eyes squeezing shut as his tongue pushes hard through your folds. You’re really fucking wet. You wonder briefly if it’s because of how hot it was today, then cast that out of your mind completely when you hear Rafe groan. Your body vibrates with it.

His hands suddenly drag you by your hips, closer to his face, and he hums again.

“Taste so fucking good,” he muses, spitting at you, and glances up at your face. You can barely keep your mouth closed like this. “Brat, lying to me.”

You whine, every second of him talking taking his mouth away from where it so desperately needs to be absolute torture, but settle when his thumb begins tracing circles into your clit.

“Fuck me,” you breathe, back arching and leg muscles straining, and Rafe just laughs into your cunt.

“I will,” he murmurs, and you would roll your eyes if you could— but he pushes two fingers into you. His thumb spurs back into motion as you sing, throat already sore. He knows exactly where and when to curl his fingers, and you let him know right there is where they need to be.

“There you go.” He spits a third time, watching it mix with your slick. “Squeezing me so tight, honey,” he assures you, smoothing a hand down your thigh. If you could find words you’d agree.

You manage a “yes, shit,” before you go mute and your eyes roll back into your head. You squeeze around him like a vice, your legs flooding with warmth, and he fingers you through your orgasm. He can’t pull himself away when you get like this— you’re so soft and warm and perfect that he genuinely wonders if he could ever fuck someone else again. He knows the answer is no.

Your abdominal muscles spasm and jolt as you come down, neck straining to look at where his fingers give you a final stroke and find their way to his mouth.

“Fuck, Rafe,” you half-laugh and half-moan, head falling against the deck. You chest heaves as you catch your breath. “This is embarrassing.”

“What?” He says, voice hushed, and presses a kiss to your mouth. “Being on the deck or how quick I can make you cum?” He grins.

This time you can and do roll your eyes.

“Both,” you sigh, legs falling to their place around his hips. You curl up into a sitting position and pet his arm, coming back to reality. He smells like sunshine. “But you still haven’t fucked me yet.”

Your fingers trail down to his jeans, fingertips ghosting over his zipper. He hums in agreement, eyes following. You play with the button for a second, just wanting to tease, but pop it and unzip the fly.

“Wanna know what I’m thinking about?” You ask, reaching up his shirt to feel his hot skin. “That time on the beach,” you purr, voice hushed and eyes wild.

“Yeah?” He bites his lip and sits back on his ass, taking you with him in his lap. Your knees bend and you sit comfortably on the seat that is only yours. “You thinking about my hand?”

“Mhm.” You lean and kiss at his cheek, trailing down to his jaw. “And something else.” You dig a hand down into his boxers and curl your fingers around his dick.

He’s hot and almost slippery, so hard you’re sure it’s painful. Your wrist slides against the tip and his hand on your ass curls into a fist.

You lean back, wanting to see his face, and watch as your touch washes over his body. He blinks rapidly, eyes focusing, and you smile sweetly.

It’s then that you shift into your knees, hand squeezing his dick, and sink down onto him.

His fingers fly up to your strained face and grasp your neck, immediately tight around your throat. Not tight enough to suffocate, but tight enough for your pulse to quicken.

Exactly what you’d imagined.

“You like that?” He pants, breath fanning over your cheek when you turn slightly and grip his shoulder for stability. You just nod and circle your hips.

His thumb on your chin guides your face back to his, wanting to see you fall apart, and you make a whiny noise. He feels where it starts and ends between his fingertips.

You ride between the strain of his hand around your throat and the movement of his body, head tilted back and mouth wide. Your fingers grip his shoulder and bicep as you ride.

It’s a difficult job, balancing the rhythm of your hips with the ache blooming from the muscles in your thighs, but you make it work.

You hear the bashfully whiny groans he’s exhaling into your ear and you make it work.

“You feel so good,” you whisper hoarsely as his hold tightens, chin tilting towards the sky. He grits his teeth and pushes his hips up into yours.

You scramble to grab onto his forearm and hold back your shriek.

The tightness of his fingers around your throat blur the lines of pleasure and pain, making it hard to catch a deep breath and ride him at the same time.

“Fuck, harder,” he stutters, almost whispering, and you nod furiously. Your thighs meet his lap, over and over with a noise that makes you blush even more than you already are, and you’re sure you’ll have bruises or at the very least a red mark.

He releases your throat and anchors himself with your hip and the small of your back, and when you finally gasp for air at the loss of his pressure on your neck he uses all his lower back strength to wedge himself deep into you.

You know you’ll have bruises there.

You push hard against his forearm as your back arches and the tension in your lower abdomen comes to a peak. Your toes curl where they are at his side.

Your vision comes in and out of focus as you cum again, blood white-hot in your veins. The climax is almost numbing. Addicting.

At this point you have no idea the noises you’re making, probably all gibberish and definitely humiliating, but the rushing in your ears is too much.

Rafe shudders and groans loudly into your ear, spending himself inside of you with a grunt, and you follow him as he falls back into the deck. You catch yourself with a palm on the sun scorched wood.

“Jesus Christ,” he pants, heart pounding and chest heaving. Sweat coats his buzzed hair in a shiny sheen, and your whole body is so sticky you feel like you could peel the layer of perspiration off of your body.

His hands still lazily hold your waist and they begin their ascent to your neck. He feels your pulse with the space between his thumb and forefinger, and his face splits into a grin at the feeling.

“I definitely am going to need some food after this.” You push yourself back up into a sitting position and put your hands on your hips as you finally catch your breath.

He looks so beautiful, half in the shade and half in the sun. Laid out beneath you. Still inside. Like some kind of god.

The hot sun is in his eyes, and his body is numb with the tension spent in his muscles. Rafe half wonders if his dick is still fucking there.

He barely feels when you crawl off of him and stumble into standing. He jerks up into a sitting position, that familiar ache in his back present, and grabs for your leg. He winces at the stretch. You should really be paying his chiropractor bill.

“Where are you going?” He accuses, voice scratchy in his throat.

“I need to shower, baby.” You bend to pick up your bikini bottoms. “We’re going to dinner, aren’t we?” You smile and turn back around to go inside, ass bare and a huge red mark in the shape of a large hand curved around the trunk of your throat.

Yeah, drive-up it is.

#obx #obx 3 #obx 3 spoilers #rafe cameron #obx fanfic #obx smut #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron x reader #obx x reader #rafe cameron x fem!reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron fic #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron imagine

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astraariel · 9 months

Text

eternal snow

pairing: sanji x fem!reader

summary: your love for sanji was unconditional, unfortunately, he didn’t feel the same seeing as there were petals coming out of your mouth.

word count: 3.6K

warnings: spoilers (?) just the name of a character from the whole cake island arc, it’s a modern!au so I don't mention anything about the actual arc!

tags: loosely based on “eternal snow” from fullmoon wo sagashite; angst; hanahaki disease; implied cheating; modern!au; hurt no comfort; lovesick; requited unrequited love

author's note: I think along with everyone opla is taking over my life so it encouraged me to finish this fic I started months ago lol. once again I like angst and this is soooo ooc of sanji he would never cheat I love him so much I’m sorry. on another note, I really like AmaLee’s cover of this song so you can give it a listen if you want to feel the vibe.

also, ignore the fact that Pudding is sixteen, she’s older than that in this. I couldn’t really think of anyone else to have/didn't want to think of a different character. just know, she’s of age. other than that, ignore grammar mistakes and enjoy♡

──★ ˙ ̟read pt2 here!

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You weren’t entirely sure how you had gotten to this point. You were certain that you two would be together forever. How you had unknowingly lost the one you love so dearly, you would never know.

Sanji was a flirt and you loved it, he could simply say that you looked beautiful today and you’d melt. Hell, that’s how you too met, Nami had introduced you two and Sanji wooed his way into your heart. You knew that he had you in the palm of his hand, but you weren’t sure you could say the same for him.

Sanji was an attentive lover. When he loved, he showered you with his attention. You could always tell that his presence was there whenever you spoke. He’d care and cater to every request you asked of him, not allowing you to lift a single finger. It’s who he was.

You were blinded by your love for Sanji that you never noticed him slipping away from your grasp.

The two of you were currently sitting together on your living room couch. Sanji mentioned there was a new show he wanted to watch, so here the two of you were. Your attention was focused on the TV in front of you while his was on his phone.

You glance at him, “Who’s that?”

He hadn’t looked away from it for more than 30 seconds throughout the last episode. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he looks at you.

“Oh, it's the new dessert chef at the restaurant,” he shuts his phone off, “I've been assigned to help her around and show her the ropes,” he smiles, “It’s nothing, you want popcorn?”

You turn to him, “Of course I do.” He gets up to walk to your kitchen, “Hey, I love you.”

He walks up behind you and bends down, kissing your head, “And I love you more.” He stands up and you hear him rummaging through the pantry for a popcorn packet.

You cough slightly, “Could you grab me some water, Sanji?” He shouts back a response but you don’t make it out because you’re too busy pulling a petal out of your mouth.

♡‧₊˚

After that lone petal had made its introduction, it planted itself as a constant. Every so often for the following weeks, you’d feel something weird in your mouth, only to pull out a single flower petal.

You weren’t sure what was going on, but you couldn’t bring yourself to think too much about it. On top of the weird cough you were having, Sanji was also acting off.

It was small at first, just tiny, little white lies that he’d tell you.

Like when he’d say he was tired, that he was going to bed, but you could hear him on his phone laughing at something from the room. Or when he claimed that his phone had died and that’s why he hadn’t texted you back even though you were hanging with Nami at the time and he had replied to a video she had sent him a minute after you texted him.

That was just the first few weeks.

You weren’t sure when the white lies became real lies but it had only spiraled more. You had found that he wasn’t even bothering with lying anymore, simply stating that he was too busy to come over or that he didn’t even want to hang out with you that day.

Sanji would claim to be too tired and not bother to see you for an entire week, but then he’d call you complaining that he missed you and question why the two of you hadn’t gone on a date recently and then insist that he was going to cook dinner for the two of you. Those times were always the best. It made you feel like nothing was wrong.

It was pure whiplash.

You were never sure which Sanji you were gonna get that day. Maybe it’d be the Sanji that you loved or this new person who had taken over and wouldn’t even text you back for days on end.

Recently, he was your loving, doting boyfriend. Which caused you to completely forget about the flower petals you were currently collecting from your mouth when you were being distracted by Sanji’s full attention.

You were lying on Sanji’s chest recounting your day to him when suddenly the sound of his phone pinging cut you off.

A quiet chuckle made you peek up at Sanji, his eyes were looking at his phone intently, whatever was on his screen, clearly captivated him more than what was coming out of your mouth.

You sit up, his blatant disinterest in your day annoying you.

“Did I do something wrong?” Your voice cuts through the room.

He looked up at your now sitting form, it looked like he was just acknowledging your presence.

He lets out a noise of confusion, “What?”

“Are you angry at me? Did I say or do something that pissed you off? Because, please, just tell me, I can't take it anymore.” you pleaded.

You notice Sanji’s body tensing, his brow scrunching in even more confusion. He laughs awkwardly, “Baby, what are you talking about? I’m not angry.” he looks away, “I love you, you know that right?”

And suddenly, you weren’t angry anymore.

You smiled, “I love you too.”

He glances at his phone again.

But you don’t care, because he loves you.

Satisfied with his response, you settle back down but are interrupted when you begin to cough. Quickly, you stand up to fetch your handkerchief from your pocket, wiping your mouth swiftly.

You look back at Sanji, “I’m gonna-” but before you can finish, you feel the familiar flowers clawing their way up your throat. You walk out of the room coughing.

Sanji doesn’t look up from his phone.

♡‧₊˚

He was late.

Again.

You were exhausted. The constant lies that you fooled yourself into believing for the sake of your heart were beginning to wear on you.

The old hoodie you were wearing enveloped you in an attempt to provide yourself some level of comfort that no one could really give you anymore.

It’s late, around midnight, last you checked. The spaghetti dinner left on the table you had cooked had long gone cold. The Baratie had closed hours ago and Sanji still wasn’t home.

You sit in complete darkness, the TV is currently rattling off an old rerun of some show you didn’t watch. You’re too tired to get up and find the remote to change the channel so you settle on watching the old comedic sitcom. You’re holding your trusty handkerchief that’s become your best friend in the past months; ready to close around your mouth in an attempt to catch the petals of flowers that’d come up your throat every so often.

Your eyes glaze over the screen when you hear the door creak open. Footsteps were heard as a soft clatter sounded throughout the room from Sanji setting his keys down on the counter.

You sit up slowly, in an effort to prohibit any intense coughing.

Your eyes meet Sanji’s surprised ones, “You’re still awake? It’s late, you should go to bed.” he looks away.

“You missed dinner.” You look over at Sanji’s form, he’s stiff, you note.

“I stayed late to help close, sorry we can reschedule.” He brushes you off swiftly.

“Was she there?” The argument had already begun, why not fuel it some more?

Sanji whips his head at you, an incredulous look gracing his features. “Who are you talking about?” Acting dumb was never a good look on him.

Your tired eyes stare at him, “I know you’re spending time with her.” The venom in your tone was palpable.

You were over the lies. You were over the constant tiptoeing between each other, you’re honestly surprised he still even decided to come over. It would have been better for him to stay at his place and just call you in the morning to tell his lie.

He has balls, you’ll give him that.

“Do you even love me anymore?”

The silence that surrounded the room was upsetting. Of course, he didn’t, who were you fooling? You had all the proof you needed in all of the trashcans around your house, discarded tissues soaked in blood, and petals filled the bins.

Sanji scoffs, “I don’t know what you want from me.” He doesn't answer the question, “Why are you asking if I love you, you're being needy.” He stares at you before continuing, “If you don’t trust me,” he looks away, “Then maybe we should break up.” With a tone of finality, he turns around and walks toward the door, the sound of it shutting echoing throughout the house.

You’re left alone in the silence, the ticking of the clock on the wall muffling your coughs that were accompanied by flowers and blood.

♡‧₊˚

With the new development of the blooms coming out of your throat, you felt defeated. You’re not sure what you did in a past life to deserve this. You didn’t wish this on anyone, it was a lonely and awful feeling, physically and emotionally.

You’ve gotten used to your condition. It had been a month since you’d seen Sanji after he had broken things off and in that month, you would constantly find yourself leaning over the toilet bowl, hacking up blood and flower blooms.

You finally had the courage to look up what you assumed was hanahaki disease. It was a rare condition, but you were certain that was what was causing you pain. The only cure was to have surgery that resulted in the patient forgetting about whomever they had loved. That you’d act as if nothing had happened, that you’d live in ignorance bliss afterward.

Sacrificing your heart for your life.

After that month, you had decided to go to a coffee shop forcing yourself to get out of the house and do something.

So you went to Sanji’s favorite coffee shop.

Why you had put yourself through that? You weren't sure.

You remember wrapping your hand around the door handle, ready to walk in when a wisp of light auburn hair had caught your attention inside the cafe.

There she was. Pudding. The girl who had replaced you. The one who had captivated Sanji’s attention in a way you could only dream of.

Sanji stood beside her, you were certain he couldn't see you from inside, his attention was fully on Pudding’s face, absorbing whatever story she had been telling him.

He had never looked at you like that.

Did he ever love you? Were you that stupid to even see the truth? Had it been there all along and you were simply too blind to notice?

An “excuse me” had brought you back to reality and had you rushing back to your apartment in hopes of not bumping into Sanji or Pudding. You weren't sure your heart could take it if you were forced to talk to them.

After that defeat you noticed that you were no longer hacking up petals, but fully blossomed flowers, you couldn’t walk for a long distance without wheezing, the flowers constricting your airways preventing you from wanting to do anything. You knew you were nearing the final stage, soon roots were going to begin to show up, but you couldn’t bring yourself to go to a doctor. You had read that the longer you kept this from being treated, you’d enter the point of no return.

So, you simply waited.

Your mind was reeling. You never wanted to stop loving Sanji. You didn’t care about the pain that it brought you.

You don’t care that you still long to have Sanji tell you that he loves you. To tell you and for you not to immediately have to turn away and cough up blood and flowers.

You missed him. You yearned for him.

After Nami had found out why you and Sanji broke up, she went on a rant about how she was going to kill him, on how he could have done this to you. You weren't sure if you had ever seen her get so angry before.

But even after that, you confessed that you still loved him.

She proceeded to call you insane, but she simply didn’t understand. She didn’t know about how his eyes would sparkle when he would go on about a new recipe that he developed and how he was certain that it was going to be the new hit at the Baratie. She didn’t know how bashful he got when you complimented him on his food. How he’d kiss you like how it was the first time you were kissing each other.

You loved him. And you would forever love him.

But he haunted your life. Leaving you lying at night, not even allowing you to find comfort in your dreams since he haunted those too. When you’d close your eyes you could only mourn for the love that once was. To mourn for him even though he was alive and well, but could you say the same for yourself?

You had long accepted that you were going to die. If anything, you willed it. Never did you want to forget your love for Sanji. The idea that you would never be able to recall how he made your heart pound every time he’d look at you, would be a nightmare.

But you were tired.

In the months after the cafe incident you would go through phases where the pain would turn to anger, cursing Sanji, wishing you two had never met, wishing that Nami had never introduced you too.

But the anger would never stay directed towards Sanji. It would always circle back to you. And anger would turn to pity and pity would turn to sadness.

You wanted to cry and scream at the sky, to yell at the world, to question why love felt this way. Why couldn't he just love you back, why were you being punished for simply loving him unconditionally?

You suffocate yourself in the love that you have for Sanji. Sacrificing your every breath to simply feel the true and fierce love you felt for him. You’d cry until you were gasping for air, til you were choking up flowers that were clogging your lungs. You wished, begged, for it to go away. Wishing that you had never fallen for him.

But even with all the pain he caused you. You could never hate him.

You could never hate Sanji.

You can’t even bring yourself to hate Pudding, it wasn't her fault that Sanji was infatuated with her rather than you.

And you could never truly hate him for that.

The sterile white walls and the smell of disinfectant wafting through the air brought you back to reality.

Recalling how hours before Nami had found you on the ground of your bathroom, post-hacking your brains out from the various blooms of flowers that rose from your throat at what seemed like at every hour of the day as of recently. You hadn’t heard her call for you when she entered your apartment so you weren’t able to hide anything from her.

“Are you insane?” Her voice ricocheted in the bathroom after you had explained to her what had been happening to you for the last couple of months.

You were numb the entire car ride to the hospital as Nami yelled at you for being so careless.

“Why are you letting that boy kill you?”

Why were you?

Why were you putting yourself through this pain, knowing he would never love you again?

The recent memory reminded you of Nami’s presence on the side chair that was placed beside the crunchy bed you were currently sitting on. Her brown eyes met yours and smiled softly at you.

“You’re gonna be okay.” Nami’s attempt at reassurance was comforting to you for 5 seconds before the door swung open revealing the doctor.

“Hello,” she said your name, “you’re the one with hanahaki disease, correct?” You glance over at Nami before replying to the doctor in confirmation. “Well, unfortunately, it has been developing for a while and if you had come just a little bit later it would have been untreatable, so I highly suggest proceeding with the procedure as soon as possible.”

Your hands grew clammy. This was it. You were going to be relieved from this grueling life you had found yourself in. You would finally be able to go back to normal.

Normal.

Would it truly be normal if you didn’t love Sanji anymore? Could you truly live with yourself knowing that you gave up the one thing that has been keeping you going? You guess you wouldn’t actually remember your love for him if you did the surgery but your heart would know. Your soul would know.

You wished that all of this pain would go away. Longing to run back to Sanji, for him to stop the anguish that you felt. To have him whisper that he loved you and for you to not cough up flowers anymore. To know that he truly meant the words that he was saying.

You wondered how your life would have gone if you had never fallen for Sanji. Would your life still lead you to this very moment of hell that you’re living currently? You would think that hell would be hot, blazing with heat, but all you felt was the coldness of lies that you believed that spewed from Sanji’s lips when he spoke to you.

You would like to think that you wished you had never fallen into this trap. That your heart never fell for him, but you knew better. You knew that he had your heart from the beginning. You were doomed from the first interaction.

Wasn’t it a true act of love if you could let the person go? Wouldn’t it be the final seal of approval of your love if you went through with the surgery? The love that you felt for Sanji would be proven by this simple act.

You felt Nami’s hand grab yours. Her eyes were filled with remorse, a sadness that you could distinguish as the same sadness that you saw in your eyes ever since that first petal came to be.

Anticipatory grief.

She was grieving your love for him already, grieving for your heart, how you would never love again, how you would never love him again.

You sigh.

♡‧₊˚

You wake up to the soft murmurs of the television in the corner of the room.

Your mind was hazy, from what, you weren't entirely sure yet. It felt as if you had lost something like it was on the tip of your tongue, but you just couldn’t think of exactly what it was.

Guess it wasn’t important.

Your eyes wander over to your surroundings, the hospital room is bare except for the basic, usual furniture. Your eye caught movement out of the corner of your eye, turning your face to examine what it was.

A balloon with the words “Get well soon!” fills your vision, and your gaze scans over the hearts that surround the bubble letters in bright yellow hues. You reach over the side table to grab the card that sat under the balloon.

Hope you feel better - Nami.

Sad that you had missed your friend, you made a mental note to pay her a visit after you were discharged from the hospital to thank her.

A soft knock echoed throughout the room, your attention to the door opening revealing the doctor. “Hi, glad you’re awake. The procedure was a success. You should be good to go soon, but take it easy for the next two weeks.”

The procedure.

You quickly scour your brain for answers of who it was you loved but came up short.

Guess that was the point, wasn’t it?

Before you could thank the doctor, rushed footsteps were heard outside the room, hasty knocks piercing the air along with the clamor of the door opening quickly.

Sanji’s blond hair comes into view, and he stands, wide-eyed, near the doorframe. He was panting slightly, a sign that he possibly had been running before he got here.

He says your name quietly, the doctor gives you a nod before excusing herself from the room to give you guys privacy.

“Sanji,” you smile brightly at him, “Did you get off of work? Why are you here?”

His eyes shift over to the balloon on the stand beside the bed. “Nami told me about the…procedure.”

“Really?” you roll your eyes teasingly, “It’s not that big of a deal honestly, that Nami. Always the worrier, thank you for visiting me though, you’re a good friend, Sanji.” You look away before you can notice Sanji’s face falling.

You look back at him, “Oh, could you take me home? I probably shouldn’t be driving right now.” you laugh quietly and scan Sanji’s face. His mind seemed to be somewhere else, perhaps he was really busy at the restaurant. “If you can, if not I’ll just call Nami.”

“No,” he clears his throat, “Yeah I can take you home.”

You offer him a smile, “Thanks, hey I think I may have to fill out some paperwork. Could you grab it while I go change?” You begin to stand up slowly before he rushes over to help you up.

You look up at him to thank him again when you realize his eyes are watering.

Weird.

Your eyebrows knit in worry, “Hey, are you okay?”

He blinks rapidly while looking away from you. His hand lets go from his grasp on your arm and runs it through his blonde hair while turning away from you. “Yeah, I’m fine.” he coughs, “Uh, I’m gonna go look for those papers.”

He walks out of the room before you can respond, leaving you slightly confused but you shake it off before you begin to look for your clothes.

You don’t see Sanji standing outside the doorway, coughing up a flower petal.

#astraariel♡#one piece #vinsmoke sanji #sanji x y/n #sanji x reader #sanji x you #vinsmoke sanji x reader

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