#it was longer than it should have been too because the tooth shattered in the process and he had to dig out the roots and let me tell you | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tommyspeakycap · 3 years

Note

HF for how Tommy feels on his daughters wedding day please

first half is headcanons and the second half is a lil blurb!

tommy is quite literally distraught

like that’s no exaggeration he is literally heart broken

his baby, his whole world was getting married

for the past 20 years, you had been tommy shelby’s whole world

you were born when tommy was only 17

not even an adult yet himself

so it felt as though you had been with him most of his life

it had kind of just been you and him, in a sense

of course there was the rest of the clan too, and you were incredibly close to them as well

but your mother died in childbirth, so tommy was both mum and dad

he had to do it all alone in that sense

everyone tells him he should be so proud of how he raised you

because you’re sweet and kind

and you have that humour that the war took from tommy

you made people laugh like he had

and you were really the only person that could make him laugh

you were strong, like your mother tommy had always said

but you credit everything you are to him

he was the first man to love you, and teach you how you should be loved

he also taught you how you should be treated, generally a lot better than the average father would

tommy made sure that his daughter would be treated like a queen

you were his princess

so whomever you were to marry, you would be treated as their queen

he made absolutely sure of that

and that marrying was your choice

not something you were coerced into for money or business, but something you wanted

and it was

with a man who you had loved since 16

tommy liked him as much as he could like the man that was going to be taking his baby girls hand and changing her name

the thought of you not being (y/n) shelby, tommy shelby’s little princess, was earth shattering to him

although you had insisted you were keeping it in the middle

alas, tommy knew you were so loved by that man

be that as it may, all parties knew if he stepped a foot out of line or raised a finger in anything but gentility and love

then he would be struck down in a timely and violent fashion by tommy himself

tommy definitely cries that day too

“Tommy?” Grace’s voice immediately draws his attention towards her and away from his thoughts about the impending fact his little girl was getting married in half an hour. His eyes are that kind of wet that shows he’s fighting tears, that he won’t dare let them fall. Grace can see the lump he tries to swallow in his throat and a piece of her heart breaks for him as she sits down on the bench next to him outside the hall where the ceremony would take place. You were inside getting the dress on and getting your hair done with Polly and Ada and previously Grace before she had come out to see if her husband was okay.

He was not.

“Oh Tommy,” Her voice is so soft and caring as she wraps her arm around him and rubs his shoulder, hugging him to her slightly. “She looks so beautiful Tom, and god she’s so happy; can’t stop smiling at all. She still has that smile you talk about, the innocent one and it looks just like yours does sometimes.” Tommy clenches his jaw tightly, still refusing to let those tears go. She sees him clamp down his teeth over his bottom lip to stop it trembling. “It’s alright Tommy, this is good. She’s in love with a man who loves her so much. Almost as much as you do.”

Tommy shakes his head at that, one hand on his knee to brace himself as he tries to speak. “Not possible.” He snips, “And i loved her first.”

His voice breaks on that. The lip finally trembles and he hangs his head with a sharp inhale to let free that shoulder shaking sob. “She was my little baby. How is that my little girl in there? She used to-” Tommy had to pause again, roughly wiping his hand over his face to clear away the tears as he looks up at Grace, “She used to be this big,” he gestures with his hands in a way that she imagined was meant to be him cradling a baby. His voice sounds drastically different than she’s used to because it’s clouded by his tears and his agony.

“She used to ask me to brush her teeth and comb her hair and lift her up to wash her hands,” he bleats, images flashing through his mind of that short little girl who couldn’t reach the bathroom sink. He sees the little girl who stood on top of the toilet so he could brush those teeth and he can see the smile that little girl gave him all those nights when he asked to see to make sure he had brushed them right. “She used to climb into my bed every morning and she used to save up her tooth fairy money to buy us all gifts. She’d save food from her dinner for the dogs on the street and i swear on my life i don’t know how to live without her being my baby girl, Grace.” Tears continue to stream down his cheeks as Grace notices the black and white photograph that looked truly as though it had been through the war; as it had. it was stained and slightly run and it was crumpled. A little girl with a toothless grin and Tommy Shelby’s eyes, even with the lack of colour to the old photograph.

“It’s alright Tommy,” Grace hums, rubbing her husbands back soothingly, “She’s your little girl, she always will be.” She knew there was really nothing else she could say that would ease his pain. There was nothing anyone could do or say that would send you back to the little girl he would could throw over his shoulder and run around the house with. There was nothing that could ease the pain of a fathers aching heart when his baby girl becomes a woman who doesn’t need him like she used to.

“Thomas?”

He and Grace look up at Polly. The look in her eyes speaks for her . “She’s ready?” Tommy asks, prompting his aunt to nod her head with a smile. “Come on then, Tom!” Arthur calls from the grand doorway at the top of the steps to the hall. When Tommy and Grace reach him, Arthur wraps his arm roughly around his brothers shoulder and pulls Tommy into him. “Baby (y/n) getting fuckin’ married eh? Can’t fuckin’ believes she’s this fuckin grown up.” He shakes his head, taking his arm away from his brother when they reach the door of the dressing room where you were waiting. “Beautiful she is, Tom.” Arthur says, “Looks just like mum. In you go.” He ushers his younger brother in that door.

Nobody sees Tommy Shelby quite like you do, and he’s happy for it to stay that way. He’s known it since you were a tiny little girl wrapped up in his arms. He doesn't love anyone like he loves you, so it makes full sense that you are the only person in the world who he allows his vulnerability to fully leak through with. Although, he probably couldn't prevent it even if he tried.

Maybe that’s why he doesn't fight so hard to keep his eyes from welling up when he sees you standing there looking in the mirror, donned in the most beautiful white wedding gown that he’s ever seen. Placed in his hand is the stunning light veil that he had picked out for you. The headband was something like a tiara, because you were his princess and he truly believed that everything you had should be the best the world could offer. The dress too had been extortionate and you would never have gotten it had you known the price it had come to, but Tommy had never allowed you to know. He simply had the designers bring an array of dresses to his estate where you tried them all on with Polly, Ada, Lizzie, Grace, Linda and Esme to comment and complement each dress, as well ad aide you on picking the one that suited you the most with cost never a mention. Tommy had preached he ‘no expense spared’ approach the whole way through the planning of the wedding and any timenhe caught you trying to cut or manage costs, he simply shut you down and enforced the rule that the wedding planner was no longer allowed to discuss prices with you.

He had truly created the most fantastical day for you, and he would have spent every single penny that he had if it meant giving you the most beautiful start to a new life that he could give.

You had wanted him to be the one to place that veil on your head with the guidance of your hair dresser to ensure he didn't mess up the design of your hair. He had been the one to place little plastic tiaras on your head when you were merely a little girl who wanted to play princess dress up. He used to be the one to comb back your hair and twirl you around that Watery Lane kitchen with Arthur did the same with Ada and Polly laughed heartily from her seat at the table.

It felt right to have him put a tiara on you one last time as baby Shelby.

“You’re beautiful.” He breathes, his lips stretching into a wide and incredibly proud smile. “So, so very beautiful my darling.” Your cheeks blush ever so slightly and you lean over to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, dad.”

He wants to hug you tightly and never let you go. He wants to will and wish you back to the little girl that he used to twirl around all afternoon. He missed that little girl so much. He had so much love in his heart for you, so much that it overwhelmed him every time he had tried to acknowledge it over the course of your life.

“I love you.” he says, his shaky voice conveying how much he actually means those words. “So much more than you can ever know. I’m going to miss you so much.”

You breathe a short laugh, shaking your head at him. “I’m not going anywhere, dad. I’ll still be seeing you all the time. I’ll just have a different name.” You hold his hand tightly in yours as he leads you out of the dressing room and into the hall towards the large double doors that would take you to the isle.

“Mhm,” he hums, “I suppose. You’ll understand what I mean someday. I just love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

“You two ready to go?” The wedding planner asks, watching as you turn to Tommy somewhat excitedly and nod. “You ready dad?” You ask, giving his had a reassuring squeeze. He sighs heavily, but nods his head too, removing his hand from yours and moving his arm so that you can link yours through his. His play on his mind before he says them, a small smile too playing on his lips as the nickname that he used to call you runs through his memory.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, my little love.”

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby x sister reader #tommy shelby x sister!reader #shelby sister #shelby sister reader #shelby!reader

437 notes · View notes

tennessoui · 3 years

Note

50 but its Obi-Wan tired and stressed going through a messy divorce who mets ray of sunshine Anakin ❤

This is basically the Prologue to the story of how Homeowner Obi-Wan Adopts Two Children and A Husband Without Realizing It

50. Going Through a Divorce (Divorced!Obi-Wan)

Buy a house, they had said. You have a wife. You should have a house, they had said. The market is in your favor right now, they had said. This area is nice. Good for kids if that’s something you’re thinking about. Buy a house.

No one ever told Obi-Wan what to do if your wife divorces you and moves out, but the house is legally in your name and the weight of the mortgage is slowly killing you because while you’re a great English professor, you don’t exactly get paid a commission for how many kids decide to take your class after looking at your chili pepper score on Rate My Professor.

Obi-Wan sits in his study with the windows shut and the door closed. It’s the only room in the house that doesn’t feel like something’s glaringly missing. Every other place held at least a few of Satine’s possessions, and if he leaves the shelter of this one final safe haven, he knows himself well enough to know that he’ll prod at all those little absences the way a tongue ghosts over the pit left by a lost tooth.

But this study has always been his, and it still feels like it now. And while the house is, arguably, also still his and has always been, it feels too big now. Too empty.

He is not enough for the house either, it seems.

Obi-Wan snorts at the thought and pours himself a drink. He’s getting maudlin in his old age. Sentimental. What he should be doing is thinking of the logistics going forward, although he knows few. How To Get Divorced was never something they taught in schools, nor something he had thought to be in his future.

How To Pick Up The Pieces of Your Shattered Heart had been a tough lesson to learn a year ago when his wife--ex-wife now--had broached the topic of separation. Separation, as if that wasn’t simply a long-drawn out end. She hadn’t taken that criticism lightly, nor should she have. Their ensuing fight had only ended when she had gasped wetly through her tears and told him, “See? Who are we anymore? I don’t want to fight anymore, Obi.”

To which Obi-Wan had said, of course, “Don’t call me that.” and Satine had left without another word. Given enough time to reflect upon her argument, he did find the logic in it. They’d married young and then changed in ways that couldn’t click together. Obi-Wan would have been fine with continuing to try to force them to work, but Satine had never been one to hate herself in that way.

The papers had come on a rainy day in October. The love had stayed on, unwelcome and bitter and agonizing in turn, well into April. Now it’s autumn again, and Obi-Wan has a house that’s too big for just him and no wife or partner or lover to fill its gaps.

There’s a loud ping of his phone that brings him out of his thoughts. It’s a message from Quinlan, just a link. Obi-Wan almost doesn’t click it, not in the mood for a funny video or in-depth but frightfully out-of-touch opinion on a recent movie. Then Quinlan texts again. I know you like your blondes fiery is all he says, and now Obi-Wan has to know.

He touches the link and it takes him to a posting on a website dedicated to finding roommates. The text loads slowly, probably because there’s a lot of it.

IN NEED OF ROOMMATE ASAP the title screams. Reflexively, Obi-Wan checks the time-stamp, but this was posted only a day ago. His heart warms at the idea of Quinlan checking this website trying to solve Obi-Wan’s problem of the mortgage for him.

Then he keeps reading.

Hi, I’m Anakin, 26, it reads. Working in tech right now--should make any sort of income required. Recently and unexpectedly kicked out of my place. Parent of two toddlers, but they’re angels (separately)! They are past the point of drawing on walls and they are potty-trained. Would be willing to put down a pet deposit but no pets, just the twins. Being evicted in the next five days so desperately need place. Twins’ mom could take twins while I move out and then move in but she can’t have them longer than a couple of weeks because of her job.

Also full disclosure, I have to move out because I “assaulted” my landlord! He was being a creep about my friend and touched her without her consent. I’m not actually a violent person and will not hit you! Just if you call my landlord for a tenant reference, he won’t be nice. He’ll be very, very biased.

Before twins can move in, I will need to run a background check on you as well just to make sure you’re not a creep (creeps DNI)

Let me know if you’re interested!

(Please give me a chance.)

There’s a couple of pictures at the bottom, just after the man’s phone number and email. One depicts a smiling, attractive man, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans with a young child on each hip. The next is a close-up of the kids in fancy clothing, probably to prove that they’re not messy. The girl is scowling at the camera while the boy is crying though, so the overall effect is ruined. Still, Obi-Wan finds iit endearing. The last picture is Anakin’s mugshot, the man in question looking decidedly which makes Obi-Wan snort. He appreciates the level of honesty and loyalty Anakin’s clearly showing.

But this is a lot.

Obi-Wan hasn’t started to look into the option of finding a roommate to lessen the burden of his mortgage payments. And to jump straight to a man with a violent past and his two small children?

His house would be absolute chaos. He and Satine had always kept an orderly space, one that featured long bouts of quietly enjoying the other’s company from opposite ends of the living room, but there would be no quiet with two children and what he’s positive is a very lively man.

But hadn’t he just been thinking that the house was too silent now? Too empty? It would be--

Well. It wouldn’t feel like his and Satine’s house anymore. It would be unrecognizable.

Somehow he’s jotting down the number before he even realizes what he’s doing. And then he’s putting it into his phone. And then it’s ringing.

“Hello?” A distinctly masculine voice says on the other side. Obi-Wan clears his throat, suddenly unsure of what to say.

“Hi, hello yes. I’m calling about the ad you posted online yesterday?”

“What about it?” Anakin asks slowly, sounding suspicious. Obi-Wan has to fight to roll his eyes. If he hadn’t already committed himself to following through on the worst idea he’s had in years, he’d hang up at the other man’s clear distrust. He wants to berate him that this is not how you sell yourself to potential homeowners, but that isn’t his place.

“My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he says instead. “And I fear I may be your only hope.”

#asks #my fics #narrators voice: it was not actually the worst idea he's had in years #but he was truly anakins only hope #this was self-indulgent fun to write not serious at all #obikin #KUWSK #prompt fill

193 notes · View notes

mega-bastard · 3 years

Photo

Bitch in Heat Stuck Under Debris Gets WRECKED

a miki mouse whorehouse collab, the m.list you can find here

cw: sexual harrassment, abo themes, dubcon kinda

as the poor quality picture can’t really show you, I got stuckage and I chose Bakugo with the finishing touch of making it ABO <3 It’s also two days late but shhhhh we don’t talk about it uwu also 2.7 words of pain enjoy

katsuki bakugou is becoming a thorn in your side.

you’ve both been metaphorically and somewhat literally glued to each others sides since highschool. it’s not necessarily a bad thing, to be quite frank katsuki is something of a deterrent in a world of second genders and pheromones— something you capitalized on in high school.

being an omega hero isn’t something entirely world shattering, but it’s a position that comes with lots of stereotypes— stereotypes you fought tooth and nail to fight against in your younger years. being one of four omegas in your class was...irritating, to say the least. lots of preconceived notions that you needed to be helped with trivial things, and while your classmates intentions came from a good place it was maddening. save for katsuki, back when he had no restraint with his anger and aggression, he didn’t coddle you like your classmates did. Labeled a brute for his actions towards his omega classmates in trivial interaction or sparring, you thrived on the normality— katsuki was an ass to everyone. Your omega was placated, finally encountering an alpha who wasn’t belittling her with preconceived daintiness.

it was easy to hang near katsuki, ignoring the atrocity that was his vocabulary. eventually like the rest of the peanut gallery that was the bakusquad, you just existed alongside katsuki— which meant that you grew on him. katsuki swears up and down that you’re all a nuisance but you’ve seen him go up to bat for all you at some point, you knew you’d all made some sort of ragtag pack with one another. this was rather amazing to you at the time, not to sell yourself short but you’d never really imagined belonging to a close knit group of friends— especially realizing that they understood when it was appropriate to step in for you. katsuki in particular had a knack for being at the right place at the right time.

During your second year you fumbled.

interning with miruko had its perks, a top 5 hero with raw strength, cunning, and the drive to just keep going— and an omega. landing and internship with her had been a dream, even more-so when you learned she’d been watching you since your first year because of the festival. bright eyed and eager, nothing could have dampened your spirits— neither katsuki and his usual moody behavior or the standoffish alpha from shiketsu. yes, you all had landed an internship with miruko and part of you was...worried? katsuki had never looked down on heroes based on their second genders but you couldn’t speak for the shiketsu alpha, both alphas interning under an established omega hero put your inner omega on edge— you didn’t quite know why though. but you chose to squash the feeling and enjoy your internship with who was essentially your idol and continue on.

then you started getting sexually harassed.

his name was omori kisai and he was the worst. hailing from shiketsu, known for their dignified schooling, he was far from it. salacious comments dropped when no one was listening, less that appropriate touching when passing by and just general ick that had your skin crawling and omega snarling. it was easy to brush it off as banter the first time, section off the awkward contact as an accident. The second time you made it clear the comments were not liked and the touches far from appropriate, after the third time you’d snap an insult or have to hold a trembling fish from making contact. but it was coming to a head and your suppressors could only do so much to hide your souring scent. looking back you should have said something, but your pride had told you that it was a necessary step to overcome and push through— that he wouldn’t be the last. it weighed you down, day by day, a heavy cloud that wouldn’t let up. one particular bad timed comment brought tears to eyes and shame to your entire being.

thankfully, as time would come to show, katsuki tended to nose into your dilemmas.

the day prior to the abrupt end of your harassment you’d been tripped up by a villian and had fallen a sizeable distance into a pitiful excuse of pond. of course, omori had taken this as an open invitation to mock you and then offer you his shitty hero costume cloak— not without hinting at you returning the favor ‘somehow’. yeah right. you had stomped off, unaware of katsuki’s presence nearby. come next day, omori avoided you like the plague and katsuki not so subtly stuck to your side like an unwilling chowchow— all growly and temperamental. but his constant presence rubbed his scent off on you. despite his less than chummy attitude, you weren’t mad; katsuki smelled like cinnamon spice and whiskey with hints of burnt caramel— absolutely overpowering yet decadent all the same.

you tried not to think about just how much you enjoyed his smell. your omega was purring about it.

the omori incident was the beginning of katsuki’s subtle hovering. though you pried the truth of his involvement in omori leaving you alone after offhandedly bringing it up to mina and jirou one day, katsuki helped you out of situations as invasively as possible time and time again. by the end of third year it was no secret to you of your classmates teasing of your relationship with katsuki; an amiable and prideful omega and the irritable powerhouse of an alpha. you brushed it off because...well you didn’t know why, but katsuki’s seeming indifference to the teasing had you quelling every jittery happiness your inner omega expressed at the thought of katsuki being your alpha.

now, three years out of highschool and beginning to climb the ranks, katsuki was becoming testy— and for the life of you the reason couldn’t be more opaque. you both work at the same agency, and due to the nature of your quirks you spend all your time together due to their compatibility. compatibility was a bitter word for you, katsuki and yours supposed compatibility had been talked about for some time now but the sobering reality is that perhaps you two were simply good friends— and now sharing your omegas endearment for the explosive alpha had reared its ugly head.

your heat was a week away and already you felt the familiar fatigue begin to lap at you alongside general moodiness. all that coupled with the annoying need to be around katsuki was maddening and sprinkling his own extra grouchy attitude on top and you were ready to snap. in hindsight, that should have been your cue to take an extra week off— instead you chose to once again to champion pride instead of your intellect.

you could have stayed home this morning, you should have.

patrol had been slow, not particularly unusual but favored nonetheless. face raised to the slowly dipping sun you couldn’t help but sigh, the warmth of the late afternoon sun was heaven sent-- you could sleep standing up with much issue. it remided you katsuki, strangely enough though most things did recently.

the sound of screaming and rushing feet shook you from your drowsy stupor. Set on alert, you spied the source of the sudden discordance and found several villains causing a commotion. quickly calling for backup for you before finding yourself facing a hulking mass of green charging you head on. tranquility gone, it was time to fight.

the ache in your body could not be more apparent but your humiliation ran more rampant in your system than any ache or pain could, your fatigue more than present as your body hummed with warmth. leave it to you to get stuck face down and ass up amongst the trashed ruins of what was an office building, weighed down between a broken desk and a collapsed bookshelf. the villain you had engaged with, some self-named idiot calling himself cruel croc, packed a punch and your bruised body and rendered office floor were a testament to that. of course, you’d done quite the bit of damage to him yourself before the entire floor collapsed underneath you both— rendering the meathead unconscious under a rather hefty pile of concrete and debris whereas you were pinned and to utterly weak to do much.

the thrum of your heat was beginning its path of vengeance through your body, feeling too pliant to get yourself out of what was otherwise easy to fix problem. you were feeling it, bad. the heat of your clothed cunt was beginning to become too apparent, unconsciously squeezing your thighs to provide relief to no avail. no, this could not be happening right now of all times. but as much as your inner monologue fought to try and will away your heat, the warmth was becoming too much and sudden breeze of wind had you trembling and whining. the feel of slick beginning to wet your hero costumes spandex set your hazing thoughts into sudden panic, if cruel croc woke up or if another villain came across you would they be above...the thought alone could’ve made you puke. flashbacks to second year had you bucking wildly for freedom, you wouldn’t let anyone have the opportunity for—

“ OI! Shitty ‘mega were are you? Are you—“

you stilled, biting hard to keep your mouth shut. your omega was whimpering, desperate for the alpha, HER alpha to relieve her from her heat. on a normal day she could melt into his scent, but right now? she could drown in it and die happy. with his scent getting stronger the closer katsuki clambered toward you, the more the head haze grew-- the slicker your thighs became. the whimper you let loose was pitiful, the need for some sort of stimulation to your cunt becoming near painful the longer you remained so close yet so far from katsuki. the pathetic little “alpha” you whined as you heard him quickly approach from behind would’ve been utterly embarrassing to you in any other situation.

but if you could have turned to see katsuki, you would’ve been met with the look of an unmistakably feral alpha-- pupils dilated to hell, fingernails blackened, and canines elongated and sharpened. but what you lacked in sight, you could hear and smell.

katsuki was the definition of an alpha as is, but the way he was pushing his scent out was like a big red sign that screamed ‘DANGER’. To you, it had you feeling utterly submissive-- if you weren’t already face down and ass up you certainly would’ve moved into position. practically salivating at the thought of what katsuki could do--

the heated palm on the globe of your ass is thought pausing, the sudden heated touch coaxing a sugary sweet moan from deep in your throat-- the small touch quickly turning to rough palming at your moaning. tt feels so good, but you want more. need more.

“Please, need more Alpha” it's breathy and whiny, something you're far from day to day but it feels too natural escaping you. mewling at the ghost of a touch over your clothed cunt, your blubbering when it presses harder-- escalating you to tears of frustration when it ceases. practically feeling katsuki’s harsh breathing near your cunt you begin to wiggle and wail with all manner of unrestrained vigor; chanting alpha and katsuki like a prayer and begging for relief like a sinner for forgiveness. it’s working, you know it is, if katsuki’s breathing is anything to go by but he refuses any further touching. you want katsuki everyday, but right now you need him.

“Only want you Katsuki, please it’s only been you,” you hiccup your words through a shrill plea, but the tearing of your soaked spandex sends an excited chill down your spine. your legs tremble with excitement when katsuki grips the tops of your thighs and spreads them-- revealing your drooling cunt. it’s both too much and not enough all at once and you wiggle once more, yelping from a smack to your left ass cheek. it’s not particularly painful, not even as katsuki rubs over it right after the hit, but it quells your wiggling nonetheless. you open your mouth to urge him on but he beats you to it.

“No one else, you got that ‘mega? No one gets to see you like this, no gets to touch you like this-- your mine,” he punctuates his declaration with two of his deliciously thick fingers in your cunt and you squeal, “ you got that? I’m your alpha, always have been always will be.” nodding despite yourself, you struggle for words with his fingers pumping in and out alongside the ghost of pressure on your clit “Yes! Yes, I’m yours Katsuki!” you babble your words already teetering on the precipice of your first orgasm. it takes a pickup in pace and a rough rub along your clit and your wailing, slick streaming down your thighs as your first orgasm crashes into you.

despite the pleasant haze in your head, you faintly hear zippers being undone and the shuffling of clothes. licking your lips, you perk your ass up as much as the heavy bookcase allows, purring in excitement like a spoiled cat. The rough grab of your hips leaves you gasping, feeling the length of katsukis dick along your thigh-- long and heavy. you're salivating as he lines himself up with your weeping cunt, ramming his entire length in you with little regard. stars shoot across your vision and your ears deafen, crying out at being so full. it feels wonderful being stuffed this full and you babble it to katsuki. if you could see him, you would see just how prideful and smug he looked-- only he can take care of you like this, none of the other shitty alphas can take care of you this well.

katsuki sets a rough pace, drawing himself out slowly like he’s aiming for you to feel every vein of his dick before slamming back into you. your poor cunt clenches sporadically, drawing groans and growls from your alpha and all you can do is choke on broken moans because the way he feels churning your insides is downright sinful. you felt a band begin to tighten in your belly, your broken moans evolving into babbling-- how good katsuki was making you feel and how he was the only one who made you feel this good. it spurred him onward, fucking into you with more vigor alongside groans of your names and his own praise for you. “Good fuckin ‘mega”, “Takin’ me so well”, and “My perfect little mate” were some of the praise you could catch and had you preening. All of it combined you felt the band tighten and you couldn’t stop yourself from sobbing out. feeling the base of Katsuki’s length begin to swell, you could only salivate at the thought of being knotted.

“Want your knot Katsuki! Alpha I need it”

at your blubbering demand, katsuki faltered in pace for only a moment before a deep mix of a groan and growl ripped from his throat. grabbing and bending your leg upwards he fucked deeper and faster into your battered cunt, the new angle sending you hurtling into your orgasm. eyes rolled back and tongue, you felt utterly boneless-- momentarily brain dead before screaming out at Katsuki knotting you, his own groan of pleasure mixing with yours as he filled you impossibly full with his seed.

trembling underneath him, you were only a fraction aware of movement above you before the weight of the bookcase vanished from you. weakly you glance back up at your alpha. your surprised to see just how feral he looks, no doubt you’ve pushed him into his rut. whimpering as he moves down upon you, he nibbles and kisses along your jaw and neck before biting down on you scent gland. a flash a white hot pain curtailed by just as intense pleasure wracks your wrecked body but the dopy look of happiness pulls a low purr from katsuki.

you wanna say something, anything, but your too exhausted and as katsuki knot subsides you let another weak whimper as he removes himself-- feeling his seed spill from your battered cunt. he pulls a quiet moan from you as he gathers some of it a pushes back in-- and a glance at his smug face lets you know that he’s decidedly not done with you yet.

#miki mouse whorehouse collab #whorehouse compilation [rawdog 1080p] (try not to cum)#stuckage #bakugou katuski x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #abo #alpha/beta/omega #omegaverse #alpha katsuki #omega reader #self indulgent in that I want more alpha katsuki #so #I'll do it myself #happy belated valentines whores <3

771 notes · View notes

shokami · 3 years

Text

featuring tsukishima, kenma, oikawa, and semi

genre fluff

word count 1.7k

tsukishima kei

if anyone were to be asked “do you think tsukishima likes to cuddle?” their answer would most definitely be no. which is false.

although he will always tease you about it first and foremost, he secretly enjoys his cuddling time with you.

the teasing has to happen, because it is almost always you who’s trying to initiate the cuddling first.

tsukki thinks that if he were to try to cuddle with literally anyone else, he would hate it. it isn’t because he’s not a people person, but because he’s only ever really cuddled with you. so he’s accustomed to the way you cuddle.

cuddling usually starts when you’re both in the middle of your movie binging, and you’ll be all wrapped up in blankets and eating snacks.

you always curl up underneath his arm, and cuddle into his side— or try to find a way to weasel your way into his lap.

your attempts at trying to get as physically close to him as possible, never fail to amuse him. he scoffs at your effort, and repositions you in a way that’s more comfortable for the two of you.

when it comes to finally sleeping, you’re still cuddled underneath his arm but he’ll pull you in more so that you can lay on his chest and entangle yourself with him.

you’re definitely a mess of limbs together.

slowly peaking your eyes open, you squinted at the absurdly bright rays of light that shined through the curtains. that was your que to finally get out of bed, and start your day.

against what tsukishima would have wanted, had he been awake— you decided to try and squirm your way out from under his grasp. you knew he hated that you were an early bird, he detests that about you everyday and he isn’t afraid to tell you.

as you attempted to wiggle out of the bed, you knew there was no way for you to escape his hold on you without waking him up. always unfortunate for you, considering he was a very grumpy morning person.

you could always smooth it over with a few good morning kisses though, he seemed to enjoy those.

just as you thought you could make it, you were almost out of arm's reach when the familiar cold fingers grasped around your wrist and pulled you back down on top of him. “where do you think you’re going?”

“i wanna go shower, tsukki.” you groaned, already hearing the annoyance in his voice before even seeing his expression. “you could always get your lazy butt up, and come with.”

he groaned, tossing you to the side and pulling you into his chest in a new position. “why can’t we ever sleep in? you have an annoying sleeping pattern.”

“it’s not annoying! you just want to sleep in until 10, every weekend. we lose time like that.”

“yeah, obviously. that’s how time works.”

“tsukishima kei.”

“shut up. go back to sleep, and you can be cute later.”

another sigh, and you relaxed against tsukishima and the pillows once more. there was no use in trying to defy his need to sleep in, you wouldn’t win.

kozume kenma

the two of you are always cuddling, there is no doubt about that. not one bit.

if you aren’t cuddling, you’re still finding a way to be physically touching. touch starvation is very real, and you probably both have it.

when it comes to actually cuddling though, kenma prefers to either be the little spoon or be laying between your legs / on your stomach.

it’s actually your preferred way of sleeping too, as you’re both usually on your phones, or kenma is playing a game that you’re not really paying attention to.

you absentmindedly run your fingers through his hair, scrolling through one of your social media apps, and without realizing it he’s drifted off to sleep with his arm wrapped around your waist and his head tucked into your stomach.

this is the comfiest sleeping position, but if either of you tosses and turns in your sleep it’s likely that the direct cuddling will stop.

but, the two of you will still have physical contact. kenma will either hold your hand from the opposite side of the bed, or you’ll still be close enough that your leg is brushing against his underneath the pile of blankets.

eventually though, you’ll probably roll over behind him and koala yourself against his back before repeating the cycle of tossing and turning again.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

“kenma make it stop.” you pulled the blanket up over your head, cursing the alarm.

he made no noise, or movement— sleeping through the sound as if the room was silent.

you didn’t know why either of you ever had it set, it wasn’t like the two of you ever woke up at a decent hour. especially not when the god awful sound of it started screaming at you. it was always shut off, and tossed to the side. you made a mental note to tell kenma that you should just throw it out.

“KENMA! ALARM. OFF.”

finally snapping out of his sleep, he sat up startled by the noise of the alarm and your irritated sleepy voice. quickly slapping at the alarm on the nightstand, he silenced the beeping. climbing underneath the blankets to get closer to you in the dark room, you offered him a tired smile.

it was going to be another one of those days, where you continue to convince each other to sleep in just a little longer each hour. the previous nights antics, of screaming at the television screen at the new game you both decided to play, you were both overly exhausted and craved sleep. again.

“what time did the clock say?” you asked, pecking a kiss to his nose.

“11:30 a.m,” he closed his eyes once more, snuggling into you. “wanna sleep in longer?”

“i thought you’d never ask, kenken.”

oikawa tooru

he is almost always the big spoon. he loves how you fit into his arms, and feeling like he can protect you from the world.

it definitely gives him a certain type of satisfaction that he never really knew he needed, until he got to cuddle in bed with you for the first time.

oikawa being the big spoon helps him feel needed. which is something that he needs a lot of constantly, honestly.

however, there are times when you get to be the big spoon.

these times come after he’s had long tiresome practices, particularly hard days, or after losing a match.

more often than not, you end up in this sleeping position because he asked, or you came into the bedroom after he was already dozing off.

either way, you will always gladly oblige and climb into bed after him.

you always make sure to play with his hair, by softly brushing it away from his face

you were enjoying the body heat that was radiating off of oikawa, the warmth spread through you in the most comforting way. your internal clock could sense that the sun was rising, and ultimately you knew what came with that. that didn’t stop your unconscious mind hoping for the opposite though. you knew oikawa had already had a rough practice the day before, and you wanted nothing more than to keep him in your arms and rest for the morning.

that fantasy was quickly shattered.

the weight of the bed began to shift, and your arms were slowly unwrapped from his torso. attempting his move from the bed, you decided to take matters into your own hands. with ease, you softly grasped the back of his t-shirt and pulled him back down to the surface.

a surprised groan, followed by soft laughter; oikawa stared down at you as if you were a sleepy child. “angel face, i have to get ready for practice.”

“no, just a little while longer… please?” you pleaded, pulling the best performance with your pouty face.

with a soft kiss, oikawa collapsed fully into your arms once more. “20 minutes,” he told you sternly.

an hour passed by, and he was still in bed with you. he just can’t say no to that face. he hates the way you pout, and use it against him.

semi eita

if he wants to cuddle, you better be prepared for him to be grumpy about it.

he doesn’t know how to directly ask you for cuddles without being awkward, or sound demanding.

usually, he’ll just lay beside you and give you very indirect gestures that he assumes you’ll know mean that it’s affection time. ( you've picked up on the indirect hints he gives you.)

it’s very rare that semi will cuddle in any position that doesn’t involve him on top of you.

similar to kenma, he will lay between your legs with his chin resting on your stomach or your chest and just hold you like that.

he is also a very touchy cuddler, meaning he will rub your thigh, your sides, and play with your hair. whatever he can touch, he will. his love language is heavily dependent on touch.

when you’re finally falling asleep wrapped up in one another, he will most likely find a comfy position to lay with his head still on your chest.

we call this position the cradle.

the moment you began to stir, you could tell you were alone in bed. you were no longer intertwined with semi, but you could hear the distant noises of rustling around in the kitchen.

it wasn’t uncommon for semi to wake up before you, sneak out of your grasp, and go on to make a cup of coffee for himself or the both of you. he never wanted to wake you up early, because you looked so peaceful sleeping that he didn’t want to ruin that.

however, that did not stop him from peaking his head into the room to see if you were awake yet. as if on que, you heard the creek of the bedroom door followed by light footsteps.

“eita,” you opened one eye, looking up to see semis drowsy expression staring back at you. “come back to bed, baby. we can sleep in.”

“... but it’s already 7 a.m.”

“7 a.m is really early. we don’t have anything to do today, right?”

“no.”

“so… sleepy time, again?”

semi rolled his eyes, knowing that you would just keep asking if he didn’t climb back into bed. he didn’t know why he bothered waking up early, if you were just going to guilt him into bed again with puppy eyes.

“you’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?” he asked you, wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing the palm of your hand.

a/n this was not supposed to be this long, and this is what it turned out to be... tooth rotting fluff. very nice maki

513 notes · View notes

claybrownie7566 · 3 years

Note

Here is a prompt for you:

No matter how well loved a hero may be, there will always be some that hate them. So what would happen if during a supply run, someone gets separated and they find themselves in less than friendly company.

@secretlysheikah

Oh life of the hero, never forget

It had not been an easy day. There was a long trek ahead of them, and they were frustratingly low on supplies.

Thankfully Warrior's castle town wasn't too far from their current location.

Weary boots marched through the heavy gates. Most of the time the hustle and bustle of the town was rejuvenating, refreshing. But today all nine heroes were spent. They hardly spoke to each other, aching muscles and drooping eyelids straining to keep up with each step.

Wind helped Twilight park Epona near a water trough. The rancher nodded to everyone, a silent understanding passing between each of them.

Wordlessly, they split into their usual groups. Time, Hyrule, and Wild

Legend, Sky, and Four

Twilight, Wind, and Warriors.

The others set out, and the captain made his way to the horseman and the sailor, giving Epona a pat for good measure.

Too tired to speak, he raised two crossed fingers and shook it.

Ready?

Twilight nodded, but Wind stared at the ground. Now that the two older heroes were looking at him, they began to notice how weary he really was.

His hands gripped the trough, and he leaned on it heavily, a slight tremor becoming more and more apparent.

Twilight put a hand on Wind's shoulder, and the latter peered up at him.

The rancher's chest heaved, his own balance precarious at best. He brought a splayed hand up to his chest.

Fine? He asked, his eyebrows knit.

Wind sighed, and his knees buckled. Twilight caught him, and lowered him so his back rested against the wood of the water station. Epona nuzzled his head.

Twilight looked up at Warriors and the captain nodded.

Twi would stay here with their friend. Besides, Wars knew the town well, and would be back to help quickly.

He ruffled Wind's hair gently, and kissed Epona's mane.

"Take care of em" he whispered, before trudging off into the streets.

**********

He liked walking through castle town. It was starting to return to normal after the war, and seeing it thrive calmed Warriors tired heart.

His boots padded along the cool cobblestone, and he took in a deep breath as he passed the local bakery. Smells of orange and cinnamon and fresh bread wafted through the open windows. Warriors smiled contently. As exhausted as he was, he was happy to be home.

He made his way down the busy, crowded street and stopped in front of a cart selling leather goods. There was saddle polish, scabbards, belts, and various pouches and bags for different things. He knew that Hyrule and Wild both had awfully worn pockets with holes and tears. Wild was just complaining the other day of losing all his herbs due to a faulty clasp.

He smirked at the memory, and looked the wares over.

He looked up to read the sign, and locked eyes with an older woman, maybe in her fifties or sixties. He smiled softly and nodded in greeting. The woman said nothing, and stared at him with a gaze carved from stone.

Warriors looked back down, not wanting to upset the vendor with too much eye contact. He picked up a small pouch, about the size of his hand and looked it over, fiddling with the top of the pouch to test it's seal.

This would be perfect for Wil-

The woman snatched the leather from his hands.

Warriors shook his head slightly, very startled and confused.

"Oh umm-" he began.

"Get away you castle rat" she spat. Warriors eyes widened, and he took a step back.

"Uhh I....what did I-" he stammered, not understanding what he did wrong. The woman called behind her to someone in the building the cart was parked in front of.

Warriors didn't want to cause a scene, and he didn't know what he did wrong, but he decided it would be best if he left. He took another step away from the cart when a Man walked out. Warriors looked at him, and the man sneered.

"Oh" he seethed, "it is the hero."

Something jagged splintered and lodged itself in his heart. The way these people looked at him, it was as if he was the dirt beneath their shoes.

Suddenly the woman yelled, loud enough for everyone in the square to hear.

"Here comes the hero all dressed in his armor! Here comes the blue silk the Kingdom worships! The silk that should be dyed red with the blood of the innocent he has slayed" her eyes hardened further.

"All you brought to this kingdom was war and ruin. And the queen has the nerve to call you a hero."

A crowd of people had gathered. His gaze fell upon too many faces. He saw too many angry looks, too many bitter souls that wanted to rip him to pieces.

"Ma'am I-I don't.....I didn't mean to-"

The man barreled around the cart, shoving Wars hard, "It was you, you know! How many soldiers died because they had blind faith on you? How many Innocents were slaughtered by monsters because you weren't fast enough? Where is your glory now hero? Where is your flashy sword and your battalion of worshipers kneeling at your feet?" The man spat on the ground near where Wars stood.

"Sir, I'm sorry if I have offended you somehow, but I am not a perfect man! I did my best and I was young! Please!" He was shocked at how shattered his voice sounded. At how small he felt, at how sick he felt.

They were right weren't they?

The woman pointed furiously at Wars.

"I never want to see you at my booth again you snake!"

"You are not welcome here!" The man frowned, "go beg with the dogs."

He was shocked. His voice left him, and he no longer had the ability to speak. He stared again at the hateful glares all around him, and began walking carefully away. Someone tried to kick him as he passed, leaving a fresh bruise on his already aching legs.

Once he had escaped the swarm of people, he ducked into alleys and weaved his way into a part of the town no one would look for him in.

There was a pair of cellar doors that stuck up from the ground between two stone buildings. He looked around him to make sure he hadn't followed, and slowly sank behind the raised wood.

The stone was cool against his back, easing a miniscule portion of his soreness. He put his elbows on his knees, and sank further into the stone. It seemed to accept him, to embrace him.

No one shall disturb you here little hero.

He bowed his head, hiding his face in the crook of his arm and wept. The sound was not loud, it was not forced or seeking any sort of comfort. It was simply tired, and sad.

That's exactly what he was.

Tired. Sad. Hurt.

The alley did not echo his faint sobs, the noise of the town muting any sound he made, which wasn't much.

I knew they hated me. I knew it. I knew it.

I'm a failure. I failed them, and they hate me for it.

How many of those people lost sons, husbands, and brothers to the war? How many of his men never came home because of him?

Too many.

He knew he deserved it, but that didn't take away the pain.

He knew they were probably hurting, bit that didn't take away his despair.

He knew Zelda loved him, but that didn't take away his shame in bearing the title of Hero.

How many sons?

His breaths turned ragged, and fresh tears fell from his eyes. He pressed a hand to his forehead, and watched the droplets leave his face and patter to the stone beneath him.

His chest ached. He was tired. He was so tired.

He took in a deep breath and looked around the alley.

A figure ducked behind the corner.

His heart jumped, and he held his breath, expecting another angry villager to come glare at him.

Instead, he was met with small hands, and big brown eyes peeking around the edge.

It was a little girl.

He exhaled, and the girl gave a tiny wave.

Despite his current state, Warriors managed a small smile as he waved back.

The girl grinned, and took a step toward him, entering the alley with a skip in her step. She trotted over to him, her dress bouncing around her knees, the small bag at her side bumping against her. She looked to be about nine, and when she smiled, Wars could see a tooth missing.

"I found you" she peeped, tilting her head.

Warriors tilted his to match, "did you now?" He asked, "and what made you decide to do that?"

The girl's face slowly turned sad, guilty even.

"I saw all those people shout at you in the square. They were very mean to you." She glared slightly at the ground, "I don't think people should be allowed to be mean to you. Or to anyone, but really extra to you." Her head tilted back up, and she smiled softly at him.

Warriors looked at her curiously and sighed, "and why is that?"

The girl beamed, which took Wars by surprise.

"Because you're the best captain that ever was. I know because my big brother Makar told me so. He told me he got to fight with you, and that you were the kindest, bravest warrior he ever met" she said proudly.

Warriors was about to comment, but she continued.

"And my mama says that without you, Makar might not have come home. She said that you were smart, and that you always helped everyone you could. That's why people shouldn't be mean to you! You're a hero! At least to us."

Warriors felt his chest ache again, different this time. A good ache.

He felt new tears prick at his eyes. Different this time. Good tears.

He shook his head in awe at the little girl before him.

Did she know how meaningful her words were? How deeply they pierced his soul?

"Do you know something?" He said, his voice hoarse, "those were some wonderful things you just told me......it doesn't feel good to have people say mean things to you."

The girl shook her head, "I know that, and I saw it made you sad, so I thought I'd come and make you feel better."

Warriors smiled at her again, "do you know what that makes you?"

"What?" She whispered.

"It makes you a hero. You just became my hero" he said.

Oh how she lit up. She grinned ear to ear, and clasped her hands in front of her. Her eyes sparkled with pride and joy, and it warmed Warriors to his core.

Slowly, and with a grunt of effort, he pushed himself up from the ground, dusting off his back.

The little girl gasped and reached for her bag.

"Mister, I almost forgot, please wait!"

The captain stayed still, and watched as she rifled through her pouch. When her hand emerged, she smiled up at him, and showed him what she had.

There were two leather pouches, the same size as the ones he was looking at in the market. The only difference was one was dyed green, and the other red. She took his hand, and placed them on his palm.

"We just made these a few days ago. I told Makar and mama about the mean leather workers and she told me to find you and give you these....I hope they're okay."

Warriors looked at the little pockets in his hand. They were hand sewn, and strong. The leather was fresh and pliable, and sealed from the dye.

"These are beautiful" he said, awestruck and infinitely grateful. "Thank you so much."

The little girl bounced, "I'm glad you like them! Oh oh! Makar said he left you something inside the green pouch, you should see! It's really good!"

Warriors opened the green pouch carefully, and shook the contents into his other hand.

A chord was wrapped around something hard. He unraveled it to find a beautifully polished wooden ring, with the symbol of the triforce on it. There was also a slip of parchment. He brought it up to read.

Hello sir. My sister Mala told me the people were a bit rough on you in the market today. I know you probably don't remember me, but I had the privilege of serving under your command for eight months. You inspired and protected me. You showed valor and humility, and boundless courage through it all. You are the bravest man I have ever met, and I can never repay you for all you have done for me, my family, and my Kingdom. May this ring remind you of what you mean to people like us. And may you live a long and happy life.

With gratitude, and best wishes,

- Makar

Warriors knelt on one knee before his new little friend. He extended his hand to her.

She leapt into his arms instead. He gasped, taking a moment to process before returning the hug gently. She squeezed his neck, and hugged him tightly.

Her hug would give Wind's a run for their money.

She pulled back, and he held up a finger for her to wait.

"You, my friend. Have done a good thing today. And so has your family. And I think that a hero deserves a medal, don't you?" He grinned as he pulled one of his pins from his shoulder. His scarf fell awkwardly to one side, but he could care less.

He took her hand, and placed the pin in her hand.

"This was given to me by Queen Zelda herself. She gave it to me for being brave. I want you to have it. And I want your family to always remember how grateful I am for their kindness."

She stared at the polished silver in her hands like it was the real Triforce. She trembled with excitement, and raised her hand to salute the captain.

He saluted back, then rose. He placed the leather pouches in his own bag, then placed the ring on the chord and looped it around his neck, silently vowing never to take it off.

"Nice to meet you, little hero" he said.

She waved as he walked away.

Warriors looked back one last time as he exited the alleyway, thanking Hylia for people like her to remind him what he fought for. What he so desperately and tirelessly sought to preserve, no matter the scorn that came with it.

As long as I am a hero in their eyes, I will die a satisfied man.

He held on tightly to his new-found, prized possession as he made his way back to join the others.

Everytime he felt lesser than he was. Everytime his heart threatened to fail him. Everytime his courage and energy felt spent. He thought of the ring around his neck, and smiled.

And got back up.

And fought harder.

And he never forgot.

#Brownie bites #secretlysheikah #ask #linked universe #linked universe fic

71 notes · View notes

southslates · 3 years

Text

like an angry god

@kanejweek day four: darkness (corrupted ambition) / kanej / canon divergence - soulmates - one-shot - rated T / read on ao3! / 2007 words

Inej Ghafa comes to Ketterdam as part of a traveling circus. She doesn’t mean to enjoy the city, with its sharp architecture and cold edges, with its people who pray to kruge, but she does. There is something haunting in its corridors, something which whispers to her in its alleys. Inej is a gravity-defying girl, she is an acrobat and nothing more, but these late-night Kerch streets set fire to her bones. It is as if Ghezen has come alive to speak to her and tell her she could be more.

It's strange because she thinks she has everything. She also feels like she is missing something—not something that needs to be there, but some defining feature of her. She feels like she is spinning a wheel with a loose axel.

Ironically, she stumbles upon the Crow Club when Malik takes her in, wanting to try his hand at Makker’s Wheel. She indulges her cousin and lets him drag her into the lively business in the darkest hours of the night, knowing that they’re on break tomorrow. The Suli do not forbid fun, and they drink, Inej has drunk, but she does not want to in this strange city.

She ends up drinking anyway. She is caught up in the moment, caught up in the lights above the table, the large, large gambling hall, and almost in Salim, the friend Malik had brought with him to the club. Inej likes him, has always liked him, and the sight of him loosens her inhibitions. They loosen her inhibitions so far that she forgets him.

Inej wanders off across the hall, stopping to see the sheer variety of people who habit it: a white splatter of the upper-middle class of the Kerch, lazing away a Saturday; a collection of young children from Novyi Zem, laughing away in the corner; even a splashing of Fjerdans, staying away from alcohol and looking distrustfully at the numbers in front of them. It’s an experience, she can admit even halfway down her glass, eyes shining.

At some point she wanders over to a setting of Kerch men and women playing a game she doesn’t quite understand; they’re holding chips and laughing, cards dancing in front of their eyes. Inej has always been a quick study with these gambling games, though she detests playing; it’s something else the city has whispered into her mind, perhaps. It is the Ketterdam in her blood, though she’s certain she has never been here before. She has never been here before.

She sits at the table and picks up another glass. She will be fine; Malik and Salim are truly not that far away, she can see them from here. A women smiles at her with shark-teeth, daring her to down the cup in accented Kerch. Something in Inej does it, and then when she’s slid another one, she downs it again. Her eyes are uncharacteristically bright at the table, her head muddy.

It's only a moment later she’s in someone’s lap, between two people. It is the Kerch woman and another man, fitting her in the space between them. The woman’s hair is a rusty gold and the man has black hair and a gold tooth.

Inej may have drank too much, but she isn’t stupid. She blinks and sees that Malik and Salim are gone from her line of sight—then she promptly sits up, a bit more aware of her surroundings. This is not a situation she is new to; she’s almost been taken by slavers as a child. They had ransacked her family’s caravan near the Ravkan shore and would have stolen her away from her family had she not woken up early. She has learned to be suspicious of people, and she let her guard down. It’s this saints-forsaken city, she thinks briefly. It is affecting some part of me.

“Hey, sweetheart,” the man whispers with whiskey breath, and Inej pulls herself into the space between the bodies she is caged in, ready to pull one of her acrobatic feats—twist her body, do the unimaginable. But before she does and the woman’s vodka-laced breath rushes across her face, something hard clangs down on the table in front of her.

Inej is only human, so the sound makes her lurch. The tablecloth moves forward, and something shatters and then leaks onto her on the bench. She groans, because alcohol will not go well with the cottons she’d donned for a night out.

“Peter,” a voice says crisply. “Lotte. You are not welcome here. Did I not make that clear enough last time?”

The bodies next to Inej scramble away from her, and she looks up in her disorientation to see a man who can’t be much older than her, a cane in his hand bisecting the table and separating her from Lotte on her left. On her right, Peter has shifted away from her and is now standing up, raising his hands above him. “We didn’t mean nothin’, I promise—”

“I don’t give second chances,” the man says, and his voice is cold, so cold it almost crawls into Inej’s spine and then leaves her body, but icy enough that it wants to make a place there. His voice is the city’s whispers in her ears, the biddings of greed. She is buzzed, but she still looks at his sharp suit and glaring eyes and thinks: Who are you?

Or perhaps she voiced that thought out loud. No matter; the man ignores her, watching as Peter and Lotte stand up and try to leave the premises. Inej lets the whiskey on the table, cold as it is, leak into her shirt as she watches two large men grab the two vermin by their collars and drag them away to some corner.

“Wow,” she says out loud at the brief spectacle—some patrons have turned to see the two get carted off, but more seem unsurprised. “I was fine.”

“Who said anything about you?” the man bites. “There are no games here. There is no place for cheats.”

Inej is straightforward, and her filters are off as she wrings out her shirt. “You could at least pretend to be chivalrous.”

The man glares at her, his gaze dark and intense and dangerous—but for whatever reason, Inej doesn’t feel like it will cut through her. Maybe that is just the stupidity of being drunk. The longer he stares at her, the more she wants to laugh. “You cannot kill me by looking at me, you know.”

He says nothing, just takes his cane off the table and begins to limp away from her. Inej bites her lip and stares at his receding back—that moment had felt strangely powerful.

“Yer brave,” the girl next to her says after he has disappeared from sight, into a door at the club’s side. “To talk to Kaz Brekker like that.”

“Who?” Inej asks, and the boy next to her, keeping his distance after what had happened to the woman in his previous position, looks almost affronted.

“He is Kaz Brekker, Ja. They say he has played cards with the devil and won,” he says, like he is speaking of a myth, and not the twenty-year-old man with a ridiculous glare Inej had faced just moments ago. “He used to be better, ja, growing up on the streets. But he culled his boss right las’ week, he did. Hung his body from the lighthouse by First Harbor. They say he will commit any sin, without a price. Bloodthirsty.”

Inej leans in close to him, feels something lock into place, the gears of her heart. “Really?” she asks. “He just seems like a man.”

“He is no man, he is a demon. A quick thief, too,” the girl nods to her, and Inej grasps at her pockets. Her coinpurse is missing.

“An immature demon,” she says, stepping up, her head spinning just a bit. “Cheap tricks, for shevrati.”

Inej Ghafa leaves them there and takes the path that the man with the cane had followed; he couldn’t have gotten too far from her, with his disability. Ostensibly, she knows she should not be trying to pick a fight in the middle of the night with a man who just hung another in a public display, but the city is speaking to her; the club is, as though it has a heart. Inej believes in saints, and they are leading her a certain way, giving her the want to get her coinpurse back. It had a sizeable amount of kruge, and she refuses to be made a fool of.

The hallway is dark and she follows its walls to a set of stairs, and then walks up them. At the end there is a door, and to its side, when she moves her hand a certain way, another small alley; a trick alley. She follows that aisle to another door, wooden and locked and in the pitch dark. She shoves her body weight against it.

She doesn’t know what she is planning on doing. Do demons give you back your money if you ask them nicely? What is inserting this drive into her veins?

“What?” a voice roars from inside the room, and then a moment later, as Inej pushes herself against it, it opens. She almost trips onto a cold metal floor, but she doesn’t—she is an acrobat, even sheets to the wind. So she rights herself and turns to the man with the cane—Kaz Brekker.

“You,” he says, distaste coating his mouth. There is no good intent hidden in that word, nor in the hard lines of his face. Whoever this man is, he is not good.

“Me,” Inej agrees, then holds out her hand. “My coinpurse, please.”

“Your . . . coinpurse,” the man says, her face twitching. He is wearing a hat and a suit perfectly tailored to all his edges, a glass man. Inej wonders if she could break him. “Why would I have such a thing?”

“You do,” Inej insists. Of this, she is certain. She’s had it until he was just a foot behind her. “Give it back.”

“You’re very demanding,” he says. Inej wonders if he can feel a pull towards her, like she does for him. His face is surely not giving anything away. “You must be new.”

“I’m visiting,” Inej says, some sort of fear starting to creep into her voice. Perhaps the liquid courage has left her soul in a flush—perhaps the city is no longer with her. She can feel it drifting around her bones, maybe leaving. It is as though it has filled the strange place in her soul with something, not left her empty.

He leans into her—he doesn’t leer, not in a way that is lewd, but in a way that is certainly dangerous. “Well, then, my dear visitor,” he says the word like a curse, “you would do well to leave now, before I break your legs for coming to my office without permission.” His eyes scan her, perfunctorily, and Inej can only dream she sees something below the surface. “You need your legs. Or perhaps you can walk a rope with your hands,” he sneers.

Then he slams the door in Inej’s face. The city escapes her, returns back for its sins, disturbs her edges. I have shown you a story, she can feel it whisper, from the wrong end, wrong beginning.

She slides out of the secret corridor and down into the busy club. The Crow Club, it’s called. The largest building in the Stave. She wonders if the foundation was built on a demon’s work. She wonders why she feels like she should know, why there is a haunting space in her mind.

Inej wonders who Kaz Brekker is. She wonders why her saints guided her towards a demon, what they were trying to tell her.

She wonders how he knows she performs on the rope.

#kanej #kanej week #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #six of crows #kanej fic #dee writes

30 notes · View notes

ffangirlingsince2001 · 4 years

Text

Ripped Apart

Kinktober: Day 3, Hatefuck

Loki x Reader

He doesn’t have a reason to hate, in fact everyone loves you, but what happens when that hate is confronted.

Warnings: language, angst, smut,

Part 2 Part 3

He had despised her for as long as he could remember. From the moment she had stepped into the compound, Tony leading the way, he hadn’t trusted a single thing she had said. She had eyes more devious than the devil and a smirk to match. She had shaken his hand with the confidence of a goddess and sent him a wink to rival a courtesan. His muscles angrily shifted against his bones as he fought his instinct to get away from her.

The worst part of it all was that everyone seemed to like her. Everyone had gravitated to her in an instant. Even Bucky, who didn’t seem to like anyone, could be found at her side. He did his best not to grimace when she sat beside him or rant about her when everyone else was drunk out of their minds, he tried to not even mention it in the reports he sent in monthly. The one time he had Fury had brought him and questioned him about the feeling, hitting every feeling that churned in his stomach with facts to dissuade him. He had kept his mouth shut since then, seething in silence. The only person he dared to share his feelings with was Thor, who at least seemed slightly concerned.

It didn’t matter if she was doing everything perfectly or royally fucking everything up, he hated her. His dreams were filled with the idea of choking her until she turned blue, making her bleed until her skin lost color, making her scream until her lungs couldn’t take it any longer. Of course, he didn’t act on anything of the sort. If he even attempted his ass would be back in prison faster than she could raise an arm to defend herself. The closet he got was training. At first, he had avoided it all together, not daring to even look at her lest he be tempted to rip her apart; but now, he embraced it. Any chance he had he was on the mat, throwing her against the padded ground with as much force as he dared. She fought against him tooth and nail, grinning all the while. He tried to break bones, bruise her past recognition but she always seemed to slip away with a twinkle in her eye.

And then, as if to mock him, she would compliment him on his fight before disappearing with a group of interns who congratulated her for keeping up with a god. Normally, he would destroy something after that, adrenaline shooting through his nerves until his knuckles were busted and bloody and at least one wall is covered in dents that he wouldn’t bother explain.

And now they were partners, through and through. He had begged and pleaded, threatening Stark with everything he had, but there was nothing he could say that would change the man's mind. He had threatening to burn down Stark towers, but Tony was having none of it. Now, as they sat atop a building in Southern Germany he wanted nothing more than to push her off. Her hair was brushing against his face as she stared through the scope. She didn't even notice.

"Tie your hair up," he snapped, and she glanced over her shoulder, grinning at him.

"Sorry," she replied, brushing the hair behind her ear but with a smile like that he didn't believe a word she said. He continued to glare at her, even as she returned to the scope, and then when she pulled away, brow scrunched in annoyance. "Do you have a problem with me?" she snapped, and he almost wanted to laugh at the audacity. He didn't bother answering such a question, if she was really that stupid, he had more than one reason to despise her. “Hey, I asked you a question, just because you’re some god doesn’t mean you get to just ignore me,” she snapped, grabbing his arm with questionable confidence. He returned the gesture and slammed her against the electrical box beside them. She squirmed against his arm, but he didn’t let up.

“Fucking drop it.”

“Fuck you, Loki. I haven’t done anything.”

“I said, fucking drop it.” There was a beat of silence before someone spoke through their cons, asking if the pair were okay. She shoved him away and returned to her sniper.

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting on the hellicarrier, glaring at one another from across the deck. She had shot the target and now they were free to go home, and as far from one another as they possibly could. He couldn’t believe she didn’t know what his problem was, but the longer he sat there he wasn’t exactly sure if he knew what the problem was either. He was in Stark tower as fast as his legs would take him, ignoring Stark’s request for a report, and darting towards his room.

Meanwhile, Y/N was following him at breakneck speed, even daring to shove an unsuspecting intern out of her way. When she reached his door she slammed her fist against it, rehearsing the string of curses she was going lay out for him the moment he opened the door.

When he didn’t answer she resorted to slamming her foot against it, denting the door with each well-placed kick.

Inside, Loki was grinding his teeth with each attack on the last layer that was protecting her from her demise. She was screaming at him now, drawing attention to herself, as if this whole ordeal wasn’t bad enough. Finally, with great irritation he allowed her. She stumbled forward and quickly took a fighting stance he was used to seeing.

“You’re going to tell me what the fuck is going on right now, or I swear I’m going to make you forget you’re a god.” He took a long step forward, eyes narrowing with each second that passed through the tension.

“Make me forget I’m a god?” he asked with a chuckle and she aimed a kick at his jaw. It should have shattered the bone, it should have done enough to send his mind spiraling, but with a swift hand he caught her ankle and twisted. She fell to the ground with a cry. “Make me forget I’m a god?” he repeated stepping towards her as she scrambled away. “I think you forget who you’re playing with little girl.” She pulled herself up by his bedframe and leaned on the ankle that had suffered his attack.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You’ve done everything,” he snarled grabbing her arm and tossing her against the wall. The paintings Thor had hung for him shook at the force and she cried out in pain.

“Tell me, tell me what I’ve done.” He grabbed her chin to answer but words failed him. She had done nothing, merely coexisted with him and yet he felt nothing but hatred.

Maybe that’s why he kissed her.

She squirmed away from him, hands pushing against his chest. He grabbed her hair, pushing her closer until he found it hard to breathe. Gasping for air, he pulled away, hands still pressing against. She glared at him and aimed a punch that he caught.

“I’m going to show you exactly why I’m a god,” he snarled placing himself between her legs. She swallowed and he grinned.

Everything that happened after that was nothing but hatred.

When he slammed her body against the drywall, he forced every ounce of anger he had been forced to hide into the move. She cried out but respond with a similar force, grabbing his arms and bruising his back against the dresser. His backbone cried out in protest and he flipped her onto the bed, climbing over top of her. He took her wrists and held them above her head, fingers tightening until the fingers curled from the blood loss. Her knee found his chest and he stumbled back.

“What the fuck?” she yelled standing up from the bed with as much dignity as she could manage with her shirt half torn off. “First you hate me and now you’re all over me.”

“Last time I check, you kissed back,” he taunted, enjoying the scandalized look on her face. A beat of silence passed as she tried to come to terms with the situation. He smirked when she moved forward, hiding the disappointment that she was leaving, until she grabbed his collar and kissed him.

He could feel her anger too. She wanted to be accepted by everyone, especially him, and by the way she was kissing him, she thought this would do the trick.

“I fucking hate you,” she muttered against his lips, nails digging into his skin until thin rivers of blood ran down his shoulders. He shoved her away and ran a hand over the wound. The red collected in the lines of his hands, pooling in the center of his palm. She watched him like a cornered wolf, leaping away when he attacked, dragging her towards the sheets. She fought against the contact, hands grabbing hold of flesh, not to push it away but to pull it closer against her better judgement.

Her shirt went first, or what was left of it. She was all tan skin, taught muscle and heavy breathing. His blood caked the fingernails that were clutching his shirt, doing their best to remove the clothing. He picked her up and pushed her against the wall once more, yanking her pants to the floor before wrapping her legs around his waist. The drywall dented when he slammed into her, residue drifting into their hair until it was a blizzard to match the frigid words that passed between their lips.

He wanted to rip her apart as she gasped around him, fingers clawing at her skin. She returned the favor, drawing intricate designs into the skin that hadn’t been damaged by a thousand more worthy opponents. It was a conflicting symphony of noises, the agony of pleasure ringing out over the proclamations of ongoing hatred.

To admit enjoyment was to lose and so all moans become a declaration of agony. Gasps drifted into screams and smiles became winces. Caresses were replaced by claws and when the climax came and went it was filled with anger, wishing more than anything to deny that it had ever occurred.

He dropped her to the ground, not bothering to watch as she pulled on her pants, panting against the feeling of emptiness. He was colder than before, not even her hot breath against his back could warm him.

“Get out,” he mumbled.

“I would like nothing more,” she snapped, marching out of the room without picking up her shirt. The door slammed behind her, sliding into place awkwardly because of the dents that had began their encounter.

He was glad she was gone, ecstatic in fact, and yet he wanted nothing more than to bring her back and rip her apart again.

#Loki Laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #Loki Angst #loki #loki x reader angst #loki x reader smut #loki x reader fluff #kinktober #hatefuck

244 notes · View notes

thelostmadrigals · 2 years

Text

⌛🫓🦋🔥≻|| Price We Pay For Family ||≺🔥🦋🫓⌛

Chapter 5: 6 Months. 3 years

It took 6 months until the Madrigal, at least Pepa and Abuela, had shunned the mentioning of both Mirabel and Bruno from daily and public conversations, most often it was ‘we don’t talk about Bruno’ more than Mirabel. The story of Bruno kidnapping the youngest Madrigal had spread across town and only seemed to verify the town’s hate of him.

Julieta hadn’t wanted that. Not for Bruno.

But she hadn’t said anything. Couldn’t. Not when she was aiding support in the fragile state of the family. Her mother had moved on too quickly and expected everyone to do the same.

On Mirabel’s 6th Birthday she and felt the town’s pity on her loss. Agustín’s grief and the quiet family that she hadn’t bothered to leave her room aside from meals that day. Julieta though had tried to imagine what Bruno was doing to celebrate.

A cake, presents… Maybe they had settled down.

If Encanto hadn’t been so sealed off, getting any sort of secret correspondence would have been something she could have looked forwards to that told her enough of their wellbeing. It was the not-knowing that frustrated her more. Bruno would have if he could.

Julieta sighed softly. Her gaze turned to her sleeping husband beside her, cuddled up to her and out like a baby as she stroked his greying hair.

She knew, when this was all out in the open, it’d take time for him to forgive her. Mirabel was as much as his daughter as well as hers. He should have had a say and… while she knew he too may have been open to the idea, he’s never held onto the truth for too long.

If the family knew Bruno had taken Mirabel away because of Abuela…or because of an uncertain future, it would shatter what was left. Others might walk away. A risk she didn’t want to take because…her mother would not survive the family falling apart, or their miracle being lost. A lie to hold the unity was a necessary evil.

Julieta would gladly pay the price to ensure both her family’s futures.

---

An 8-year-old Mirabel sat in the middle of her sewing, her new machine taking a little while to get used to in her embroidery than her manual, hand sewing but she loved putting it together, figuring it out and hopefully, making beautiful works people could wear and much quicker too.

Abuelo Raimi, Tia Camelia’s papa, and his family was looking after her at the lodge while her Tio Bruno and Tia Camilia enjoyed their first week of married life. Today had been the last day and they were due back soon. She hoped her present was ready when they got back. She was positive they’d be thrilled and wear it.

“What’s got you all perked up,” Tio Jandro asked curiously, twiddling a long strand of his hair as he read through his book on the new release of motorcycles, his eyes looking just over the edge. “Excited your Tio got married?”

Mirabel giggled, “I was starting to think he’d never get married.”

Tio Jandro laughed, folding his book shut before joining her at the bar counter and looking over her shoulder. Mirabel tilted it for him to see.

“That looks beautiful, Mira.”

“I know.” Mirabel giggled, “Tio Bruno needs a new ruana and… well why not Tia Camila have one as well. Camila Madrigal.”

“Ooooh, yeah.” Tio Jandro wrinkled his nose, “That’ll take a while to get used to.”

“For you, maybe.” She had to admit, she had been thinking about this far longer than her Tio had on marrying Tia Camila. Pushed him to broach the topic throughout their first year here. She had it as a birthday present on her 6th birthday for him to go on a date with Camila. Two years of dating had finally turned into marriage.

“Ouch, little Sobrina.” Tio Jandro mocked, feigning hurt to his heart before he winked. “You wound me.”

“You’re a grown man. Suck it up.” Mirabel replied smoothly, smiling at him though pressed her tongue into her loose tooth.

“Now, now, young lady.” Abuelo's voice echoed, smelling like manure as Tio Jandro hopped up and hurried to fire up the ovens. “I expect that cheek from Camila, not you.”

Mirabel just smiled, watching as his discipline resolve crumble into a weak smile.

“How’re the horses?” Tio Jandro asked.

“The new foal is responding well now we’ve started the weaning process. Now, we could put her back with the male horses since she’s healed up well and ready,”

Mirabel idly listened as her two family members discussed Esponjosa’s new foal and possible next one. It’d be a few years before she’d get to ride and help train the foal once it was mature. At least then they’d have better transport when out of the city and helping with the coffee harvests. Trucks were hard to get to the plants in time or through the dense plant life.

It took a few more hours before she finished, cutting the last threaded strand before she heard her Abeulo’s voice call for her, then she shoved everything into her present box and ran out with it excitedly.

“Tio Bruno!” she weaved through the corridor and down the steps, almost missing the last step but Abuelo’s hands caught her. The box, however, flew out her hands and skidded into the doorway. Tio Bruno jumped as the box was the first thing to greet him as he opened the door at such speeds.

Mirabel grinned as he looked to see where it had come from.

“Mirabel!”

Abuelo's hands released her before she sprinted up and hugged him.

“Tio Bruno!” she pulled back grinning, fiddling with her tooth again.

Bruno blinked down at her, “Ooh, I see someone’s about to lose their front teeth.”

Mirabel nodded, “It’s hurting.” Only a little it was fine; she could handle it.

“But, it’s also the last set of your baby teeth, Sobrina.”

Camila swooped in, pulled her into a hug, and kissed her head. “I hope you had a good week, Mira. Hope my papa didn’t put you to work already,” she winked up to her papa.

Mira grinned, “No, but I’ve been busy. I made you and Tio Bruno present.”

Bruno bent down, retrieving the box before Abeulo ushered them inside. “You made all of it?”

“Uh-huh, and I decorated the box too.” Mirabel babbled, Tia Camila, pulling her to sit on her knee as they seated; Tio Jandro heading out to collect the bags from the car but Mirabel solely focused on Tio Bruno as he set the box down and carefully undid the ribbon, pausing to see if she was watching before he lifted the lid.

Camila snorted into her shoulder.

“Er.. is this your sewing kit?”

Mirabel lent forwards before her cheeks burned red but giggled at her mistake, “No, it’s underneath. I panicked wrapped when you came.”

Tio Bruno laughed, pulling out the scissors, threads, and needle before he lifted out the dark teal ruana and unfolded it, the fabric falling free.

“Ooh,” He sat down, “OH you’ve been practicing hard, and this is stunning.” He sounded almost breathless as he laid it out.

Mirabel rocked happily, her heart soaring with the praise. “That one is Tia Camila’s. Your one I underneath.”

Bruno peaked, pulling out another ruana but this time it was a darker green than his current one. His had taken longer but she had opted for light green butterfly threading. Once she go even better, she hoped they’d let her add to them, add more.

Bruno’s face split into a smile as he held it up.

“Try it on, Mi Vida.” Tia Camila encouraged, reaching forwards though Mirabel lent forwards to make it easier for her.

Tio Bruno shrugged of his old green one, exposing his wirily frame underneath with a dark beige shirt with dark trousers before he fitted into the new ruana. Bruno traced over the little butterflies with his fingers before he reached forwards and kissed her cheek.

“Thank you, Sobrina.” He smiled, “It’s perfect.”

Camila slipped herself free, slipping on her new item of clothing, and twirled, “You’re an artist.”

Mirabel’s smile could get wider and she could feel her eyes well up.

“Thank you Tia Camila, Tio Bruno.”

Both of them swooped down, arms wrapping around her. “We love it, Sobrina, and you so, so much.”

Mirabel smiled though soon they broke apart and Bruno hurried off to help with the bags, Mirabel let Camila lead the way back to her bedroom since she had been staying up past her usual sleep time.

“So,” Tia Camila started, “Bruno had a vision he wanted to share with you,”

Mirabel’s head cocked at the tone, a carefully selected one that piqued her interest. Tio Bruno with a vision, all for her?

“Okay?” Mirabel drifted away once they got to her room. “What about?”

Camila paused, “Well, it’s more… about your parents.”

“Oh.” It wasn’t often Tio Bruno had visions about them, not voluntary ones that she knew about. Io Bruno was very open and honest about their history. If things she wasn’t yet to learn, he’d tell her to wait. She knew she was in danger if she stayed but.. she knew her memories of her family were faded now. Only knew their faces by the picture Tio Bruno had taken from their room.

“Now, this could be a happy vision but it could also make you sad.”

“I can handle it.” She was a big girl now.

Camila smiled. “Get into bed, I want your Tio to show you.”

Mirabel didn’t have to wait long, fiddling with her hair though sat up as Tio Bruno came in, this time with a jade table wrapped in a thin piece of cloth.

“Is that it?” An edge of excitement hovered in her voice as he sat down at the end of her bed.

“Yes.” He patted the space next to him. “Now, please remember that… your parents love you, no matter what or where you are, Sobrina.” He assured.

Mirabel’s eyebrows pulled in before she reached forwards and pulled off the cover, her eyes drinking in the image of her parents. Her mother looked exhausted and sweaty, lying back on her bed, but next to her was her father, holding onto a newly bundled infant screaming their lungs out.

Her eyes widened. “I have a new sibling!” her heart throbbed with an ache of loss but the…idea and joy were stronger; she was an older sister! “Will I get to meet it?!”

Bruno smiled but nodded “One day, that, I can promise.”

#⌛🫓🦋🔥≻|| ʷᵒʳᵏˢ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵘᶰ ( fanfics )#mirabel madrigal #🦋≻|| ᵐᶤʳᵃᵖᵒˢᵃ ( mirabel )#julieta madrigal #🫓≻|| ʰᵉᵃˡᶤᶰᵍ ᶠᵒᵒᵈ ᵃᶰᵈ ᵃ ᵐᵒᵗʰᵉʳᶤᶰᵍ ᵗᵒᵘᶜʰ ( julieta )#🐝≻|| ᶜᵃᶰ'ᵗ ᵉˢᶜᵃᵖᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵉᵉˢ ( agustin )#agustín madrigal #pepa madrigal #🌦≻|| ᵉᵐᵒᵗᶤᵒᶰ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵉᵃᵗʰᵉʳ ( pepa )#⌛🫓🦋🔥≻|| ᵃʷᵃᶤᵗᶤᶰᵍ ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ ᵐᶤʳᵃᶜˡᵉ ( queue )

3 notes · View notes

robininthelabyrinth · 4 years

Text

prompt: Bodyswap of Nie Mingjue and Baxia?

link to ao3 because this is long

There were a lot of rules about the saber spirits, but the most important one was always: You control the saber, do not let it control you.

The line between being a hero and being a monster was a very thin one, easy to overstep: with the horrible temper that was as much an ancestral inheritance as their cultivation style, it was all too easy for members of their family to become corrupted. Cultivating the saber spirit gave them power, but it also inspired rage – it would be all too easy to start making excuses for your conduct, to become corrupted by your own desires, to say “Oh, it’s his fault, he made me angry” or “He shouldn’t have gotten in my way” when what you meant was “I decided he didn’t matter.”

That was unacceptable.

If people didn’t matter, then nothing mattered, and all the sacrifices that had ever been made in the name of upholding justice and righteousness, using violence for good, were for nothing.

Control and principle – those were the foundations of Nie cultivation.

The saber spirits heightened the tension of it: the balance between power and responsibility, between blind rage and principled justice. Each saber spirit belonged to a single master, reflecting the quirks of their personality, but at the most base level they were all the same, simple and straightforward: they wanted to destroy evil.

All evil.

Without exception. Without mercy or nuance or – anything.

That’s why it was the job of the saber’s master to keep them in check. A saber spirit would make no distinction between a lost ghost draining a little yang energy to preserve its own life or a fierce corpse murdering people left in right, between a yao that took in the energy of the sun and moon and a yao that fed on corpses, between a small child stealing bread to feed their family or a criminal stealing in through the window to commit a rape – only a human could make those sorts of decisions.

Or so Nie Mingjue had always been taught.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, late at night, Baxia lying on the bed next to him instead of properly in her case where she belonged. “I think you could probably learn to tell the difference, if you wanted.”

Baxia purred in his mind, temporarily calm and sated – he’d gone night hunting the day before, accompanying his father, and he’d been the one to take down the creature: a maddened yao that had once been a boar, and which had recently taken to ripping people to pieces with its tusks.

His father had been very proud. He’d ruffled Nie Mingjue’s hair as if he were still a child – he wasn’t, he was a big brother now, his little brother born just last month – and called him his prodigy, ignoring the way the other Nie cultivators on the night hunt frowned.

They always frowned.

Nie Mingjue wasn’t supposed to get his saber until he was twelve. Before that, it was all practice sabers: heavy wood, to help strengthen the arms and shoulders, and eventually dead steel, to learn to finesse and how to not cut your own head off, and only once you’d shown sufficient skill in those could you finally get a spiritual weapon of your very own.

Nie Mingjue picked up Baxia for the first time when he was six.

There’d been fighting, an incursion into the Unclean Realm by assassins – some small sect, probably egged on by Wen Ruohan in a way that could never be traced to him, but anyway they were all dead now – and when he’d heard the screaming, it hadn’t even occurred to him not to help.

Suppress evil, no matter where it lives; uphold justice, no matter what it takes.

He’d been only a child, but there had been children screaming, children his own age confronting fully grown cultivators, and that hadn’t been fair at all.

Nie Mingjue had sprinted to the armory, hoping to find something – anything he could use, even just one of his practice sabers, and that was the first time he’d seen her.

Baxia – though she hadn’t been Baxia back then – had only been half-forged then, enough spiritual weapon to channel his qi but not enough to really respond to his commands. That was fine: he didn’t know the techniques to wield her properly back then, anyway.

The basics were good enough against cultivators who never expected that the young child heir of the Nie family would be able to lift a sword longer than he was tall, much less wield it.

He’d aimed low at first, going for tender ankles and vulnerable knees, and then when they’d tried to leap up against him he brought his saber up against them, aiming for their bodies.

There was a lot of blood.

Nie Mingjue was descended from a butcher: his father had been taking him to see animals get hacked up for their kitchens since before he’d started walking, a way to inure him to blood and guts and gore, to animal screams that weren’t so different from the screams of the battlefield.

It was still strange, seeing blood on the flood, blood on his blade, to see the light fade out of a man’s eyes and know that he made that happen – that his soul would be irrevocably marked with the stain of having taken a life.

As a reward, Nie Mingjue’s father had ordered that Nie Mingjue could take up his saber early.

A lot of people in the sect didn’t agree with that decision. Even now, two years later, they still frowned whenever Nie Mingjue did something, muttering warnings about how children couldn’t be trusted to control themselves, how the saber spirits were unpredictable, how a cultivator’s life might already be cut short and how there was no need to cut a childhood short as well.

Nie Mingjue’s father ignored them. Nie Mingjue ignored them, too.

He liked Baxia.

And he thought, maybe, that she liked him, too.

No one had ever told him that he shouldn’t have been able to tell.

The first time they switch, it’s to save his life.

It wasn’t the first time they’d gotten closer than they should: Nie Mingjue had figured out if he channeled not only qi energy but vital energy into Baxia, circulating it through her as if she were an extension of his meridians, they would fight better – she would be light in his hand, anticipating his movements, putting her force behind his blows alongside his own. He’d even noticed that he could almost ‘see’ things differently – flickers of pulsing qi in cultivators, ghostly flame in corpses – and he thought it might be that he was seeing things the way she saw things, if a saber spirit could be said to see.

He’d done it more and more, only for one of his teachers to notice and scold him fiercely. Allowing something into his vital qi was opening himself up to possession; it might help his cultivation in the short term, an emergency measure, but in the end, the saber spirit would turn on him, devour him – after all, who was truly free from evil?

At first, Nie MIngjue tried to be good, to stop, but Baxia all but sulked at him – his swings dragging a little more than could be blamed on air resistance, a feeling of dissatisfaction and unhappiness even when he killed some fierce corpses for her, randomly waking him up in the middle of the night with fake alarms because his saber figured out long ago that he hated that – and eventually he just gave it up.

Every Nie saber was different, after all; like all spiritual weapons, they reflected their master. Maybe he and Baxia were just – different?

(And if it made it just a little easier to keep an eye on little Nie Huaisang, who’d just learned what crawling was and that he liked utilizing it to get to the most dangerous places possible, well, that was just an additional perk – how people ever took care of children without having a second pair of eyes, Nie Mingjue had no idea.)

And then they were at a night hunt, fighting something especially big and bad and vicious to the extreme, and all of a sudden Nie Mingjue felt something that reminded him of Sect Leader Wen, of the slick nauseating feel of his cultivation, and his father’s saber shattered.

Everyone panicked, shouting, and the beast roared, seeing its chance, and it jumped forward, goring Nie MIngjue’s father – still stunned – in the belly and knocking him down, and then rushing towards Nie Mingjue himself who was frozen in horror.

The next thing he knew, he wasn’t – he wasn’t knowing, anymore, or at least not the way he had before.

Everything around him was qi, and qi was in everything: different colors-textures-flavors (flavors?!) that showed him the difference between a living person and the dead, between plants and animals and the dirt beneath them, and even the subtle gradations inside the three souls and seven spirits, the way the qi-flame varied in color, the lightness of the soul slowly corrupted with rot – with evil.

It was vile.

He watched as his body leaped to the side, avoiding the beast’s charge – the movements were a little jerky, he thought, and Baxia sent some frustration back that he thought might roughly translate to listen it’s a new body and I’m trying here if she were capable of speech – and then spinning around, leaping up, and then bringing him down on her.

There was an encouraging sort of feeling from Baxia – go on, do the thing, you can do it – and somewhere along the way down, aided by the force of muscle and gravity, Nie Mingjue figured out that he was supposed to bite down, the sharp end of him all a single tooth, sharp and vicious, and he grabs onto the beast’s qi with all his might, tearing at it furiously, venting his rage.

A few more swipes with the blade and the beast died, Nie Mingjue drinking in its vital energy as if it were water as the creature’s souls and spirits scattered – he even purified the ones he could reach, making sure that nothing would remain behind, rotting and infecting the world with its madness and evil.

It felt good. To see that evil disintegrate into the wind, to know it would never hurt anyone again – good.

He wanted more.

There was a tug on his mind, Baxia calling him back as if he risked going too far, and habit kicked in: he turned in response to her call, trying to come to her side or have her come to his, and suddenly the world went off-kilter again and he was standing up on two legs (he had legs?) and the beast was dead in front of him, stinking of blood and bile –

He was human again.

Nie Mingjue dropped his saber, staggered to the side of a tree, and vomited.

Baxia returned to her place on his back, a quiet vibration that conveyed no feeling, only a reminder of her presence. He didn’t know what to say to her, what to think, what – anything.

You’ll leave yourself open to possession indeed.

Luckily, no one in the clan had noticed the lapse: the other Nie cultivators who had been on the hunt with them, both young and old, applauded Nie Mingjue for the steadiness of his nerves (a lie) and one of the elders even commented that it seemed as though his cultivation had increased substantially.

It had, too, but what was Nie Mingjue supposed to say? That he’d literally eaten another creature’s cultivation, drinking its blood and gnawing on its bones, until his spirit has become swollen with power?

That he’d enjoyed it?

He had three days to wonder and worry about it, trying to think about how to handle it, and then his father opened his eyes for the first time after the coma from the wound inflicted from the beast, eyes full of madness and fury aimed at every living being around him, and then he had other things to worry about.

After he became Sect Leader, Nie Mingjue spent a great deal of time telling his saber that he couldn’t just stab Wen Ruohan across the table of a discussion conference.

In his head, of course – Nie cultivators were known to be close to their sabers, even closer than most cultivators of other sects were with their beloved swords, but it would still be seen as strange to actually talk to your sword as if it could respond.

Baxia couldn’t talk back, of course – she was still a sword, in the end, incapable of human speech – but that never kept her from talking back, albeit in her own way.

She liked to highlight parts of Wen Ruohan’s body that would make for good cutting – Nie Mingjue’s eyesight had never quite returned to normal since that first switch, and he could always see a very faint ghostly overlay of qi on all living creatures around him, especially cultivators – and send encouraging feelings to him, like a mother cat nudging her kitten towards its first mouse, and Nie Mingjue would press his lips together and not smile because that would be weird.

It was one of the only things that made the discussion conferences – sitting across the table from his father’s murderer – bearable.

Nie Mingjue was perfectly aware that if anyone, even those in his own sect, ever found out about his unusual relationship with his saber, they would condemn him as unorthodox, possibly even crossing the line into demonic cultivation, even though he never touched resentful energy for his own use, never summoned ghosts or demons, nothing of that sort.

But he couldn’t stop.

Even if he wanted to – and he didn’t really want to – there was going to be a war soon, and his sect depending on him. His brother needed him.

And he needed Baxia.

After the first time, it had gotten easier than ever to slip sideways into her – to let her be the man, and him the sword. Nie Mingjue was, if he did say so himself, a very good saber, Baxia laughing in agreement at the thought, and it was so freeing to be nothing but a weapon, to have no concerns but wanting to kill and kill and kill.

Naturally, that was why he couldn’t permit himself to do it too often.

Connecting with Baxia was no longer something he had to try to do, as it had been when he was younger, but rather the opposite: he would have to try very hard to try to seal the connection between them, something he did only when he was extremely upset about something, and even then he wasn’t sure the link ever closed down all the way.

She was an extension of his body, a part of him; his vital qi poured into her, unreserved, and when he cultivated, her cultivation increased apace as well, her saber spirit strengthening to new heights of power – what helped him, helped her, and what helped her helped him.

It could almost, embarrassingly, be considered a form of dual cultivation.

It never felt wrong.

Nie Mingjue prided himself on his adherence to principle, to ethics; he knew people said he was too strict, too harsh, even unmerciful, but there was forged steel in his soul now, unyielding, and every year that passed he found his tolerance for evil grew less and less.

Evil in the world – and evil in mankind.

He knew there was evil in himself as well. He never deceived himself on that front: if Baxia were free to do as she pleased, to massacre all evil as she wanted, he would be one of her targets, no matter how she grumbled whenever he thought that. Virtue could be as corrupting as vice; he wasn’t any better than the people he condemned.

The only thing he could say for himself is that he always tried to do the right thing. He tried never to take action solely for his own benefit, to lift his saber only in the defense of a just cause, to do what he must and go no further.

Excepting only, perhaps, for Baxia – but as long as he controlled it, as long as he turned her only against evil, then surely, it was still within the boundaries of the limits his ancestors had laid out, that strange cultivation style of the saber spirits.

Well. Mostly against evil.

If perhaps during an especially boring discussion conference where his only job was to look fierce and disapproving, he let himself drift a little, and someone else (equally good at fierce and disapproving, if not actively better than him) take his place – if sometimes when he slept he let her go for a walk to stretch out legs she didn’t have and play around with the feeling of having thumbs – if occasionally she would coax him into letting her be the one to sharpen him, rather than the other way around, so that he could feel exactly how it ought to be done –

That didn’t seem too wrong.

The ability to detect evil in the souls of men did not actually mean that Baxia was good at people.

On the contrary, in fact – in many ways, she was very much a typical saber, wanting only to destroy, and it had taken years of explanations before she reluctantly applied some human standards to her perceptions of what constituted evil.

Sometimes, Nie Mingjue agreed with her – Jin Guangshan was a pathetic waste of a man, a worthless good-for-nothing no matter how decent his cultivation was – and sometimes he couldn’t even begin to understand her perspective – Jiang Fengmian was lukewarm about everything, which was irritating beyond belief, but Baxia wanted his head on a pike yesterday and sulked when he told her that absent a very good reason she was not going to get what she wanted.

She babied Nie Huaisang the same way he did, and bullied his saber into being obedient to him – very much not how that was supposed to go, but Nie Mingjue had always been weak where his baby brother was concerned – but she viewed most of the world with intense suspicion and not a little bit of rage.

She didn’t like Meng Yao.

It was a bit like Jiang Fengmian, actually. There was no reason that Nie Mingjue could think of, and even shifting into a spirit to study the other man didn’t reveal anything other than the usual evil one would expect to see in any person, and it wasn’t as though Baxia could tell him – she just hated what she hated, and no matter how much Nie Mingjue pointed to Meng Yao’s good acts, his defense of the common folk, his merits on the battlefield, she never gave in.

Still, good help was hard to find, and Meng Yao had never done anything that didn’t fit in well with Nie Mingjue’s standards – even if there was something wrong with him, deep down, did it really matter, as long as it never showed its face?

Nie Mingjue tried to keep his distance, emotionally, but it was hard. Meng Yao seemed on the surface to be a good man, efficient and capable; he was intelligent and well-spoken, creative and stubborn, talented to the point of brilliance.

Nie Mingjue didn’t have many friends, and Meng Yao was – there. Even Lan Xichen, who he trusted (and Baxia agreed, even if she thought Shuoyue was a bit of a priss), liked him; the conversation between the three of them flowed easily, pleasantly, and Nie Mingjue almost felt as though he were something other than the leader of a sect at war, as though he were a regular cultivator chatting with his generational cohort about all manner of things.

Baxia howled in the back of his head, wanting to rend Meng Yao limb from limb.

He ignored her.

In the end, she was right, and he was wrong.

The evil buried deep in Meng Yao’s soul could not be denied.

His betrayal at Langya, premeditated murder and then a personal attack; his decision to change his colors and join the Wen sect, his murder of helpless Nie sect cultivators; the cool manner by which he traded his war glory to the Jin sect for a place and a name that only shone gold to the outside world –

It was a disappointment.

Nie Mingjue should have trusted Baxia.

(He agreed to swear brotherhood with the man because Lan Xichen wanted it, because he still hoped against hope that he could purify the evil in Meng Yao’s heart the way he did the evil of ghosts, could bring back the friend he’d once thought he’d had – but it was still a disappointment.)

Maybe that was what gave him pause, during the competition at Phoenix Mountain – he’d only met Wei Wuxian in passing before, never spent much time with him, and even less once he’d become the fearsome Yiling Patriarch that wielded demonic cultivation as a scythe against their mutual enemies.

He’d expected to have to talk Baxia down from trying to kill him at once. After all, according to the stories, he stank of resentful energy, having pulled it inside of himself until it tainted every inch of him; it followed him like a cloak of power and cruelty.

The reality was – different.

Him? Nie Mingjue thought at Baxia, mildly appalled. You like him? Really?

Baxia purred, pleased.

This I have to see.

He usually tried not to let Baxia take over in front of his fellow sect leaders, who were by now all very well trained at spotting abnormalities of even the slightest sort, but the curiosity was killing him.

In the eyes of a saber, Wei Wuxian was – a man.

Just that, nothing more. He had some virtues and some faults, good and evil mixed together in no greater or lesser proportion than Meng Yao, and while he was surrounded by resentful energy, was shot through with it, it did not infect his souls or spirits with rot any more than anyone else. It passed through him like any other type of qi energy did, the ghostly flame sliding through his meridians as though he were on the verge of becoming a demon himself and yet not absorbed within, not kept – he used only what he pulled at any given time, letting the power run through his fingers like water, and never stored it inside –

He lacked a golden core.

No wonder he couldn’t store any power; even if he wanted to, he couldn’t, the taint injuring him as it flowed through his system without purification – it was as if he were drinking alcohol while lacking a liver – but at the same time he lacked the ability to build it up inside of him.

Nie Mingjue wondered what had happened.

He waited until later – after a number of embarrassing incidents, mostly involving Jin Zixuan’s confession of affection to Jiang Yanli, a love affair which Nie Mingjue had absolutely no interest in but which made Nie Huaisang roll around on his bed, clutching his fan to his chest and sighing dreamily – and then he went to where the Jiang sect was housed and asked to speak with Wei Wuxian.

“You know it’s quite late, Sect Leader Nie,” Wei Wuxian drawled, his arms crossed in front of him defensively. “And I’m not any more inclined to give up the Stygian Tiger Seal because of the hour.”

“What?” Nie Mingjue asked, bewildered, and then – “Oh, that. It’s a vile thing and ought to be destroyed, but that’s on your conscience. If you misuse it, I’ll turn my blade against you; if you lose it to someone else, I’ll drink at your funeral; other than that, it’s no business of mine.”

“…oh,” Wei Wuxian said, his arms loosening. “Sorry, I assumed. You came to speak with me and not Jiang Cheng…”

“I’ve been speaking with Sect Leader Jiang all day,” Nie Mingjue said, impatient. “About everything from matters of principle to fishing rights in small rivers that only three people even know exist – and we’re scheduled to do it again tomorrow. Why would I bother him after hours?”

Wei Wuxian laughed, then looked surprised at himself and coughed to cover it up; he stepped out of the doorway to let Nie Mingjue inside. “All very good points. So it is me you want to talk to…what about? If it’s not the Stygian Tiger Seal…my cultivation, perhaps?”

“In a way,” Nie Mingjue said. “I should warn you in advance that you may find my questions rude.”

Wei Wuxian waved that away and turned to fetch them some jars of wine. “I don’t care about rudeness. As long as your question isn’t ‘why do you still do it’.”

“Why would I ask that? It’s always better to be a cultivator, however unorthodox, than not at all.”

Wei Wuxian stopped moving after having picked up only one jar, his hand still outstretched towards the second one.

“Now that’s an odd way to phrase it,” he said, and his voice was low and sounded dangerous, but Baxia didn’t so much as quiver, so Nie Mingjue knew there was no real threat of a fight. “Second Young Master Lan spends a great deal of his time imploring me to resume orthodox cultivation; I would have thought you’d be of the same opinion.”

“But orthodox cultivation is impossible without a golden core,” Nie Mingjue said, puzzled as to why Wei Wuxian would care about what Lan Wangji thought enough to mention him, or for that matter why Lan Wangji apparently spent all his time pestering Wei Wuxian in an effort to make him mend his ways.

Wei Wuxian dropped the jar in his hand with a deafening crash.

Wei Wuxian sent Nie Mingjue a letter after he’d settled down in Yiling.

In it, he very politely (the man knew what politeness was?) apologized for the disturbance he had caused, explained that the Wen sect remnants were composed entirely of old men and women, a child, and only two young people, one of which was now the Ghost General, that had helped him before, on the occasion which they had once had the opportunity to discuss, and so there was a life debt between them. He stated that if Nie Mingjue wished to visit and review the situation himself, he would gladly open his gates to one who did not seem prejudiced against him, who might judge the situation fairly; he requested, very humbly, that if Nie Mingjue wouldn’t mind considering lending his voice to the Jiang sect, which was even now negotiating a marriage with the Jin sect, and which had undoubtedly been put in a very bad position as a result of his apparently inexplicable actions.

Nie Mingjue snorted at the mix of earnestness, presented as slickly as any diplomat – Wei Wuxian had clearly been trained by the Jiang sect to be their ambassador, and sometimes the training even managed to overcome his extremely irritating personality – and took Nie Huaisang with him when he went.

A gesture of good faith.

It turned out to be necessary, since Baxia took one look at Wen Ning and all but begged to chase him around, promising not to hurt him but please oh please –

Nie Huaisang smacked Nie Mingjue in the face with his fan, which had never happened before, and Nie Mingjue snapped out of the daze he was in and recalled Baxia to his hand at once, his face coloring in embarrassment.

“Forgive me,” he said to Wei Wuxian, voice stiff; he couldn’t believe he’d just done that. “I meant no offense to either you or to Wen Qionglin.”

Wei Wuxian’s extremely angry expression abruptly vanished off his face, leaving behind only confusion. “You – know his courtesy name?”

Nie Mingjue frowned. “I wasn’t aware that my reputation indicated an inability to utilize common courtesy.”

“…most people just call him the Ghost General, nowadays.”

Nie Mingjue didn’t know what to say to that apparent non-sequitur (who cared what other people did?), and looked to Nie Huaisang to see if he had a better response.

Nie Huaisang shrugged. “I thought you said he was conscious, Wei-xiong? If he is, then he’s a person, and if he’s a person, he has a name. It’d be as rude as me calling Baxia ‘that old stick’.”

That was, in fact, something Nie Huaisang had done once, when he’d been a teenager and angry about having to go to the Wen sect’s camp – in fairness, Nie Mingjue hadn’t been exactly pleased about that either – and Baxia had chased him up and down the hallway, smacking his ass to make him jump every time she caught him, until he was out of breath and apologizing and also laughing more than a little.

Nie Mingjue put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “He doesn’t have that much of a death wish.”

Wei Wuxian laughed. “I keep forgetting you have a sense of humor under there. Would you like to come inside? I don’t have much here, but we can talk about whatever you need to give yourself comfort that the Wen sect remnants aren’t going to hurt anyone.”

“It’s not necessarily a matter of future harm,” Nie Mingjue said. “There is also the past.”

“They’re non-combatants –”

“Wen Qing ran a Supervisory Office.”

Wei Wuxian winced.

“It’s something we can talk over,” Nie Huaisang said. “She might need to submit to a trial or something, but I don’t think death is necessarily the only outcome. Maybe something in which she uses her abilities in service to the community..?”

“She’d be happy to, if anyone would allow it,” Wei Wuxian said wryly. “Oddly enough, not too many cultivators are willing to allow someone surnamed Wen to examine them.”

“We can set a good example,” Nie Huaisang chirped. “My brother and I – why not? Maybe she can explain why he acted so uncharacteristically earlier.”

Nie Mingjue sighed. If there was one lesson he’d never managed to get into Nie Huaisang’s head – there were many, actually – it was that family laundry shouldn’t be spread out in front of others. He couldn’t have waited until after they’d left?

Wei Wuxian blinked at them both. “You’ll have to forgive me, Nie-xiong; I’m not that familiar with your brother. What was uncharacteristic?”

“He let Baxia do as she liked instead of stopping her,” Nie Huaisang said promptly. “It was impulsive, and he normally would never.”

“And you think it’s a medical issue?” Nie Mingjue asked, doubtful. More likely all those years of jointly possessing his own body with Baxia was starting to need paying for. “Huaisang…”

“It’s worth checking!”

Wen Qing didn’t find anything other than some disturbed qi, which could be the result of just about anything, and Nie Mingjue told Nie Huaisang to drop the issue in a tone that brooked no dispute.

Still, since it was clearly worrying his brother, there wouldn’t be any harm in asking Meng Yao – no, Jin Guangyao, he was Jin Guangyao now – to come over to play Clarity for him a little more often.

They could talk a little about Jin Guangshan’s frankly unseemly attempts to weasel the Stygian Tiger Seal out of Wei Wuxian at the same time. Based on everything he’d heard from Wei Wuxian, including the man’s willingness to destroy at least a half of it as a gesture of good faith, there was really no basis to claim that it ought to be confiscated from him. And with the Nie sect standing alongside the Jiang sect, the Jin sect would have no chance to use this as an opportunity to rally the cultivation world against Wei Wuxian and use the excuse to extract the seal for their own unknown purposes.

The whole situation would probably irritate Jin Guangshan immensely, even if only as proof that he was not in fact the obvious successor to the Wens in terms of dominating the cultivation world.

Chief Cultivator – hah!

If one had to be selected, and Nie Mingjue was against the whole idea, then it wouldn’t be Jin Guangshan. It wouldn’t be anyone from the Jin sect; every time he visited Lanling, Baxia shook on his shoulder and he agreed with her anger – the entire place was shot through with corruption, festering in evil, ambition and greed the only virtues they recognized. Allowing them to sit, fat and comfortable, at the top of the cultivation world for no other reason than their ambition and their wealth, the fact that they’d hung back and let others do the majority of the fighting and so didn’t need to waste money in rebuilding…it was unacceptable.

He’d have to make that clear to Jin Guangyao, somehow.

He hoped his sworn brother wouldn’t be too disappointed.

Severe qi deviations were said to be horrifically painful, with every vein in your body bursting, every meridian cracking, your blood boiling, your bones breaking as your qi reversed course and began destroying you from the inside –

Whoever said that was right.

Nie Mingjue felt his mouth fill with blood, his eyes dripping with them, and he saw Jin Guangyao everywhere around him, laughing at him, Meng Yao mocking his weakness in trusting him over his own instincts, over Baxia; he tried to lash out against him, only for him to disappear in front of his eyes, reappearing elsewhere, and he wanted nothing more than to kill – to kill – to stop him before he hurt anyone else – before he laid a finger on Nie Huaisang, before he deceived Lan Xichen, before – he had to kill him – he had to –

There was so much pain.

Pain and rage, fear and fury; it was like a tide that rose up, inexorable, to swallow him.

He screamed – and everything stopped.

There was no pain.

Steel did not feel pain.

Nie Mingjue was a saber once more, his qi still sick and pounding inside of him, going the wrong way, his rage still overwhelming him, but for a saber that was all right, it was all right not to know anything but rage and fury and the desire to kill: you control the saber, it doesn’t control you.

As long as his master held him back, he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone he shouldn’t.

He himself would not be hurt.

Steel did not feel pain.

Baxia complained about scratches in her surface, sulked about them, but that was just vanity, which he’d inadvertently taught her; she didn’t actually suffer, as long as she never broke –

Baxia.

If Nie Mingjue was the saber, then she was the human: she was the one in the body that was self-destructing, she was the one who was bleeding out of every aperture, she was the one who was screaming.

Baxia!

She shook him off, pushing him firmly back towards the blade and away from the flesh; steel felt no pain, and she was steel all the way through her soul – a little pain was not going to stop her.

She straightened his spine, stood up tall, and bared his teeth at Jin Guangyao, who was even now backing away, his arms around a frantic Nie Huaisang, who did not understand. She pointed Nie MIngjue at their enemy, their mutual enemy, and he wanted so badly to fly forward, sharp end first, wanted to pierce that traitorous dog through the heart and make sure he would never harm anyone again.

He wanted to rend him to pieces with his teeth, like a wild dog himself; he wanted to drink his vital energies and purify his innermost soul, to send him to his next reincarnation before his soul could even think of lingering – let him be reborn as a dog, as a snake, as a worm! Let him pay for the wrongs he has committed!

No. No, on second thought, he shouldn’t die. He should live – live and face the penalty for his actions. Let him be cast off from his comfortable life, let him live forever in seclusion with no friends and no succuor, let him know that all of his ambition has come to nothing.

Nie Mingjue roared in silent fury, and Baxia opened his mouth and roared as well: the sound that emerged from his throat was inhuman, the scream of steel scraping steel, a sound no human should ever be able to make.

“Er-ge!” Jin Guangyao shouted, his eyes white all around the irises; he clearly hadn’t anticipated Nie Mingjue surviving the qi deviation to this point. “Er-ge, come here – da-ge has gone into qi deviation, and he’s trying to kill me!”

“He’s not trying to kill you!” Nie Huaisang shrieked. “She is –”

And then, as if realizing what he’d just said, he turned shocked eyes on Jin Guangyao, abrupt realization filling his face.

“She’s trying to kill you,” he repeated dully. “Kill you – she only wants to kill evil, to punish wrongdoing. What have you done?!”

In the end it turned out that Wen Qing’s expertise was useful after all.

She came to Lanling and went to work immediately, but it still took nearly two weeks for her to set all of Nie Mingjue’s meridians and spiritual veins back into place, working on each one at a time; the entire process would have been agonizing enough to kill any man just from the pain alone.

It was a good thing that the one undergoing the process was not a man.

“So, this is weird, right?” Wei Wuxian asked Nie Huaisang, who’d refused to leave his brother’s side; he ate and slept on the floor next to the bed where Wen Qing operated, and his fingers were clenched around the saber’s hilt in silent supplication. “You Nie – you’re not all half-swords, are you?”

“Sabers,” Nie Huaisang corrected, rubbing his eyes. “And no. It’s just my brother. He and Baxia have always been very close.”

“Close,” Wei Wuxian echoed. “Close. Yes, I suppose that’s – a way to put it. He’s literally letting himself be possessed by his own apparently sentient saber spirit right now; I suppose you would need to be close, for that.”

“At least Baxia serves only one master,” Nie Huaisang said sharply. “Can your Tiger Seal say the same? Or is that honor reserved for your Suibian, which even now is gathering dust on your shelf, and which you will never use again?”

Wei Wuxian stopped and grimaced. “I’m being obnoxious. Forgive me.”

Nie Huaisang waved a hand, dismissing it. “And I’m tired; think nothing of it. As long as – as long as this works. As long as we can get him back.”

Wei Wuxian only ever took the briefest glances at the table where Wen Qing operated; he did so now and immediately turned away, shuddering in memory – it was even more gruesome than what he’d endured. “Is he…in there? Being suppressed by her?”

“No, thankfully not,” Nie Huaisang said, and tapped the blade of the saber. “He’s in here.”

Wei Wuxian blinked. “He’s – in the saber?”

“He is the saber. They’re – sort of joined, I think? If they were once separate entities, they’re not anymore; the saber and the person are both part of a single body – no, two bodies, two bodies with two consciousnesses. Most of the time, da-ge possesses the human body and Baxia the saber, but sometimes they switch and she takes the body and he the saber; that’s what’s happening now.”

“How did that even happen?” Wei Wuxian wanted to know. “It makes my unorthodoxy look almost boring – a heresy, sure, but one that flowed naturally out of how things are typically done, the sequel to a book, written in the same style. What he’s doing…it isn’t even from the same library!”

“It is for us,” Nie Huaisang said with a shrug. “We cultivate saber spirits, like I’ve explained. This is – different, yes. But on the other hand, he might be the first Nie cultivator in a thousand years to survive the qi deviation that comes from cultivating the saber spirit.”

“Probably would have been better to test that theory a few decades later, though, huh?”

Nie Huaisang grimaced. “Yes. When I think about what Jin Guangyao nearly did…! And I liked him, Wei-xiong; I really liked him. Da-ge liked him, and da-ge doesn’t get close to people, not easily. It always hurt him, what Meng Yao did to him, but he still swore brotherhood with him so that he could try to teach him good from evil…”

He shook his head.

“I can’t believe you’re even considering not executing him,” Wei Wuxian said, shaking his head as well. “Is permanent seclusion really going to be enough?”

“Well, there’s going to be a trial,” Nie Huaisang said. “Though it’ll be fairly short, given that da-ge survived and Wen Qing already indicated that there appears to be the effects of spiritual poison – I would never have thought he’d be using that stupid song to do it. The one er-ge taught him so that he and da-ge could make up…! You’re not wrong, Wei-xiong; seclusion might be too good for the likes of him. But er-ge is insisting we give him a chance to explain.”

“He’s good at manipulating emotions,” Wei Wuxian said. “Aren’t you concerned he’ll play on whoever you have as judge?”

“Not if they’re appropriately objective.” Nie Huaisang looked at Wei Wuxian sidelong. “What do you think?”

“Me?”

“Well, you and Jiang Cheng. The Jiang sect is the only one of the Great Four sects not implicated by all this – though I suppose your sister is engaged to Jin Zixuan. Do you think that would be enough to disqualify you?”

“No, we’ve never gotten along; I wouldn’t be biased. Which I mean…I guess that means I could do it?”

The saber in Nie Huaisang’s hands trembled, moving forward a little as if straining to fly up and go somewhere.

Nie Huaisang looked down at it, and nodded. “Da-ge’s right – there’s something else I should mention. Something we just found out, in the basement of Koi Tower…”

“In the basement? What did you find?”

“A boy by the name of Xue Yang,” Nie Huaisang said. “And he has a very interesting story to tell.”

#mdzs #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #baxia #jin guangyao #wei wuxian #my fic #my fics #yes this is the one that ate my soul #close

296 notes · View notes

aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

Time - Good Omens Fic

Goal was to write three fics for this weeks @bingokisses prompts. Well, I got two! The first is “Time” a Night At Crowley’s Flat/Pre-Body-Swap/Wing Grooming fic. It’s for the prompt “Wrist kisses” which I had twice on my card, the first paired with “Wing Grooming.” I’m going to do edits before I move this to AO3, so let me know if anything sounds off!

“So that’s it.” Crowley lounged against the wall, arms crossed. Not looking at Aziraphale. Not looking at anything.

“Yes. I pretend to be you, you pretend to be me. Hellfire. Holy water. We survive.”

It wasn’t easy, keeping his voice steady. Aziraphale mostly managed it by not looking at Crowley, not thinking to hard about it, acting as though the entire problem were simply some clever logic problem. Most certainly by not imagining what would happen if they failed.

“Don’t like it.”

“Come now,” he tried to smile. “Let’s not start over again. We’ve considered every angle. The plan works, and it’s our – our best chance.”

Crowley grunted as if regretting his promise already. “Not going to argue. Just. Don’t like it.” He’d been belligerent since the moment Aziraphale had suggested the swap, inspired by his own recent experience with discorporation. He’d expected Crowley to dislike the idea, but the demon had fought against it, tooth and nail, every step of the planning process.

Not that Aziraphale didn’t have his own doubts. He’d struggled to keep them at bay since stepping off the bus. Now he pressed his hands together, ordering them not to tremble, as the fear started to grow in his gut, building, pushing out into his limbs and his heart.

Choose your faces wisely – that was clear enough. But playing with Fyre could mean many things, only one of which Crowley was immune to. What if he’d missed something? What if there was more to it?

What if the prophecy wasn’t intended to save both of them?

He imagined Michael’s sword, blade aflame, swinging towards Crowley while he was bound to a chair—

It wasn’t a noise, just a sharp intake of breath as he pulled himself back to reality, but it was as loud as a scream in the silent room. Crowley’s head snapped around, eyes pinning the angel through his dark glasses. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“Nothing.” Oh, his voice didn’t sound certain at all, his eyes still burned in the imagined light of Heavenly swords. Aziraphale cleared his throat and tried again, but no words at all came out this time, just a strained squeak.

Heaven would see this coming, surely. They would suspect as soon as Crowley stepped into the flames. He needed to outsmart them, needed to think of the next step, and the next, a hundred moves ahead, but he didn’t have time…

“Angel.” Crowley’s voice was sharp, a whip crack cutting through the silent room, and Aziraphale cringed, huddling into himself instinctively. “Bless it, Aziraphale, if you’re having doubts too, we need to rethink this. There’s still time, we can – can take off, be out past the Oort Cloud before either side notices. I know plenty of stars they’d never think to look.”

“Crowley, no. We’ve been over this already.” His voice didn’t sound calm but at least it wasn’t breaking anymore. “We can’t hide forever, they’ll – they’ll find us eventually.”

“I’d rather they chase us across the galaxy than – than stand around waiting for them to grab us. At least we’d have a chance. At least we’d have time.”

Aziraphale wanted that. Time. More than anything, he wanted time to think, to plan, to prepare. To stand beside Crowley and not be afraid.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? There was no future if they ran, no earth, no them, just this one terrifying moment, stretched on and on for eternity, poised forever at the last moment before the attack. Always waiting. Always afraid. He couldn’t take a life of this, he couldn’t even take one night of this.

He was so lost in his own thoughts – torn between wanting time and wanting it to be over – that he didn’t even notice Crowley’s approach until the hand landed on his shoulder. It wasn’t rough – it was the gentlest touch, barely felt through his jacket – but the suddenness of it startled Aziraphale, making him stumble away.

“Crowley! There’s no need – I’m – please—”

“You aren’t fine, don’t try to tell me you’re fine,” he spat. Then, in a lower voice, “Talk to me.”

It was too much. Already he’d nearly given in to the fear, but this – this moment of concern – it tugged at him, threatening to break his last thread of dignity, of control, and that was the only thing keeping him going right now.

“There’s nothing more to discuss.” He tugged at his waistcoat, trying to school his expression. “And if – if you’re just going to argue, I’d rather you left me in peace.”

“Aziraphale…” A warning.

“I mean it, Crowley.” He interrupted, fighting to keep his mind from shattering. “That’s enough. Go!”

Crowley spun away, with a noise halfway between a snort and a snarl, and stalked through the enormous revolving door, disappearing into the next room.

Leaving Aziraphale alone with his thoughts.

Crowley glared at his trembling plants, burying his fingers in leaves, tugging at them for any sign of weakness, of spots or yellowing, any imperfections. But he didn’t really see them.

His mind kept shifting, jumping between a bookshop in flames, a voice in a bar, and the sudden appearance of Aziraphale at the airbase. A hurricane of worry and relief and fear and longing with nothing remotely like calm at its center.

He wanted to run to Aziraphale. Override all his objections, drag him away. Haul him off this world, to the stars, to Andromeda, to the farthest corner of the universe, far from the beings that wanted to hurt them, had hurt them again and again for thousands of years.

It wasn’t the first time. He’d wanted to at the airbase, run up, grab Aziraphale by the lapels. Make sure he was unharmed, shout at him to stop taking foolish risks. The same at the church in 1941, the Bastille in 1793, again and again, across centuries of companionship –

Wanted to reach out, pull him close, promise that everything would work out.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Never could. Maybe never would.

He’d always blamed it on their sides, needing to stay apart to stay safe. But he didn’t have that excuse anymore, did he? And that’s all it was. An excuse.

It was Crowley’s nature to be cold and distant. Aloof. Project coolness and confidence so that no one could see what lay underneath, the shattered worthless wreck of demon. Keep them all at arm’s length, even the being he least wanted to push away, and where did that leave him?

Alone in his solarium, shredding the weakest leaves off a fig tree, on what could be the last night of his personal eternity.

Had he always been this way?

Crowley didn’t think so. There had been a time when he’d been open, inquisitive, carefree. Long ago, before the Fall, before six thousand years in Hell and on Earth, before he learned…everything.

He could never go back to that. You couldn’t unlearn the truth of the world, once you’d learned it.

One glance over his shoulder, back at the door. He could go back. Apologize. Open himself up to the one being he knew would never hurt him. Say the words that had sat on his tongue for countless centuries.

He could, but he wouldn’t. Not tonight. He needed time. Time to get his head on straight, to learn to be honest with himself, to know what it was he even wanted.

And time was the one thing he didn’t have.

Aziraphale rested his hand on the door frame, wishing he had the courage to step through.

It was his own fault, of course. He’d pushed Crowley away. As he always did. It was easier.

He didn’t belong here, among humans, beside a demon. Simple fact: he was an angel, and he belonged in Heaven. There was no place else an angel could exist and feel whole and happy.

That, he’d always told himself, was why he had this aching emptiness inside – because he was far from his home, corrupted by earthly influences. A degraded angel.

Heaven talked a great deal about love. Angels love Creation, they love the humans, they love God most of all; they love each other, and they love him. In spite of all his flaws, he was constantly reminded, they loved him.

And he believed it. For a long time, he believed, because not believing was dangerous, and painful, and terrifyingly. And because, well…because that’s what he believed love was. How was he supposed to think otherwise? It was the only thing he ever knew.

But six thousand years on Earth slowly eroded his ignorance. He saw humans develop friendships, saw them fall in love, saw them care for their children, their parents. Saw some become cruel, or manipulative, or negligent; saw others be loyal, and warm, and welcoming even to strangers.

He learned all the ways that love could be expressed. All the things that masqueraded as it. What it could look like. What it should look like.

And even then, he could keep pretending that he found that in the cold, distant praise of Heaven, but only so long as he could pretend he didn’t find it anywhere else. That he didn’t have a being in his life who always supported him, always stood by him, never made him feel flawed or broken, never abandoned him.

Even now, when it might mean destruction for both of them, still at his side.

In the face of that, how could he ever believe that Heaven loved him?

He pushed the thought away, back into the dark recesses of his mind, where he’d carefully hidden it from himself for longer than the lifetime of civilizations. It was still a dangerous thought, a dangerous word. A distraction.

It wasn’t the time for such things.

He had to put their survival before everything else. It meant staying here and facing their former sides head-on, not running away and waiting to be caught. It meant deceiving Heaven and Hell, not angering them from some foolish desire to fight or take revenge. And it meant facing the challenge with cool logical minds not clouded by any newly acknowledged emotions. It made sense.

The best thing he could do for himself, for Crowley, was to keep his distance tonight.

I need a new plant mister.

For ten minutes, Crowley had managed to keep himself focused on pruning the trees, silently clearing out some leaves or stems to make room for new growth. The emotions raged somewhere deep inside, but the surface was as calm as ever. But then he noticed the echeveria was a little dry, went to give it a bit of water, and realized the bottle was gone.

Hastur had destroyed his plant mister, and he needed a new one.

He could simply manifest one, he supposed, as easily as he’d created the pruning shears. But the ones at the corner shop were so cheap, it was easier to just grab one on the way to Aziraphale’s bookshop, and take a few moments to see what new sprouts had arrived, then stop over at the bakery for some coffee and one of those crispy pastries.

Except.

Except there wasn’t a bookshop anymore, was there?

Which meant he wouldn’t be heading over tomorrow, or the next day, or ever again.

No more surprise breakfasts before the first customers of the day. No more late nights sharing a dozen bottles of wine and arguing about philosophy. No more perusing the poetry section when Aziraphale wasn’t looking, or thumbing through the latest illustrated guides to botany or astronomy that always found their way onto the shelf beside his sofa.

No more secretive walks in the park to share secrets and feed ducks. No more shoddy pretenses for a weekend drive. No more weaving the Bentley through four lanes of traffic.

The world had ended, but only for him and Aziraphale.

It wasn’t fair.

After everything they’d done, everything they’d suffered to save the world, they still lost everything and it wasn’t fair!

The knot of emotions he’d been holding back broke free in a flash, flooding him faster than he could control it. With a shout he hurled the little plant at the wall, cracking the pot, spilling soil everywhere. Then he grabbed the aloe vera, the orchids, the antherium. One after the other, thrown against the wall, the floor, the window.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He screamed, pulling over the umbrella tree, shredding all its leaves. “All of you! You worthless pieces of shit!” He kicked over a dragon tree. “You had your fucking chance! No more excuses, no more second chances.” A glass bowl full of air plants; he snatched it up and smashed it hard against the table, shards spinning off in every direction. “Make your fucking peace with the soil, because every one of you is—”

“Crowley!”

He spun around to find Aziraphale watching, wide-eyed, from the doorway.

Fuck.

Well. That’s the end of that, he supposed. After that sort of display, Aziraphale wouldn’t want anything to do with him ever again.

He clenched his fist, turning away, but that sent a sharp pain through his hand. Hissing, Crowley looked down to find a shard of glass, stuck in the side of his hand. Of course. Exactly what this day needed.

“Are you hurt?”

He shot a glare at the angel, suddenly beside him.

“Just a scratch. Leave me alone.”

Aziraphale’s hand landed lightly on his wrist, pulling the hand over for closer inspection. “You need to be more careful, Crowley.” He ran his thumb lightly up the side of Crowley’s palm and the little triangle of glass fell free.

“I’m not going to – to die from a little cut, Aziraphale.”

He’d meant it as a joke, of a sort, but Aziraphale’s hand tightened around his. “Don’t.” The angel’s thumb brushed across the cut, making it disappear in a small burst of healing. “You need to be more careful.”

“It’s a bit late for careful.” He tried to pull his hand away, but Aziraphale ignored it, bending over as if to inspect his palm for damage. “Look, Angel…”

“What a mess!” Aziraphale tutted. “An absolute disgrace.” But he hadn’t so much as glanced at the graveyard of ruined plants all over the floor. Instead, he was inspecting Crowley’s nails. “And you expect me to go out wearing these tomorrow?”

“You’re one to talk. I saw the state of your wings earlier. Have you groomed them this millennium?”

“Even if I hadn’t, it still wouldn’t compare to this – this—” He held up Crowley’s hand, nails caked with dirt, cracked, uneven. “I thought you took pride in your appearance.”

“I’ve been a bit busy.” Crowley snatched his hand back and tried to walk away.

“I don’t want an argument tonight.”

“Then stop trying to start one!” He took a deep breath. “If it bothers you that much, I’ll go take a shower. You wait in the kitchen, or wherever you want.” He glanced around at the mess he’d made. “Don’t bother cleaning. No point, is there?”

“Crowley, stop!”

“It was ‘go’ before, now you want me to stop? Make up your blasted mind.” But Crowley stood still, glaring at him. “What is it? What do you want?”

“I want to take care of those nails.”

“You what?” But Aziraphale’s face was dead serious, set in his most stubborn frown. “Look, you fussy bastard, this isn’t – we don’t have time for this!”

“You have somewhere else to be tonight?” But when his hands reached for Aziraphale’s again, the touch was strangely gentle. “Let me take care of these. Please.”

The demon groaned, but what was he supposed to do? Not say yes? “Fine. If you insist.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale, sitting cross-legged on his bed. Between them was a bowl of warm water, an array of tiny torture implements, and a towel, which Aziraphalehad used to briskly brush the dirt from Crowley’s fingers. Now he held the demon’s right hand, turning it this way and that to inspect each nail in the light of his halo.

“That’s a little better,” Aziraphale murmured, picking up the clippers and starting to trim.

“You know, I can do this myself.”

“Can you? Really?” It was strange, having his hand held this way. Entirely in Aziraphale’s power, unable to move, yet it was only the lightest pressure, really. Firm, but gentle. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you chewed them.”

“Only when they break.”

“That isn’t funny. Look at this.” He lowered Crowley’s right hand and picked up the left, pinching the thumb between his fingers. “Just look!”

“Looks like a thumb.”

Another tsk, and Aziraphale set to clipping again, not trimming each nail as low as he could (as Crowley usually did), but instead quickly removing the sharp edges or cracked portions, leaving a few millimeters on each. When he was satisfied, he picked up an emery board. Crowley expected him to start scrubbing roughly, sandpapering his nails smooth. Instead, with a few quick delicate motions, he reshaped each nail into a perfect oval. Now and then, he paused to scrape underneath with the point of a nail file.

“What is this, anyway?” He held up the tip of the file, covered in hard flakes of black residue. “I thought it was soil, but it isn’t the right consistency.”

Crowley gulped. He remembered charging into a burning shop. Driving for almost an hour in a flaming car. Falling to the ground at the airbase more than once—

“Dunno,” he said weakly. “Could be – lots of things…”

Aziraphale’s hands hesitated over Crowley’s smallest finger, and he could see how the emery board trembled. Yeah, you’re cleaning the last of your bookshop out of my nails. How does that feel? Crowley wished he had something comforting to say, but he just felt hollow. The day had left him without anything to offer.

With a deep breath, Aziraphale steadied his grip and got back to work.

“Why?” Cowley found himself saying, as the angel moved back to his right hand. “Why are you wasting your time on this?” On me?

“Don’t be foolish. Time spent with you is never wasted.” Blue eyes flickered up again to catch his gaze before focusing on the nails once more. “Although I do wish you’d put a little effort into basic maintenance without my needing to nag you.”

“But—” He bit his words off, not knowing what to say. “Why?”

“Why? Why? You spend an hour every day on that ridiculous hair, not to mention weeks spent putting together your – your ‘new look’ every few years. I would think you’d agree that personal grooming is its own reward.”

“No, I…” He watched the long, thin board move back and forth. His fingers were curved slightly in Aziraphale’s grip, pinned in place by his thumb. “I just thought you’d want to be alone.”

Silence for the length of two fingers. “Why on Earth would you think that?”

His stomach was hard as a rock, twisting with emotions he couldn’t name. “I…I’ve been awful,” Crowley confessed. “All night long, since we got back, I argued, I snapped at you. Threw a tantrum. The other day, I shoved you against a wall. And…and this morning I called you stupid…I’d think you’d want to be as far from me as possible.”

“As I recall, you were the one who wanted to abandon me for the stars.”

“No…” But he had said that, hadn’t he? “I didn’t…I wouldn’t really…”

“Oh, hush.” Aziraphale frowned and moved to the last nail. “I’ve known you for six thousand years, Crowley, I’m well aware you have a temper. I have never held against you the things you said, or did, when you were angry.”

I have plenty of other people to ‘fraternize’ with. I don’t need you.

“Never?”

“Never.” Aziraphale put down the file and pressed Crowley’s hands between both of his. “I’m sorry I didn’t make that clear.”

He lowered Crowley’s hands into the bowl of warm water. Aziraphale had added some sort of soap, and it clung thickly to his fingers in a pleasant way.

“Still…I don’t like you to…to see me like that…”

“You’ve seen me at my worst,” Aziraphale reminded him. “Do you think less of me?”

His worst? Crowley couldn’t even imagine what that would mean. The embarrassing smile as he showed off his latest magic act or shouted encouragement at the actors in a play? The possessive gleam when he saw a priceless first edition, whether one of his own or one he was about to acquire? His incorruptible desire to see the good in absolutely everyone, even Gabriel, even Crowley?

“No,” he whispered as his heart surged anew. “No, I never have.”

Aziraphale nodded, watching Crowley’s hands as they soaked in the water. “It’s good, you know, to-to have a simple ritual in a time of stress. Something you can walk through, step by step. Unhindered by, ah, by emotions. Very calming.”

“I do feel a little better,” Crowley admitted.

“I expect you do. But…I meant for myself.” He lifted Crowley’s hands free of the water and gently patted them with the towel. “I’m…I’m…well, I’m rather convinced I’m going to let you down tomorrow. Not play my part well, or…or lose my nerve…or overlook some vital clue…”

Crowley felt the tremors in Aziraphale’s hands before he suddenly pulled away, fingers twisting in the towel, pressing it against his mouth. But he couldn’t hide the wave of emotion that overtook him before Crowley’s eyes.

“Angel!” Crowley grabbed his shoulders, newly manicured fingers feeling more sensitive against the fabric of his shirt. “Aziraphale look at me.” Slowly, the blue eyes came back into focus. “We don’t have to do this.”

“We do. Crowley, it’s the only way.” The towel crumpled further as he crushed it in his grip. “I – I – I won’t – I’ll find a way, I just need to – to buck up…”

“Are you scared?”

“What? No, I – I—”

“Because I am.” Crowley let go with one hand to pull his glasses free, toss them aside, then reached up to brush the back of Aziraphale’s hand. “Have been for…longer than I can remember, but then I lost you. Last night, and this morning, and then…the fire…” He swallowed. “And you know what? Each time it felt more real and more painful than before, and I don’t…I can’t…”

His gut heaved. The hollowness he’d felt after the fire opened again, threatening to devour him, permanently this time. “Aziraphale. I am more terrified right now than I’ve ever been in my life, and I don’t know how to stop it. So. If you’re scared…that’s fine.”

The towel fell, and Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in both of his again, but this time clinging to it, clutching it, pressing Crowley’s fingers against his lips where the towel had been a moment before. Crowley reached with his free hand and…what? Touch his face? His hair? What was he supposed to do?

Before he could decide, Aziraphale seemed to blink his eyes clear and look again at Crowley’s nails. “Just a few hangnails to trim, and then we’re done.”

“Nh. Yeah.” He settled more comfortably. “Whatever you want.”

Aziraphale held Crowley’s hand, carefully massaging moisturizer across his palm, between his fingers, and into his nail beds. Memorizing the shape of them, the knobby knuckles, the veins on the back of his hands.

He’d wanted to do this once before, when the thoughts that needed to be hidden, even from himself, had threatened to overwhelm him. 1941. He’d longed to sit Crowley down and wash his feet, check them for burns and injury after his walk across hallowed ground. Let the activity distract his mind from the thoughts and emotions he couldn’t afford to acknowledge, and just be there, in the moment, caring for Crowley. Appreciating him. Holding him.

It was just as well he hadn’t attempted it back then; evidence tonight suggested it didn’t work.

He ran his thumbs across Crowley’s palm one last time, smoothing in the moisturizer, feeling the skin plump up, taking note of the calluses here and there just below the fingers. He didn’t want to let go.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, when his fingers had lingered perhaps a bit too long. He looked up to meet the demon’s golden eyes. They were soft tonight, and vulnerable, and filled with pain that tugged at his heart. But that pain seemed to be fading, replaced by…by one of the things Aziraphale was not supposed to be naming. What with the thunderous pounding of his heart in his chest and the blood in his ears, Aziraphale almost missed Crowley’s next words: “Thank you.”

Very suddenly, his heart went absolutely still.

“You…you’ve never…said thank you.”

“Grave oversight.” Crowley turned his hands over, running his thumb across his newly manicured nails. “This is…yeah, this is nice.”

“Ah. Well.” Aziraphale waved a hand, neatly teleporting his supplies into a different room. It was his usual method of cleaning up – eventually, things would wind up where they were supposed to be – but he realized alarmingly late that this now meant he and Crowley were simply sitting on a bed together. “I…I suppose I should thank you. For, ah, for indulging me—”

“Should I…return the favor?”

“Ah!” He snatched his hands against his chest, as if afraid Crowley would steal them entirely. Well. That wasn’t quite what he was afraid of. “Return? How – how would you – Crowley, my nails are – are already in tip-top shape, and you wouldn’t—”

“Your wings. Like I said,” Crowley went on, familiar sharp edge slipping into his tone, “absolute mess. You’re one to talk about grooming, carrying around two disasters like that.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale was about to snap something else, but his eyes accidentally met the demon’s, and there was nothing mocking about them at all. Anxious, shy, almost waiting to be hurt. Did he always hide that expression behind his glasses?

“I, ah…I’ve never…how do we do this?”

Crowley’s eyes went wide. “Ngk. Unh. I mean. Sit there or…or maybe…lay down? On your stomach?”

“Ah, yes, I wouldn’t want to – to get tired, holding them up.” Aziraphale stretched out across the top of the duvet, resting his cheek on one of the pitch-black pillows, and extended his wings.

He could have sworn he heard a heavy breath – maybe a gasp, maybe a sigh. “Just as I thought. Look at this utter disgrace. When was the last time you preened?”

“Well, as I never walk around with them out—” Aziraphale was cut off by an impossibly gentle touch, two fingers brushing lightly across the leading edge of his wing. It felt…good, an electric shiver that ran down his wing and up his spine.

“Oh! S-sorry.” Crowley sounded embarrassed, which was something Aziraphale had never heard before. “I shouldn’t have…is this alright?”

“Yes. It’s…it’s very much alright.” He wrapped his arms around the pillow, feeling the need to brace himself, and stretched his left wing slightly. “Please, continue.”

The touch of Crowley’s palms against his wings was electrifying, yes, but also gentle, soothing. He carefully explored down the length of them, not stirring any feathers yet, just learning the ways they lay against each other, where they grew thick, where the flight feathers emerged. Aziraphale could feel the feathers that were out of place now – they snagged and tugged against Crowley’s hands, bunching in the wrong spots. Uncomfortable, the way sitting in a chair too long could be uncomfortable without even noticing.

“You’re lucky you didn’t need to fly,” Crowley remarked, scolding, as if it was an everyday risk, instead of something that hadn’t come up in five thousand years. His fingers now flicked around the shortest patch of Aziraphale’s coverts, just shy of the leading edge, finding one of the culprits. Manicured fingertips burrowed deep into white feathers, hot against the skin and muscle beneath, and with a few quick but gentle scratches twitched it back into position. “Does this hurt?”

“No…That feels…” Crowley traced the feather from base to tip, pushing the barbs back into the correct alignment. A few more strokes ensured it lay, flat and neat, alongside the rest.

“One down, dozens more to go. And that’s just this side. Hope you’re comfortable.”

He was, though. Aziraphale closed his eyes, sinking into the gentle rhythm as Crowley moved – feather by feather – across his wing, setting each to rights. He felt as though a burden were being lifted, the worry in his stomach slowly unknotting, bit by imperceptible bit, as if the world were fading away, leaving nothing but that touch.

By the time Crowley reached Aziraphale’s alula feathers, the pain in his gut was gone. As he worked his way back across the primary coverts towards the scapulars, Aziraphale began to forget what he’d been worried about. Then the warm fingers ran down the first of his flight feathers, and time stopped entirely.

Crowley had never imagined Aziraphale’s feathers could feel so different from his own, but they did, so soft and delicate he would have believed they were pieces of clouds if not for the warmth that emanated through them.

Was it because angel feathers were somehow more pure? Or was it simply a matter of familiarity – that his fingers had stopped even noticing the texture of his own wings?

He was nearly finished. Really, he was done already, but his hands still glided across coverts and primaries, feeling for anything out of place, any excuse to delay longer.

“Right there, please.” Aziraphale suddenly interrupted. “Just…just a little itch. Could you…?”

“Got it.” Crowley let his fingers sink in again, scratching gently at the base of a feather. “Here?”

Aziraphale just murmured in relief, a little sigh. Crowley had knelt beside him to better reach the wing, but now Aziraphale shifted, pressing their hips together. “This feels simply marvelous.”

“Y-yeah,” Crowley said, clearing his throat. “S’why you’re supposed to do it regularly.”

“I should have asked you to, years ago.”

Crowley smoothed the feathers back into place. He was finished. It was time. Time to switch and part ways, possibly forever.

He didn’t lift his fingers from the edge of Aziraphale’s wing.

“Would you have?” Crowley wondered, surprising himself to hear the words out loud. “Would you have let me, if I’d asked?”

Stirring, Aziraphale tucked his wings away, all that glorious heat vanishing to another plane. He rolled over and considered Crowley, but didn’t sit up yet. “I’m not sure. I…I would have wanted to. But…well…”

“And if I’d – I’d asked for other things?”

“I don’t know. Would you have asked? If I’d indicated my interest?”

Somewhere, the sun was rising. Somewhere, the day was starting. Time, never any time.

“I don’t know,” Crowley confessed, the words ripped from his soul. And then, not letting himself think, he fell forward, onto the pillows.

Aziraphale caught him, pulled him into an embrace. “I want to find out, Crowley. What we are. What we can be. I wish…I wish…”

Long fingers reached up to cradle Aziraphale’s cheek. “I know, Angel. I know. We’ll get our chance.”

Aziraphale nodded, though the tears in his eyes said he didn’t believe it. A brush of fingers on the back of Crowley’s hand, and Aziraphale turned to kiss his palm, his wrist. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I wasted our time. And now…”

“No, you didn’t waste anything.” He pulled Aziraphale roughly against his chest. “You hear me? Nothing. I’m…I’m glad for every moment we had.”

The angel didn’t respond, just sobbed, once, face pressed into Crowley’s shirt.

“Shhh. We’ll survive this. I swear it. And then we’ll have eternity to figure this out. Alright? You and me. And…and things will be different this time. I’ll be different.”

“Don’t you dare,” Aziraphale said, his arms locking behind Crowley, strong enough to break his spine. “Don’t you change a thing, Crowley. I don’t want anything to be different.”

“Really? You’re happy with how things were?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale pushed back, just enough to meet Crowley’s gaze, eyes wide and wet and earnest. “So…so very happy, when we were together.”

“Well, then.” Crowley bent forward, resting his lips on the top of Aziraphale’s head. “That’s what we’ll do, yeah? Be together. Forever.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #Wings #crowley's flat #aziraphale and crowley #angst #good omens angst #emotional h/c #pre-body swap #night at crowley's flat #aziraphale #crowley #manicure #tumblr fic #my writing

167 notes · View notes

jimlingss · 4 years

Text

Sugar and Coffee [3]

Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 3.5 OR Chapter 4

➜ Words: 3.5k

➜ Genres: 99.5% Fluff, 0.5% Angst, Pâtisserie school!AU

➜ Summary: It isn't hard to be a pâtisserie chef, but it's not a piece of cake either. It seems like for you in particular, life keeps throwing in one wrench after another. It always finds ways to make your sweets bitter. The cherry on top is Jeon Jungkook — a rival with a sensitive sweet tooth who always finds ways to complain about you.

cr.

Jungkook didn’t know this is how his night would turn out. The cold night air bites at his skin, turning his cheeks rosy. His finger presses the button and there’s clinking and clanking before the aluminum can comes rolling at the bottom slot of the vending machine. He takes it from the slot and walks over to the wooden bench. “Here.” You’re sniffling, your entire body jolting as you do so. You take the cold grape soda with both hands, and hold it in your lap. He hopes you like it — he saw you drinking grape soda once back in high school. Slowly, Jungkook takes a seat beside you. It’s terribly awkward for him, and he’s not sure what to do. The sounds of your sniffling shatters the silence of the night. “You know….” He clears his throat. “People always break up with their first girlfriends or boyfriends.” Jungkook steals a glance at you. Tears are still slipping from your tear ducts, shedding down the apples of your cheeks. “And, uh, first loves don’t usually last. Even if it did, the divorce rate is pretty high, so, um, uh...yeah.” Your sniveling is violent as if you’re trying hard to keep it at bay. He scratches the back of his neck, mind scrambling for ways to comfort you. “You either get married or break up, so I guess he didn’t see you as the marriage type.” It’s the shittiest advice ever. Jungkook is at least self-aware enough to know just how bad his attempt at consoling you is, but it tumbles out of his mouth anyway with the half of the brain cell he has left. “You guys weren’t that great of a couple anyways—” You burst out crying. Again. This time the sobbing is louder, harder. Uncontrollable. It makes Jungkook look in all directions to make sure no one’s here lest they call the police and accuse him of harming you somehow. “I...I love him!” you manage to say past your sobs, voice breaking in the process. It’s heart wrenching, though nothing but the truth. In this second, you’re so utterly vulnerable that it makes him entirely uncomfortable. “I l-love Jin. S-s...so m-much.” You’re shaking with gut-wrenching sobs. Grief pours out in a flood and salt water creeps from your eyes. You whimper, “I thou—ght I was going to m-marry him, J-J-Jungkook.” The boy beside you doesn’t like the way you call his name, how you’re crying when you say it, how you’re blubbering. “Next month was supposed—….supposed to be our...two year anniversary.” Jungkook has the urge to wipe off the flour stain on your forehead. But as he contemplates if he should or shouldn’t, he loses his opportunity. You tilt your chin to look at the sky, stain out of way as tears spring free down your cheeks. You sniffle, “I really, r-really love him.” Jungkook leans in. He wraps his arms around your shoulders. He pulls you in close and hugs you tight. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but this is probably the least he can do. What his intuition tells him to do. He feels you tremble against him until you stop. “W-what are you doing?” “Umm…” “Get off of me,” you spit at him half-heartedly and he lets go as if he’s burning you. You’re back to sobbing again. Jungkook is at a complete loss. You were better as a bitch or at least easier to handle. It’s horrifying when you’re crying.

The cake burns in the oven. Jungkook can see the smoke curling into the air. He can smell it as it singes off his nose hairs. And he takes it out with mitts, coughing and wheezing, throwing the charcoaled tray on the kitchen counter. He turns to the person responsible. “Were you not watching it?!” “Fuck you, Johnson.” “Why didn’t you set a timer?!” “Why didn’t you?!” “Because I wasn’t the one who put it into the oven!” He shouts, “Are you an idiot?!” You’re looking at him what that infamous frown — those lopsided lips, that knot between your brows that makes your anger tangible. He watches the way you open your mouth to retort...but the hesitation is visible. And in shock, he then watches the way your expression crumples. His gut feeling tells him this isn’t right. He steps back. But then it happens. You start to cry — Jungkook freezes, eyes as big as saucers. Your head knocks forward, tears drip to the floor. You’re so small. He’s never seen you like this before. Jungkook’s never seen you so vulnerable before. “H-Hey, Y/N. C’mon….” His hands come out, but they don’t touch you. He doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know how to make it stop. He is powerless. “I’m sorr—” Jungkook’s entire body jolts. His eyes rip open into the night. He’s woken up in a pool of his own cold sweat. Oh god. Thank fucking christ it was only a nightmare — he’s still traumatized for life. The boy sighs, running a hand over his face and through the damp strands of his hair. He twists and turns, trying to return back to sleep, but he’s unable to. Eventually, his hand reaches for his phone on the nightstand. 5:42 am. Jungkook: hey 5:42 am. Jungkook: u ok??? 5:58 am. Jungkook: so when should we meet up for napoleon again Hours later, it says you’ve seen the message, but you never answer him. You leave him on read.

It’s been a few days — how many, you’re not so sure. You’ve been binging on ice cream and fudge brownies. The area near your mouth is stained with chocolate and crumbles of the treats. You haven’t showered in a while, or got up for that matter. It just feels better when you can pull the covers over your head and go through pictures of you and Seokjin on your phone. Photographs of ice-cream dates, that time you went to an amusement park together, your high school graduation, the fairy lights you saw on Christmas, the beach during summer break, the movies during Spring break…. All of them. You look through all the pictures, from the blurry ones of him holding you close to the ones where you’re pouting as he leans down to plant a kiss on your cheek. You miss Jin so much it hurts and you always end up crying again when you play back the videos — sobbing underneath the lump on your mattress. You’re glad you don’t have a roommate who can hear you crying day and night. You remember the first time he asked you out, the first time he held your hand, the first time you kissed. It’s all fresh on the forefront of your mind, and you’re left wondering what you did wrong, where things took a turn and you didn’t even notice. And you lay like that until you can’t cry anymore, until there’s no more pictures to see for the tenth time, until you reach the end of your years of text messages going back and forth. That’s when you see Jungkook’s text and you’re reminded that you can’t just lie around. You need to get up, go to school. You paid a lot for it and you have midterms — you can’t leave him waiting. Having no one to turn to, you dial his number. It rings thrice before it picks up. “Hello? Y/N?” “Hey.” You can’t recognize your own voice. It’s thick and crackly, making you wince. “Sorry. I...called.” “No, it’s okay. It’s okay, trust me. Um, are you, uh, alright?” “I don’t know,” you answer honestly and peel back the covers just a bit. “I just wanted to let you know, I still remember the midterm, so…” “Yeah, I know, t-take all the time you need.” “Okay.” It goes silent. “That’s it. I should go now.” “Right. I should probably go too. Take care of yourself.” The call ends. At least you still have a reason to get up. // Even if your mind is slowly preparing itself but your body isn’t, you have to eventually lug yourself up anyhow to get food when your supply of brownies and ice-cream runs out. It’s a miracle how you can just go on autopilot — that you can walk to the dining hall while brain dead, that you can go forward when your bones and muscles are numb to movement. You grab a tray and haphazardly scoop a ladle full of soup into your bowl. But when you turn away to find a seat, you come face to face with the worst of it, having forgotten this would happen. You catch sight of Moonbyul and Sandeul at a table, but there’s no way you can approach them. They’re not your friends. Not anymore. All of your friends were Jin’s friends. He introduced you to them — and they know him better and longer than they know you. It is undoubtable that they would choose him. You’ve lost everything. You have no one. Your hand tightens on the edge of the tray, looking for an empty table, searching for a spot where you can sit and quickly eat. Then you suddenly hear a call of your name— “Y/N!” Turning around, you discover Jungkook standing up from the cafeteria bench with his arm raised in the air. You approach hesitantly in five strides. “Hey….” All his friends are staring at you. One that you recognize as Jimin, another as Taehyung, one that has sharp features and striking looks and the other sleepy with cat-like eyes. “Ummm…” “You can sit here.” Jungkook moves his friends’ trays out of the way, gesturing for them to scoot over. They look at him like they’ve gone crazy. “T-Thanks…” You take him up on the offer, not wanting to reject him and make it more awkward. They continue to gawk at you, and Jungkook has that sympathetic gaze of his. You know you look like a mess — you haven’t run a brush through your hair, the underneath of your eyes are red from rubbing, your nose is dripping, and your spoon trembles as you bring the soup up to your lips for a sip. “Uh, this is Jimin, Taehyung, Yoongi, and Hoseok.” “Nice to meet you,” you croak after clearing your throat. “We’re in introductory cakes and decorating techniques together,” Taehyung chirps with a grin. “Yeah, I know.” You try to smile and look over at Jimin. “And we’re in fine pastries together, right?” Jimin nods, not uttering a single word. The awkwardness is tangible. The man named Yoongi sucks up his soda noisily and then pops his lips off his straw. “Is your boyfriend not here toda—ow! What the fuck, dude.” Jungkook’s doe eyes look back at his friend’s. “What.” “Don’t play dumb, you just stepped on my damn foot—” “Hey, is that all you’re eating?” Jungkook points his fork at your meager bowl of soup. Then he moves a bowl of fruit from his tray to yours. “Eat this. You like fruit, right? It’s good for you.” You stare at it and pierce the strawberry to chew it in your cheek. Jungkook smiles when you move the honeydew off the bowl onto his plate. He eats it. “So when do you want to meet up again?” “Tomorrow.” “Okay, sounds good.” Eventually, you finish your meal and mumble something about having to go to your locker. You bid them farewell and Jungkook waves with a brightened smile. All five of them watch your backside becoming smaller. Then once you’ve disappeared, Yoongi, Hoseok, Jimin and Taehyung turn to Jungkook and wait for an explanation. He looks back at them. “What?” “Don’t ‘what’ us. The fuck was that.” “Since when did you become buddies with Y/N?” Yoongi inquires, curious as well to the sudden change that almost gave him whiplash from sheer shock. “Okay, first off, we’re not buddies. She’s just going through some shit, so I’m trying to be a decent human being.” They continue to eye him and Jungkook sighs, putting down his utensil. “Jin dumped her.” “Oh shit.” Hoseok exchanges a look with Jimin. Taehyung’s jaw is slack. “Damn, that makes a lot more sense.” “Yeah, so don’t talk about him, dumbass,” Jungkook says pointedly to Yoongi. “Hey, I didn’t know! Don’t put the blame on me.” Hoseok asks, “When did it happen?” “I don’t know, like a few days ago.” The dark-haired man leaves out the part where you were crying. They don’t really need to know that detail and he has no plans of making a spectacle out of you. Taehyung leans in closer, too nosy for his own good. “Why?” “How the hell would I know? Ask if you want to know that badly.” “Nah, it’s no wonder though. She looks pretty bad.” Jungkook muses the same and he can only hope you’re holding up well — if not for your own sake then for the sake of the midterm. // Another day comes and goes, a sunfall and sunrise, and you find yourself knocking at Jungkook’s door. You didn’t know the weekend was so long. It feels long when you have no one to see, no one with you, nothing to do. Even after a full week has passed, you don’t feel better or close to it, but you know logically it’s better to get up and at least do something productive. You have some self awareness to know that rotting in your bed would be a pathetic way to die. The door swings open. The boy’s eyes are rounded. It occurs to you that you never realized just how brown his eyes are. “What are you doing here?” “I...thought we could meet up early. I don’t really have anything to do, so…” “How’d you know this is my room?” Jungkook peeks down the hall as if he could catch the person who exposed him like this, but there’s no one. “I asked the front.” “Oh.” “Can I….” “Sure.” Jungkook widens the door without thinking of the consequences and you step in. It looks like a tornado took a turn here. His belongings are scattered and in disarray, clothing hanging off the back of his chair and dumped on the floor like there was a Black Friday sale. Jungkook follows your line of sight and laughs stiffly. He picks up his briefs by your foot. “I’m usually not this messy, I swear. I’ve just been too busy to clean—” The man pales and jumps on his bed when he notices what you’re staring at. He tries to cover up his IU posters with his hands and his body, but to no avail. “These aren’t mine! They’re just up temporary cause, they were, um, gifts from my mom. I was a fan of her back in the day! But not anymore! Don’t make fun of me…” The entirety of his wall above his bed is posters of IU from back in her debut days to her most recent comeback. He has a shelf of all her albums lined up in a row with her official lightstick too. They don’t seem dusty at all. You take your eyes off of them, not uttering a single comment. Jungkook realizes you’re not going to tease him and gets off his bed awkwardly. He continues to pick up after himself, throwing his used clothes in the laundry basket. His eyes flicker up to you. “Wow, not even trying anymore, huh?” he jests, trying to lighten the mood. “Your outfit’s ugly.” You look down, self-consciously tugging on the hem of your oversized sweater. It’s a taupe hoodie that goes to your knees. “It’s Seokjin’s.” “O-oh. I, uh, mean you smell bad.” Jungkook laughs by himself and grabs his Febreze off his nightstand. He sprays the expanse of your body. It smells like fresh linen. He stops after five seconds when it occurs to him you’re standing motionlessly — when it hits him that you’re not going to smack the head of his side like he expected you to. Jungkook puts the Febreze back on the table and clears his throat. “I’ll be ready in two minutes.” You’re freaking him the hell out. No matter how much Jungkook tries to banter with you or pick an argument, you remain quiet. // Even if you’ve gone mute, your baking abilities are luckily still intact. Jungkook works quietly alongside you and helps you assemble the cake. After two strenuous hours, the product is put in front of the two of you. At first glance, the presentation is acceptable, but taste is another thing. He cuts into the cake and eats. You wait patiently for his reaction. Jungkook’s brows wrinkle. “Ugh, god.” He sets his fork down. “It’s so bitter.” Your cakes are usually too sweet that it hurts his teeth — now it’s not sweet enough. “Did you add any sugar?” “You kept complaining I add too much,” you murmur dejectedly. “Yeah, but you have to add some, Y/N. It’s not enough now. Here. Taste it. It’s disgusting.” He gives you a tasting fork and you take a bite. After a thoughtful chew and swallow, you look at him impassively and shrug. “Tastes fine to me.” “What?” Afraid he’s gone absolutely crazy, Jungkook takes another big bite. This time, his entire mouth dries and his tongue shrivels. It’s bad enough that he hisses, “It’s bitter.” “I can’t taste it,” you mutter apologetically, eyes on the floor. “I think it’s because my nose is plugged.” “How are you supposed to bake if you can’t taste?” Jungkook sighs in frustration. All your efforts for the past two hours have gone down the drain. You’ll have to start again, making it once more. But— “What’s the point?” you ask him, shoulders slumped and your entire form drooping in on itself. “What?” “What’s the point?” you whisper to Jungkook. “We either do well or we fail, but it’s not like it’ll matter. We’ll still pass the class and we’ll move on. And we’ll graduate and work, and then die a few years from now. It’s not like this’ll significantly change our lives. What’s the point if we make it well or not. What’s the point of worrying about it.” Jungkook is utterly mortified at your sudden despair. “Don’t you want to do well?” You shrug. He doesn’t know who this is — who you are — what you’ve become. This isn’t the Y/N that he knows. “Can you stop moping?” Silence. “You’re not helping yourself by being miserable,” Jungkook says sharply. It pisses him off that you’re so pathetic, that all it took for you to become so small was a mere breakup. He can’t fathom that his rival has been reduced to this. “There’s worse things out there. It’s not like you’re dying.” It remains quiet. He doesn’t know what he has to do to squeeze some kind of living response from you. “You’re alive and you’re still here. How much longer are you going to be like this? We have things to do!” Jungkook shouts, throwing his fork into the sink overflowing with dishes and bowls he has to wash as a result of your blunder. And it still seems like you don’t care. “I don’t get why you’re so sad. Jin isn’t even that great. He dumped you. So what? You move on! You get over it!” You sniffle. It snaps him back. Jungkook comes crashing down to reality. He watches the way you put your hands to your face and he realizes you’re crying again while nodding. God. He didn’t mean for it to come out like that, for him to sound like such an asshole. “I’m...sorry,” you whimper, words muffled behind your hands. “I just...I’m t-trying.” He sighs for the nth time. Guilt overwhelms him. “No, I didn’t mean it like that.” Jungkook gently tugs on your strand of hair that falls in front of your face. His voice softens. “I’m sorry, Y/N.” You nod, wiping your eyes away with your hand. “I just r-really want to go home and pull the covers over my head and pretend it never happened.” “I know.” He really doesn’t. Part of him still doesn’t understand. Jungkook can’t comprehend what was so great about Kim Seokjin that has you so devastated, but he tries his best to empathize. “But we can’t do that, can we? We just gotta...keep going. And it won’t be too hard cause it’s not like you have to do this on your own, right? Cause I’m here…..and you’re here, and all…” He’s bumbling, tripping over his own tongue and cringing over his poor attempt at comforting you. But you look up at him with glossy eyes and he lets go of your hair. With no one else to turn to and no one that you can confide in, you manage a small nod. You choose to believe him.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fluff #jungkook scenario #bts reader insert #jungkook x reader #Y'ALLLLL

575 notes · View notes

fullsunalicia · 4 years

Note

since i just noticed we are in DIRE need of some yuta around here and i love your writing to bits... may i request a friends-to-lovers!au with our one and only osaka prince?🥺 some tooth-rotting fluff with a dash of angst sprinkled in between? thank you so much!💚

velleity • NMY

velleity (n.) - a wish or inclination not strong enough to lead to action. an accurate example: the love that has been blooming inside your veins for nakamoto yuta, long before you even knew what it was like to fall.

thank you so much for your request !! i love yuta with all my heart and i was so happy when i saw your message 🥺 i hope you enjoy bubs!

You meet Nakamoto Yuta in elementary school, back when his Korean was clumsy and his beautiful features had still been a mystery beneath these chubby cheeks. The grimace the boy presented when you pulled at them didn’t reveal them, either, so for a very long time both Yuta and you couldn’t ever imagine calling the other ‘beautiful’.

Now, it would be blasphemy to call him anything but. Yuta’s face is what people claim to be picturesque. Perfect, down to the last detail. To assume that he is flawless would be a lie, but you’re convinced that your best friend isn’t far from that. He looks like he jumped straight out of a fairytale, like the prince you had been imagining every time your mother read you a good-night-story. You see him when you close your eyes, long after you slipped into a dream. But because you never reduced him to looks, you get to brag with the title ‘Yuta’s best friend’. You know him inside out, all the little things and the trivia behind it. Your knowledge is a treasure, expanded over the many years where you get to know this precious soul and watch it grow. Take shape, a rose exploding out of its’ bud.

That knowledge contains the silliest facts. He loves takoyaki, especially when you cook it. Despite the fact that you’re not japanese and will never reach the culinary skill level his mother is on, he inhales the food like it’s his last meal and then bombards you with every single compliment he can muster up. He also loves soccer, but quit it to focus on school and later on becoming an idol. Another funny fact is that Yuta hates the taste of limoncelli, because it’s the first alcoholic drink you ever gave him and then procceeded to get him wasted with. An hour later, he vomitted it out. (To be fair, he asked for you to get him drunk because he claimed it’s the only way to cure a broken heart. Clearly, this man has never had the perfect comfort food.)

You have read Nakamoto Yuta and studied him like a favorite book, a favorite read. There are folds in his soul from pages that you hold more dearly than anything else, and torn pages that represent the many fights that you both had. Yuta is familiar, constant. From time to time, you take him out the shelf, dust him off and fall in love with him all over again. The story enamours you every time. Your best friend stole your heart when you were sixteen and unknowing, undisturbed, when he held you so tightly you were going to suffocate. The smell of perfume and home. Loud whistles from both of your friend groups, a heartbeat that resonates inside you as if it was your own.

Befriending Yuta had been fate. It had been like meeting a kindred spirit, and you broke the golden rule. You fell in love. You feel that love even now, when you look into those ebony eyes. You’re looking at him, but he’s looking at her.

Heart-wrenching. That’s what it feels like when you serve him his favorite food but he still can’t tear away his gaze from her, and you reminisce the days where he would cheer like a little boy and thank you with the brightest light in his eyes, even though your first tries at the dish must’ve been only edible at best. You grab for a chopstick and aim for his head, and he whines loudly when it meets its’ target. “You’re so mean! Is that the thanks I get for visiting you at work?”

“You mean bothering me, idiot?” You roll your eyes and turn around to wipe the counter. Of course your stupid heart had beat faster the second you saw him step into the restaurant, just for it to shatter into a thousand pieces when you realized that he was here for someone else. Sweet Sana, who had been on the receiving end of your envy for years now, based on the fact that she was Yuta’s dream girl and not you. The envy is always accompanied by guilt, because Sana is nothing but kind and selfless, the shoulder you had been leaning on for years now ever since Yuta dedicated himself to his career. You watch as she rounds the tables and picks up dirty dishes, a smile adorning her lips despite the tedious task. An angel. She must be. “You just showed up and demanded to be fed. Not a single please and thank you, you spoilt brat. Aren’t you ever getting sick of takoyaki?”

“I could never.” Your best friend seems disturbed by the thought. If Yuta was ever served a death sentence for having killer looks, you’d bet a thousand dollars he would still choose Takoyaki as his last meal on death row. To look that good should be illegal. And it should also be illegal to steal your breath every time you guys meet gazes. There’s so much warmth in his eyes, reserved only for you - it’s a look that not everyone can be grazed with, not to those who haven’t known his entire being by heart. But never will you find the romance you crave in them, and that thought pushes you to look away every time.

You swallow down the pain and force yourself to keep a neutral face. “I’m putting you on a diet, if that’s the way you’re gonna act when I serve you your favorite food. Stop staring at her already, creep, you’re scaring her.”

Yuta sighs, long and heavy. Dramatic. He’s always been open with his crushes. “But she’s sooo pretty,” he pouts then, resting his head in the palm of his hand to look at Sana more comfortably. Right when both of you look at her, she turns to where you guys are sitting and waves, a cute little blush exploding on her cheeks. Very relatable. There’s not a single girl who is immune to your best friend’s charm. Yuta immediately springs into action to wave back, and you try to ignore the way his excited grin makes your chest hurt. “See? She’s not even doing anything and I’m still falling even harder!”

Yeah, that feeling seems familiar. The only difference is who you associate it with.

— ❅ —

Falling in love is so easy. Too easy, considering the fact that it can take years for your heart to recover and even then, the person never leaves your heart fully. You have wasted many years trying to get over Nakamoto Yuta, but your heart refuses to do so; the farest you ever get is closing the door on him, but you can never quite get yourself to lock it. The keys are always in his hands, impossible to tear away. Some people just aren’t meant to leave.

You’ve learned too many lessons from Yuta for you to ever forgot about him. You will never be able to not associate warm summer nights with him, will never forget the way he runs off the soccer field straight in your arms and whirl you around after a particularly good game. The first person to ever teach you how to cut off people that cause more harm than peace, who showed you how a proper friend should treat you. A first kiss, though left undiscussed. The many nights spent cramming in information before an important exam, getting drunk together and letting your hands wander because you trust each other. It’s all Yuta, and it always has been. You look for him in other people, in hopes of moving on but also easing the pain in your heart that is solely caused by the boy with the chubby cheeks.

Your eyes search for him everywhere.

Sadly, you even find the boy in Sana’s eyes. Her eyes emit warmth, a home inside a soul. You met Sana in highschool and love her the way you should’ve loved Yuta - she’s family, a sister, a best friend. She knows secrets you never even dared to think about in front of Yuta and treats them like treasures, a pirate taking his precious things to the grave. Trust is like gold to Minatozaki Sana, and the fact that you willingly give her your entire world is the greatest gift you could’ve ever given her. You can’t hate someone who is a part of you - Sana is you as much as you are her, one soul in two bodies. It’s a pity you got the half that Yuta would never desire.

Her fingertips are coarse; so unusual for the girl who looks like the definition of soft. At the end of every shift, you guys take turns massaging sore spots in your shoulders since both of you are too broke to pay for a professional massage inside a salon. You make do with what you have, at ten in the evening. There’s too many chores that are still unfinished, but the laziness is more powerful than your sense of duty. Whatever. Your manager has never complained about you staying longer to clean, so there’s no rush.

“You’re tenser than ever.” Sana sighs over the groan you let out when she hits a painful spot, her thumbs digging in to erase the knot she found. For someone who claims to possess no strength, her grip is pretty hard. “Have you been sleeping properly? You know I told you to stop pulling so many all-nighters... It’s not helping you.”

“I’m aware, mom. But my college degree isn’t earning itself.”

“Oh, shut up.” Her apron hits the empty barstool beside you before she moves to grab a rag to start wiping the counter. The artificial light usually creates an unpleasant ambiance, but it looks like moonlight when it hits Sana’s skin. So surreal, out of this world. The gods must have shaped her, there’s no other explanation. A perfect fit for Yuta. For a second, you contemplate how you managed to befriend the most precious people in the entire world. She rips you out off your train of thought, though. “Your grades are fine. You’re just throwing a hissy fit. Here’s a deal, either you start sleeping on time or I knock you out. How’s that sound?”

“Very pleasant,” you deadpan, and that’s the end of the discussion. She pinches your waist before moving along to put the chairs on the table. It’s always quiet in the evening, especially in this corner of the city. Every night at the same time, an old couple passes the window and waves at you, like the precious members of society they are. There’s a distinct routine that Sana and you established over the years, and you fall into it on instinct. The clean-up is quick as always. The bell on the door signals the end of your shift, and you step out into the cold night as Sana turns the key in its’ lock.

You guys are like two peas in a pond, to the point where traditions and habits have been assimilated together. It has now become a reflex to know what to do in any situation - while anyone else panics at your tears, Sana grabs a bottle of wine and a good movie. When the world turns blurry and the stress is the only thing Sana can see, you’re the first one to cook some spicy food and watch as she eats it, just to catch that special, grateful smile. Cogs working in clockwork. A perfect fit.

“How are things going with Taeyong?” Sana sounds neutral, but the cheeky undertone in her voice is evident to you. You know her better. “Drop it,” is the immediate answer you shoot back. Her laughter rings in your ears like a melody. You wish you would be able to dislike it.

“Hey, I just asked you a simple question. Is that forbidden too, now?”

“Yes. You’re not even allowed to say the T in Taeyong. Move along now, I want to go home and get some food in my stomach.”

Sana hums. “I heard Taeyong is a pretty great cook, too. Did you know that?”

You don’t answer her. Taeyong is nothing like the man that is truly inside your heart, and yet there’s no possible way to deny him. You’ve once told him over a bottle of whiskey about the feelings you harbor for his fellow band member, and yet he doesn’t let that deter him from his conquest of your heart. Taeyong knows unspoken secrets that neither Yuto nor Sana are even aware of, and that thought is strange to you. Taeyong isn’t connected to you like he is to Yuta. It’s barely been a year since you’ve properly gotten to know him. And yet, he coaxes things out of you that you wouldn’t even admit in your wildest dreams.

Lee Taeyong is dangerous. Point, blank, period. Still, you let him court you because he doesn’t mind the constant reminder that your heart belongs to Yuta. It even hurts to tell him that, because Taeyong has one of the most beautiful smiles you’ve ever seen. His heart is yours to take, even though you don’t want it. Just looking suffices, though. You threw one look inside and have yet to tear your eyes away, locked into a spell. Like looking at a car crash.

He claims that look is enough for him to keep trying. To you, it’s just torture for an innocent man who could have everyone if he wanted. Girls who are kinder, more selfless. Selfless enough to finally move on from a childhood crush and give him all he craves.

“Hello? Earth to (y/n)?” Your blonde companion waves a manicured hand infront of your face. “I didn’t mean to step on a landmine. I’m sorry, okay?”

The sigh you heave out is more alarming than intended. Meeting Sana’s eyes, you already know she’s got you figured out. Lying is useless now. “There’s no reason to be sorry,” you mumble, but it sounds half-hearted. “I just feel guilty about Taeyong. You know, since it’s unrequited and all.”

“I’m telling you, you’re missing out. I get that you want to focus on finishing college, but that boy could be heaven for you. I wish a boy would look at me like that. You deserve the world, (y/n).”

If only she knew.

Your shared apartment is freezing. Sana hurries to turn on the heater, while you finally get rid of jacket and work clothes. The walk to your room is quiet, accompanied only by the sound of Sana’s playlist starting to quietly reverbate through the apartment. Every nook and cranny is filled with a reminiscent thought, a story that only the owners of this apartments can recall. Despite your awkward predicament, you’ve always been thankful to have Sana.

Life is so much better with friends, especially those who see your entire being and decide to love it. No matter what comes with it, no matter how many disputes. It’s been a rocky road, but Sana and you have moved mountains to honor your friendship. You wouldn’t give her up for anything in the world. Especially not for a boy.

To your luck, you fall asleep just in time before Sana can scold you. Atleast in your dreams, everything is perfect.

— ❅ —

Though you claim that Taeyong is dangerous, you’ve always been someone who likes to play with fire. He looks like an artist’s dream-come-true, with sharp edges and soft doe eyes. Not even the dye in his hair can jarr the perfect image he creates, though he claims you’re just trying to make him blush by saying that. Your eyes may be locked on another man, but you’re not blind. Taeyong is as pretty as they come, with the kindest heart you’ve ever seen.

Since you reject an invitation to coffee and cake because you need to study, Taeyong climbs the many scary stairs up your fire escape so he can tumble through your open window. Accompanying his sweet grin is a bag of macarons and other pastries, which makes your stomach grumble embarrassingly loud.

“I thought you weren’t hungry.” Taeyong sets down the paperbag on your biology book, before he settles in the chair beside you and curiously peeks at your notes. You asked him once if he ever wanted to attend college, and he said that he had considered. He’s too in love with being an idol, though. It’s an attribute that connects him to Yuta - their ambition for the stage. Your best friend gave up soccer for it. You wonder what Taeyong has left behind to perform for the world.

You open your mouth to answer, but your stomach interrupts you again - now the blush settles on your cheeks, the very thing Taeyong had waited for. He laughs as you grab the paperpag, murmuring a “I’m not hungry” before stuffing your mouth with a lemon macaron. Normally, you’d offer him the other half, but it seems like you’re starving. “I thought I told you to rest today,” you say instead, eyes raking over his face. His hair is tinted red and white, like blood on snow. Beauty in controversy. “Since, you know, you’re like the most popular idol in the game right now and everything is pretty busy as it is.”

“Did you really think I’d miss the chance of finally being home alone with you?” Taeyong throws your legs over his lap and leans back - shirt riding up to reveal his defined tummy - and you avert your eyes. He’s already being tortured, you don’t have to make it worse by thirsting after him. But his statement opens up a gaping hole inside your stomach, so unsettling that your heart starts to clench. “He told you?” you ask dumbly. Of course Yuta had. Who hadn’t he told of the happiest moment in life, right after being accepted into SM? After months of pining, Yuta had finally been able to score a date with the Minatozaki Sana. Now the apartment lays empty, like a hollow tomb. For your dead heart, maybe. You realize that you’re being melodramatic, but it’s the only thing cheering you up right now and you have no wit left to make up for it.

Sana had accomplished what you never did. In a few weeks, those dates will evolve into a relationship, and it’ll finally be your turn to vomit out the cold limoncelli that burned the back of Yuta’s throat. It’s a tradition to down it after a heartbreak, one you guys kept up long after highschool. For the first time in ever, it’s going to be Yuta’s fault you’re drinking it. An Irish Wake for the girl who got away.

She had locked sickening in that dress. You sent Sana off with one of the most hurtful smiles you had ever been forced to put on, before all your tears ruined the sociology notes of today’s class.

You stuff your mouth with another macaron. “I should’ve known he’d tell the entire world,” you sighed. A warm hand covers your thigh in comfort, but it’s useless. A band-aid can’t help with a wound that’s located on the inside. “You know, Taeyong, maybe I’ll just change my name and move to Hawaii. I’d be a lot happier on Hawaii. Is there any way for me to like, legally get rid of my identity and disappear under mysterious circumstances?”

You hate the look of pity inside his eyes. It makes you lower you own gaze, reminds you of the sea of pain that you’re drowning in. It’s hard to stay afloat. You don’t need anybody to make it harder. “We could start with some mimosas, first,” Taeyong gently says. The gentleness banishes any kind of annoyance that had developed under his pitiful gaze, and he lets you climb into his lap, hides you away from the world in his embrace. Until you are ready to face it, ready to return to reality. The one where you’re an unaffected roommate who’s simply happy for their friends. “But I feel like I’ve barged in on enough Yuta-(y/n) traditions. So how about we grab some food?”

“I told you I have to study, Tae.”

“Bullshit. I think I’ve been watching you stare into the air for about five minutes before I even came in, you loser. Admit it, I’m doing you a favor.”

The punch you deliver to his chest does nothing to quiet down his little giggles. “You suck,” you growl as an answer, but stand up nonetheless to change into something more presentable. Taeyong respectfully turns away while you do, humming a melody under his breath. The pants you put on are only pulled over your hips before you halt in motion and watch in awe as the sun casts shadows over Taeyong’s face; his face contorting into art as his cat-like eyes slip closed. For some strange reason, Yuta’s words come to mind; about how photographers always gush at the leader’s photogenic features.

For a second, you ponder over this reality. The reality in which you stop clinging to a lover long lost and face a new one, something that could be good and healthy for you. As easy as breathing. It would be like spring, the end of an era, getting rid of the chains that held you back. You only have to accept him. Almost in trance, you take a step forwards, toward Taeyong and that warm reality - just to get a closer look at the artwork - before those chains rattle again. You’re a fool to think that you’d ever be able to discard of them. The freezing metal rips you out of Taeyong’s summer dream, back into the room that is filled to the brim with Yuta’s memories.

It’s far too late for you now. Silently, you finish changing and tap Taeyong’s shoulder as a signal that you’re ready to go. His smile hurts to look at, and he doesn’t even wait for permission before he interlocks your fingers and pulls you along. You wonder how he deals with the pain of rejection. It looks like nothing on him, but you feel like you’ve been poisoned, slowly rotting away. The guilt seems to crush you a little bit more now that you’ve got a taste of Taeyong’s experiences. “Wait,” you say, voice tiny. Feet skidding to a halt. Taeyong’s curiosity is as innocent as ever, and you feel bad for how hard it must be for him to look at you and know you’re never going to be his. “Tae, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be the one you want me to be... I....”

“Stop.” Taeyong’s voice is strangely calm. It soothes your many worries, enough for you to quiet down. He raises his hand as if to cup your face, but decides against it - dropping it again to cover both of your hands. Smile never leaving his lips. “(y/n), I knew what I was getting into. It’s me who’s selfishly accepting every slither of affection you even grant me.”

“But am I not hurting you?”

“Sweetheart.” Taeyong laughs, as if you had said something funny. His thumb traces your knuckles, once, twice, a habit that he picked up from you. This time, he confidently tugs a strand of hair behind your ear, still giggling when he speaks again. “We all suffer for love. How could I ever judge you when your pain is essentially mine?”

You think you understand. If you imagine the pain to be a heavy bundle, it’s easier to carry it together. In awe at his strength, you let your gaze wander over Taeyong’s face again as he starts blabbering about a new K-BBQ place he’s been wanting to visit. When you catch the train, you finally feel like the poison’s slowing down. It hasn’t spread through your entire body yet.

As always, Taeyong is the remedy to all your problems.

Sadly, he can’t protect you from the awful sight Sana and Yuta offer when you find them tucked in the booth of a restaurant you used to frequent with Yuta. It would’ve been too much to be happy for one afternoon atleast. Despite standing outside the glass windows, you can hear Sana’s melodious laughter in your mind when she dips her head down to quieten the soft sound; golden curls flying with every shake of her head. Your best friend is beaming at her, drink in hand long forgotten, and you tear your eyes away from the scene before your broken heart starts piercing your lungs.

If only you had recognized the citrine liquor sloshing against Yuta’s glass, for you would have noticed something was definitely going wrong. You don’t take notice of his drink, instead quickening your speed and forcing Taeyong to keep up with you. When you start rambling, your companion says nothing, opting to shoot back his own anecdotes to take off your mind of the thing that is evidently bothering you. For the entire evening, he doesn’t let go of your hand once, and you return home with your belly stuffed with delicious dinner and your heart patched up by your new favorite member of NCT.

— ❅ —

You pass your exams with flying colors.

The pride that fills you when you see the grade on the piece of paper almost makes it worth all the things you’ve endured the past few weeks, even though it had been increasingly difficult to keep up. Silently, you watched your pretty roommate leave your shared home more times when you would have liked to count, while you remained stuck inside your stuffy room. The only escape you had for a while were the fire escape outside your window(which had been making you nauseaous the first few times you sat on it, but Taeyong had insisted it was fine) and work, where Yuta only came to blab about his idol life or test your culinary skills. You never ask him about Sana, and he never spills. His quiet support during exam season was the only reason you could handle Sana’s nightly meets, and you clung to the few moments where you could call Yuta yours.

There had once been a time in highschool where studying had been much more fun. Every correct answer had earned you another piece of candy, which became so addicting that Yuta and you upped the stacks by making the other treat them to dinner if they had more correct answes by the end of the free period. What started as school work evolved into a competition, which in turn had led to your first kiss under the lights of Seoul’s summer festival, the roar of passerbys and the loud music booming through the streets accompanying that precious memory. You had been glad, so glad it was Yuta who had stolen away that first experience, because you know for a fact he would never waste it. You had bet him a ticket of the ferris wheel, since it was terribly expensive and pocket money was barely cutting it for you. Not only had he purchased the ticket, but also won you the biggest teddybear on the market. You couldn’t remember what instilled it, but seconds after the plushie was placed into your hands, Yuta had cradled your face and kissed you like his life depended on it.

Your first kiss was magical. The sweet taste of cherries and the unimaginable trace of love that Yuta had left on your tongue had made you feel alive, as if for the first time in your life, your heart finally started to beat. The blood rushing through yours veins was powered by fireworks and adoration for one single boy, the sweet boy who taught you how to ride your bike without your training wheels, made you cook takoyaki atleast twice a week, and bothered to create silly traditions and inside jokes like limoncelli or Hello Kitty band-aids, placed over Yuta’s nose after he got a soccer ball to the face.

That summer had been the summer Yuta was accepted into SM. You had never talked about the kiss again. But what a vivid memory it was! Like your personal, handmade movie, your own living piece of magic. You had never imagined love to be so powerful. But you understand it now, as you look into Yuta’s eyes and realize that all you had ever wanted for him in life was for him to be happy. And he was.

That was enough. The pain, the endurance, you’d do it all again. For Nakamoto Yuta, who reached for your hand and never had let go. Not for soccer, not for the industry, not even for the many people he had dated in the past. That must be worth something.

“You’ve been looking at me weirdly all day.” Yuta scrunches his nose in fake disgust, but his eyes are still crinkled from the pleasant smile that curved around his plush lips. His mom always says that he looks like a fox; it had been his halloween costume three years in a row. Right now, he looks just like that. Coy and dangerous and in the wait. “You trying to pick a fight or what? Because I’ve got all day, and a little wrestling never hurt anybody.”

“So what, I’m not even allowed to watch now?”

Yuta winks before you realize the extent of your words. Cringing, you turn away, but not before seeing the laughter burst out of him, the sound addicting as always. “Don’t get weird with me now, Nakamoto,” you warn him, sliding off your soft bed to close the window. The cool wind was enjoyable, but it kept messing up your many exercise sheets that still needed to be sorted out before september came. Next time around this year, you’ll finally have finished your degree and would return to a proper working life. What an adventure that would be. “Are you planning to camp in here for the rest of your life or are you going to leave eventually? Because I actually got plans and I’m not afraid of kicking you out.”

It was already strange to you that Yuta was sitting here, and not in the living room with Sana. To your knowledge, they were still dating, and the reminder still stung. But no, your childhood best friend remains seated where he is, wrapped in your favorite blanket that you bought on a family trip to Osaka. Another memory that ties him to this place. Your parents had offered to surprise him since you guys were always seperated during summer vacation, and they had always wanted to go to Japan. You learned how to fish there. Weirdly, you kinda miss sitting on the cold river banks while your father tries to explain how to properly kill a fish.

Yuta clutches his chest in faux pain, dramatic as always. “So mean,” he whines. “Here I am making time for my best friend in the entire world, and it is not even appreciated. I’m kicked out, even! Tell me, what has happened to justice? Is it not first come, first serve anymore?”

“First of all - I’m your only best friend.”

“That doesn’t matter.” He nonchalantly waves you off, like someone would an annoying fly. “I still love you the most out of all of my friends, so it’s different. Pick up a book once in a while, (y/n).”

You try to shake off the pain that one single word had incurred in you, but it’s so unbearable. It makes you want to scream. Your life would be so much easier if Yuta truly loved you and you’d be able to tell him aeons worth of confessions, of how you found heaven in his soul and salvation is his heart. It sits on the tip of your tongue, a heavy burden to carry for someone who’s as frail of you, but you only tell him: “It is first come, first serve. Taeyong has been planning to take me out after my exams for a while now, while you were out being lovey-dovey with a certain roommate.” You raise an eyebrow at his awkward expression. A fox in the trap. “So much for loving me most, oh best friend.”

On any other circumstance, he would’ve jumped at the opportunity to argue. Yuta is very clingy, and very affectionate. You’ve seen his band members on the receiving end of it, and are glad that they atleast don’t suffer his temper tantrums whenever someone challenges the position of ‘best friend’. Today though, he nitpicks: “You have plans with Taeyong?”

You blink. “Yeah, I guess. I told you we guys got closer in the past few months.”

Yuta’s hand feels more heavier in yours than Taeyong’s did. He pulls you onto the bed again, hands latching to your waist to hold you close, treating you like a personal teddybear. It doesn’t take long before your back is pressed against his chest while he rests his head on your shoulder. “How close, exactly?” he grumbles, childish annoyance peaking through his voice. “You’re not giving him all my Hello Kitty band-aids, are you?”

“Are you accusing me of treason?”

“Maybe so.”

You try to escape his death grip, but ultimately fail. God damn those muscles. “Get out of my room, traitor. I would never ever give away the holy Hello Kitty band-aids.”

“Hmm.” Yuta loosens his hold, and you suck in the breath you so desperately needed. Do you look like a ragdoll or what? “I suppose it’s alright then. When are you getting back?”

“Who are you, my father?” You smack his thigh in retaliation for him caging you in, but your friend only laughs it off. A pinch to your waist makes you jump away from him. “Since when do I need permission from you to come and go?” you complain then. Never once had Yuta been so protective because of a boy than now. It made you wonder what was going on with him. He only shrugs, not offering a explanation. With a last grin, he falls back into the mattress and crosses his arms behind his head, as if the room belonged to him. Ass. “Be back before twelve,” the man only hums.

When you leave Yuta in your room(although with a heavy heart, since you’re sure he’ll join Sana in the living room after you leave), he offers you his cheek as a goodbye. You freeze in place, since this is the first time since sixth grade you sent him off with a kiss to the cheek. Nonetheless, you bow down to do him the favor, his warm hand keeping you in place for a few moments longer, before he lets go of your waist and gifts you a smile that seems rather melancholic. You almost stay.

Almost. You’d rather choke than watch him lock lips with your only female best friend.

“What are you doing on saturday?” Taeyong asks you after offering you a bottle of soju, abandoning your side to place the fluffy picnic blanket over the grass. Han River glistens golden in the light of the sun, a honeyed mirror of the world. It’s almost tragic that life is so heartstrickenly beautiful, no matter what the circumstances are. You suppose that’s what makes it so beautiful. A few moments later, Taeyong has tugged you down so he can rest his head in your lap. With a happy sigh, he closes his eyes and soaks in the last warmth the day has to offer, as always ressembling a statue.

“Nothing, I think,” you tell him. The soju is sweet, easy on the throat. A stark contrast to the Yuta-(y/n) tradition. You don’t have the heart to tell Taeyong that the festival starts on friday, since it’s evident that Yuta is going to take Sana and not you. The magic spell from that fairy-tale kiss had long worn off. This is the real world. “Not until now, since you’re taking me out, I’m deducing?”

“Absolutely correct. No wonder you passed your exams, you’re so clever!”

“I feel belittled.”

Taeyong laughs. The sound rumbles through his chest, as harmonious as the lyrical verses he creates and incorperates into songs. “It wasn’t meant to be,” he promises, hand reaching for your own. His fingertips are cold from the bottle he had held for you until you reached the riverbank. “I’m very proud of you for passing your exams. You did exceptionally well, even though I mothered you so much.”

“Thank you.” Your answer was demure, but it came from the bottom of your heart. Taeyong had been an important emotional crutch, and he had even fulfilled your promise of seeing someone else so he could move on from you. Even though he does, he vows to be a friend for life like Yuta is. It’s so different from the Osaka prince, but Taeyong has truely gotten to the point where he became vital for you, in another way than Yuta is, but how Yuta should have been. He hasn’t told you the name of the secret lady, though. “You think I’ll get my degree?”

“A hundred percent.” A tight squeeze is reassurance enough for you, and Taeyong’s face contorts into a happy grimace when you squish his cheeks. “Thank you,” you say again. “You’re the best friend in the entire world, Taeyong. Really. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“If you want me to live, never say this in front of Yuta.”

“Sure thing.”

You’re not the only people bathing in the evening light, as the riverbank is crowded with families and friends all alike. Their joyous laughter takes you to a time where breathing had been a little easier, a little freer. Where your heartbeat didn’t resonate through broken shards. You’ve come to realize, though, that you wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the world.

Not if it meant Yuta.

— ❅ —

[08:26pm] yuta-chan ♡: do you think you could meet me at 9 at the ferris wheel? i have to leave for japan after that.

[08:29pm] (y/n): so that little cuddle fest in the kitchen today didn’t mean goodbye already?

[08:29pm] (y/n): that was embarrassing to do in front of taeyong, by the way.

[08:30pm] yuta-chan ♡: he can handle a little pda. i came first, you know.

[08:31pm] (y/n): i don’t think i’ll be able to make it, yuta. i’m out with taeyong.

[08:31pm] yuta-chan ♡: boo, you whore.

[08:31pm] yuta-chan ♡: can you please atleast try? for me?

[08:32pm] (y/n): yuta... ✓

[08:32pm] (y/n): are you serious? you lose service now?? ✓

calling yuta-chan ♡...

[08:34pm] (y/n): yuta, i cant just leave ty!! pls come back online 😭. ✓

Sighing loudly, you slam your forehead down onto your phone. The line infront of you was getting shorter and shorter, and the tickets to your movie were already purchased. What was so damn important for Yuta to want you to meet him at nine? Even if you went now, you don’t think you could be there on time. Taeyong watches curiously as you pound more messages into the device, only for you to whine since they aren’t getting through. “For God’s sake! I’m gonna kill him!”

“What did Yuta do now?” Taeyong sounds way too amused for your own liking.

Angrily, you try to call your best friend again, but to no avail. Apparently, Yuta had chucked his phone away after ominously telling you to meet him at the festival. That stupid festival, and the stupid emotional value it came with for you. “He wants me to meet him at the ferris wheel in twenty minutes!” you shout then, exasperated. The loud volume of your despair brings you a few nasty glances from the people standing in queue, but you cannot bring yourself to care right now. “And he knows exactly I’m out with you right now. I can’t just drop everything and go just because he wants me to! He didn’t even tell me why!”

“Just go, (y/n).” Taeyong pinches your cheek. The gesture would have been adorable if you weren’t so annoyed right now. “It’s just a movie, and we can just rewatch it - I’ll just call someone else.”

“No, I don’t want to.” You stuff your phone back into your pocket. You can’t come back running to Yuta, just because you love him. Being at his beck and call will just ruin you, as it always has over the many years you had been spent motionless at his side, too cowardly to step forward. The allure of velleity stops here. You have to break free of your curse now, or you’ll never be able to. “I’m sure it’s fine. I bet he just wants help with Sana or something, it’s not like he can’t do it on his own. He’s a grown man.”

“(y/n), it’s not about Sana.” Taeyong’s eyes turn serious now, shaking at your resolutement. “I think you should go.”

“Trust me, Tae, I know him. He’s just panicking because he has to leave Sana behind for a few months because he’s never dated someone over long distance, even though it’s not forever. I’m going to finally move on and accept that Yuta and I are never going to be.”

“He’s not dating Sana, (y/n)!” You squeak when Taeyoung abruptly turns to you to shake your shoulders, so unusual for the calm man he usually is. Your second mom, as you lovingly called him. “I am. They stopped dating a long time ago because Yuta explained he wasn’t into her, he was into you. He was trying to move on and failed! Do you understand, (y/n)? Nakamoto Yuta is in love with you!”

You gape at Taeyong like a fish out of water. For a few seconds, which feel like centuries, you’re so speechless you forget the urgency of the situation. Your brain can’t register everything at once, despite the fact that you just received the biggest news of your life, so it latches on to the most logical one at hand. “You’re dating Sana?” you repeat in utter shock, rumbled to the core. “When the hell were you planning to tell me?”

“I’d love to tell you more about my secret romance but I’m afraid if you stand here any longer, you’re going to miss out on your last chance to ever confess your feelings to Yuta ever again!”

The veil drops. In a matter of seconds, nothing in this world made sense but Yuta, because why wouldn’t it? Your best friend, the love of your life - suddenly growing overprotective and so hellbent on PDA, the long, sad gazes that seemed to trail after you that you had interpreted as pouting because you were neglecting your friendship. All of it falls into place, and awakens one instinct that has been buried deep inside you for years now, unused and unpolished ever since Yuta left the soccerfields behind.

Whenever the team had won, it was a race about who could tackle Yuta first. Yuta, the star player, dubbed score god by his teammates as he keeps carrying them to the win. You had learnt pretty quickly to leave your friends behind in the dust just to reach him in time, to fall in the arms that had always been waiting for you and you only. You barely remember the few occassions where Johnny had in fact been faster than you were, just for Yuta to avoid him so he could embrace you and whirl you through the air like some kind of doll. The sound of victory, the heavy pattering of a heart that is so familiar that you that it seems like your own. Now, it comes back to life - you barely remember placing the ticket into Taeyong’s hands as you stumble around and push past all the people, in direction of the main festivities. Your legs are light, lighter than the wind and the air as you run like you were running for your life, heartbeat hammering in your ears. Was it your own, or Yuta’s, the melody that has been accompanying all your life? No time to wonder as you pick up speed and pray, pray for any god willing to listen for Yuta to wait.

How could you be so silly and let him leave before telling you goodbye at the ferris wheel? Was it not another one of your silly traditions, like that disgusting alcohol and the awful takoyaki you had made in the first weeks of learning how to cook? The sweaty jerseys that were always exchanged to show your support at his games? The whispered promises, the untold ones, was it not always there? You feel blind, so blind - and so stupid! How could you not have noticed the ways Yuta’s gaze had stopped trailing after your roommate? Was it not you who left him in that bedroom and never saw him join Sana in the living room, crawling into the bed beside him when you returned like he hadn’t ever moved? Was it not you who had taken up all his time?

The festival is as stuffy as ever, as well-visited as ever. It is 09:08pm and you fear for your life, for your heart, because it’s with Nakamoto Yuta and he is about to leave with it forever. You fall onto your face a few times and scrape your knees bloodly, but you keep walking, praying.

No one familiar is standing in front of the ferris wheel.

This must be karma. It truly is, fate paying you back just in time for you to cripple in metaphoric debt. For years, you had prided yourself with knowing Yuta best, your favorite book, one you’d read for the rest of your life. Now, when you finally break out from the spot you were frozen in, it is already too late.

Atleast that’s what you think for ten long seconds.

There’s a warm hand who pulls you back, the hand that has been guiding you all your life. Late-night walks back home, your first time in Osaka. Han River’s riverbank and the streets of the city when the festival lights lit everything up. Yuta’s beaming smile goes straight to your heavy heart, and it soars in happiness as he hugs you and whispers: “You came back for me!”

“I did, you big idiot!” Without second thought, you jump into his embrace and throw both arms around his shoulders. You are right where you’re supposed to be. You’re home, you’re home, you’re home. While the salty tears of relief blur up your sight of the buzzing marketplace around you, loud, sincere laughter pearls from your lips. It’s a hymn of joy, your unofficial serenade to the man of your dreams. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re here.” Yuta pulls back to cradle your face, something he had never done so carefully except that one time, almost seven years ago. “You’re here with me,” he says then, almost in disbelief. There’s a moment of silence where the magic of your teenage days returns, spell-bound, and just a second later, Yuta’s warm body finally crashes against yours as familiar lips cover your own. Of course he tastes like limoncelli, but below that, he tastes of precious memories and secret thoughts, the silent adoration that was never one-sided. His fingers trace your jawline while you tousle his hair, both mapping out each other as you imprint it into memory.

You are unconditionally, irrevoceably in love with Nakamoto Yuta. You tell him that when he finally lets go of you, and he repeats it back, as many times as he can. Confessions and explanations are exchanged, but nothing really matters except the fact that you managed to jump back in time and finally fulfill your chance. You finally made your move.

“I don’t think I can let you go to Japan yet,” you tell him then, several minutes later, while you stand in line to the ferris wheel, even though he should be long gone by now. There’s a flight to Tokyo going in two hours, and yet he’s still here. Clinging to your hand like you’re going to disappear if he looks away. Love-stricken eyes that make your knees go weak. “You owe me some explanations.”

Yuta pulls you closer with the arm he keeps hooked around your waist, bright smile never leaving his lips. “We’ll have plenty of time up there to spill,” he responds and kisses the tip of your nose. He smells like home. Like forever and beyond. “I love you. I’ll give you the rest of my life in exchange for just one evening with you.”

No, one evening wasn’t enough. You’d give Yuta eternity in exchange for his heart, but let’s just start with today. In celebration of being inclined to move. For two hearts who were lost at sea, meeting again after what they thought would be never ever. He’s definitely going to miss that flight, though.

112 notes · View notes

comeonpeters · 3 years

Text

i never forgot

bobby/trevor wilson-centric; mild angst fic / a conversation he’d never thought he would get to have.

Rose wouldn’t want him to come and accost her daughter with his presence, but he has to know. Rose was his friend, Rose saved his goddamn life, but the three of them, they were his- he knows the look of his- of the- of those boys. He knows what he saw. He knows. There’s a glowing light outside in the studio and he goes to it, knocks on the studio door, doesn’t let himself hesitate. Julie looks at him with tears in her eyes. He doesn’t know why. There’s no one else in the studio with her. He wishes there were.

“Mister Wilson?”

“Julie, you know you can call me- Trevor. Even if you and Carrie haven’t spoken lately, you can still call me Trevor,” he says, tripping over a name that he hasn’t been called since he was seventeen. She invites him into the studio with trepidation as if he hasn’t been there a thousand times, as if he didn’t used to own the place, as if he didn’t used to- as if it wasn’t his once. As if it wasn't theirs once. Even walking in here feels like twenty five years of grief is pressing down around him, but he walks in anyway. He doesn’t let his jaw shake, no matter how much it would like to. He does not let himself get angry, or sad, or small, no matter how much he would like to. Even thinking of- it makes him feel young. Seventeen. He misses Rose. He misses-. He can’t think.

“I saw you at the show. Thank you for coming. It was really nice of you to be there,” Julie says, trying to break the tension that has settled now between them. He doesn’t know how to broach the topic he needs to. How does he- there’s no way to accuse your dead friend’s daughter of playing in a band made up of your dead family is there?

“Of course I did. How could I not come and see you and the boys play?” is what he says, nonsensical and not what he meant, and he has been so collected since he picked himself up out of the gutter he threw himself into twenty five years ago, and he’s not handling this well. He needs to meditate. Or call his therapist. Or do any one of the thousand coping mechanisms that he’s learned over decades of therapy, but none of them come to mind, of course, because he’s looking his friend’s daughter in the eye as she flounders like a fish.

“The boys? Yeah, everyone is super impressed by the hologram band thing, right?! It’s, uh, it was really nice of you to come all this way, but it’s getting late, isn’t it?” Julie tries, and he should let her, he really should.

“Julie... are they ghosts?” he asks, again not exactly what he meant, and yet what he needs to know. She looks at him, alarmed. Then, a notebook, Luke’s fucking notebook, falls off of the piano, and the question might as well be answered for her.

“Oh, come on, guys, you couldn’t have kept it together until I got him out of here?” Julie says to someone he can’t see, and his heart shatters, just a little bit. Why can she see them? Why can’t he? Why couldn’t he ever see them? He had always- he had tried- why couldn’t he ever- his chest hurts. He wants to be sitting down, so he moves over to Luke’s couch (he remembers helping Luke carry it into the studio, they stole it off of the curb when some guy was just gonna throw it out, what a mensch) and he slumps down. They’re here. He just can’t see them.

“They’re here?” he asks, just to confirm. Julie nods. “I know they have things to say. They’ve never been the quietest bunch. What have they got?” He hasn’t done anything perfectly (save Carrie), and if anyone is gonna fight him tooth and nail on everything, it’s Luke Patterson.

“Well, a lot. Reggie’s first question, when they first found out who you were, was why you didn’t share anything with their families, and Luke wanted to know why you didn’t share the credit,” Julie says, looking at specific areas of air where he can guess the boys are. He wishes he could see them. He puts away the notion to sob, and laughs instead. He laughs because he can’t fucking imagine wanting to share anything with Luke and Reggie and Alex’s fucking families, can’t imagine wanting them to be able to look at the songs Luke wrote and think- wanting them to- fuck.

“Share with your families?” he says, speaking directly to the boys for the first time in twenty years, because he had done it a lot right after they died, and yet stopped when his therapist told him that it probably wasn’t helping. “Was I supposed to give money to Alex’s parents, who fucking kicked him out for being gay? Or Luke’s, who never believed in him, in us, in Sunset Curve, or the dream, or music? Or Reggie’s? How was I supposed to share with Reggie’s family when I knew how little he slept in that house? I was the last person left who loved every single part of all three of you, and I wasn’t going to give anything to anybody who ever made you feel- who ever- it’s been twenty five years, you’d think I would be ready for this conversation.”

“And what about the credit?” Julie asks, looking as if she wants to linger on previous parts of what he said, but Luke is definitely getting her to get him to move on. He appreciates that, snorting.

“I was 21 and my three best friends had been dead for four years. Rose... Rose convinced me to start making music again. She told me that I should pick out some of your unfinished songs, finish them up if I could, and see if I could make it big myself. I decided on Crooked Teeth because it was about Reggie, and My Name is Luke because it was about you, and Long Weekend because it was about Alex, I know it was, and Get Lost because it was about all of us. I figured... recording My Name is Luke, it was pretty obvious who it was by. Anybody could figure out who I was, that I used to be a member of Sunset Curve, that band that- yeah. You were dead, Lu. I didn’t. I didn’t expect to get you back.” He still doesn’t get to get him back, but this conversation, it’s more than he expected to have.

Julie clears her throat. He has to shake his head to return himself fully to the present. He hadn’t realized he had left it.

“Alex wants to know how you just... left them behind. It seems like after a certain point you just... moved on. You just forgot them,” Julie says, her tone reluctant. He knows her, and he knows that Alex must have insisted if she’s taking that tone; it’s the one she used to get when Carrie would convince her to do something not so straight laced and goodie two shoes. He shakes his head again.

“My daughter. Carrie. They’ve seen her, right?” he asks, wanting to get a confirmation from Julie. Julie snorts.

“They’re familiar, yes.”

“I was... spiraling. Before she was born. I wasn’t meant to be famous without the three of you. Everything was too much and not enough and there were so many people and none of them were the three of you, and you were dead. My family. All three of you stayed in my garage, and I don’t think you ever questioned why nobody ever asked questions about that. No one was around to. My parents were always gone, one business trip or another, one affair or another, and after I got on the road, it just got worse. Nothing real, nothing tangible. When I found out Carrie’s mom was pregnant, I had to beg her to keep the baby, and pay her through the nose besides. Carrie and Rose, after Carrie was born and I didn’t know how to take care of a baby, saved my life. And Julie. Do you know what Carrie’s full name is?” he asks, because he knows that she knows, and he nudges her with his shoulder just a bit like he used to do when she was younger. She gives him a ghost of the smile she used to have when she was younger too.

“Carrie Sunset Wilson,” she says, barely above a whisper. He nods.

“It was the only way to name her after all three of them. Named my little girl after all three of my brothers. And she saved my life,” he says again, because she did. She’s the best thing that ever happened to him, his little girl. He stopped making music entirely when she was born, road the money and went to gender inclusive Mommy and Mes and bought a big house where she could make friends (she already had a built in best friend, because Julie is three months older than her, they all lost Rose together, they’ll come back together), he does everything for her, still. He’s lost in his head again.

“What about-”

“He’s had enough,” a new voice says, a terrifyingly familiar voice says, and there’s a hand on his shoulder that wasn’t there before and he looks up and Reggie Peters is there. He’s just standing there, like he’s allowed to just stand there, like he’s not dead, like he hasn’t been dead for longer than he was alive, and a sob breaks out of Robert Trevor Wilson’s chest before he can contain it. He stands up and he wraps himself around a seventeen year old boy that he hasn’t seen since he himself was seventeen, and he feels like he’s going to crack apart. Reggie. His brother. His best friend. His family. His family. His family. Another body wraps around his back and he knows Luke’s stupid sleeveless fucking shirts even against his back and twenty five years late and he sobs some more. Alex hugs him too and he breaks into full fledged tears. Everything is okay. Nothing is okay.

“I never forgot. I never ever forgot. I would never forget you,” he says it like a mantra, and everyone knows it’s true.

#bobby wilson #trevor wilson #bobby jatp #jatp #julie and the phantoms #i sobbed while writing this #julie molina #reggie peters #luke patterson #alex mercer #carrie wilson #mine

15 notes · View notes

nukyster-blog · 4 years

Text

Changing Course Chapter 22) Crossfire

.-.-.

Ivar was brought back to the shed and dropped on his stomach, although he wasn’t aware of his transition. Unconsciousness momentarily redeemed him from the flaring pain spreading all over his back like a wildfire. The battered skin in between his shoulder blades had ruptured due to the lashes, leaving large bloody gashes.

In a flash, he regained consciousness as his faithful guardian took it upon herself to disinfect his wounds. Although her touch was soft, pain seared through his upper body better than a branding iron.

Bloody cloth after bloody cloth dropped aside Ivar’s writhing body; pain taking over a good portion of his brain. It was all consuming, his mind conceding in agony but aware of the necessity of Piglet’s torture. So he balled his fist and tried his best to lessen the primeval noises that come from his mouth; that of a dying animal.

The pain burned and radiated, it should have shattered his soul but deep down Ivar saw the blessing in his pain, it brought him closer to his Gods, it made him realise he was inviolable.

Piglet applied a salve, which smelled of honey, plantain, and chamomile while humming her song in candlelight. Ivar listened and turned his head so that he could look up to her. The young woman’s face revealed how badly his wounds were; her forehead puckered, lips set in a grim line and her hands were shaking.

“Lay flat,” she said matter-of-factly, which was an unnecessary order, because he wasn’t planning to move, not even an inch. He lay still as hay tickled his face and nose.

Piglet eventually curled up on her side to face him properly.

“Thick-head,” she sneered, eyes clearly upset over the hell he’d put himself through.

“Savage cunt,” Ivar murmured back apologetically.

“Did he come for you?” Ivar asked when Piglet was done rolling her eyes skywards, “last night?”

“No, he walks funny now,” Piglet revealed with a devilish grin, “you’re a mad dog.”

Ivar gave her an all-tooth smile, very pleased with the thought of marking the young ruler.

.-.-.

Ivar’s punishment had caused a change inside the castle’s walls. Although daily routine started as winter swiped through the shed with icy claws like an eagle, the atmosphere was different. The Giant spat his orders into Piglet’s face, but kept far away from Ivar’s box, as if his cripple slave was stricken by the plague.

Ivar had expected the brute to give him another kick after, definitely now that he lay battered and defenseless on the floor.

But the Giant left along with Piglet, leaving Ivar to face boredom and cold. His mobility was close to none, every moment hurt and could cause the cuts to rip further. Being exposed to fresh air would accelerate the healing process; the downside was being awfully cold.

Ivar slept for the most part of the day and was awoken by the fluttering footsteps of the two linen maidens. Both young women seemed anxious to step over the threshold, but eventually curiosity got the best of them.

With large doe-like eyes the two maidens kneeled down at his box and took in every inch of Ivar’s battered body.

Being the main act of their freak show wasn’t actually how Ivar had planned his afternoon, but aside from throwing daggers with his eyes there wasn’t much he could do about it.

One of the two maidens then did something unexpected, she clasped her hands together and started a soft prayer while the other placed two thick woolen blankets next to his trough.

After a brief hail Mary, both maidens hurried to get up and fled the shed, leaving Ivar completely dumbstruck.

That same event occurred two more times with different people. A peasant mother and daughter snuck inside the stable to behold Ivar’s beat down form and placed a bowl of goat milk aside his box before leaving. Two youngsters ogled him for a while before daring to enter the stable and, instead of throwing stones, left one of their most treasured possessions; a sling and a wooden miniature toy horse.

Piglet was less humble about entering and burst out laughing when she noticed all the gifted items. Shaking her head, she nicked the milk and brought it closer to Ivar. It was awkward drinking milk while lying flat, but Ivar managed without spilling too much.

“Ivar the bloody,” Piglet sniggered and drank some herself, “martyr.”

And so, Ivar learned he’d been given a new nickname among the poor population of de Haar. ‘De martelaar’, The Martyr, as Piglet put it. She explained as good as her Nordish vocabulary allowed her that a martyr was someone who suffered persecution and death for advocating a religious belief or for a good cause. Apparently, Piglet’s life was useless, yet her virtue was considered sacred enough to fight and nearly die for in the eyes of the slaves, serfs and servants.

Although Ivar completely despised the way his punishment was now silently considered a holy statement, he did enjoy the benefits; proper food, warmth in forms of decent clothing and blankets. And he must admit, the smoldering eyes of the female population fully in awe of his quote on quote ‘scars of true heroism’, flattered his ego greatly.

Piglet managed to keep her lips in a proper shape and hands clasped together as she registered all the gifts and from time to time ushered spectators out who dared to take too much time of the healing martyr.

After a few days Ivar managed to turn on his side without rupturing the gashes, Piglet wasn’t happy with it, but Ivar had to place himself in another position. Laying still for an extended amount of time caused so much ache in his legs he’d rather cut his own skin open again.

His body was no longer an unblemished canvas, but he had come to treasure his first won symbols of victory. He victored a Christian death, for even his crippled body was stronger than that of the enemy.

Was Ivar simply a stubborn young man, willing himself to survive torture, or did he lay there as something sacred in the punishment brought upon him?

Whatever it was, his new near holy status made it possible to survive the upcoming cold. The Giant did not bother him and stayed away from the shed.

It even placed him on a pedestal of the more fortunate of castle De Haar...

.-.-.

A week. It took Ivar a week to be able to place himself into a sitting position. It hurt, badly and he couldn’t maintain the position for long, for it was impossible to place his back against the solidness of a wall.

But it allowed him to massage his legs. Kneading his calloused fingers into the poor muscle tone of his calves his heart ached for a hot bath. And the warmth of a fire. And the satisfaction of a belly filled with mead.

The fallen prince extended his wish-list and glanced up puzzled as the door creaked. It was an odd hour for his so-called worshippers to risk a peek. Everyone should be working, it was way past lunch.

Cocooned in the finest of silk and furs, the fair maiden desecrated her sandals as she tiptoed into the shed. Ivar’s mouth dropped as she came closer, Kattegat was known for their beautiful women but this maiden outshone them all.

He could not breath, eyes drawn to her golden locks that gently caressed its way down to her neck, reaching her bosom. If her God was real, Ivar told himself, then this woman was one of His masterpieces.

She was scared, petrified. Ivar failed to find reason in her fright, for he was still recovering and enchained for the matter. Her hurried glances over her shoulder revealed her true dread; she wasn’t supposed to be here.

Now, this drew Ivar’s full attention. Why would a noblewoman, with so much to lose, put herself at risk for a crippled? Now this was interesting.

She kneeled down, and with that pulled her cloak around her tighter to stave off the keen wind. Closing her eyes, the fair maiden started to pray, clasping her hands together and bowing her head.

Now this was very interesting. Her submissive demeanor drew Ivar closer. As his chains rattled, the fair maiden hunched further forward and trembled. Oh, she was scared, a lamb willingly walking into a lion's den. And why, for gossip and rumors spread by her lessers?

Ivar edged closer, as close as the chains allowed him. And he waited for the fair maiden to finish her prayer, out of curiosity, for he wondered what she’d do next as she’d face him from up close. Lowering her trembling hands the fair maiden found enough bravery in her heart to look up. And her eyes, they were, in one word, beautiful. Her eyes were a perfect spring sky and along with terror they were incarnated with sanctity.

Ivar found himself bizarrely fascinated by the fair maiden’s utter devotion of her faith. She was risking hers to lay eyes on his skin, for he who was De Martelaar.

With one swift move Ivar grabbed the back of her head and pulled her in. She was close, so close that he could see her heartbeat gallop underneath the fair skin of her neck. She smelled of rose water and jasmine, pure and unblemished.

Ivar looked down at her trembling hands, her ring finger still lacking a wedding ring.

“Poor little lamb, you’re sold off to a monster,” Ivar murmured with pity, “but I bet you already know that.” Their eyes locked like magnets and although the fair maiden couldn’t understand his language, his humble bit of sympathy didn’t go by unnoticed. With wide eyes she watched as the crippled martyr slowly rose his free hand and pressed his index finger down in between her brows. She took in a sharp breath as he drew a small cross and spoke a blessing with sencernity:

“God zegene u.”

They were the words their holy man spoke at the end of every service. Ivar didn’t know the depth of the words, but witnessing how the fear drained from her face and got restored with hope, he knew he did little right today.

“How lost you must be, if you perceive me as something biblical,” Ivar scoffed soft, lips turning in a sideway smirk, very pleased that she still allowed him to touch her. A noblewoman on her knees in filth and animal dung, so desperately in need to find a shatter of hope.

Ivar’s fingers ran down the bridge of her nose fully aware that he was playing with fire, enough to burn the entire castle down.

Ivar did not know what emotion drove him, was it a simple payback in regards to her fiance? Was it selfishness? Weakness? Lust? Or a simple consideration towards a beautiful young woman, to briefly veil her from the terrible truth; that she was going to be married to a monster?

Whatever it was, Ivar kissed the fair maiden and the world fell away. The touch was light and soft, comforting in ways words would never be, for language was their barrier. His hand moved and rested below her ear, his thumb caressing her cheek as their breaths mingled.

The sounds of a tearing potato bag broke their spell. The fair maiden jerked her head in the direction of the sound and Ivar managed to look over her shoulder.

Piglet lingered in the doorway, holding the torn bag against her chest with a pile of potatoes spread around her feet. Still as a statue the slave gawked at the scene in front of her.

It was the fair maiden who broke the awful silence. As being touched by fire she jolted back, struggling to get on her feet. Shame-faced she whispered something to Piglet and managed to shove something in her hands before evacuating the shed.

Piglet managed a deadpan expression all while striding with large steps into Ivar’s box. There she exploded, beating her fists into his chest and smacking him across the face.

Alongside the curses in her mother tongue she managed to slip in some Nordish:

“Thick-head, do you have a death wish?!” She repeated numerous times before dropping on her knees and staring up skywards.

“IDIOT!” She exclaimed and thrusted her fists into the ground. “Hamar! Stupid idiot!” When Ivar failed to speak she crawled back on her feet and marched off. At the doorway she took a small pause and threw the fair maidens item across the shed.

Ivar played marble until he no longer could see the back of Piglet’s head before reaching forwards in the way. He picked up a woman’s necklace. A golden cross dangling at the end.

.-.-.

A/N Yeah, so this happened. This was not supposed to happen. But then again, Ivar is into blondes so yeah maybe I shouldn’t have let her get down on her knees. Also I didn’t have the intentions of making Ivar a Martyr, but it’ll get the pair of them through winter and c’mon you know how good this is for his ego. Mister God complex. But fuck, why did they had to kiss. Yes I’ll I seriously need to recover from this.

Also ‘God zegene U’, means ‘God Bless you’ in Dutch. So at least he blessed her before making out with the fiance of the guy who’s responsible for tearing his entire back open. I’m team Piglet with this one, he’s a complete and utter idiot.

So, what are your thoughts of our young Prince smoothing up with the WORST OPTION in the entire castle….

Xoxoxo Nukyster

The kickass beta: @Sarahh-Jane

The tagged ones:

@youbloodymadgenius

@xbellaxcarolinax

@saldelys

@shannygoatgruff

@pieces-by-me

@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa

@readsalot73

@lauraan182 @conaionaru

@sarahh-jane

@peachyboneless

If you’d liked to be tagged, please let me know:)

#ivar the boneless #Ivar the marthy #ivar the bloody #ivar fanfic #vikings fanfic #vikings fandom #alex hogh andersen

36 notes · View notes