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thewarriorspecial · 10 months

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(WIP) I'm Not Calling You A Liar

Rating: Teen

Additional Tags: Angst, Historical Fiction (the fun is in the details, the era will reveal itself), Age Gap (the ring has de-aged Hal but he's in his 60s and Kyle's in his early 30s.), secrets, pilot Hal

Kyle digs a little too deep into Hal's fascinating past.

(I LIVE for pilot Hal. his age in comics changes a lot so with this one I wanted to really get into the historical part of the fiction and dig a new facet or two into Hal's massive character. I feel like that two-sides-of-the-same-coin vibe he has with Kyle was the right kind of tension to wheedle this one out.)

Hal walks with a limp when his ring isn’t charged. He should’ve received a meager $3500 in compensation for the damage to his body but they had thrown him out long before Monsanto got caught with their pants down.

The money doesn’t make much difference when you can’t keep a job.

So Hal kept doing the only thing he’s known how to do; he sells his body for warmth, comfort, something to eat. He doesn’t need a place to sleep as long as his survival skills hold out.

Relationships are as much a game of cat and mouse as any mission he’s ever flown. He circles bars and campuses looking for fun or trouble or both. Men and women flock to him in groups of no less than three. He’s more than used to defending a cluster attack, teased from the underbrush with a waggle of hips or wings.

Hal never stays because Hal never sleeps through the night.

He watches his company for the evening, asleep on their side. He listens for their breathing to even out. He likes to watch them sleep, the satisfied look on their face gives him peace. He feels like he’s at least been good for something. The closest he knows how to get to another person is by getting under their skin, knuckles or fingertips or teeth on skin, but never really breaking beneath the surface, never being anything more than a passing ghost. A specter.

The wind howls outside and Hal can still hear the rocket motor overhead of the cockpit—a ticking time bomb that doesn’t have to hit to explode. He chest feels like it's in a vice. His body tells him to climb, eject, break but there’s no real threat. It’s just the wind.

Hal pulls the sheet over the sleeping person’s body, looks at them longingly one last time. Maybe he imagines what it would be like to wake up next to someone. Do people really go out for breakfast after? Is that a second date? He’ll never know.

The door clicks softly when he leaves.

————

Kyle shoves his feet into Hal’s threadbare slippers and drops himself heavily onto the bed—merely a mattress, sheet, and pillow on the floor. Hal’s barely any taller but his feet are way bigger. The soles of the slippers are pressed completely flat by Hal’s fallen arches. Years of wearing those godawful combat boots, Hal had said while Kyle was rubbing his feet.

Hal would lean back, close his eyes and sigh as Kyle gently massaged him, tempting him to rest but he never fell asleep and couldn’t bear to stay still for long.

Kyle gets up and paces the small section of the efficiency deemed “bedroom” by the mattress and hamper full of dirty clothes. There’s a footlocker at the end of the bed that looks like it could survive a nuclear explosion. An olive green backpack with tarnished bronze buttons rests against the footlocker, sunken like a dead body placed after a mob hit. It’s held together with careful stitches and heavily wrapped duct tape.

Hal is still in the shower. Kyle’s getting bored. The contents of the footlocker is unknown and astonishingly tempting. Unfortunately for Kyle, the only way he’s ever been able to get to know much about Hal is if he pries, either with words or with hands.

So, he pries. The ancient, two-ton box creaks open and smells like an old library case. Everything inside is carefully sorted in little square cutouts in larger and larger wooden trays, folded into each other like little Russian dolls.

Kyle pulls one tray out at a time, examining their contents and then gently setting them on the floor. In the open space beneath, several articles of clothing are perfectly folded, each filling up exactly the right amount of space like they were made to be there—as if they were lain together and the box had been built around them. Hal always was annoyingly organized. Kyle couldn’t even imagine spending that kind of time folding underwear and socks.

There’s a large canvas patch in one of the trays. It looks like the kind of thing a metal-head would sew into their battle jacket for a concert. It depicts a yellow, cartoon…fox or something wearing goggles and riding skis. The bottom of the patch is emblazoned with the letters ‘YGBSM’. It’s got Velcro on the back so Kyle sticks it to the robe, over his heart. He’ll have to look that up later. He’s always wondered what kind of music Hal liked.

A silver sparkle catches his eye. He reaches into the corner of the box and unearths half of a pair of pilot wings. Immediately he wonders if there’s an amazing story. How did they break? Did they stop a bullet?

The shirt that the piece of silver had been folded into catches and unfolds, revealing the edge of a photo—a hand, an arm, two men in flight suits in an embrace—

“Put it back, please,” Hal says softly, in the same tone he uses when he’s insisting he’s fine and obviously wounded and in great pain.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I—“

“It’s fine,” Hal’s smile doesn’t touch his eyes and Kyle knows it’s not fine.

“I shouldn’t have—“

“I see you found my robe and slippers,” Hal’s voice takes on a tone of amusement as he interrupts Kyle’s stammering apology. He’s got a small, white towel wrapped around his tapered waist. His hair is dripping all over the floor.

“Right! Here you go,” Kyle jumps to his feet, whipping the robe off of himself and helps Hal ease it over his broad shoulders. Kyle kicks the slippers off and scoots them towards Hal’s damp feet, leaving Kyle in just his cartoon print boxers but much warmer nonetheless.

Kyle still has the broken wing half in his hands, and he turns the piece of metal over and over between his fingers.

“An old tradition,” Hal answers his unasked question. “We never wear the first set. We break them and give half to someone important. Like a relative.”

“Is this from Carol?” Kyle asks excitedly, remembering that she was a pilot as well.

Hal turns his gaze to the room’s single window and swallows. The rest of his body is eerily still. He breathes slowly in, and slowly out once. After a moment he looks at Kyle again and answers simply, “No.”

“Oh,” Kyle says softly. He doesn’t want to ask anymore questions all of a sudden. He gently returns the broken wing to its secret corner and slides the photo back into its hiding place. The temptation to pull the rest of it out, to see who was in it, and if it was Hal, is overwhelming.

He wonders if either of the people in the photo are “Banger Three” who Hal sometimes calls out for in the night.

Kyle doesn’t want to ask anymore questions. Hal’s never lied to him, no matter how much he obfuscates and this time Kyle doesn’t want to reach any further into the fog.

#*myfic #halkyle

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reveniemus · 2 years

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you'd swoon, you'd sigh

for @kueble | also on ao3!

geraskier, 3k words, cw: anal sex, blowjobs, lingerie

A lot of things had changed in the witcher’s life since Jaskier had come into it. There were a lot less tomatoes and rocks being thrown, a lot less haggling when it came to payment. It was fascinating how much power one bard could have, but Geralt had to admit he wasn’t upset about it, mostly because it made it a lot easier to do his job when people weren’t terrified he’d murder them in cold blood or try to con him out of appropriate payment. Less of Geralt’s time and energy was spent with his hackles up and his senses attuned to everything around him in case someone was trying to cheat him.

All that extra energy, it seemed, ended up going into keeping Jaskier in check from going off the rails about buying things they didn’t need. Geralt didn’t think the man needed twelve more vials of sandalwood-scented hair oil, but he insisted on buying the product in bulk. He also didn’t need three jars of strawberry jam, but he insisted on always having some on hand. It was ridiculous, but Geralt figured, so long as he didn’t have to carry the man’s inane purchases, it wasn’t really his business.

“Geralt,” Jaskier starts one night as Geralt is rubbing a towel through his hair. The witcher looks up to see the bard standing in front of him, a towel wrapped around his dainty waist.

“What?” Geralt asks, glancing down at his body. Did his stitches come apart?

“You look good,” Jaskier tells him, a grin on his face.

Geralt raises an eyebrow, glancing down again and seeing nothing different from what he normally looked like. “Thank you?” he says slowly, knowing that Jaskier prefers when he uses real words, but not sure which ones are the right ones.

Jaskier just smiles brighter — if that was even possible — before going back to getting ready for bed.

Geralt doesn’t think anything of it afterwards, because Jaskier does things like that sometimes, just tosses compliments at him that he has no idea how to accept.

A month or so later, they’re in the banquet hall of some nobleman’s castle, Jaskier invited to perform and Geralt invited because, well, because Jaskier asked him to come along, and Geralt had enough coin that he could afford to take a few days without going on any big hunts. They’re heading up to their chambers afterwards — the odd look from their host when they said they didn’t need two rooms had made Geralt’s stomach turn, but Jaskier had insisted and they’d gotten their request with no questions — and Geralt thinks Jaskier is a bit off, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.

When they’re in the room, Geralt starts to get ready for bed, unbuckling his armor and taking account of everything as he packs it away. He pauses in the middle of removing his boots when he realizes Jaskier hasn’t moved from the doorway, his lute still hanging off his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” Geralt asks, hesitant and cautious.

“Nothing,” Jaskier says too quickly, blushing and his heart racing. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he adds, nibbling on the inside of his cheek.

“How?” Geralt asks, eyebrows furrowed. They’d spent nearly every moment together the last few days and Geralt didn’t see Jaskier buy anything that would be remotely close to a gift for Geralt. It had mostly been clothes.

Jaskier snorts. “Please, wolf, as if I haven’t learned how to sneak things past you after all these years,” he teases, but it seems to relax him as he puts his lute down.

“Your mouth is good for more than just singing,” Geralt teases back, a small smirk on his face as Jaskier starts unbuttoning his doublet. “Is that why I’ve been lavished with blowjobs the last week or so?” he adds, licking his lips as he watches Jaskier shrug off the deep purple fabric.

“Yes and no, I do adore being on my knees for you,” Jaskier answers, and Geralt knows he’s trying to sound casual, but his racing heartbeat betrays his nerves. He gestures for Geralt to take a seat on the bed.

Geralt finishes pulling his boots off before sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes never leaving Jaskier, who is flushed and fidgety. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the bard so nervous, including their first time, so whatever it is must be quite a surprise. Still, he sits and waits, watching Jaskier’s adam’s apple bob lightly.

“If you hate the surprise, we can pretend it never happened and I won’t be offended,” he tells Geralt sincerely, hands dancing across the hemline of his trousers.

“I’m sure I won’t hate it, but duly noted,” Geralt says, searching Jaskier’s face for any kind of hint as to what sort of surprise this could be. It’s definitely private — something just for them or Jaskier would’ve happily shared during the banquet — and he assumes there’s a sexual aspect to it, considering he’s sat on the bed while Jaskier gathers himself.

Jaskier takes a deep breath and starts pushing his trousers down, making Geralt realize he hadn’t even noticed him undoing the ties. When Jaskier straightens again, Geralt inhales sharply, his eyes widening as he takes in the sight in front of him. Underneath his trousers, he’s wearing a pair of stockings. Not just any stockings, but lace and silk ones, like the ones Geralt has seen in the shops to be sold for noblewomen and their ladies in waiting. The fabric — a deep blue color — is tight across Jaskier’s skin, straining against the muscles in his calves and thighs that they weren’t built to mold around.

Geralt’s mouth feels dry as his eyes move up Jaskier’s legs to where his cock is hiding behind a slip of lace fabric, fashioned to look like very tight, very short braies. “What…?” he starts, unsure of where the sentence is going as he watches Jaskier’s fingers fidget with the hem of his chemise.

“It’s a new knickers style that’s becoming very popular with the nobles that I thought could serve the aesthetic of the surprise,” Jaskier explains, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and blushing as Geralt stands slowly. “What do you think?” he asks, hopeful and nervous all at once.

“I think,” Geralt starts, reaching out to run his fingers over the waistband of Jaskier’s underwear gently, stopping when he realizes the bard’s cock is straining against the fabric, “you look beautiful in lace and silk,” he says, reaching up to wrap his hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck and pull him in for a kiss.

Jaskier whimpers, melting into the kiss as his hands slide up Geralt’s chest. He gasps when Geralt’s free arm wraps around his waist to pull him close. “I just have one request,” he breathes out, breaking the kiss and tilting his head back as Geralt’s mouth moves across his jaw. “Be gentle with them. It’s the only set I have,” Jaskier mumbles, fingers burying in Geralt’s hair.

“I’ll buy you more,” Geralt growls into his skin, making Jaskier shudder.

“Thought you don’t make frivolous purchases?” Jaskier asks, trying to sound teasing but his voice comes out shaky as Geralt palms at his ass.

Geralt grunts and pulls away, tugging Jaskier’s chemise up. “Frivolous means unimportant,” Geralt says as the bard lifts his arms, who tosses the fabric to the ground and takes half a step back to rake his eyes over Jaskier’s body, flushed pink under the thick, chestnut hair that covers him. “And this would be a very important investment,” he adds, licking his lips before locking eyes with Jaskier again, who grins a little.

“You like the surprise then?” Jaskier asks, stepping closer to Geralt.

Geralt raises an eyebrow and glances down at his trousers, where his cock is making itself known. “Safe to say,” he says, gripping Jaskier’s waist and pulling him closer. This kiss is rough, almost desperate as he presses Jaskier close.

The bard moans into the kiss, rolling his hips against Geralt. “I can’t believe you’d spend your hard earned coin on lace and silk,” he breathes out, eyes fluttering closed as Geralt mouths against his jaw and neck, sucking a mark on his collarbone.

“Why not? I’ve got more coin than I used to now, might as well spend it on something worthwhile,” Geralt says, pressing the words against Jaskier’s skin as his hands move down to his ass.

Jaskier whines, pushing Geralt back so he can sit on the bed. “I’m gonna suck you off,” he says before Geralt can protest, “and then I’m going to ride you until I’m sore,” he continues, and Geralt grunts, hands fumbling through undoing his trousers.

Geralt pushes them off and lifts his arms as Jaskier tugs his shirt off of him, tossing it to the side with his own clothes before dropping to his knees in front of Geralt. He takes his time, tongue and lips moving slow and reverent over Geralt’s cock, teasing all of the sensitive spots Geralt hadn’t even realized were sensitive before falling into bed with Jaskier, but the bard had made it his mission to find every part of Geralt that made him keen. Geralt knew better than anyone that there was no way to stop a bard on a mission.

Jaskier takes him in his mouth with gusto, his tongue swirling over the thick vein running down his cock as he swallows Geralt down. “Think you could use that witcher stamina to come twice for me?” Jaskier asks, voice wrecked from letting Geralt hit the back of his throat more than he normally would. If Geralt hadn’t been sure he was in for a long night before, he would be absolutely sure now.

“S’hot when you get all wanton like this,” Geralt tells him, sliding his fingers through the bard’s hair.

“Is that a yes?” Jaskier teases, pressing a kiss to the tip of Geralt’s cock.

“Definitely a yes,” he groans, licking his lips as Jaskier takes him in his mouth again. Geralt groans as the bard bobs his head, his tongue switching between swirling around his cock and stiffening against it to give him some sweet, glorious friction. It doesn’t take long for Geralt to feel the tightening in his balls that means he’s getting close, so he gives Jaskier two gentle tugs in his hair.

The bard pulls off and looks up at him, eyes bright and wide as a string of spit connects his lips to the tip of Geralt’s cock. “Come on my face?” he asks, his hand wrapping around the base of Geralt’s cock. He gets a quick nod in response and his hand moves over Geralt’s cock with ease, slick with spit and precome.

“Fucking hell, I love your hands,” Geralt groans, the hand in Jaskier’s hair tightening as he gets closer to the edge. When he comes, he cries out, pulling Jaskier’s face closer and painting his face and neck with strings of white. He’s breathing heavily, letting go of Jaskier’s hair to fall back on the bed.

“Nothing like watching a witcher come apart while you suck him off to inflate your ego,” he teases, leaning in to kiss Geralt’s thigh gently. “You’re magnificent, love,” Jaskier whispers, lifting himself up so he can straddle Geralt.

“Says the man looking more sinful than any one person has the right to be,” Geralt mumbles, his eyes moving across Jaskier’s body with a predatory gaze.

“You say such pretty words after you’ve just come,” Jaskier jokes, sliding his hands up Geralt’s torso as he rolls his hips against him.

Geralt groans, his hips bucking up to meet him halfway, Jaskier’s body bouncing at the force of it. “I think I was promised a ride,” he says, his tone gruff but his mouth twisted into a cheeky smirk.

“Greedy, greedy,” Jaskier teases, kissing him quickly. “Get on the bed properly then, before I change my mind,” he jokes, swinging his leg off Geralt and settling on his side to watch Geralt move so he was laid back at the head of the bed.

“Can you blame me for being greedy? You look like sin incarnate,” he says, wrapping an arm around Jaskier’s waist and pulling the bard on top of him.

Jaskier whines softly, sliding his ass back to push against Geralt’s cock as it starts to fill up again. “I love when you manhandle me,” he says, leaning in to press a kiss to the star shaped scar on Geralt’s chest.

“Next time you wear these, I’ll manhandle you six ways to Belletyn,” he growls, squeezing Jaskier’s ass hard enough to leave bruises.

A whimper escapes Jaskier, his hips rolling into the witcher. “I’m holding you to that, wolf,” he breathes out, licking his lips as his hands move up Geralt’s chest. His fingers dance across Geralt’s stomach lightly, a small smile on his face as he squeezes gently.

Geralt grunts, eyebrows furrowing. “What are you doing?” he asks, hands tentative as they move over Jaskier’s thighs.

“Enjoying your tummy,” he says, pressing a kiss to his sternum. “I like that you’re filling out. Means you’re eating well,” Jaskier explains, fondness seeping out of him as he presses kisses over Geralt’s chest.

Geralt opens his mouth to say something but Jaskier chooses that moment to take his nipple into his mouth and a moan escapes him instead. “You’re such a fucking tease,” he groans, eyes fluttering closed as he squeezes Jaskier’s thighs.

“You love it,” he says, words pressed against Geralt’s skin as he continues kissing over his chest and stomach.

“I do, but I want to watch you come in these pretty smalls of yours,” Geralt growls, and he smirks when Jaskier’s hips jerk at that.

“You truly intend on ripping them, don’t you?” Jaskier jokes, but his voice is breathy, like he absolutely doesn’t mind the thought of it.

Geralt hums and moves his hands back to Jaskier’s ass so he can maneuver the bard, his cock pressed between his cheeks. “I told you I’d buy you more.”

“I’m still not sure I’m dreaming this,” he says, clearly distracted as his hips work over Geralt. Jaskier reaches into the bedside table and pulls out a vial of oil, warming some in his hand before wrapping it around Geralt’s cock. “Already opened myself up for you earlier, didn’t want to waste any time,” he explains when Geralt raises an eyebrow at him.

“Never a waste to take you apart with my fingers, songbird,” he says, back arching a little as Jaskier twists his hand over his cock.

“You need to stop saying such pretty things or I’ll have to do this more often to get them out of you,” Jaskier teases, leaning in to kiss Geralt deeply.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” the witcher asks against Jaskier’s lips, nipping at the bard’s bottom lip as he shifts in Geralt’s lap.

“Both?” he offers, pulling away. Geralt watches as Jaskier’s hands work behind him, and the anticipation of what’s to come, knowing that Jaskier is adjusting himself so he can take Geralt’s cock, makes his body thrum with excitement. Jaskier winces a little when there’s a slight tearing sound, but he doesn’t stop, shifts back until the head of Geralt’s cock catches on the rim of his entrance.

“Fuck,” Geralt breathes out, watching the bard closely as he lowers himself onto Geralt’s cock, eyes fluttering, lips parted, and back arched. “Gods, you feel amazing,” he whispers, his own voice wrecked as Jaskier settles in his lap.

“So do you, love,” Jaskier whispers, his words a little slurred as he places his hands on Geralt’s chest. He starts moving, lifting himself up a little more with each movement, soft moans punched out of him with each movement.

“Oh, fuck,” Geralt groans, head thrown back when Jaskier starts moving faster. “Amazing, Jask, just … fuck.” He moans, his fingers digging into Jaskier’s thighs as the bard’s movements get more desperate, more eager. Geralt growls when he hears more tearing, knowing the lace knickers are probably damaged beyond repair, and not really caring because it feels good brushing against his cock, an extra bit of friction on top of the already wonderful feeling of Jaskier wrapped around him.

“Geralt, please, fuck,” Jaskier whimpers, his body shaking as his nails dig into Geralt’s chest, bright red scratches alongside the raised white of his scars.

“I’ve got you,” Geralt grunts, gripping Jaskier’s waist and shifting so he can fuck into him, growling as Jaskier gasps when he hits the spot that makes him see stars. Geralt thinks he could spend the rest of eternity watching the way Jaskier reacts to him like this. “You’re so beautiful, Julek, fuck,” he whispers, fingers gripping him tighter. Geralt feels the fabric tearing under his nails, but the touch sends Jaskier keening so he does it again, letting his pinky brush against the hard line of Jaskier’s cock through the lace.

“Gonna come, fuck,” Jaskier gasps, his movements erratic and tightly wound as he keeps moving.

That only spurs Geralt harder, fucking into Jaskier with a new fervor, watching as one of the stockings slides down the bard’s thigh. “So beautiful, Jask, want to see you come in your pretty lace,” he says, voice low.

Jaskier whimpers, fucking himself onto Geralt once, twice before he’s crying out Geralt’s name, back arching painfully as he comes, a dark, wet spot forming on the lace as his body goes limp.

“Fuck,” Geralt grunts, flipping them so Jaskier’s on his back, legs splayed out. He fucks desperately into him, watching the way Jaskier gasps at the overstimulation, but the bard tightens a stockinged leg around Geralt’s waist, urging him on. It doesn’t take more than a few more thrusts before Geralt is coming, face buried in Jaskier’s neck as he spills into him, his nails dragging down his thigh and catching on the silk stockings. When he starts to come down, Geralt shifts to climb off Jaskier, but the bard whimpers and tightens his legs around him.

“Not yet,” he whispers, and Geralt nods, nuzzling into Jaskier’s cheek. “Can you believe I was terrified of how you’d react?” he breathes out, the lilt of a laugh in his voice. “Should’ve shown it to you when I first got it.”

“Hm,” Geralt hums, nipping at Jaskier’s jaw. “When was that?”

“When I asked that tailor to make the outfit for tonight’s event,” he says, voice slow and soft, like he’s falling asleep. He makes a protesting noise when Geralt starts to move, but the witcher silences him with a quick kiss.

“Clean up,” he says simply, and Jaskier pouts, but loosens his grip on Geralt’s waist. Geralt wastes no time getting himself cleaned up, grabbing a clean cloth to wipe down his lover. “Shame we had to ruin these,” he says, fingers sliding over the lace on Jaskier’s hip gently.

“Mm, we can get more,” Jaskier says, wincing as Geralt tugs at the fabric to clean his cock. “If you rip it off me, I may be able to go again,” he teases, winking at the witcher, who only chuckles.

“You’re insatiable,” he hums, tugging the knickers down his legs carefully, cloth following behind it.

“Do you blame me? Look at you,” he hums, eyes fluttering closed as he settles back against the mattress. Jaskier whimpers as Geralt finishes cleaning him off. “Come,” he pouts, reaching for Geralt, who snorts before laying down beside him. “You really liked them?” he asks, a stockinged foot rubbing against Geralt’s calf lightly.

“Loved them,” he says, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. “Sleep already,” he teases, rubbing his hand up and down Jaskier’s back.

“Not sleepy,” the bard grumbles, eyes closed as he nuzzles into Geralt’s chest. “Could go again here in like … a minute,” he says past a yawn, body slumping against the witcher as sleep starts to overtake him.

“Sweet dreams, Julek,” Geralt whispers into his hair, pulling the bard close as he shuts his own eyes.

KO-FI | TAG LIST: @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @officerjennie, @calamarisnapfish, @kuripon, @jaskierswolf, @deeplywornletters, @wanderlust-t, @alllthequeenshorses (lmk if you'd like to be added or removed <3)

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #the witcher #geraskier smut #kali writes #witcher fic

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oh-for-fic-sake · 3 years

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Superman's Dishcloth

A small cute headcannon thats been sitting on my tablet?

Summary: some people use pick up lines to get a womans number, henry uses a crochet lesson.

Warnings: Fluff?

Your fingers twisted the yarn around the hook automatically looping and pulling untill you made another double crochet stitch that the pattern required.

To be honest you wasnt paying that much attention as you worked your project, which was stupid really because you were making a new pattern, a bobble popcorn style head band.

You couldnt concentrate for two reasons

One. You were on a goddamned plane soaring across the Atlantic ocean. And if things went tits up you cant swim.

And two? You were seated next to none oher then mr henry cavill himself.

Not that you made a thing about it or even dared to look at him.

He he was watching you, eyes frowning as your fingers twisted the yarn into an intricate looking yet fairly simple pattern.

Youhad to stifle a laugh as his fingers twitched tryig to follow the moves and figure out what you were doing.

You growled missing count again. One, two, three three, skip three. A crochet, half double crochet, two double crochet in one stitch then skip three stitches and repeat untill the end.

Normally youd have no problems but your audience was putting you off.

You dropped the project in your lap as you miscounted again and realised you had to undo the last twelve stitches otherwise you'd be a set out on the end.

You closed your eyes grunting before slipping the hook out and began to tug the working yarn slowly before pinching it and slipping the hook into the loop catching it before it all unraveled.

"Why'd you undo it?" You jumped a little as the huge man beside you spoke up after watching you quietly since take off.

"Huh?... oh i misscounted i skipped four instead of three so it'd be out of line on the end and curl round..."

"How'd you know?" He frowned now leaning over even more curious then before.

You chewed your lip trying not to freak out as he peered over your little project.

"Err well i just counted the stiches i had left on the row, see i was up to here and there was five left not six, so i pulled it taught to spot the odd one out" you explained pulling more yarn through so you could point out the stitches to him with the hook.

"It looks complicated, you twist it so many times?" He said as your fingers began moving once more creating the repetitive pattern.

"Yeah... its not too difficult, Im doing a few different stitches is all, once you know a single crochet stitch and a chain stitch your good to go" You muttered with a smile.

"I doubt its that simple" he replied trying to keep up with watching your fingers guiding the hook jthought the piece making the fabric grow.

"It really is, here you see the little v on top?" You said slowing deciding to show him just how simple it was.

"Yeah?" He hummed quietly watching keenly.

"Thats the row before, so you slip your hook under both strands like this and loop your yarn over then pull through under that v so you have one loop on your hook" you said moving slowly and loosened the stitch with a light wiggle so he could see properly.

"Then loop the yarn over again so you have two loops, and pull the second one through the first... and thats a single crochet stitch" You explained showing him slowly.

"So you make lots of tiny loops and pull them through one another and it some how becomes fabric?" He asked fascinated by it, watching as you began to work on the next stitch.

"Yeah pretty much"

"But that one you pulled the wool over before you did anything at all?" You paused impressed he had noticed the slight difference... he had been watchkn that closely?

"So that was a half double, when you do a half double or double you yarn over first, then you just keep yarning over and pulling through until your left with one loop on the hook" you tried explaining as simply as you could.

"... it still sounds hard" he uttered still focusing on your hands that had been creating stitches.

"Honestly its not, i taught myself in about an hour and a half? Here try it? I've got extra yarn in my carry on if you want to give it a go?" You offered and instantly flushed you did not just offer to teach superman how to crochet like a fucking granny!

Before you could take it back and apologise he beamed.

"Really? That would be fun, i've never tried anything like this before" he said eagerly.

"Err yeah sure lemme just get you started, i'll give you a 5 hook... here" you said surprized digging about pulling the small ergonomic crochet hook out and some mustard yellow yarn.

"So you start with a slipknot... and then a few chain stitches" you began guiding him through it slowly teaching him the steps.

"So do you always crochet on long flights?" He asked pokeing his tongue out as he tried concentrating on the stitches he was doing.

"Yeah, im not good with confined spaces... especially confide spaces that are a good few miles in the air over the open ocean" you chuckled nervously chaining a stitch then turning begining your next row.

"Honestly im not either, usually i have kal- my dog but... not this time... this is good though, its helping take my mind off it thank you" he said sincerly.

"Dont mention it"

"Oh... i think ive done it wrong?" He said andnheld it out to you, you prodded it and to be honest you were impressed, it was neat, not a dropped stitch in sight... just a few loose stitches here and there, but he was finding a good tension.

"No, thats not wrong... just your tension thats all it comes with practice" you said handing it back to him.

"Tension?" He said making you pause. Oh yeah, he wouldnt knpw what that is yet.

"Yeah, how tight you hold the yarn and hook determies how tight your stitches are... mines pretty bad, i have to always use a size bigger hook" you expalined simply

"Really?"

"Yep, i do it too tight- even snapped a metal hook in my hand before" you chuckled remebering the way the hook had just... snapped mid project.

"Wow that sounds painfull?" He huffed eeingnyour hand curiously as if expecting you to snap a hook then and there.

"Yeah, i will admit i was frustrated with the project so it probably didnt help" you chuckled sheepishly.

"Frustrated? Was it complicated like that one?" He asked nodding to your growing head band.

"No, i kept loosing count on a pattern of 78 stitches" you said trying to wave it off but in actual fact that project had been murder.

"So what are you making?" He finally asked eyeingnyour work that had grown wider.

"A little headband, and hopefully i will widen it at the ears to keep em warm" you giggled wrapping it around pinchingnthe ends together proudly presenting it to him.

He grinned and looked down at his little square fiddling with it.

"And im making a... mess?" He laughed holding up the uneven square cheeks tinted pink when you giggled again.

"... Dishcloth?" You offered prodding it gently.

"Perfect, im making a dishcloth!" He bellowed nodding proud of his new diy dish cloth.

"I'm henry by the way. But from the way you were shaking in your seat im guessing you knew?" He finally introduced himself holding out a hand.

You smiled shyly and took it shakingnhands trying not to fawn over how huge hot and soft the palm was.

"Yeah... sorry i was nervous and you probably dont want to be bugged. Im y/n" you tried explaining nervously but he chuckled.

"I wouldnt mind being bugged by such a cutie~" he uttered quietly smirking at you tipping his head down a little too make sure you heard him despite his voice being quiet.

"Oh stop it" you flushed quickly looking down at your headband noticing your stitches werent as even as they could have been, but it couldnt be helped you had handsome distraction.

A very distracting handsome distraction.

"Its true. Besides i think it was me bugging you... and i have managed to plunder through your wool" he grinned sheepishly holding up his little dishcloth.

"Its fine, it not expensive, this is left over yarn from other projects" you waved him off. It was true ou had lots of odd ends and half skeins of woll from other projects.

"Well still i appreciate it, i hate flying" he said sincerly.

"Well now you have something to practice. Youll leave the plane with a new skill to stick on your cv" you added with a grin nudging him playfully.

"Indeed... And perhaps i can leave the p,ane with err...maybe your number to? You know to replace the wool and erm swap err instructions?" He said nervously jumbling his words.

You paused and looked at him shocked blinking. Did he just?

You blinked again watching as his face grew red and he chuckled nerously plucking at the woll on his dishcloth.

"Well i suppose every student needs to be able to contact theor teacher~ and these instructions are called patterns" you smiled to him nodding slowly.

"Right right i knew that of course they're patterns" he chuckled grinning ear to ear relived you hadnt turned him down.

"Well we have a good few hours, perhaps a few more lessons for my little student?" You teased picking up the pattern to show him some of the abbreviations. Mostly to try and concentrate on somthing other then the fact superman had just asked for your number... and was taking crochet lessons.

"Of course" he said excited eyes glittering with glee whilst looking at the small page.

#henry cavill #oh for fic sake headcannon #fluff #my ovaries demand fluff #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill headcannon

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faithofgods · 3 years

Note

stolen from another bloggg: if the MC was a mind reader for like a day, what’d be the first thing they hear the ROs think when they see the MC?

Quiet. Cavernous, with how much echoes in Sol's mind. Their thoughts are heavy, dark, a dragging of the memories shackled to them, ones unable to be shaken off, to be freed from. They sit as incomplete pictures, half-torn, mental notes pinned to the corners and cast in so many shadows it's a wonder they can even be seen.

You're at the center of them, a wash of light soothing against the bruised edges.

Across the room you sit, watching them stuff their things unceremoniously into the small pack they brought, silent as they ramble aimlessly about something neither of you are really paying any attention to, both too focused on that thought in the center.

Their last goodbye, bitter in your own mind, is bright in theirs. How you smiled, how it made their heart stop. How you said their name so softly, how it reached them so gently, how it made them think there was still a way out. Still hope, still a chance to change.

They look up, meeting your eyes.

The things they never say, the ones you read on their face in flashes, bursts, but ones that are never truly acknowledged reverberate on a desperate loop inside their mind. They slur together, overlap, their meaning changing each cycle, a constant evolution of itself.

I love seeing you smile. I'm sorry I have to leave again. I'd do anything if it meant staying.

I love seeing you. I'm sorry I stayed again. I'd do anything to leave.

I love you. I'm sorry. I'd do anything for you.

Maybe this is what it means to be cherished.

—

Overwhelming. A blend of so many different sounds, voices, so many different tangles of the same knot seen from hundreds—thousands—of angles. Pinpoints, Khiita's thoughts, thin needles pricking and digging through and prying apart the ones that are useful to her, the rest left torn open, a carcass to rot.

And they reach far, heard long before you can even see her, that invisible thread pulled through the eye of each needle drawing you step by spellbound step to the empty courtyard where she sits. And those thoughts, they narrow in an instant, quieten, the sharp point of them turning and focusing on you and you alone.

It's impossible to pick out the individual strands, the ones that belong only to her, but they all think the same thing, all coalesce into that something sweeter: you, how you stand. You, how you look at her. You, how you don't shy away from her gaze like so many that have come before. You, you, only and forever you.

"Hello," she says, and you hear it's you. "There you are," and you hear it's you. You, who found me. You, who came back. You, who I missed.

It'd be embarrassing if it wasn't so unusually honest.

—

Endless. One thought formed, acknowledged, turned over and set aside, a fluid shift into the next, the constant, gentle wash of each one rolling over the other. Waves, Flor's thoughts, the newest one continually replaced as the tide comes in, only there's a permanence to them, closer to the shells embedding the shore than the sand being dragged out.

Each one and their place is remembered, lifted gently to the forefront when they're needed, and perhaps because their thoughts are so stable, so steady in the sea of other minds around you, that it makes them so easy to find.

There, on the edge of the crowded marketplace, and you fold so easily into the wash of them, are already a part of them. You watch them as you come to a stop beside them, fascinated by how one thought forms, follows its path, and is muttered out by them a beat later, no part of it changed, every stitching and scar created by its surfacing left intact.

You hear should I invite them to dinner? the same time it's said, just as you hear, in both their mind and their voice, "Oh, I was just thinking about you", a smile softening their deep thought.

You realize there's no use reading their mind; they already say everything on it.

—

Controlled. Each thought pierced through and strung together in a single continuous line. An action, a reaction, the rest left to be discarded; all that mattered was its outcome, not its forming. Silent is the space in Cían's mind, a cold process of barely-formed thoughts, ideas, unfamiliar feelings brought to thin light and examined, their meaning and intention gleaned from the surface of them and immediately thrown out. Anything deeper, more introspective, is of little use to him.

You can't read his mind in the same way he doesn't allow himself that own luxury, but you don't need to to know his thoughts. They're on display in their own small ways: how the interest in his eyes sparks to life when he sees you walk in, how they never stray from your approach, how he ignores those talking mindlessly at him to stand and wait for you to reach him.

You slow your step, studying him as intently as he does you, that spark flaring impatiently and those half-formed thoughts returning. Ones like your hands in his hair or his lips on your neck or— or others that are brushed away, thrown out, never to be fully realized in that light.

But also smaller ones, gone unnoticed by him and left to fester. Your hand, not tangled in his hair but held tightly in his. His lips, not on your pulse but bent into a rare smile at the sight of you. Tiny little moments, imaginings, growing unseen in the corners of his mind.

Their roots will be ripped up and tossed out the same as the others should he ever notice, but for now, you have time.

#answered #snippets #romance options #sol #khiita #flor #cian #did this answer the question? debatable.#thank you though this was a nice break from editing !

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

Hue and Cry VII

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), mentions of previous forced oral, abuse of power, these men ain't shit.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You face a reckoning for evading your lord.

Note: This wasn't planned but things just turned out this way because my go to is fuck the reader. Oop.

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The nights only got harder. It didn't matter if Lord Barnes wanted to touch you or wanted you to touch him, even just laying beside him was torment. You hated what he'd done to you and what he'd made you do. You hated yourself more for how he made you feel.

You decided that day in the carriage during the rainstorm that you hated him. You hated Lord Barnes more than even Lord Rogers. At least the latter was honest in his lechery, he did not try to veil his true desires but Barnes spoke to you sweetly as he forced his needs upon you.

The night before you were due to reach the capital, you did not sleep. You couldn't in the bed next to Barnes. He wanted to be astride as he entered the city and so you were left to ride alone in the carriage. The sway soon had you across the bench in a deep slumber. It was the best sleep you had in weeks.

You only woke as a hammering came at the door and streaks of sunlight were let in as it opened. A footman called you out and helped you down the step into the dirt. You batted your sleepy eyes and marveled at the castle as it came clear. It was getting colder as the autumn wore on, bitter. It was the wrong season for a tournament.

As you trod through the beaten yard of the castle, Lord Barnes clapped off his right hand, the leather glove dusting, and approached you. He’s gaze strayed to Lord Rogers for a moment then back to you. He dropped his shoulders and scrunched his lips.

“I have an audience with the king,” he said glumly, “as much as I’d prefer you attend with me it has been brought to my attention that… the court might not be as accommodating to you as I am. Regardless, I might have a seat arranged for you at the feast and you were surely sit in the rows for the sparring.”

“I… my lord, I am only--”

“I told you,” he interjected, “you are not a maid anymore.”

You held your tongue as you wanted to spit at him. What were you? A courtesan? A whore? Was that better than emptying his pot? You dipped your head and pulled your cape snug, “my lord.”

“See her to my rooms,” Barnes directed the footman at your shoulder, “once the chests are unpacked, she is to be undisturbed. My guard will have the same orders.”

“Yes, my lord,” the footman bowed, “my lady.”

You looked at the footman and slowly followed him away from Barnes. You were eager to be away from him but not eager to be shown your new prison. You entered the castle and followed the torchlit corridors beside the footman.

“I’m not a lady,” you said at last, “I don’t want you to ever call me that again.”

“My apologies, my--” he stuttered, “the lord bid it.”

“He lies to himself and you,” you muttered, “I was born as you, likely lower. My own mother was a laundress and my father a stablehand. Cut from the finest, I am.”

The footman was quiet as he waved you ahead of him up the coiling stairwell. You regretted your harsh words but knew they could never be delivered to their true target. When you reached the chamber designated to your master, you stopped outside. Lester was already at his station by the lord’s doors.

“I am sorry,” you told the footman, “I was unkind. You do not deserve that.”

His lips curved slightly and he hid his amusement, “I know now you are like me,” he said softly, “the nobles, they don’t apologise.”

You chuckled darkly and left him. You passed the servants as they carried in trunks and opened them in a flurry of duty. You went to the bedroom and climbed up on the large feather mattress. That time you had to yourself, even surrounded by the chaos of your arrival, was a relief. You did not know how long you’d get away from Barnes.

🏰

You fell asleep again. This time, you weren’t floating in your dreams, driven wildly by the tides, but you were still, straight as a board in the ground as dirty sprinkled onto you. The cold earth warmed as the layers piled on you. Deeper, deeper, deeper until you couldn’t breathe.

You woke with a start and nearly screamed as a shadow loomed over you. Barnes sat beside you, his legs over the edge of the couch. He played with the lifeless fingers of his artificial hand. Your hood was on the pillow, crumpled and the folds of your dress were bunched awkwardly beneath your body.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he murmured, “just wanted to sit with you.”

“How long--”

“It is almost time for supper,” he said, “but the feast is not until the morrow. You might remain and rest some more.”

You didn’t move, just looked up at the canopy and laid there. You didn’t say anything more as you folded your arms over the stiff bodice.

“You should sleep… the journey was long. Tiring,” he continued.

You just blinked but didn’t close your eyes. The canopy was a rich green marked with gold. The stitches were woven in the shape of leaves and vines. You thought of the forest and those days you were so scared. You were much more terrified now.

“I wanted to say, and I should now since you are awake,” he began as he leaned on his elbow and his other arm fell limp and heavy, “what occurred with Rogers will not arise again. I made him a promise I regret and it was sorted.”

You held back a shudder as you thought of the salty tasted and the pungent scent of their arousal. You swallowed and hugged yourself tighter.

“If he attempts to reenact the scene, or more, you will inform me, and you have my leave to see that he does not,” Barnes said sternly, “you are still mine. I would not have you confused.”

You rolled onto your side so that your back was to him. He huffed and his hand fell onto your side. He squeezed and the bed shifted. He said your name and every muscle in your body went taut.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

“I’m tired,” you said.

“I want no mistake. You--”

“I belong to you,” you sneered, “you want to use me, you want to own me, you want me to tell you I know I am nothing but the dirt beneath your boot. Let me assure you I am aware--”

“Do not speak to me as such,” he hissed.

You bit back your voice and heaved. You sucked in your cheeks and wriggled away from his reach. “It is understood, my lord. Now as you bid, I would sleep.”

🏰

The only grace allowed you at the feast, rather denied you, was a seat with your lord. As much as Barnes would prefer to have you close he was still bound by the expectations of court. He didn't let on that you were merely a servant but you didn't think anyone could believe otherwise. For his vouching, you were sat among the lower lords and ladies.

You watched as wine was poured for you. You eyed the girl who kept her chin down as the filled the cups and thought of your own time in a similar duty. What did Barnes find so fascinating about you? You had only done what dozens others had done for him before. You couldn't figure you had an outstanding feature or manner that could explain his interest, it could only be your own poor luck.

You ate without tasting, without zeal, slowly as you brought fork to lip and dissolved into the chatter of strangers around you. All those seated at the long tables had a partner or some family with them. You were alone. Your parents were dead and all those you'd ever had a kindred tie to were far away.

"Uncle," a voice perked up across from you and drew your attention as you chewed the spiced rabbit meat, "if I made the lists, surely I can win!"

"My coin got you on those lists," the older man replied, "it is all formality. Should you gace a king or a duke, you would be remiss to claim victory."

"I am to lay down for their title?" The younger scoffed, "I am a man now and I have trained--"

"But you think like a boy," the other rebuked, "a runner up can take a fine purse still and if you feed the ego of a high borne man he will be more willing to show you favour."

You lowered your fork and looked at the two men as they argued. The elder`s hair was sprinkled with grey but the rest the same shade of reddish brown as the youth. You were heartened by their familial banter but saddened at your own solace. You dropped your hands to your lap and looked at your plate.

"Dear," the woman beside you touched your sleeve, "are you well?"

You turned to her startled and nodded. "Yes, my lady," you cleared your throat, "fine indeed."

She peered past you then shared a look with the older man across the table. She was not so grey as him. She smiled and withdrew her hand. "You are alone?"

"Only me, my lady," you answered.

"And overly polite," she chuckled, "a pity. A young girl sent to court without escort. What family could do such a thing? You must be frightened out of your wits."

"I will… persevere," you said.

"Ay but it is the nature of these events to be cordial. I am May Parker, my husband is a baron," she gestured to the older man across from you, "Benjamin, and my nephew, Peter, a viscount in his beloved father's stead," she smiled at the younger man, "and your name?"

You hadn't been told what to say in the circumstance. You hadn't thought of it and surely Barnes hadn't either. You would have to garnish the truth with enough lies to get by. You twined your fingers together. You offered your name, your truth, then conjured your lies as you spoke.

"My father is, er, was, a baron as well," you said, "I am his only child."

"Oh, you sweet thing, if you would be alone for this tournament, you might stay near to us. My nephew hasn't many peers of his age just yet, and my husband is much too weary to keep up with him."

You glanced around, the two men bowed their heads in greeting. You attempted a smile and thanked her.

"Our Peter will be competing in the joust and in the sword contest," she announced, "we did urge him to enter the bow and arrow but he finds it dull."

"Oh," you were uncertain how to address these people, to speak as if you were their equal, "I've never attended a tourney before."

"Best you stay close then," she squeezed your hand gently, "why look at all these people! Even that Duke from the north came, bless him, that one who did lose his arm in the campaigns."

You reached for your wine to hide your discomfort at the mention of him. All you had to do was pretend for the evening and you'd likely not see these people again. As friendly as they were, you couldn't stand to make friends only to lose them.

You listened for the rest of the courses as May and her family did much of the talking. There were moments you forgot your predicament, even that you were born a peasant, but when it returned to you, the food turned to a lump in your stomach and your heart clamoured.

You were roused from the waking dream only as the music plucked up and the plates were cleared by your own ilk. May chuckled and stood as her husband came around to her. She paused as the bodies flooded from the benches onto the boards. She touched your shoulder kindly, "if you would be in want of a partner, our Peter is rather graceful."

You looked to the younger Parker and he lit up. "Only if you like, miss."

"I… would say I am not so," you said evasively.

"It would not bother me, I trained with the old hound that slept in our barn, he slobbered quite heavily," he laughed, "but I would be indebted should you allow me the treat of a true partner."

"I suppose…" you looked to the high table where Barnes scowled at Lord Rogers, entirely unconcerned with you for the first time in a while. Perhaps this was a chance; lose yourself in the crowd and you might find the opening you needed. Or perhaps merely a respite from him at least, "I do warn you however, I would not know where to place my feet."

May and Benjamin swept away as Peter came around to you. He offered his arm and you mimicked the other ladies as you took it.

He lifted his shoulders proudly as he led you to the floor, "only step around my own and I will do my best not to trod on your slippers, lady." He turned you in time with the music, your arms hooked so that you faced in opposing direction, "follow me and do not worry so much. No one is watching us so closely."

You smiled, a real smile that time as the strings and flutes filled your chest. As this kind stranger patiently guided you around the boards. You raised your chin as you did your best to stay on the beat but nearly tripped as your eyes met another pair.

Lord Barnes glared down at you from the high table, the only lord remaining in his seat, and his hand gripped the stem of his goblet tightly. Even at the distance, you felt his chagrin. And as he stood, your sole met Peter's toe but he only snickered and righted you.

"You're doing fine, lady," he assured as he spun and switched arms, you let him lead you dumbly as you watched Barnes descend from the dais, "a natural."

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wing-ed-thing · 3 years

Text

Retail Therapy (Kakuzu x Reader)

Synopsis: Deidara has a new partner for a combined effort with the Zombie Combo. However, something about you has Kakuzu heated.

Word Count: 2,123

Tags/Warnings: Violence, Threat of Violence, Probably Language, Gender Neutral Reader

Notes: Kakuzu content is probably some of the best stuff I’ve ever written. Right now I’m watching a video on fried milk. Ever hear of such a thing? Fascinating.

Kakuzu didn’t like being paired up with Hidan, let alone joint missions where he’d have to deal with even more people. Not to say that Kakuzu hated people, because he did, but he never thought that he’d hate anyone more than he absolutely hated you. He hadn’t even met you yet, but he knew at his very core that you would quickly become the bane of his entire existence.

“Shopping?” Kakuzu asked slowly, the word forming on his lips as if he had an aversion to even speaking it. Deidara leaned back on the large bounder that he settled on and stretched his arms up above his head. The blond nodded with a short groan before his hands came to rest behind his head.

“Yep,” he answered, “And for hours too, so I’d get comfortable.” Hidan plopped down on a patch of dirt below, his back and scythe against the side of the rock. Kakuzu glared down at his partner causing Hidan to shrug. To Hidan, if Deidara thought that the three of them would be waiting a while, he would take his word and make himself comfortable. Kakuzu’s attention turned back to Deidara.

“Hours? What possibly could someone be purchasing that takes them hours?” Hidan gazed up from his spot, head tilted back against the surface behind him.

“And we only came like five minutes late too. Who takes off like that?” Kakuzu almost nodded in agreement, but knowing his partner, Hidan would take any excuse to complain. Deidara shrugged, basking in the warmth of the sun and stayed lounging even as a rustling came from the woods. Hidan’s hand immediately reached up to grip the handle of his weapon and Kakuzu took a defensive stance. Deidara’s eyes remained closed.

“Oh hello, boys! I didn’t know you were here!” You sauntered out of the trees, bags hanging from both arms. They were pushed tightly in a line, every other patch of your skin strained by the handles of a different shopping bag. Even in your altered Akatsuki cloak, Kakuzu took a look at you and immediately decided that you were decorated far too ornately and that he’d like to kill you when he had the chance. You were objectively beautiful, but if Kakuzu had his way, Deidara would have to be assigned another partner soon. “You haven’t been waiting for too long, have you?”

“You shouldn’t have left us waiting at all,” Kakuzu glowered, although not any more than usual. Either you didn’t hear him or you ignored him as you walked up to your partner. You plucked a package from one of your more reachable bags.

“I got you something, Dei-dei!” You threw it up to Deidara weakly but he managed to catch it. He opened the small, folded, paper bag. Deidara glanced down at you with a nod of his head and a fold of his lips. He took the neat band in his hand while you looked at him expectantly. “Aren’t they nice? Hair ties. Silk from a small village in the Land of Water.” Deidara held them up to the sun.

“That’s some great quality you found. Thanks.” Your partner glanced down at you again. “Must’ve been one hell of a fight assuming that you got a good price for it.” Kakuzu looked on at your exchange, increasingly beginning to lose his temper.

“Believe me, I did. And I found a ton of other great finds too. I gotta show you—”

“Enough,” Kakuzu growled and you finally turned your attention his way. Hidan had since passed out against the boulder that Deidara sat on. “You’re wasting all our time. The sooner we start, the sooner we can part ways.” You gave Kakuzu a once over with your nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Well someone’s grumpy,” you mused. You rolled your eyes and pointed your nose upward. Huffing, you threw your shopping bags into the air and as they fell, you swiftly unfurled a scroll. Your new items disappeared one by one. You rolled the paper back up, scowling as you slipped the scroll into one of many slots that you wore strapped to your clothing. The pockets ran down the small of you back and you latched the bundle of paper in place with a flip of your nimble fingers. Kakuzu frowned back, tentatively wondering if all the scrolls you carried contained the same amount of shopping bags. You approached him with crossed arms. “Okay then, tough guy. Let’s get started.”

You sat down and summoned a map of the next village. It laid out in front of you and placed your hands on your knees in challenge. Kakuzu sat down on the other side of the map, eyes boring into you. You didn’t budge. And as you began to speak, it was hard to focus, at least for Deidara. Though he supposed he’s seen you this fired up before.

“It would be easier if we lure the jinchūriki outside of the village,” you said, gesturing to the small, unnamed village on the map. It wasn’t large, but just big enough to serve as a maze for your prize. At least you knew the woods better and a jinchūriki was bound to stand out among the trees.

“I can get up some traps,” Deidara added and you nodded.

“Back them into a corner and cage them into a small space—” You nodded again— “We can use some explosives around the area… maybe here?” You pointed to a section of the map outside of the village. You looked up at Deidara. “You’d be our last line of defense when the jinchūriki tries to run.” Deidara smirked and puffed out his chest.

“Leave it to me!”

“We’ll need someone to drive the jinchūriki out of the village,” Kakuzu cut in, not particularly liking how you dominated the strategizing. “I’ll go with Hidan.” While Kakuzu thought that he would stop at nothing to get away from the Jashinist, this had to be a regrettable first. Hidan napped a few feet away.

You raised an eyebrow and scoffed, “You and Hidan? Psh… might as well have Deidara set off fireworks in the sky that spell out ‘single, hot jinchūriki in your a—”

“I can do that!” Deidara cut in before immediately backing down at Kakuzu’s pointed glare, not that he’d show it. You locked eyes with Kakuzu, taking his fiery stare off of your partner.

“I’ll go. You’re too conspicuous and, really, have you seen Hidan? You two would be spotted a mile away.” Kakuzu almost snarled.

“And you wouldn’t?” You let out a short, bitter laugh. Your left arm supported your weight as your knees touched together on the right side of your body. Kakuzu scowled at your blatant lounging. Everything about you challenged him and he hated you for it. Your lids narrowed in a smug smile.

“I’m not the one—” who’s fuckin’ jacked — “ with big-ass black stitches across my whole body.”

“And four faces on his back…” Hidan called out, still half asleep. You turned back to Kakuzu.

“And four faces on his back,” you repeated, much to Kakuzu’s vexation. The sass in your blinks was lost on the older shinobi. He stood, causing you to stand too. Deidara took a hint and retreated. Kakuzu crossed his arms over his chest and he planted his feet on the ground about the same width apart as his broad shoulders. He pointed two fingers at you harshly.

“And you’re—” Gorgeous. — “a brat. I should just kill you right here.” You stood your ground, daring to slap Kakuzu’s hand out of your face.

“As much as I’d like to see you try, tough guy, I’d actually like to do some quality work and get the hell away from you as quickly as I can.” Kakuzu huffed, gritting his teeth underneath his mask.

“Nice to hear that we’re on the same page.”

And with neither of your partners wanting to deal with either of you pissed off, you and Kakuzu were paired together.

***

Deciding that your cloaks were too noticeable, you sealed yours away. Kakuzu kept his draped across his arm, distrust of you evident. You walked down the road together under the late afternoon, waiting for nightfall. You hoped that striking at night would give you not only the surprise advantage, but also minimize the number of clueless civilians that would no doubt wander in your way. But as soon as your eyes fell onto the market, Kakuzu quickly began to wonder if his stubbornness landed him with an even larger headache. But his usual, standoffish demeanor remained the same. Kakuzu’s eyes drifted to their corners as he scowled down at you.

“No.” That was all he said, as if you would actually listen to him and not immediately march in the direction of the market. He reluctantly followed, every reach to hold you back by your robes falling just a bit short each time. By the time you were stopped, too many people surrounded the two of you for him to pull you away without drawing attention. Normally, attention from others wasn’t anything that Kakuzu would be concerned with, but your two teams had their orders and Kakuzu would be damned if he had to spend anymore time with you.

You stood in front of a booth with your hand on your chin. Kakuzu stood next to you, following your gaze to a simple, but sturdy-looking sword. You gingerly picked it up, carefully studying it’s craftsmanship. The man behind the booth leaned over his table, motioning to the piece of merchandise in your hands.

“Ah, you have a good eye, mercenary.” You glanced up at him.

“Land of Earth? Lots of excellent craftsmanship comes from there, I’m not surprised.” You ran your thumb across the dull of the blade. “Antique too, but still hardy.” The merchant nodded pointing to a few spots across the weapon.

“Could get you out of a bind too. Reliable smithing comes from Tsuchi no Kuni.” Kakuzu looked on at the show in front of him. In stark contrast to earlier, you seemed poised and he found you knowledgeable. You appeared calm and competent enough to handle yourself and for a second, Kakuzu became lost in your analysis.

You stepped back, turning the sword around in your hand to feel out the balance. The blade whipped around your body with ease. The seller softly applauded your embellished practice. Kakuzu almost rolled his eyes, but took some comfort in the fact that you were looking to purchase something of quality and not just anything at the very least. You looked down at the weapon with a nod or two before asking the dreaded question.

“So what’s your price?” The merchant didn’t hesitate.

“A hundred thousand ryō.” Kakuzu almost left right there, but a dominant part of him wanted to know what you were going to do. His hands grasped his biceps, his cloak still hanging from his forearm. Kakuzu watched you closely. You shook your head.

“You’re going to give it to me for twenty-five thousand.” The merchant gaped at the outrageous price you named. He sputtered a few times.

“That price is far too low for this quality. You must be joking if you think I’d sell this fine piece of equipment for practically nothing.”

You did name a ridiculous price. Not even Kakuzu could see getting what you wanted for that price without a fair bit of violence and intimidation. But you ripped into that merchant. You ripped into this poor seller like nothing Kakuzu had ever seen before. He didn’t even know if he could call it bartering, but whatever it was, it was likely one of the most skillful things that Kakuzu had ever seen.

He folded his lips under his mask. You didn’t yell. Kakuzu didn’t even find your appearance intimidating in the slightest, yet every point and number the merchant brought up, you countered. And by the end of the intense conversation, if Kakuzu didn’t know any better and had less of a spine, he’d likely be handing the sword over too. The man had long since started sweating, tugging at his collar. If Kakuzu didn’t see it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it as you handed over exactly twenty-five thousand ryō. He almost overlooked the complete waste of money as he still stood stunned, though not outwardly showing any such emotion.

You nestled the sword by your hip and the seller let out a breath of relief by the time you walked away. Kakuzu followed wordlessly next to you as you strutted off in triumph.

Perhaps he misjudged you. He stared, not noticing as he did so.

Yes, you were going to save the organization a fortune.

Notes: “oH mY gOd KaKuzU sAiD hE wAs GoNna KiLl rEader! wHy wOuLd yOu wRiTe sOmEtHiNg sO tOxIc???”... They’re criminal terrorists, Susan.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed and otherwise supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

#kakuzu x reader #kakuzu #Akatsuki x reader #Akatsuki!reader #deidara #hidan #naruto x reader #naruto x y/n #naruto x you #x you #x reader #reader insert #naruto headcanon #naruto headcanons #naruto imagines #naruto imagine

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falling-pages · 3 years

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Over and Over, Again and Again: KyoHaru (commission)

The absolutely lovely @ouranbound commissioned me for her birthday. This was so much fun and I just melt every time I read it 🥺 thank you so much sweetheart, I hope your day is magical!!

Info on commissions here (updated!)

Despite the heat, despite the outdoors, Kyoya considered it a lovely afternoon, if only for two reasons: he had a book in his hands and Haruhi’s head in his lap.

Kyoya Ootori x Haruhi Fujioka

Genre: Fluff

Contains: first I Love Yous, established relationship

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, but no drinking

Kyoya did not like being outside. It was often hot and sticky, the sun too bright and burning his skin, or too cold and blustery, the wind too harsh for his delicate constitution. Even refraining from walking to work, using his own driver to commute the blocks. It was silly, yes, and quite wasteful, but he had the money, and all that money allowed him to demand comfort. He never could understand why the others seemed to strain at their leashes to go outdoors--Mori and Hikaru organizing hikes and fishing trips, Tamaki and Kaoru scampering after them. He couldn’t find pleasure in swatting at the sweat running down his back, or cleaning his glasses every few minutes. The outdoors were quite insufferable.

But Haruhi liked the outdoors, and he liked Haruhi.

He supposed it was because of their different upbringings. While he had all the luxury of indoor pools and air conditioning, she didn’t. The outdoors were free; a simple space where commoners could exist without the expectation of spending money. Unlike any mall or restaurant, beneath the sun, the air cost nothing.

So he put up with it whenever she requested it. Her cool touch was more enticing than air conditioning, anyways.

He began to regret it, though, when their wine was no longer chilled. They had arranged a lovely picnic, lounging in a field his father owned. There were plans to develop it, one day, but for now it remained wild. A place where lovers could stow away amid the tall grass waving in the wind.

They sat in the shade of a lemon tree. Remains of rei-shabu and morokyu were stowed away in their picnic satchel, next to the ice pack. Their glasses were still filled with strawberry wine, though their minds and stomachs were too content to have more.

Despite the heat, despite the outdoors, Kyoya considered it a lovely afternoon, if only for two reasons: he had a book in his hands and Haruhi’s head in his lap.

It would have been lovelier in late May or early June, but he had been so busy with the end of the fiscal year. He was afraid of Haruhi’s impending disillusionment, with their relationship still so new, but if she was ever discontent, he knew she would tell him. Dating him had not turned her into a placated doll, as he had feared. He still took care of her, showering her in wealth whenever she asked, but it was rare; mostly, she just wanted to spend time with him, and he just wanted to take care of her, making sure her stomach was full and loans paid.

Not to say he didn’t spoil her, though. He had bought the very dress she was wearing, a strappy yellow thing with magenta stitching. And the gold earrings, shaped like roses on dangling stems, which laid so artfully on the backdrop of her velvet brown hair splayed against his thigh. Her hair was long enough to begin curling slightly at the ends, whenever it wasn’t done up in her tight law school bun.

It was rare he saw her like this, heart unbound and carefree. Her skin was soft beneath his fingertips as he ran them against her cheek, half dreaming, half admiring. She slept in his lap, tuckered out from their afternoon. Lips red from wine pulled back slightly, a whimper on the tip of her tongue. For a moment, he feared had awoken her, hand frozen on her jaw, but she turned her neck back into his leg and resumed her breathing.

He sighed in relief. He had already ruined much in his life. The peaceful portrait beneath him was too pure to interrupt.

Once she was back asleep, he gave one last glance to her blushed cheeks and held up his book. It was old, a brown cover etched with gold, antique and clearly made for a bygone era, tattered pages though born on a press just a few years ago. Kyoya felt like that sometimes. An anachronism of his own kind. Set in one spot and lost to the pages of history.

But not here. A butterfly landed on Haruhi’s nose. Instead of swatting it, he watched, breathed in the life bellowing into his bones. In the world, at work, with his family, his soul felt ancient; his shoulders shook with the weight of an old-world empire. But with her, he was fresh, bathing in the fountain of youth. He was no longer an Atlas, cursed with the weight of the world; he was Dionysus with Ariadne--his shining jewel in the sky.

The love he had for her transcended space and time, yet she was blissfully unaware.

Tamaki’s advice echoed in his ears. He had to tell her eventually, else he’d lose her. Trained in all things etiquette, he still stumbled over even the most human of phrases.

Kyoya shook his head. The day he listened to Tamaki’s advice would be the day he’d resign from the Ootori group. As he returned to his book, his focus shifted. Some old French thing on culture, it mocked his feelings with dry phrases and tiny text. Tamaki had taught him enough French to get by, but reading it was another matter. It was to better himself and improve his chances with foreign business relations, was what he told himself, at least.

Haruhi’s ease and fascination with the language certainly had nothing to do with it. Nor did the jealousy in his palms when he would watch the two he loved most converse and giggle without him.

Some time after he resumed scanning it, regretting how he left his translation dictionary at home, Haruhi awoke. Not with a sigh or startle, as he was accustomed, but silently, with a breath, as if he were the bridge in which she crossed from one world into the next.

She laid still and watched him read, brilliant mind sweeping over each and every word. From the angle of his head tilt, she could see his eyes behind his glasses, a sharp, rare, deep black. Nondescript, and beautiful, the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen--above Tamaki’s lavender, Mori’s silver, the twins’ bronze and amber. She loved them because within their deep pools of tar, she saw her future.

Haruhi didn’t know for how long she looked at him. She had just started to fall back asleep when he spoke.

“I can feel you staring at me,” he murmured, not even taking his sight from the page.

She stayed focused on the smooth, pale skin of his jaw. It clenched and unclenched periodically, whenever he came across a phrase or word he didn’t know. She could have offered her help, but his lap was just too comfortable.

“I like the view,” she shrugged.

When he set the book down, eyes widened, she already knew what he was about to say.

“Out of all the sights, of the trees, flowers, and fields surrounding us, you think me more admirable?”

She was the lawyer--she was the one used to provoking confessions from people--but his cunning as a businessman made the words drip from his lips like honey, accentuating even as he dipped his head down to hers. Haruhi scrambled to shift her weight to her arm, propping herself up to meet his lips. And yet he hovered, smirking as he watched her mouth chase his, quieting her displeased whines with a chuckle.

“What, no answer?”

He was the devil in disguise, with a voice so silver and smooth, and she knew it. But if he were the devil, she was his Persephone--his lips were her pomegranate, and she bit.

She mustered her frustration into finally catching him in a kiss, swatting at his chest when she tasted his beleaguered smirk.

“You know my answer,” she retorted. “I choose you every day, over and over again.”

“I know,” my darling.” He removed his glasses, the only barrier between them, and pressed his forehead to hers. “And for that, I love you.”

He said it. It wasn’t how he planned on saying it, but it was there, suspended in the air by wires thin as twine. Her hand stilled in his hair, but she didn’t remove it.

“That’s the first time you’ve said it,” she breathed, an elation and joy she didn’t know she missed bubbling in her chest.

Kyoya opened his eyes. They had clenched shut on instinct, as protection, so he wouldn’t have to see the way she rejected him. But her calm voice coaxed them back open, and they settled on her lazy smile.

“It is,” he affirmed. “I thought...I thought you knew. It’s been so long.”

They had been dating for three months, yet known each other for nine years, and Kyoya had loved her for most of that. She had loved him for only half that, that she knew, but their affection was ancient, the kind read about in archaic stone tablets. The kind that would wait forever and ever to be discovered again and again.

“I do,” she whispered. “I love you, too.”

And just when he thought his back would break from carrying the world, she kissed away his pain into an immortal love.

#ouran high school host club #kyoharu #kyoya ootori x haruhi fujioka #kyoya ootori #haruhi fujioka #kyoya x haruhi #ohshc

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xtrasauce · 3 years

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so i have to repost this because it literally did NOT show up in the tags??

anywho, enjoy this dabi smut that i self-indulgently wrote and would like for you to read so you can eat good too love you bbs warnings: lots of swearing and whewww sweet smut.

“I’m so tired of this shit” you sighed, wiping your eyes.

Another bullshit artist that came into your life. Another man that gassed you up with promises of being better than the last one...only to be the next repeat offender. You were exhausted. Being played like a fiddle only to be let down every time was zapping you of what little romantic energy you had left. It was hard enough being a fiercely independent woman - people feared you. You were intimidating in how well off you were alone; it made the men you dated feel inadequate, scared even. Despite your laid back attitude and never really making a big deal about taking care of yourself, you couldn’t deny you were a force to be reckoned with. But deep down behind your strength and independence…all you asked for was to be loved. To have someone who didn’t care about your successes and just saw you as a woman. Someone worth affection and not fear. Was that so much to ask? You were capable of vulnerability and delicacy like any other human…so why not you?

You dabbed at your eyes, your shoulders sinking heavily as you whimpered. Pity had its place here when you realized you lost count of how many failed relationships have walked out of your front door.

It was after you’d took a long, shaky breath that you heard the quiet thud of steel-toed boots at your living room window.

“You cutting onions in here?” came the rasp from the other room, “I’m hearin’ a lot of sniffling.”

Your eyes widened at the sound of your long time friend sauntering towards you. You used the sleeve of your oversized t-shirt to fiercely wipe at your face, hopefully leaving no traces of tears behind. “Nah, just allergies” you called from the kitchen. A stitched hand pulled around the corner, dark hair and ocean eyes to follow. It came as no surprise to you that Dabi showed up - this was a fairly common occurrence. You two had been long time friends: far before the league, back when he resorted to petty theft to get his meals. You’ll never forget how he tried to intimidate you with his blue flames into stealing your wallet. What he didn’t expect however, was for you to call him a “little shit” (after clearly hearing his stomach growl) and buy him a meal instead while you yammered on about how you busted your ass for a job they give two shits about you in. You weren’t afraid of him. All the fire he possessed, the scorched skin and scars he bore, the way the staples imbedded in his flesh stretched grossly as he flexed and spoke; none of it fazed you. You were nothing short of fascinating. At first you told him to fuck right off when you noticed how he’d follow you, and he did…from a distance. It wasn’t until some creep tried to rob you at gun point when you got home, accompanied by the instant incineration at Dabi’s hand, that you figured maybe he wasn’t half bad. Ever since then, you made fast friends with this odd flame wielding man. So when he popped into your place without mention, it didn’t bother you.

With a nervous spin, you reached into your fridge and grabbed two drinks - a ritual you often practiced when Dabi came over. He took the neck of the bottle and flicked the top off with ease. “Thanks, doll. You always got a stash ready for me.” he smirked, chugging back a long swig. You rolled your eyes as you hopped up on the countertop, “I have to keep stock otherwise you’re gonna drink me out of my fucking home.” He laughed low at that, leaning back on the faux marble with his elbows. That playful smirk was always plastered on his face when he was around you.

“You love having me around, don’t fucking lie.” You mirrored his smirk, he wasn’t far from the truth. Having Dabi around was a pleasantry. Your friendship with him was one of honesty - you didn’t sugarcoat shit with him and neither did he with you. You supposed that’s why he was so willing to open up to you; something you were sure wasn’t kosher for the kind of man Dabi was. But you understood him nonetheless - a tragic past, littered with so many scars both physical and emotional. The idea of you having any sort of ties to a criminal made you realize you probably weren’t the most wholesome person yourself…but you pushed that thought to the back of your mind as often as you could. For now, he was the closest person you had in your circle.

“Yeah, yeah, hothead,” retorted you, hand waving to brush him off, “Maybe if you weren’t a pain in my ass half the time, I’d like you a little more.” “Oh yeah?” Dabi scoffed, eyebrow raised in amusement. “Maybe I can take the place of your current little boy toy - god knows he doesn’t fuck you enough considering the mouth you’ve got on you.”

Silence fell over you. In any other normal circumstance you’d laugh - punch his shoulder and tell him to shut the fuck up. But now…his words struck you deep without him meaning them to. He picked up the chill of your withdrawal almost instantly and it caused him to lean toward you, scrutinizing the entirety of your face. Eyes narrowed, he spoke a little softer now, “Allergies my ass…you’ve been crying.” It nearly struck a nerve in you how quickly he was able to tell; it shouldn’t surprise you, but it does every time he catches on to things when you try to hide them. Turning to you now, Dabi stuffs his hands in his pockets with his gaze trained on you,

“Out with it.”

Those deep turquoise hues locked you in place, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him directly. With your head turned, you did your best to even your tone out, “It’s nothing Dabi, don’t worry about it.”

“Bullshit,” spat the villain, “Considering how quickly you got quiet over the mere mention of your boyfriend, I know something’s fucking up so spit it out.” You grit your teeth, holding your tongue as the blood in your veins felt of searing fire. His teeth shown now in a sour grin as leaned forward toward you, “Oh suddenly she’s speechless now, huh? That little boyfriend of yours break your heart? I know that pathetic look when I fucking see it.” That got your attention. Your face was twisted with malice, hot tears spilling down your face now with a mix of sadness and frustration. Always the one to push your buttons was he…but never this far. Sure you’d lamented to him after your many break ups, but not like this. Dabi had never seen you cry like this. You yanked the fire user by the collar of his white tee, hurt seething in your words,

“What the fuck would you know? You don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone! I’m surprised you haven’t destroyed my shit the way you destroy everything else in your life!” You were screaming at him now, eyes wild, “You don’t have to deal with every man who walks into your life being AFRAID of commitment with you. God for fucking bid I be an adult who can take care of herself, apparently that’s too scary,” the last few words said with pained sarcasm. He was shoved away as your palm scraped across your face to swipe at your tears,

“What the fuck would you know about relationships or love or any of this shit, Touya?” His name, his real name, slipped from your mouth like poison. Your lips were curled back in a snarl as you burned with embarrassment. It took a full minute before your breathing began to slow from its ragged pattern. Your own words resonated back at you and immediately you felt horrendous guilt. Hands carefully reached out for a gentle touch in apology, “Shit…Dabi, I’m-”

“What would I know, huh,” came a deadpan rasp. As fast as you could blink, he was before you, heated hands prying your knees apart so he could slide between them. He was too close too quickly. Dabi’s eyes were dark and unreadable, piercing into your own, “I know I’m tired of seeing you like this…aren’t you tired of feelin’ like you do?” What a question to ask after being downright insulted. He continued, “I’m sick of watching you throw yourself to these fucking idiots who don’t deserve you - just to watch you crumble and cry and sulk. It’s not like you and it makes my blood fucking boil.” Your eyes began to glaze over with tears once more as he wrapped a hand around your wrist, and suddenly you were pulled toward him, inches from his face. He bore holes through your irises with the intensity of his glare,

“You wanna yell at me for bringing the truth to light? Fucking fine…but at least I’m fucking honest with you, princess.”

He was right. No matter how blunt or scathing his words may have felt when he said them, he never lied to you. He...was probably the only man you knew who was completely honest with you. You suddenly became very aware of the grip his hands had on your legs, how close his body was to yours now. His scent, ash and whiskey, a normal comfort for you now made an unfamiliar shiver crawl up the length of your spine. The hand that wasn’t encased in his grip moved without thought, cupping one of his cheeks. Softly you stroked the flesh there, an apology swimming deep in your eyes,

“Dab- no...Touya, I...I’m sorry.”

The hand that held your wrist released it almost immediately, snapping up to your face. An arm encased your waist as you were pulled against his hard frame. Without a word, he slammed his lips into yours. His grip on your hip made you squeak in surprise, allowing Dabi to slip his tongue into your mouth. As he wrestled down your tongue, you felt yourself overwhelmed with several emotions, shock and confusion being the most prominent. Your hands gripped his shirt once more, shaky fingers unsure of what to make of all this. However...that didn’t stop you from kissing back. Everything in your mind told you this should be weird - you shouldn’t like kissing this asshole and all the grief he gives you every damn day he breathes, yet that’s exactly why it feels so incredibly right. The hand on your face trailed down to the back of your neck, and a hard grip on your hair found you tilting your head back. It was inevitable that a breathy mewl would escape you when Dabi pressed hot kisses into the skin of your neck, sinking his teeth in where he wanted most and licking the indents in the aftermath. When you felt the pressure of his lips and teeth suctioned at your pulse, it dawned on you how very real this was becoming. A million thoughts blazed through your mind - yet it was the self-deprecating thoughts that clung to you the most.

He was looking to get his dick wet and you were vulnerable.

Or worse, he pitied you.

Yes...yes, that one hurt the most. The idea of Dabi only wanting to touch you because he felt bad for being so harsh. You felt your lip tremble at the intrusive whispers that plagued you, and it caused your grip on him to loosen. With a shake in your voice,

“Dabi, don’t do this…”

He stopped. Mouth leaving your neck with a wet pop, he ceased all actions and just kept his hold on you. The waver in your tone never left, “I...I-I can’t be a pity fuck for you. Don’t do that to me, please...I c-can’t take that right now…”

The silence in the room was deafening even through your stifled whimpers. His grip on you faltered slowly, and it made your heart sink. You felt like you’d hit the nail on the head with that notion. It was difficult trying to swallow the seeds of rejection, but you’d have no choice.

“You think...this is a pity fuck?” came his voice, full of gravel and a tinge of something you couldn’t place. Suddenly the arm on your waist doubled down in its hold, nearly crushing you against him. His head never left the crook of your neck however and his deep exhale on your skin made your whole body shiver. Dabi trailed his tongue from your pulse to just under your jaw, pressing a small groan into your neck when you arched your chest against his. The growl he let out made you bite your lip, it was strained - as if to insinuate he was holding something back.

“Babe…” he muttered scratchily, “If I wanted to pity fuck someone, I’d pick some sad bitch at the club…” and he peppered kisses over your jaw this time, “You, dollface, are worth much more than that…” his path continued upward before finally stopping at your lips for one final chaste kiss, “In fact, you…you’re getting what you’ve long deserved.” The big question of what that was popped into your head, yet Dabi left no time for you to ask it. Bruising kisses on your mouth were what you got instead, his nimble fingers pawing at your thighs and sliding up your sides. The whine that tried to escape you? Dabi drank it all in, taking your needy cries down to his lungs like it was the air he needed to live. Your hands flew everywhere on him: gripping his shirt, digging into his arms, cupping his face and even scratching at the back of his head when he bit down your neck again. It was delicious and almost too much, but god smite you if you didn’t want every second of it. Your baggy t-shirt was ripped from your body in simple seconds before Dabi latched onto your collarbone. Scarred hands palmed your breasts without hesitation, and the cool, steel staples only served to be enticing on your hot flesh - the threat of them potentially snagging your skin making you ever wetter.

“Fuuuuck, Dabiiii” moaned you, thighs fully spread now as his tongue lapped over a pert nipple. Your fingers were back in his hair now, tugging hard at the scruffy black locks. His low growl sent heat straight between your legs, “That’s right princess, make those sounds for me…” and he quickly switched to your opposite breast, gently rolling the sensitive bud between his teeth. You shoved at his coat, and practically ripped his shirt in two just to get him out of him; you didn’t miss the dark chuckle let out, whispering something about impatience and being needy before you shut him up with a kiss. You palmed the front of his pants, letting out a short gasp into his mouth at what you felt in your hand. The smirk was not missed in the slightest, “Big, isn’t it?”

Normally you’d roll your eyes at his cockiness, but all you could muster at this moment was a deep bite to your bottom lip. Trying to be nimble, your fingers ran for the buckle of his pants - and you did your best to scoot off the counter top. Dabi stopped you however, knowing right away what you were about to do, “Uh uh…there will be time for that another day” the rough tug of thumbs in the waistband of your panties caught your attention; it was now that Dabi made a point to lock eyes with you, predatory heat in those swirling tides, “If I don’t fuck you right fuckin’ now, I’m gonna fuckin’ combust.” You barely made it out of your panties before he was wrapping your legs around his waist and lifting you up. Your back connected with the closest wall, a one hungry flame villain pinning you against it with your thighs held firmly in his hands. He reached between your conjoined bodies for only a few seconds, the shudder in his breath alluding to you that he’s managed to pull his cock free from his pants. The confirmation: how heavy it sat pressed flat against your slit. Tears pricked the corner of your eyes, and your breaths came in sputters - it was literally and figuratively, a lot for you to take in.

A pause. Hesitation almost.

With Dabi slated firm between your thighs, you expected him to simply take the plunge...and yet he stilled. He planted his hand strongly against the small of your back, using his weight and strength to keep you there - just above the last act before the bridge that separated you two from being “just friends” would fall to pieces. A hand came to your face, angling your head to the side with an uncharacteristic gentleness. Warm breath trickling over your skin, you felt the hushed command, “...Say you want this.” It was just above a whisper, and your mind being in the haze it was almost didn’t hear it...almost. You stuttered out, “Wh-What…?” He repeated, voice more firm as he said your name, “Say you want this...tell me you want me to fuck you. I won’t ask again.”

Your heart raced a mile a minute. But you already knew the answer.

“Yes, God, Dabi, yesss” you whined out, your thighs squeezing him closer. And that was all it took. Spread open wide for him, Dabi sunk deep within you, a hard groan rolling into your collarbone. Your hands wrapped around his head, holding onto him for dear life. His hips connected with yours slowly at first - allowing you to adjust as he stretched and filled you down to his balls. But the cry you let out when he finally slammed his hips up into you was the sound he loved the most. Thrust for thrust you took him, back scraping against the kitchen wall, rattling all odds and ends that hung nearby.

“Fuck, you feel so ungh, so fucking good.” Dabi says sharply, inhaling between grit teeth as he lends you a particularly hard thrust. Your pussy clenches at the desperation in his voice; masculine moans a symphony that sang down your body. He fucks up into you like you’ve never felt before, primal power oozing out of that lean body of his. All of your senses are ensnared by him and all you can think of in that moment is DabiDabiDabi. Unbeknownst to you, you’re spilling that same mantra from your lips like your life depended on it.

“Yeah, princess? Feel that good? Aghh fuck” he winces, the pain of your nails digging into his scalp mixing with the way your pussy grips him when you register his voice in your ear. He takes the shell of your earlobe between his teeth, moving both his hands now to come up under your ass. As Dabi forcefully ground your hips against his while he continued to pound into you, you couldn’t help but moan - heated pleasure was surging through your whole body. Your muscles tightened, the start of pressure building low in your belly.

“They could never satisfy you like this” he growled into your ear, “No man was ever good enough - no one will ever nghhfuck you like this,” he chuckled immediately after, tone low and dangerous in register, “You’re mine now, understand me?”

With an exasperated gasp you came undone. Electricity zipping through you from head to toe, tears finally spilling, soaking his cock completely as you came. “Fuck yess doll, that’s it, give me all of you,” he hissed, picking up the pace of his thrusts now. You loosened your vice grip on his hair - and that’s when you saw it. Dabi’s lids low as he still took you: eyebrows knitted in sheer pleasure, harsh pants accompanied by sharp grunts. But his eyes...his eyes held an adoration you’d never seen from him before. Soft pools of turquoise that swam in a haze of affection, of pure warmth and intimacy. He watched your flushed face twist in pleasure from your orgasm (simultaneously as he chased his own),

Dabi looked at you like he’d never seen anything more stunning.

“...S-Say my name, princess.” he stuttered out, grunts indicating he was close now.

“Dab-” “No. My real name.”

Your loins fluttered at the notion and you drew him in close. With a wanton moan, you let his ear have every letter, “Unghh, Touyaaa”

His hands gripped the fat of your ass as he damn near drilled an imprint of you into the wall.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckloveyouloveyoufuuuuckcummiiiing” And the sound of a choked gasp cut the air. Thick heat spilled inside of you, a feeling you moaned after as he filled you. You nearly felt yourself collapse onto him, but with the last of his strength, he pulled you both to the couch as you sat on top of him.

His words took a moment to settle with you. Did he…?

You looked up at him, you had to be sure. His head was thrown back, chest rising and falling as he fought to catch his breath.

“...You love me...don’t you”

It was said more as a statement than anything else, but the question was weaved into your words. His head came up for a moment, meeting your eyes quickly before closing his. He was vulnerable here, you knew this. You should’ve known - the way he stuck by your side and met you attitude for attitude. Your shoulder to lean on, your match made in hell. It couldn’t be helped…

“I didn’t think you were capable of love” you laughed softly, your fingers tracing over the scars on his cheeks. He snickered at that, pushing your head down for a quick, deep kiss.

“Only you, doll. It’s only ever been you.”

And boy did you feel finally seen.

#bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #dabi #dabi x reader #x reader #touya todoroki #todoroki touya #confessions #a little possessive #plenty passionate #the way this man has a CHOKEHOLD ON ME #goddd what i’d give #mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction #lemon

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aetherioswrites · 4 years

Photo

This ficlet was inspired by @poxei ’s incredible artwork. Go check out some of her other work! You will not be disappointed. Trigger warning: self-harm.

Sick of My Own Skin

It’s been four hours. Four fucking hours since he’s officially become a Death Eater and he has already killed three people. Draco braces his arms on either side of the basin and heaves deep, gasping breaths, trying to dislodge those sickening images from his mind.

Every time he closes his eyes, he swears that he can still feel Aunt Bella’s rancid breath on his neck, whispering to him to just kill the ‘filthy Muggle scum’ already. He can still see her wicked grin as a jet of green light strikes the young girl first. He can still hear her shriek of glee when he points his wand at the girl’s sobbing parents next. They were just Muggles, he chants to himself like a mantra. Only Muggles.

He looks down at his left forearm, at the serpentine embodiment of death and dark magic marring his flesh, corrupting his skin, his mind, his fucking soul. As if his soul hasn’t been corrupted enough, he chuckles darkly. The coppery stench of blood hangs in the air and bile rises in his throat, hot tears stinging behind his eyelids.

He can’t remember the last time he’d cried. He hadn’t when the Dark Lord performed bout after bout of the Cruciatus Curse on him for his father’s failures. He certainly hadn’t when his ‘master’ dragged the tip of his wand down Draco’s arm, leaving a trail of scorched skin in its wake. And he hadn’t — but had come damn near close — when the black tendrils of the Dark Mark lapped at his flesh like Fiendfyre.

But here, in the confines of his ornate bathroom, he lets his Occlumency walls fall and his tears fall faster. He cries for his mother, his sweet mother, who deserves so much more than this wretched life. He cries for his father, who should be here to help him but is in Azkaban instead. He cries for Albus sodding Dumbledore, who would be dead by the end of the year.

But most of all, he cries for himself because he’s just joined a homicidal cult of sadists who mindlessly devoted their entire lives to serving the darkest wizard of all time. He cries because he has twelve months to figure out how to get said homicidal cult into Hogwarts and kill the Headmaster of his own school.

He glances back at his arm and resentment bubbles within him, replacing the sadness. The raised flesh around the ink is red and itchy and he feels the overwhelming urge to just get rid of it. He pulls out his wand from his robes, levels it at the offending stain on his otherwise porcelain skin, and mutters a Slicing Hex. The skin tears open and Draco watches with disturbing fascination as dark red blood seeps from the gash, dripping to the black marble tiles. He grimaces when the Mark remains clearly distinguishable.

He slashes his wand again and another gash appears, deeper than the first but far shorter. No, that just wouldn’t do. He whispers the incantation once, twice more before his knees buckle and he sinks to the floor, vision blurred. His heart soars in delight when he can no longer make out the outline of the ugly skull and snake. Could it really have been that easy?

“Vulnera Sanentur,” he mumbles, mustering up the last of his energy to cast the healing spell, and his skin stitches itself together. He releases a strangled sob at the sight of the Dark Mark still intact on his mangled forearm. It was foolish to even hope, he knows.

“Draco!” shouts a voice, and he can hardly hear it over the steady pounding in his ears. Narcissa Malfoy scurries into the bathroom and kneels next to her son’s bloodied form, pulling his head into her lap. “What did you do, my Dragon?” she asks, tears welling up in her own eyes.

His heart skips at the name. She hadn’t called him that in years. The last time had been when he was seven years old, after he’d broken his leg in a flying accident. He would give anything to go back to the time when a broken bone was the worst of his worries. “I hate it,” he whispers, eyes darting to his Mark. “I hate this. I hate him.”

Narcissa strokes his hair. “I know,” she says, pressing her lips to his forehead. “I know you do. It’s just a matter of time, my Dragon. It will all be over soon.” Draco, for his part, hopes that she’s right.

#poxei #self harm #draco malfoy #harry potter #draco's dark mark #draco: death eater #fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #narcissa malfoy #year 6 #angst #war

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w-h-4-t · 3 years

Text

On today's episode of can't help myself

A friendship story with Cole and Cullen because I adore Cole and mans Cullen decided to knock on my brain and say AYE WHAT ABOUT ME HOE??? so there it is. It's been a HOT MIN since i last wrote but I caught the vibes. awww yeee. The story title is from a Gregory Alan Isakov song called Second Chances.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29517498/chapters/83834260

A Ghost in the Garden, Scaring the Crows.

It wasn't a familiar song but at times it was fleeting, fully blossoming into haphazard singing or woeful humming. Cole tapped his feet against the walls, mimicking the beat of several bleeding hearts.

And how they bled, all without voices.

For the songs he heard -the singing and humming- was internal, never brought to light nor languished upon.

Everyone's pain was brought to the surface of their mouths, like blood pooling at the top of a wound. Wanting to be free from their broken bodies and blistered bones. At times, Cole held a blade in his fingers -what he thought to be his hands- and flipped its honed edges over and over again.

He wanted to free them.

But it was wrong, wrought with rules of reality he didn't quite grasp.

Cole sat on top of the Garden roof, clicking his heels against the tiles, watching a world that remained blind to the form he filled. The knife was still in his half-gloved hands, giving thought to nothing in particular but the voices that swam around him in circular shapes.

Hurt my hand...

Lost my brother...

Never saw it coming...

How do I...

Where will I...

What do I do?

The many whispers of Skyhold's residents floated past him like errant bubbles on a river's surface; some popped by his ear, letting him listen to their woes.

The scarecrow boy looked off into the Garden, watching Chantry sisters and Elvhen herbalists sharing the land that stitched them together.

And still their turmoil boiled and dived, fluctuating in waves to keep their sanity, for the sky was patched but the world still hovered over their shoulders. A promise of destruction was forever clear, that much Cole noticed from the many minds that flocked to his ear.

Slowly, the Spirit stood, unseen by the people, unknown by the companions as he followed a thought as if reeled in; a faux human fish chasing a lure.

The world blurred around him, passing by in watercolours as he quietly made his way past citizens more real than he could ever feel.

The grass crunched under his boots, the buckles of his tattered garb chuckled in metallic rasps. Everything came alive as he walked and Cole wondered if he'd ever become more than the shell he filled. It was Varric's hope for him and Solas' nightmare.

The scrape of stone touched his shoes; a soft clacking to signal his arrival to the gazebo. Cole turned his head back for a moment, casting a half-moon shadow with his hat as his eyes scanned the garden.

The voices chased him, he could see them coming in invisible waves, swirling past Embrium and Elfroot plants, coiling over stones and praying beetles in lofty trees.

The woes of others would be upon him soon and he would welcome them with compassion even if his blade was forcibly stilled.

Turning back, blue eyes stared at a small table; a Lion and his quiet kingdom, formulated from his mind and captured by his own hand. Cullen's game of chess with himself -a normal affair of solitary wits- carried on as usual.

Castling...but that would leave the knight open.

The last piece of Cullen's thoughts sidled up to Cole and the boy watched with fascination as the Commander plotted a war against himself.

Even in his moments of reprieve, he fought, strategized, conquered.

But there was a sluggishness to his face; a sheen of sweat pooling between the creases of his forehead. The grating nausea and cerulean pollution of a body purging lost Lyrium.

Distractions to keep the monsters at bay.

Cole watched as Cullen reached out a shaky hand to clutch a knight but his fingers betrayed him, knocking over the piece.

The sharp flare of irritation cut Cole's tongue and pierced his chest, bringing him forward; making him seen.

"Maker's Breath!" Cullen exclaimed, his hand flying to his sword hilt in reflex, "Cole...You need to stop doing that."

"I'm sorry." Cole spoke suddenly, stepping forward with his head lowered, "I...I heard the hollow, the craving calling for comfort, cradling broken bottles and digesting dust. I wanted to help."

For above every pain of Skyhold he could not assist, Cole trembled at every tremor the Commander's withdrawal summoned. It was an intensity he could not fathom, a pain that had become so commonplace that above the voices crying for help, Cullen's screamed.

Removing his hand from his sword hilt, Cullen watched Cole with creased brows; his eyes were tired, reddened at the borders and bloodshot at the seams. Soon his brow lifted, resuming his natural stance at the table, focusing back on the fallen knight.

There were no words but a soft whisper of wind to assail the leaves and dance with the bugs. Cole heard it all, even above the bassy thrum of blood in Cullen's ears.

He heard peace at that moment, a small cluster of laughter from nearby, the sound of running, movement and life.

Though Varric was elsewhere, Cole could hear his voice, not his thoughts, but a memory of what he may say in a moment like this.

People are tricky, kid, but get to know them and they become a little less strange. You start to figure out that everyone's pretty weird, it's just a matter of befriending the type of crazy shit they bring to the table.

The Commander brought his hand to cover his mouth in deep thought, already beginning to forget the boy's presence.

Already beginning to have him fade away.

Cole stared back, his drawn face moping further as he found himself disappearing again, and though he normally encouraged it, he enjoyed being around.

He wanted to be seen.

For maybe if he was seen, he could help.

"C-Commander." Cole said suddenly, pulling the fog away from Cullen's eyes, "Can...I sit with you."

The words were odd, then again, the entire rogue boy was odd. Cullen blinked a few times before looking at Cole, gauging his intent and whether he wanted to be bothered.

And thankfully, he did.

"Alright." Cullen finally spoke, carelessly gesturing at the opposite chair, "But keep out of my head. Please."

Hearing the agreement, Cole nodded slowly, his mouth slightly agape even though he wished to smile. He would soon learn to tug his lips upward in time, not now, but in time.

Baby steps.

The many leather and cloth patches of Cole's clothes gave a soft whine as he sat in the chair, and funnily enough, it was the only sound he heard at that moment.

The world was strangely quiet, the river of voices all pleading for help lay idyllic amongst the shaded garden. Cole heard his thoughts rebounding in his skull and questioned each one of them, unknowing it was his own voice, his own words.

That is until he recognized his voice and the body he inhabited.

Reaching out to the board, Cole passed his fingers along the knight piece, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger to right its place.

"I can teach you a simple set of moves, if you wish," Cullen said softly, catching Cole's eyes which reflected the world back at the Commander, "Nothing too difficult, of course."

There was still clear pain in Cullen's face but it was buried as he spoke to Cole, distracted and muted under their conversation.

He was helping, in his own small way and with that realization, came a slight smile on the scarecrow spirit's face.

"Thank you. I want to learn." Cole replied, sitting upright in the chair as the one-man war melted into a mock battle for two.

He saw Cullen smile back at him, before resetting the board. It was the first time he felt like himself in a long while.

As for Cole.

He felt human.

#Cole has got to be my favourite character in the entire series I just think he's neat #the boys got SO MUCH GOING ON #And then theres lion boy who. thanks to some mutuals i know made me appreciate cullens story and lore and general everything a lot more #dragon age cole #dai cole #dragon age cullen #cullen rutherford #dragon age inquisiton #dai #dai fic #dragon age companions

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brutal-nemesis · 3 years

Text

E&T: The Armputation

Yeah. Yeah it’s time bitches :) you read it right we’re chopping that shit off

←Previous - Masterlist - Next→

Ingredients: amputation (omg wow), noncon surgery/body mod, body horror, slight gore

Erebus had sensed something was off when Neteri failed to bring him dinner one night, and when the guards appeared at his door the next morning instead of her, he knew what it meant.

It was time for another procedure.

He understood why she didn’t tell him it was coming, but having hardly any time to process that something was going to be drastically different about his body within the next hour wasn’t the best feeling. Before he knew it, he was on the table again, this time with his shirt off, that silly little rat drawing on the ceiling staring down at his restrained form. Maybe he should give it a name? That was something to focus on, and it’s not like he could see what Neteri was up to at her workbench with his head strapped down. After debating a bit, he settled on Zander, after a big black dog he’d played with sometimes as a kid. He missed seeing dogs. And cats. And birds and the sky and trees and flowers-

“Morning, Erebus!” Neteri seemed far too chipper for someone who was about to…do whatever she was going to do. “How are you feeling?”

“Not...great. Because I’m here. I don’t want to be here.” Even though I deserve to be.

“Yeah that’s expected. But nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Do I get out of this if I say yes?” She laughed and stroked his face.

“You’re fine.” He felt himself grow more and more nervous with anticipation as she rubbed something cold all over his right shoulder. Right there, she was going to cut him open and, and...what was she getting from her workbench? When she came back into view and he saw what she had, he felt his stomach drop. The knife she was holding was the most horrific looking instrument he’d ever seen. It was large and curved, and the fact that she was going to use it on him made it that much worse.

“What,” he gulped, “what are you going to do to me?”

“Well...do you promise not to freak out?”

“Uh...no. You do realize that makes me more worried, right?”

“Oh, yeah I guess so. It’ll probably be better that you know the full plan beforehand anyway. So,” she put down the knife and clasped her hands, “I’m going to be replacing your arm.”

“Replacing my...with what, exactly?”

“Another arm, of course. This one, to be exact.” She motioned to a box on the counter. “It’s from a lust demon.”

“Wait, you’re going to cut off my arm?!” Neteri nodded matter-of-factly as Erebus’s heart rate skyrocketed. He didn’t deserve that...did he?!

“I thought that was implied in the ‘replacing’ part, but yeah. Off with your right arm, on with this one.”

“You can’t just do that! That’s-you can’t just amputate my arm!”

“See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you. I knew you’d freak out.”

“Of-of course I’m freaking out! You want to cut off one of my limbs, for Drottkia’s sake!”

“I mean, yeah, but I’m going to give you a new one right away. So at the end of the day you’ll have the same number of arms you started with. It’s honestly not worth getting that worked up about.”

“Yes it is! You’re going to just-just attach someone else’s arm to my body! What in the world makes you think that’s not-” his voice cracked, and he realized there were tears streaming from his eyes. He didn’t want this, he was so, so afraid, and no matter how much he struggled and pleaded it was inevitable.

“Shh, shh. That’s enough now, you’ll be alright,” Neteri said as she wiped away his tears. He hated the way she comforted him, as if she wasn’t the source of all his problems. She reached for something out of his line of sight, and he didn’t manage to get a good look before she shoved it in his mouth. It was just a wad of cloth, but it silenced all of his further protests. He struggled uselessly against the tight leather straps, but he could hardly move at all. There was nothing he could do as she picked up the knife again. There was nothing he could do as he felt the cold blade touch his skin.

There was nothing he could do but wiggle the fingers of his right hand one last time while he still could.

The knife sliced through the flesh of his arm in one swift stroke, pain exploding out from it so quickly that Erebus could hardly register it. He barely had time to scream before he felt her place another tool on the wreck of his arm. And when it started moving, he knew exactly what it was. That was a saw, that was a saw, she was sawing through his bone, the vibrations shaking him to the very core. All of a sudden, there was a quiet thud and the sawing stopped, causing a suffocating panic to descend over Erebus, threatening to crush him.

It was gone it was gone his arm was gone the arm he’d used to write and eat and draw and plant flowers and hug his mother one last time and hold his father’s hand as he died was gone and the horrific new one couldn’t replace that, not at all, not at all, but it was too late because it was gone. He heard her pick it up and take it away, leaving a gaping hole next to him on the table, a space that had always been filled before by his arm, but his arm was gone and there was nothing there, nothing at all.

But when he felt her set something else down in that empty space, and his stomach twisted. It was the arm, the one that wasn’t his, the one that was going to be attached to his body, that was going to be his. After fiddling with it a bit, she pressed it up against the stump, the cold demon flesh meeting that of a warm human. She started to stitch them together, and Erebus couldn’t help but whine at both the sting of the needle and the horror of what was happening to him. But once the stitching stopped, the healing magic started, and that was far, far more painful.

Erebus screamed into the gag as he was assaulted by waves of relentless agony, ebbing and flowing as each nerve and blood vessel was joined together. It felt like every pain sensor in the arm was lighting up all at once as the connections were forged, every imaginable anguish being played out in a single moment. And when the bones started to fuse, oh he could hardly breathe, it was like fiery splinters were stabbing up into his shoulder, as many pinpricks of agony as there were stars in the sky, and there was nothing, nothing in the world besides that stabbing pain and the hum of screams in his throat. But all at once, the intensity of the pain evaporated as Neteri’s magic ceased flowing.

Erebus cautiously opened his eyes, looking at Zander the rat for a moment before turning his gaze to Neteri as much as the strap over his forehead would allow. He was shocked to see that she was clutching the edge of the table for support, breathing heavy as blood dripped steadily from her nose and ears. With a shaking hand, she pulled the gag from his mouth, her unfocused eyes meeting his tear-filled ones.

“Are you...okay?” she gasped between breaths. Erebus paused. He was absolutely, positively, nowhere near okay, but he knew what sort of answer she wanted.

“I’m...it still hurts, but not as much as before you, uh, started...connecting it.” Erebus replied, his voice painfully raspy from screaming.

“Can you...can you move your fingers?” He hesitantly complied, and was relieved to feel the unfamiliar digits wiggling, even if it felt a little off. She nodded, looking between his hand and the place where she’d attached the arm. “Okay. Hang in there just a bit more.” She took a deep breath and placed her hands on the wound again. Her magic sparked to life, and Erebus could see it was hurting her, too, before he was consumed by his own pain. But it wasn’t long before the magic sputtered out again. Neteri nearly collapsed on top of him, catching herself at the last moment.

“I think...it’ll be good...good enough for now. I’m sure it’s not perfect...I promise I’ll fix it later but I...I need to stop or I’ll...” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m sorry if...hurts...I know that...really painful...and you shouldn’t...more than necessary.” Opening her eyes, she pulled something out of her pocket before moving out of view. A few seconds later, the pair of guards from before came into the lab, shock flashing on their faces for a moment as they took in the bloodstained scene before them. Neteri came around the table, clutching something small and blue in one of her fists, seemingly a little more steady on her feet. She stood between Erebus and the guards, looking one of them dead in the eye.

“Take him back and give him something to take care of the attachment site, but I don’t want anyone else touching him, is that clear?” She jabbed a finger up at his face, her other hand clutching Erebus’s left arm tightly, either for support or out of possessiveness. “He is mine, and he can care for himself until I’m better.” She turned to the other guard. “I’ll probably need your help with a few things…”

Erebus let the guard take him back without a fuss after he was freed from the table. Trying to escape in this condition would just be dumb, and it’s not like there was much point in running with that spell on the brand. He was left alone in the cell with a roll of bandages and something to help fight off infection. But before he took care of the new wound, Erebus needed to wash off the blood that practically coated the right side of his body. There was so much of it on the arm...no, it was his right arm, that the skin looked completely red.

But as the blood was washed away by the little rainstorm, Erebus realized that that really was its color. Honestly, with the bright red skin, pitch black nails, and the prominent stitches attaching it to his body, the arm made him look like some sort of...monster which is what he was inside, wasn’t he? He watched in horrified fascination as the limb he didn’t recognize as his own moved as he wanted it to. Well, for the most part. It was sort of shaky, and he couldn’t make a fist or straighten it out all the way, but that was hopefully something Neteri could fix...

And despite everything, a small part of him couldn’t help but hope that, for her sake, Neteri was okay.

Tags: @dramaticcollapse @thehopelessopus @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @galaxywhump @as-a-matter-of-whump @mnmlover2002 @tears-and-lilies @yet-another-heathen @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @starnight-whump @unicornscotty

#i wrote something #erebus & terror #erebus #neteri #amputation #noncon surgery #noncon body modification #body horror #lab whump #magical exhaustion #see why i wanted to get to this shit. this bloody whumpfest #listen to those muffled screams. look at those expressions of horror #that blue thing neteri holds towards the end is a piece of beryl!#its a cyclosilicate/water element mineral that helps restore some of her magic power #neteri be like: i love you my sweet boy but also im going to cut your arm off for science #every time someone brought up magical exhaustion as a troupe they like i was SO tempted to be like ''well once we get to ch9...''#but i wanted it to be a surprise because i just love the moment of him seeing that she's destroying herself to do this #ma'am is dedicated and wants to make sure he's going to be okay before she stops trying to heal him #*puts rat zander reference immediately after Agony Paragraph* im so fuckin funney #you may be wondering ''nemi what possessed you to cut off erebus's arm like him specifically''#well you see his story used to be very different. but then i read Misery and wanted to amputate some limbs #and he was lying around with not that much of a plot #so viola our pull apart put together game has begun for real now #ooh maybe i should rb the demon post and people can make guesses about where we're goin next #make everyone look at my shitty whiteboard drawings again...

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cinebration · 3 years

Text

Written in DNA (Booker x Reader) [Part 2]

You hijack Booker and his ride.

Tagged: @lucy-sky, @city-of-weird

Warnings: physical trauma

Gif Source: sonsofeorl

Booker froze, his eyes darting up to the rearview mirror. In it he saw you wreathed in shadows, your face slightly illuminated by the distant light spilling out of the liquor store.

The cold metal against his neck he surmised to be the gun you had taken from him.

“I’m taking over the jailbreak,” you said, a note of humor in your voice. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

“…you’re welcome.” It was all he could think to say.

You laughed and leaned back in your seat.

Booker’s hand drifted down the side of his seat, his eyes on yours. Yours gleamed in the dark, as though radiating a slight moonshine effect.

“This is where I say something cliché, like…‘drive.’ Or ‘don’t worry, I would’ve hurt you already if I wanted to,’” you continued.

His fingers curled around the seat adjustor lever. He yanked it up, jammed his back against the seat.

The seat smashed forward. Pain lanced through Booker’s chest as he slammed into the steering wheel.

“Nice try,” you said. “I’d try the same.”

You eased up on the pressure, drawing your foot away from the back of the seat, enough for him to breathe through the crack in his sternum. It slowly stitched back together, his wheezing dissipating.

“What are you?” he rasped.

Silence.

He glanced up in the rear view to see you staring past him, your eyes drawn to something on the dark horizon.

Shaking your head, you set the gun down on your lap. Booker tensed against the steering wheel, ready to push back hard on the seat.

You reached forward and grabbed the liquor bottle out of his hand. He felt it leave his grip as though his own soul had been taken with it.

“You can get more of this after you drive.”

Booker ground his teeth, glared at you in the mirror.

“No more funny business.” You sounded like a cop out of a noir film, the humor back in your voice. Shifting into the center of the backseat, you added, “Get driving, handsome.”

Booker straightened as the last of the pressure eased off. He set the seat back to its normal configuration and reluctantly started up the car, another plan forming in his mind.

“Let’s play twenty questions.”

He glanced at you again. “What?”

“I get to ask first. What’s your name?”

“Charles.”

“Sounds like a lie.”

“Tell me your name.”

A pause. Then: “They called me Spec back at the lab.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“My questions first. Your name?”

The word dragged out of him. “Booker.”

“That doesn’t sound French.” You sighed. “Whatever. Who sent you?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer that. As he groped for a response, you sighed again. “Just tell me. It’ll make things easier.”

“An old friend. I think.”

“You think? No, not a question, ignore that. Here’s a question: Why were you sent for me?”

Booker hesitated again. The needle on the speedometer crept past seventy, then seventy-five, the trees lining the road zipping past.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “She said…”

“Well, whoever she is, she didn’t really tell you the whole deal, did she?”

Maybe Quynh hadn’t known, he thought. He thought back to the even tones in her voice. No, she had to have known.

The needle passed ninety.

“What are you?”

Booker glanced at you. You shifted forward, eager for the answer.

He yanked the steering wheel right.

The car smashed against a tree.

Booker gasped awake for the second time that night. Peeling himself off the airbags deployed from steering wheel, he fumbled with his seatbelt.

Chill evening air whipped in through the massive hole in the windshield.

Beyond lay a heap at the base of another tree.

Unclipping himself, Booker shouldered the driver’s door open and spilled out into the night. His pained breaths plumed out before him in small clouds.

In the fractured light from the unbroken headlight, the heap began to move.

Booker stared in disbelief as you unfolded yourself from the ball you had curled into. Something popped into place as you stood.

“That hurt,” you groaned.

Pieces of glass stuck out of the back of your neck. You tried to reach for them, gasped. Something looked wrong with your shoulder, like it had been pulled out of place. You staggered over to the nearest tree, inhaled sharply, and slammed your shoulder against it.

Booker blinked and rubbed his eyes. Had he drunk too much? This couldn’t be happening.

You weren’t an immortal.

Yet there you were, standing nearly unscathed after having flown through the windshield. He watched in horrid fascination as you pulled the pieces of glass out of the back of your neck.

“I should’ve guessed,” you muttered, glancing at him sullenly. “You look like a man trying to die.”

The taste in Booker’s mouth turned sour. He turned to the car, wondering if either of the two whiskey bottles had survived.

But maybe…maybe drinking wasn’t the best idea right now.

He wasn’t even sure he was awake, even though the pain felt very real.

He faced you again. You straightened, rolled your shoulders as though releasing stress.

“What are you?” he asked.

Your eyes met his sharply. “What are you?”

“Immortal.”

“Test tube or born that way?”

He blinked. “Born, I guess.”

Something like disappointment flickered across your features. “Well, I’m not immortal.”

Booker glanced at the wrecked car and windshield, gestured to it. “You survived that.”

“Because I was built to, not because I can’t die.”

The pounding in his head he had been ignoring suddenly swelled, pulsing behind his eyes. Inhaling through his nose, Booker buried his face in his hands, trying to process everything. You were the weapon, as you had said. Quynh had to have known that.

But why? Why would she need you? What made you different from Andy and the others?

He opened his eyes, flinched back. You stood right before him, having crept forward on silent feet. In the dark with nothing but the headlights shining through the woods, your eyes gleamed with something almost…predatory. Yet your face betrayed no malice or dangerous intent.

“You understand I can’t let you do that again, right?”

“I can’t anyway. The car is destroyed.”

“Yes, but you seem like you have brains.” You cocked your head. “When you’re not drowning in liquor, looks like.”

“What are you?” he repeated.

“More than human, I guess.”

“That’s not possible. I’m human, more or less.”

“Well, then, I guess I’m the next step in human evolution. Sorry about this.”

“About what?”

Pain exploded through his skull. He collapsed into oblivion.

#Booker x Reader #Booker #Booker imagine #Sebastien le Livre x Reader #Sebastien Le Livre #Sebastien Le Livre imagine #Matthias Schoenaerts x Reader #Matthias Schoenaerts #Matthias Schoenaerts imagine #The Old Guard

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songsformonkeys · 3 years

Text

Digging Up Bones (whiskey x f!reader) - chapter 4

[Banner by the lovely @yespolkadotkitty ]

Summary: You work for the Statesmen as the head of their medical department. It’s your job to patch up anyone who gets back wounded and to work on ways to prevent them from getting badly wounded in the first place.

Agent Whiskey, in particular, seems to be more accident-prone than the rest and he never passes up a reason to come see you, whether for real injuries or imaginary ones. The two of you form a close friendship, which slowly turns into something more.

Then a British man with a headshot wound and a fascination with butterflies shows up in your emergency room and in the events that follow you’re forced to reevaluate just about everything you thought you knew about your partner.

Warnings: Canon typical violence

Masterlist

Chapter 4

Your hands were shaking from exhaustion where they rested in your lap, clutching the bloody face mask you had been wearing for the past several hours. Your scrubs looked like a failed tie-dye experiment in light blue and red and the light in the room was unforgivingly bright, illuminating the aftermath of the surgery in stark detail.

They had wheeled Whiskey out of here about half an hour ago if your sense of time was still reliable. As soon as he and the others were out of the room, you had slumped down onto a chair and you hadn't been able to get up since then.

The pilot had said that Whiskey was stable on the way back but there was a reason you were the medical expert in this operation and not him because stable wasn't the adjective you would have used. Sure, you had been fairly confident that he wouldn't die, but that confidence had been more due to faith in your skills rather than a lack of severity in Whiskey's condition. Multiple stab wounds to his right thigh, his right arm, and a particularly nasty one in his side, as well as a broken leg, broken pinky finger, a cut across the bridge of his nose, and bruising that was out of this world. The pilot had said that Whiskey had fallen out a window and the bloody mess that had been placed in front of you made you believe that. The detail that, surprisingly, had been the most jarring was the fact that Whiskey hadn't been wearing his hat. His head had looked small and vulnerable without it and you had reached out to stroke it before you'd had time to process what you were doing. The others had definitely noticed but neither of them had said anything.

If it had been anyone but Whiskey on that table you would have gotten a thrill from the challenge of putting them back together (another thing Tonic had forbidden you from saying out loud) but, when it was him, the urgency of your movements was instead driven by fear. It was something you weren't familiar with. The fear that you would make a mistake and that you wouldn't be able to save him messed with your head and, more than once, you had to physically shake your head to get the thoughts to stop pestering you. One of your assistants, you couldn't remember who since you had been so focused on Whiskey, had offered to switch with you. She was probably worried that your friendship with the patient would affect your performance. You had refused. You were the one best equipped at handling this and if Whiskey were to die, he would die by your hand. Only then would you have been able to accept that everything had been done that could be done to save him.

Luckily, Whiskey hadn't died. It had taken hours but in the end, you had managed to patch him up and when you declared him stable it was actually the truth. It would still be hours before he woke up and when he did, he would no doubt be in a lot of pain but the immediate danger was over. Whiskey would live and you could relax. Or collapse, depending on whom you asked.

Your legs felt like lead, your mouth was dry and you could feel a massive headache building behind your eyes. You should go back to your apartment, get some sleep before Whiskey woke up, but it was as if your body had stopped cooperating. It didn't worry you. You were sure you would regain control over your body at some point, preferably sooner rather than later.

Another 20 minutes passed without any luck in that department but you never got to find out just how much longer it would have taken because, once those 20 minutes had passed, the door opened. You turned and saw Tonic standing there. He looked at you and then at the state of the rest of the room.

“Whatcha doing here, Moonshine?” he asked a little hesitantly as he stepped into the room.

“My legs don't work,” you replied stupidly. And inaccurately. Your legs worked just fine, you just weren't in control of them at the moment. It was a purely psychological thing which, as luck would have it, was Tonic's field of expertise.

“I'm not surprised,” he said, “You've been down here for hours. I hear Agent Whiskey owes you one hell of a thank you when he wakes up.”

You shrugged as Tonic gently pried the face mask from your hands and tossed it in a trashcan. You began protesting that the trashcan wasn't the place to dispose of the bloody mask but Tonic calmly hushed you.

“The assistants are waiting just outside the door for you to leave so they can clean this place up properly.”

You looked towards the door with a look of confusion.

“Why didn't they come inside?” you asked. Tonic gave you a slightly awkward smile.

“They were...worried about you,” he settled for and you didn't have the energy to question him for further details right now. He held a hand out and as you took it, he pulled you to your feet. Your legs felt surprisingly stable and normal and you shifted a little from foot to foot.

“Let's go get you cleaned up,” Tonic said and you nodded, following him outside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sitting still at a sick or hurt person's bedside had never been your thing. You'd watched families and friends do it, and the gesture of just sitting there and maybe holding their loved one's hand had always seemed to bring them comfort and calm. It wasn't entirely clear why. The act probably wouldn't do much to increase the chances of survival of the person they cared for. Although, you supposed it probably wouldn't make it worse either.

You had never sat at someone's bedside that way. Hadn't known anyone who got sick or hurt enough to end up in a hospital. With your parents, they had been gone too quickly for there to even be a trip to the hospital. Every other sick or hurt person you had seen had been your patient, which meant there had been plenty more useful things for you to do than sit by their bed and pet them.

With Whiskey, the lines were...blurred. He was your patient but he was also your friend. And the knot of worry in your belly just kept growing, even though you knew the surgery had gone well. So when you entered his room and found him sleeping in his hospital bed, hooked up to a whole array of medical equipment, you figured that maybe it was worth a try just to see what all the fuss was about.

You dragged a chair over to his side, sat down and took his hand, just like you'd seen others do. But almost immediately you noticed that it didn't feel right. It felt weird. Whiskey's hand was warm and it felt strong even in his unconscious state. Under different circumstances, it wouldn't have been an unpleasant hand to hold. But now, the hand was way too still in your grip and the lack of jokes and flirty remarks was a clear reminder that something was wrong. There was no way Whiskey would have let you hold his hand like this without teasing you mercilessly about it.

For five minutes, you sat there, waiting for the sense of calm and comfort to kick in. All it did was make you go over, in your mind, all the things that could have gone wrong with the surgery, all the ways Whiskey could have died. It made your chest hurt and after five minutes you couldn't take it anymore. So you stood up and instead busied yourself with checking every single one of Whiskey's vitals on the monitors, the IV drip, the bandaids covering his stitches. This was you in your element and as you noted that everything seemed fine, the calm you had been longing for finally began to creep in. It was mingled with pride over the excellent job your colleagues had done.

“You're in good hands,” you smiled and told Whiskey, absent-mindedly, as if you expected a response. When it didn't come, your smile dimmed a little and you went back to check the monitors.

You had been told that he would wake up soon. That the anesthetics should be wearing off within the next half an hour. You didn't want to leave before then. Didn't want Whiskey to have to be alone when he woke up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took another twenty minutes before he did, during which time you'd tinkered with the medical equipment, smoothed out his blanket several times, and tried a second time to hold his hand, with the exact same result as last time.

The almost inaudible groan from the bed, when he finally came to, caught your attention instantly and you watched the way Whiskey's pulse sped up slightly on the monitor before you moved to his side where he would be able to see you.

You waited, holding your breath, for several seconds before Whiskey slowly blinked his eyes open. His gaze moved aimlessly around the room before finally landing on you, although there were no signs of recognition so it was unclear how much of what he was seeing that were actually registering. He opened his mouth and tried to speak but only a soft wheezing noise came out. He closed his eyes and you moved closer, wanting to tell him not to go back to sleep again. He looked so pale and it scared you.

When Whiskey opened his eyes for a second time, his eyes found yours again. He opened his mouth again to speak and this time he managed to get a single word out, though it was barely more than a whisper.

“Angel.”

You felt yourself pale as fear gripped you like an icy fist. Angels? Why was Whiskey seeing angels? Was something wrong? You'd looked at the monitors only a moment ago and everything had been fine. Was there something you were missing?

“W-what?” you asked, eyes wide and afraid. Whiskey looked at you and he must have seen your fear because a second later his eyes widened too. He opened his mouth and made a noise that sounded like a pained grunt. For a second you were at a complete loss at what you do. Whiskey was dying and seeing angels but you were monitoring everything going on in his body and there was nothing wrong. Broken bones and stitches, sure but there was nothing that should be killing him right this second.

Whiskey made the same sound again and then a third time before you realized that they weren't just grunts but him trying to speak. You leaned closer.

“Youu,” Whiskey wheezed.

“Me? Me what?” you asked and you could have sworn to God that Whiskey actually rolled his eyes at that.

“Angel,” he forced out and it took you a moment to realize. When you did, you dropped into the chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut and, with a relieved sigh, you leaned forward to rest your face against the mattress of his bed.

“Don't scare me like that,” you mumbled into the sheets, unsure if Whiskey would even hear you. He might have because you felt fingers move next to your face before the pad of one of Whiskey's fingers touched your left temple. Maybe you were just imagining but the touch felt like an apology. You stayed still for a little bit, letting Whiskey gently stroke the inch of skin which he could reach. It felt nice.

After a short while, Whiskey's finger stilled. When you turned your head slightly to look at him, his eyes were closed again but there was a small smile on his face.

You snuck out, as quietly as possible, not to wake him up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hiya! How's Whiskey?” Tequila asked as you entered the office next to Harry's cell. You threw a glance at the one-way mirror and saw Harry sitting cross-legged on his bed, scribbling something into a notebook.

“He's...as good as can be expected... considering...” you told him and Tequila looked relieved. You knew the two agents had worked together on several missions and despite them bickering like an old married couple it was obvious to everyone that they cared for each other. “Give him a day or so to wake up a bit more and then you can go see him if you like,” you added and Tequila shrugged.

“We'll see,” he said, “Don't want him to think I miss him too much. Besides, I quite enjoy the peace and quiet around here without his constant hurrying about.”

It was a lie and you both knew it. Besides, the base had been anything but peaceful and quiet for the past two days. You and Tequila had been spared since you were both otherwise occupied, with Whiskey and Harry respectively, but the rest of the base was in a state of organized chaos trying to make sense of the sudden surge of violence all over the world yesterday. There were a couple of other agents who'd also been hurt yesterday but those injuries had been minor enough that they either had taken care of them by themselves or they'd been taken care of by the rest of the medical team once they got back. Whiskey seemed to be the only one from the Statesmen who'd suffered any severe damage, although the death toll among the civilians were staggering.

The agents that had been out on missions when the violence happened all had similar stories of what had gone down. They described that it had been as if a sudden rage had taken control over them and they had been powerless to stop it, hadn't even wanted to stop it. Then, just as suddenly as it had flared up, the rage had disappeared and it had only been then that the agents had realized the consequences of their actions. A couple of them had killed civilians. Two of them had tried killing each other but luckily neither had managed. Tonic had set up shop in Champs office all day to gather as much information as possible about what had gone down. You did not doubt that Whiskey would be put through the same questioning as soon as he was well enough to talk.

No one had any clue why the violence had happened but Ginger was confident that it had something to do with the extreme low-frequency signal she had picked up before bringing Harry in. Speaking of. You nodded in Harry's direction.

“What is he doing?” you asked. Tequila turned to look as well before he answered.

“Drawing, I think,” he said with an almost soft smile in Harry's direction, “He asked for some pen n' paper earlier and I figured there wouldn't be any harm in giving him that.”

“So Tonic has cleared him for handling sharp objects then?” you asked a little curiously and Tequila paled and stuttered. You held your hands up in a calming gesture.

“I'm sure it's fine. If I were him, I would want to figure out where I was before killing myself or anyone else.”

Tequila didn't look at all comforted by this.

“All the same, we should probably...” he said and got up from his chair while gesturing vaguely towards Harry's cell. You nodded.

“He's due for his medical check-up anyway.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The check-up went quick and painless. Harry sat patiently on the edge of his bed while you examined the healing wound under his eye patch and at the back of his head. All was looking good and healing properly. You asked him about any pain, loss of motor function, or if he had noticed anything strange or painful besides the memory loss. Harry shook his head and said that besides not having any memories from half of his life, everything was just fine. You noted the tone of sarcasm in his voice and gave him an apologetic smile.

As you examined Harry, Tequila tried to stealthily smuggle the pen into his back pocket. It wasn't something you or Harry noticed as he was doing it but it became obvious once the examination was done and Harry turned to pick up his notebook again.

“My pen,” he said, looking at the floor around the table, “It must have rolled off...Do either of you see it?”

You shook your head in mock confusion but Tequila immediately folded and blurted out his confession.

“I took it!” he admitted.

“Oh?” Harry said, confused. You looked at Tequila with a raised eyebrow. You did know for a fact that they let this man out on undercover missions, and that he almost always came back successful, but after the display you had just witnessed you definitely began to wonder just how he managed that if this was him under pressure to lie.

“I'm sorry, sir,” Tequila said, straightening his back, “I know I said you could have it but then my colleague here reminded me that we don't want you to hurt yourself.”

“Hurt myself? On a pen?” Harry asked with a frown before he let out another “Oh...” he cleared his throat and looked between you and Tequila.

“Mister...Tequila, miss...Moonshine. Let me assure you that I am in no danger of hurting myself. It seemed I've cheated death once already, for which I am very grateful. Now I simply wish to get well enough that you would allow me to go home...as soon as we figure out where that is.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Tequila begin to reach for his back pocket so you quickly spoke.

“I'm sorry, Harry. It's just the protocol. But I'll try and have To...Tom come by later to talk to you about having some pens in here.”

Harry looked a little disappointed but he nodded and resigned to a penless afternoon.

You and Tequila stuck around a bit longer to talk to Harry. You found out that what he had been drawing in the notebook were butterflies. He told you that it calmed him. Tequila looked at the drawings with something akin to awe and declared Harry a proper artist. You and Harry laughed at the young agent's excitement.

When you and Tequila eventually had to leave, you both felt a little bad but Harry assured you that it was okay. He had books to read until Tonic/Tom got there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You swung by Whiskey's room on the way back to your office to write today's report. He was sleeping again so you only stayed a couple of minutes to check on him. Before you left, you stopped at his bedside and reached out to stroke a lock of dark hair from his forehead. Checking for a fever, you told yourself, even though you had his exact temperature on a screen to your left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over the next few days, things calmed down on several fronts.

Tequila and Tonic took turns keeping Harry company. The Englishman had been cleared to get his pens back and spent most of his days drawing. Harry was a sweet and caring man and the more time either of you spent with him, the harder it was to believe that he was actually intelligence. Every time the door opened to his cell, Harry started and then apologized for being startled. He was a proper English gentleman. One day you had walked into the office next to the cell, only to find it empty, and as you looked into Harry's cell through the mirror, and saw Harry in the middle of teaching Tequila how to properly make tea. The younger agent had looked deeply concentrated.

The agency still wasn't sure about the motive behind the violent attacks all around the globe but Ginger had managed to trace the source of the extreme low-frequency waves to peoples' cellphones and a couple of days later news reached the world that billionaire Richmond Valentine had passed away. The exact cause of death wasn't revealed but the timing of it all was highly suspicious.

The Statesmen had also sent several people from the medical department out to assist at various hospitals, that were now filled to the brim with people hurt in the attacks. Only you and two others of the medics stayed behind, in case of an emergency and to care for Whiskey.

Whiskey was slowly but steadily getting better by the day. He was still weak and, even though he refused to admit it when anyone besides you were in the room, he was in a lot of pain. You spent more time with him than strictly needed, from a medical point of view, but both of you enjoyed the company.

Whiskey had no memory of what had happened but he found the anecdote about him scaring you with the angel comment highly amusing and laughed out loud, before promptly doubling over in pain and turning pale as a sheet. You kept the amusing anecdotes to a minimum after that.

Tonic came in to question him about what had happened during the attack. Whiskey's story was similar to the others. He explained that he had been fine when he was alone in the room and talking to you, but as soon as the other man had gotten in through the door the rage had consumed Whiskey too and they had fought in the room, outside the room, running down several flights of stairs before Whiskey had managed to overtake him. Whiskey hadn't noticed the other man who came running at him with a knife before it was too late and he'd been stabbed and thrown out the window. After that, he didn't remember much.

Tonic had written it all down before disappearing again. When he left, Whiskey slumped down on the bed with a pained sigh. Without him asking, you gave him some painkillers.

“Thank you, angel,” he whispered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple of weeks later you walked into Whiskey's hospital room only to stop dead in your tracks as soon as you crossed the threshold. The bed was empty. You looked around the room, even though there were no places in the room to hide.

Frowning, you hurried back outside and found Vermouth by one of the computers in the other room.

“Whiskey's room is empty!” you said a little too loudly and she jumped before realizing it was you.

“Yes,” she said, “He left two hours ago and...Boss, I know you know what you're doing but should he really be up and out of the hospital already?”

You blinked, confused by the sudden incompetence in your otherwise very skilled colleague.

“What? No, of course, he shouldn't! Why would you even let him leave?”

Now Vermouth looked equally confused.

“But he said you'd given him permission to go home for the day. Hell, he even had a signed note from you.”

The two of you looked at each other as the puzzle pieces began falling into place.

Fucking Whiskey!

“If I murder him,” you began, “Will you help me bury the body where Champ won't find it?”

Vermouth nodded, trying to keep a straight face and not smile.

“Of course, Boss. And if we can't find a good digging spot, might I suggest hiding him in one of the old liquor barrels?”

“Excellent idea! I'll call you when I find him.”

“Good luck!” Vermouth called after you as you left the office.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You banged hard on the door of the apartment before taking a step back and crossing your arms over your chest. It took almost two minutes before you heard the lock click open and you had just begun to entertain the thought of kicking the door in when Whiskey opened. He was still wearing the medical department's gray sweatpants, with one leg cut off to fit over the cast, but had somehow managed to wrangle himself out of the gray sweatshirt and into a white t-shirt with a red and gray plaid button-down shirt over. His Stetson was perched atop his head for the first time since he'd been injured. It was pushed back slightly to reveal more of his pale and tired face. There were circles under his eyes so dark they were almost purple and a slight stubble was unevenly sprinkled across his normally so clean-shaven jaw. He looked about two seconds away from toppling over.

“Moonshine...” he said a little hesitantly, probably noticing the expression on your face.

“What are you doing here?” you demanded to know.

“I live here,” Whiskey replied and you honest-to-god stomped your foot in frustration. Whiskey noticed and raised an eyebrow. A smile began to form on his lips but then he met your angry gaze and he instead adopted a more somber expression.

“Why are you not in your hospital room?” you continued, “Vermouth said you told her I gave you permission to go home. You even faked a note?”

“Darlin', relax. I feel fine. I don't need to...”

“Really? And what degree in medicine makes you qualified to make that judgment?” you snapped, “Because last time I, your doctor, checked you had just broken several bones, been stabbed even more times and the wound in your side is still held together mostly by sheer will-power. So I wouldn't say you're fine.”

Whiskey's jaw clenched slightly. He was annoyed with you, which was just as well because you were furious with him and his recklessness.

“I don't like being cooped up,” Whiskey shot back, crossing his own arms over his chest and only swaying a little as he let go of the support of the doorframe.

“And I don't like it when you're hurt!”

Whiskey's expression instantly softened.

“Moonshine...” he began.

“Don't Moonshine me right now! I didn't spend hours stitching you up just so you could go out and tear those stab wounds open again. It's a miracle that stab to your side didn't hit anything vital.“

Whiskey opened his mouth to speak but you interrupted him before he could get anything out.

“You almost died!...and I was really worried.”

Any trace of annoyance was long gone from Whiskey's face. Instead, there was a softness and almost sadness in his eyes.

“I'm sorry,” he apologized and you held your arms crossed in front of you.

“Yeah well...you should be,” you said, feeling a little calmer now that he'd admitted that you were right, “You're not well enough to be out yet.”

Whiskey pursed his lips and then he sighed.

“Alright, darlin'. Let me just turn off the TV and then I'm all yours.”

#whiskey/reader #whiskeyxreader #agent whiskey #kingsman golden circle fanfiction #kingsman golden circle #female reader #my fanfiction

35 notes · View notes

page150 · 3 years

Text

The Beginning 📕 Draco Malfoy x Reader (Friends)

Request: None but REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Pronouns: They/Them

Word Count: 1207

Warnings: none :)

Y/N - Your Name Y/L/N - Your Last Name

Y/N walked confidently down Diagon Alley. The rain splashed gently on the rim of their pointed hat which kept their face dry, showing off their gleaming eyes, shining with excitement. They pulled their robe tightly around their body, making sure their bags was safely situated inside the fabric. People bustled around, walking in and out of stores. Owl’s screeched and banged against cages. Everyone was getting prepared for the upcoming school year and Y/N was doing the same. They walked into Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions and instantly put their head down.

They flowed through the crowd smiling to themselves as they quickly collected everything they needed along with a gorgeous new robe. Snuggled into a corner of the store, hidden by more racks of robes, they hummed a joyful tune as they examined the symbol on it. A deep beautiful green serpent. Stitched with precise precision. Y/N happily turned to checkout, having the last item on their list in their hands, but they were stopped by a white haired boy walking too fast.

The two bumped into each other. His items falling onto the floor along with theirs. Y/N looked at the robe now crumpled on the floor along with some of the boy’s books.

He scowled, “You should watch where you’re going. Pick up your things and apologize.”

Y/N eyes widened in surprise, “You pick them up. It's not my fault you were walking so fast. What are you, a muggle?”

This time the boy was shocked, “Don’t you know who I am?”

“No and I do not care. Are you not going to pick them up?”

He gasped and waved to another boy, who quickly scurried over. The new boy gathered all the items off the floor. He handed the books to the white haired boy and placed the robe on a table.

Turning, the new boy apologized to Y/N, “I’ll get you a new robe.”

“Thank you.” Y/N said sweetly. The boy walked away to find a new slytherin robe.

“I’m Draco Malfoy. The other boy is Gregory Goyle. Who are you?”

“Y/N Y/L/N”

“Y/L/N? I haven’t heard of that name before. In fact I’ve never seen you before. Who are you?”

Y/N ignored the question Draco had asked as they lost interest in him as soon as Gregory came back. A new shinier robe was in his hands, and the minute it was set into Y/N hands they began to admire the seemingly better robe.

“Are you listening? I said I haven’t heard of that name. I’ve never seen you before.” Draco sneered.

“You haven’t been looking, but I’ve heard of you and before we continue I’ll like to let you know I’m a half-blood.”

Draco made a face of disgust and grumbled, “Disgusting.”

“Like you” Y/N retorted. "What do you expect me to say to 'Who are you' I'm just Y/N."

They began to walk off, but Draco grabbed their arm.

“Well, where would I find Y/N if I wanted to talk to them more, for research purposes?”

Y/N smiled, “Why research me, do you find me fascinating?”

The boy’s cheeks turned slightly red before he obnoxiously cleared his throat. “No you’re disgusting, but I don’t like unknown things slithering around Hogwarts.”

His remark to Y/N took them back, but they knew how harsh Draco could be, everyone knew. Y/N was determined to make sure that he knew that his words couldn’t reach them. A glance at the shop’s window showed that the rain had stopped.

“I heard a lot of disgusting creatures of your kind ran the school, so I would deal with that first. If you would like to talk to me, preferably in a more kind tone, I like to read.”

Y/N walked away, blending into the rush of people. Leaving Draco where he was looking around for the now missing person.

After checking out, Y/N waited outside the shop. Standing in the sunshine, they tipped their pointed hat forward slightly bringing in cooling shade. They were annoyed by how much time they had spent talking to Draco and slightly worried at their conversation. Although they were a master at blending in, any negative words or actions sliding off them they knew Draco would be different. He was mean and acted like it. Y/N wasn’t mean, but knew if they wanted to actually get to know him, they had to act like it.

Y/N thought about this as they returned to Hogwarts. At dinner they sat at a large table full of delicious food and happy energetic students, slytherins just like them, but they chose to stay quiet. Instead of attempting to join a conversation (which they never did anyways) they continued to think about the boy. Occasionally groaning at how they had felt butterflies flutter in their stomach when he looked up at them. How they almost giggled after they had given him a clue on where they would be later, which was not obvious enough that he would find it.

But, of course somehow he did find it.

After dinner, Y/N happily rested on one of the leather couches in the Slytherin common room. They grinned as they turned the page on a great book, completely relaxed and unbothered. Until, the same white haired boy from before situated himself at a desk next to the couch.

Y/N shot up, “How did you find me?”

“I’m not an idiot. No one would choose to go to the library for pleasure. Now,” Draco turned around his chair and peered at them, “How do you do-?”

“Finally something nice!" Y/N chimed. "I am doing splendidly, even though you’re keeping me from a good book.”

“No,” He slowly shook his head in amazement. “You seem to get dumber as the sun sets. How do you do that thing?”

Y/N's smile faltered, but they made sure it didn't fall. “What thing? Be specific Malfoy.”

“The thing where you blend into your surroundings. It’s not a cloak, so what is it, a spell?”

Y/N opened their mouth to tell the truth, but realized that Draco wanted something from them. Even though all he wanted was a small piece of information, it was something. Something to keep him at bay, but also something to keep him interested.

“Oh you don’t know? What type of pure-blood are you, even Potter knows?”

“Who are you to insult me like that? I’ll take it up with the headmasters if you continue to berate me and of course even that bronzed boy Potter knows. I bet you’re even friends with him.” He fumed.

Y/N closed their book, “I’m not friends with Harry, but he’s kind I suppose. I would like to be your friend, though.”

Draco scoffed as he looked down at Y/N, still sitting on the couch. He turned his head, but Y/N could still see the pink color that covered his cheeks. Adjusting his tie he spoke again, “I guess so, if it’ll please you. In return I expect you to teach me that spell. I bet I could perfect it more than Potter ever could.”

“Then it’s settled.” Y/N beamed. They rose from the couch and glanced at the clock. “I think it’s time to head to my dorm. I expect you’ll do the same.”

“I shall.” Draco replied. He looked at Y/N, then looked away and slowly asked, “Will I see you tomorrow?”

Y/N laughed as they walked away, “You must be very tired to ask a question like that. We’re at school, you’ll see me tomorrow and many tomorrows after that although you may be undelighted.”

Draco watched as they walked away. He looked down and saw the book they had been reading was still placed on top of the couch cushion. He picked it up, holding it to his stomach with both arms wrapped around it.

With a small simile he whispered, “I will be very delighted to see you.”

Author’s Note: Soo my Cesar post flopped horribly :( I think I’ll repost it because I’ve never had a post do so badly before. Anyways I really enjoy writing Draco and will have to do more, which means page150 is getting an update! I’m not the biggest fan of Harry Potter but I’m getting into it. Follow my twitter for updates @/thepage150 and please like and follow! Requests are OPEN! Have a wonderful day ~c’k

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