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dilatorywriting · 1 year

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Heroes vs. Villains : The Staff [Part 4]

Platonic GN!Reader x NRC Staff vs. RSA Staff Word Count: 2.9k

Summary: Woe to the Ramshackle Prefect, being caught up in the drama between the Disney Villains and their respective heroes. NRC Staff Version (Part 4)

ie. So the saying goes, 'nothing gold can stay.' Or, the Prefect is facing yet another Overblot and it drags some unpleasant dilemmas to the surface.

A/N: I have been fighting this for a solid hour now, and Tumblr is just being an absolute nightmare and not letting me add any more tags without crashing/refusing to save the post, so if you got kicked off the list, my sincerest apologies

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4]

There was a curt knock on Mozus Trein’s door.

The aging professor fought the inelegant urge to drop his head into his hands. After taking a moment to silently curse every other damned member of faculty at this college, he schooled his expression into a vague attempt at neutrality and cleared his throat.

“Enter.”

Divus Crewel and his ridiculous ensemble strutted into Trein’s office, and the historian barely bit back a sneer. He and the other professor had never gotten on at the best of times. Perhaps they would tolerate one another for the occasional game of chess, but the other man’s opinions on more or less everything (especially dogs. Ugh.) rankled something unpleasant in Trein’s chest. Call him old fashioned, but intentionally sharpening oneself into something miserable, and cold, and alone all in the name of maintaining an appearance of sophistication was something he would never respect.

Lucius growled from his place by the windowsill, and Crewel very noticeably fought to keep himself from raising his hackles in return. The black-and-white monstrosity leant forward and placed a bottle of red whine on Trein’s desk with a clack.

“What is it now?” Mozus frowned.

Divus didn’t bother to sit in the chair opposite him. He never did. He paced along one of the bookcases for a moment, trailing his crimson gloves along the leather spines.

“More of the same, I suspect,” he finally huffed.

Trein sighed and rifled around in his desk drawers to unearth his chest set. Not the good one—the one with hand-carved, stone, pieces that his daughters had given him for his birthday two years ago. This set wasn’t terribly ugly, and it did the job well enough. Plus, the worn colors lining the board always made something in Crewel’s jaw tick.

“Well,” he grumbled, setting the pieces into place and reaching for the wine. Divus Crewel was entirely unpleasant, but at the end of the day, Mozus had never been one to deny a willing student. And oh if there wasn’t so much that this egomaniacal alchemist still needed to learn. “Get on with it then.”

A part of you was sort of expecting to see one of those ‘WELCOME HOME, CHEATER’ banners nailed to the Rogersons’ front porch.

Which, firstly, come on. It’s not like you maybe vaguely starting to not loathe your time spent with Crewel with every fiber of your being was a crime. And you were still miserable and mad. Stupid, no good, stuck up, no-dad-being, emotionally unavailable—ahem. Excuse you. But you had eaten a few of those fancy cookies. And you were certain that Poe and Perdy would smell Jasper and Badun’s cuddles a mile away. And as much as you rationalized it forwards and backwards that you weren’t wrong, a part of you still felt… traitorous.

Secondly, the Rogersons were genuinely nice people. And you should have known at this point that they of all the adults in your life would hardly judge your for accepting any scraps of kindness being offered to you. (Unlike a certain Old Crow with whom you were well acquainted.)

All that being said, you were still a bit hesitant when you knocked on their front door that evening. Nevertheless, you were met you with a wave of enthusiastic greetings (plus a knitted set of gloves and a hat), as they ushered you back out the door with the promise of new and interesting things.

“We thought it’d be a nice change of pace,” Mister Rogerson explained. He and Annie were holding hands as you all walked down their quaint street, tucked up neatly in one of the roomy pockets of his overcoat. “And you didn’t get to come with us over the Holidays either.”

“There isn’t much else to do on Sage Island for most of year,” Annie said. “But the Winter Festival is always really lovely.”

The Winter Festival was like something out of a story book—all toned in watercolors and lit with a golden warmth that didn’t really seem feasible when the weather was otherwise so frigid. Magic, probably. Everything wonderous here was always magic. The air smelled honey-sweet, and you could feel the rising heat from dozens of outdoor ovens warming your cheeks.

“It’s busiest over the holiday period,” Annie explained merrily, reaching out to adjust the new hat on your head. “But most of the stalls stay open a few weeks later.”

“You missed all the rides unfortunately,” Mister Rogerson continued, giving your shoulder a light squeeze. “But if you’re still around next year, we’ll make sure to bring you when everything’s in full swing.”

There was a decent sized crowd filtering sluggishly through the faire, happy to meander about with their Styrofoam mugs of cocoa and browse the displays. There were more people your age milling about than you would have expected (as nice as this all was, it definitely seemed more like an ideal outing for a retirement home than anyone young enough to still have their original hip bones). Mostly you recognized the clean, crisp, white jackets of the RSA uniform, but occasionally there was a splotch of a more familiar black ensemble darting about amongst them.

“Have you ever had a fritter before?” Mister Rogerson called from his place by a stall that smelled like Heaven compressed into a cubic-meter.

“Not since I’ve been here,” you practically drooled, feeling very much like one of those cartoon characters who could merrily float through the air after the tantalizing scent of baked sweets.

“Do you want the sugar sprinkled? The caramel drizzle?” A laugh then, quick and bright, as he caught sight of the lovestruck (and ravenous) look on your face. “Both?” he offered indulgently.

There was another laugh then—raucous and loud. And a familiar face darted by with a mouth stuffed full of way too many festively frosted donuts.

“Hey! You get back here!” someone shouted, enraged and shaking their fist. “Free samples’ doesn’t mean a free for all! Did you hear me?! I said get back here!”

But Ruggie Bucchi just kept on running, his fluffy ears perked atop his head and his steel-grey eyes thinned with obvious amusement. He rushed past, and you met gazes just quickly enough to catch a smirk and a wink before he was off and around a corner—surely vanished into areas unknown to enjoy his haul.

You laughed into your gloves and turned back to your escorts for the evening with a beam, ready to suggest maybe just buying out the rest of the stall. Ruggie would love it. He’d probably even help you manage Leona’s tantrums without grumbling for at least, like, a week.

But they weren’t smiling.

The grin on your own lips slowly slipped back down into a flat line, and you fought the urge to fidget. Like somehow you’d done something wrong. Annie just sighed and shook her head. Mister Rogerson pinched at the bridge of his nose with a huff—the picture of a properly disappointed teacher.

“Well, can’t say anyone would expect Night Raven students to not be a handful.”

Something curdled a little in your tummy, and you tamped down the urge to immediately and aggressively rise to Ruggie’s defense. They were only free samples! And he loved donuts! And he never really had much money for anything of his own anyways! And they were free! And!—And…

“Ruggie doesn’t have anybody to buy him donuts,” you said at last, when the vendor handed you your own little paper bag overflowing with fritters.

Annie and Mister Rogerson looked at you curiously, clearly a bit lost, and you huffed.

“Ruggie,” you repeated. “The guy from earlier. With—with the samples.”

You could feel your shoulders hunch, defensive. And you didn’t even know why. It wasn’t like—they weren’t going to be mad at you or anything. And Ruggie was your friend. It didn’t seem right to let them just assume the worst of him.

“Oh,” Annie hummed, face softening. “Of course, sweetheart. But maybe he could ask first next time, okay? We’d be happy to treat any of your friends.”

You nodded and nibbled at your fritter. It was warm and crispy, perfectly fried and with a sugar crust that melted on your tongue like the sweetest kiss. It was delicious, really it was. But still somehow not quite as good as you’d thought it’d be.

When you arrived back to Ramshackle that evening, there was wallpaper on the walls.

You squinted at it suspiciously and tapped one of the glued-down edges with your finger. It didn’t vanish or eat you, so maybe it wasn’t an illusion. But why on Earth would anyone bother to try and give this place a facelift—

The front door burst open and Crowley blew in like a hurricane.

“CONGRATULATIONS!” he boomed. “There’s no one else I trust at this school quite like I trust you, oh wonderful and best of all Prefects! So I’m making you the lead producer for our VDC performance!”

You gaped, too familiarized with this nonsense to be as horrified as you probably ought to be.

“What’s a VDC?” you asked.

“That’s a great question!” Crowley beamed. “But first, let me introduce you to your new roommates!”

When the House Warden of Pomefiore and his entourage walked through your rickety front door, you felt something familiar, and awful, and inky swoop in your stomach.

“This building should be condemned,” Vil Schoenheit sniffed with all the grace of someone who definitely probably had a lot of underlying issues that were about to become your very real problem.

Crowley scuttled forward cheerfully to pin a tag labeled ‘MANAGER’ to your uniform jacket.

“Look how far you’ve come!” he sniffled, wiping dramatically at his gaping, soulless, eyes. “I’M SO PROUD!”

“…You can just put your bags over there,” you mumbled, so far past functioning on autopilot you may as well just ask Idia to turn your brain into an AI and get it over with it.

Epel dropped his suitcase near the living room’s rug and immediately the ancient floorboards opened up like the maw of some ravenous beast to swallow them whole. The group of you watched with varying degrees of distaste as his luggage plummeted to the basement, or… whatever existed below the crumbling wood. You’d never checked.

“I have the upmost faith in you!” Crowley chirped before jetting back out the door as quickly as he’d come.

“You did what?!” Crewel snapped.

“What!” Crowley whined. “Isn’t giving your child more responsibilities a sign of trust?! An act of faith between parent and spawn?! DOES THIS NOT SHOW HOW MUCH I VALUE THEIR COMPETENCE?!”

“No,” Trein groaned, burying his head in his hands.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Vil said, with all the cheer of someone undergoing a root canal. “I have nothing but well-wishes for Neige Leblanche and his many, worthy, successes.”

Buzz buzz went Ace’s phone as another of Neige’s advertisements lit the screen.

Drip drip went the heavy, black, magic curling around Vil Schoenheit’s soul.

You fought the urge to put your head through the wall.

The next evening came, as did another bottle of too-expensive wine.

Trein swirled the crimson liquid miserably in his glass.

“Do you know that I chastised the Prefect once? For calling Crowley incompetent?”

Divus sounded worn in a way that he most likely had no right to be, but progress was progress Trein supposed. The alchemist snorted sardonically into his own glass. Normally the wine was a bribe for the elder professor alone, but tonight it was a truce to be shared in bleak solidarity.

“Time makes fools of us all,” Trein hummed.

“What is he even thinking?” Crewel seethed. “As if the Prefect isn’t under enough stress as it is. What exactly does he think these stunts will accomplish?”

“I don’t think he’s thinking very much at all, to be perfectly honest with you,” Trein grumbled. “But then again, making impulsive decisions in the name of parental affection is far from a novel concept.”

Divus scoffed. “Ah, yes. Because that’s what the runt needs. A mockup of fatherhood bearing down their neck at every turn. It’s like he’s not even bothering to actually try.”

“Someone ought to be,” Mozus said, pointed. (And it certainly wasn’t going to be him. He had two, lovely, wonderful daughters to fill his heart. There wasn’t much room left for anything else.)

Crewel glowered at him miserably and sighed in a drawn-out sort of way that was not dissimilar to someone taking a too-long drag from a cigarette.

“It’s not something that fits with…” he hesitated, as if trying to chew over the words into something palatable. “I have no desire to give up everything that I’ve ever wanted to see in myself, to give up everything I’ve worked for, just to mold myself into some—some glorified babysitter.” Something stuck unpleasantly in his throat and he had to clear it twice before continuing. “Especially for someone who may very well be leaving this world forever in a few months as it is.”

The clock on the wall ticked obnoxiously through the silence. Each little second fell in a heavy clunk. clunk. clunk. that echoed around the room with all the gentility of a gong. After a long moment, Trein sighed into his glass.

“Being a parent is not about sacrificing your own sense of self in order to cater to your child,” he huffed. “It is about being there to nurture the development of their own.”

Crewel pointedly averted his gaze to one of the ugly, cat-centric, paintings on the wall.

“And perhaps for you a handful of months may not be sufficient,” the older man continued, swirling his wine. “But I’m sure for the Prefect, it would make all the difference in the world.”

Detention continued, despite your stacking ‘managerial responsibilities.’

Thankfully, it had mostly turned into you sitting in Crewel’s office while you sorted through whatever paperwork you were expected to file and complete. Sometimes a good chunk of the pages would disappear from your ‘in progress’ pile and reappear—perfectly completely and in order—at the end of the evening. You were dead set on never addressing it ever, because if you did he might stop. And he was probably the only reason you were managing to get any of it done on time at all.

Even with Professor Crewel’s help, you were still slow today. And as the night crawled to a close, you found yourself staring at a stack of blank pages without a thought to go with them. The only thing swimming in your head was murky tar and the cloying taste of black magic that came with it.

“Is there something you want to discuss?” Crewel called from his desk across the room. “You seem distracted.”

“I can’t,” you grumbled, something wobbling in your jaw. “Not to the people I want to talk about it with at least.”

Something shuttered slipped across his expression, and he nodded and went back to his own work. You stared at him for another moment, debating.

“What do you if—” you froze and hurriedly looked back down to the pen in your hands.

“If…?” Crewel pressed.

You sighed. “You know, sometimes you care about people, yeah? And maybe they’re not always perfect, but you still care. But then…” You chewed at your lip. “I don’t know. Can people still be good if they do bad things sometimes? Like, if you’d disagree with them completely, but they see it as right anyways?”

‘They’d be taken away?’

‘I know it sounds scary, kiddo. But that’s what we have to do to keep everyone as safe as we can. Does that make sense?’

You thought of Riddle, and Leona, and Azul, and Jamil. And now Vil. You grit your teeth so hard they started to ache.

Professor Crewel looked a bit startled, and you couldn’t really blame him. It was the most you’d spoken to him in weeks.

“I suppose that would depend on you,” he said after a moment. “And if that ‘disagreement’ was big enough to change how you viewed them entirely.”

“I don’t know…” you frowned. It certainly felt like something big. But...

“Well, what have you done about it?”

You blinked. “What?”

He waved his hand at you, and that pointer of his snapped across his palm. “Have you told this person that what they’ve said bothered you?”

“…well, no,” you mumbled.

“Then that’s what you need to do first,” he said, firm. “You won’t have an answer to anything you’re fretting about until you can face that at least.”

“And then what?”

Professor Crewel hesitated then, his mouth working as if he couldn’t really decide what he wanted to say. Or maybe like he was thinking over his words very, very, carefully.

“Do they know that they’ve done wrong by you?” he asked at last, not quite as sharp as before. “And—more importantly—if they know they’ve upset you, are they trying to make it right?”

You had a sudden feeling that he wasn’t really talking about your question anymore. The words settled heavily in your gut, but not in a way that was entirely unpleasant. More like the comfort after eating a full meal rather than the all-encompassing dread that so often took residence there instead. You thought of fancy cookies, and dogs, and cozy coats that were warmer and softer than the best blankets you’d ever used.

“Right,” you said after a moment, and glanced away with a secretive sort of smile. “I guess that would be the most important bit.”

TAG LIST [CLOSED]

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#twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #My Writing #NRC Staff #NRC Staff x Reader #Divus Crewel x Reader #Dire Crowley x Reader #The NRC Staff's Horrible Parenting #But maybe getting a lil better #Heroes vs. Villains #Crewel x Reader #twisted wonderland OCs #twst ocs #Divus Crewel #Dire Crowley #Mozus Trein #Heroes vs Villains The NRC Staff Part 4

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ao3feed-undertale1 · 3 months

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Puzzle pieces

read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/53905369 by SimplyDriftingWood Nightmares gang, the notorious tormenters of the multiverse. It is said that they have killed and tortured many, including those in their own Aus, but what really happens behind closed doors? Or, I decided to rewrite an old fanfic series I did, now with knew headcanons and ships. This follows the murder time trio and how I believe their life would be like at canon Nightmares manor Disclaimer: This is sort of like a group of one shots in the same story, so though there will be an underlying plot, the chapters won't flow like a typical book Words: 2641, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: Undertale (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Sans (Undertale), Sans Ensemble (Undertale), Killer Sans (Undertale), Fluffytale Sans | Ccino (Undertale) - Character, Dreamtale Sans | Nightmare (Undertale) - Character, Dreamtale Sans | Dream (Undertale) - Character, Dusttale Sans | Dust (Undertale), HorrorTale Sans | Horror (Undertale), Othertale Sans | Color (Undertale) - Character, Xtale Sans | Cross (Undertale) - Character Relationships: Sans/Sans (Undertale), Fluffytale Sans | Ccino/Killer Sans (Undertale), Ccino sans/Killer sans, Sans & Sans (Undertale), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Past Fluffytale Sans | Ccino /Dreamtale Sans | Nightmare (Undertale) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Undertale Multiverse | UTMV (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Fluffytale (Undertale), Switching Points of View, Found Family, Cat Cafés, Coffee Shops, Fluff and Angst, Animal Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Physical Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Panic Attacks, Medium Burn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Workplace Abuse, Platonic Cuddling, Queerplatonic Relationships, Literal Sleeping Together, Bad Sanses | Nightmare's Gang (Undertale), Bad Sanses | Nightmare's Gang centric (Undertale), Other Additional Tags to Be Added read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/53905369

#ao3feed #ao3undertalefeed #fanfic #undertale #undertale-fanfic

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flowerwrites06 · 3 years

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blossoms and blood finale — jjk

Plot: Two lovers are ripped apart in the name of duty.

Pairing(s): Prince/King!Jungkook x Princess/Queen!OC (Name: Belle)

Rating: G | PG | M | R 18+

Type: Drabble | Oneshot | Two Parter | Series

Word Count: 5k

Genre: Royal | Angst | Smut

Tags & Warnings: violence, angst, explicit smut, blood

Authors Note: I know a couple of you wanted this so I hope you like!

Pungent scent of medicated potions lingered in the air of the Queens’ bedroom as it now transformed itself into a makeshift home clinic. The royal physician Taehyung sat on the edge of the bed while Jungkook lay on the soft surface, half conscious. White cloth pressed against the males’ forehead, sweat beads gathered around his temples. Every breath he took trembled as light whines emitted at each weak heave.

Belle stood near one of the pillars of her bed, concern twisting her features even though she tried her to keep her composure. As far as everyone was concerned, she still had an arranged marriage with Hoseok. So an air of calmness had to stretch across her face.

Taehyung hooked a fingers on the bandage, letting a light sigh as he did. A patch of red soak through the bandage already. “It’s a surface wound. They will heal in a week or two.” He turned to face the Queen, hands placed on his lap.

“Thank you, Taehyung.” Belle crossed her arms over her chest. Scrubbing sounds made her ears prick up. The maids spend most of the morning getting rid of the blood stains on the floor. “I expected to have enemies…” Her tone rung solemn.

“It’s the side effect of bringing a lot of people together. Powerful but often prone to differences.” Taehyung answered in a plain tone as he packed his things back into his satchel. A few glasses clinked inside of it while he hung it gently over his shoulder. “Let me know if there are any abnormal changes.”

Her eyes were still fixated on Jungkook. How his chest rose and fell, a film of sweat covering his body all the while his features contorting. Anything but a peaceful sleep. Quickly Belle met Taehyungs’ gaze and nodded. “Yes of course.”

The physician padded closer and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry yourself too much, Your Majesty. King Jungkook is known for surviving many battles. This is but a scratch.”

A scratch she should have received. Not him. Belle stayed silent and gave him a faint smile before he walked out of the room.

Minutes later, the maids also bowed down and excused themselves from her chambers as the room now had a faint flowery smell from the cleaning supplies. Apparently a few people had been concocting liquid that gave off a more pleasant smell after cleaning rather than the rancid one she remembered as a child.

Silence overcame the room as Belle was left to watch Jungkook struggling to keep still from the troubles in his weary mind. She knew the male had always been prone to dreadful nightmares considering the amount of battles he fought in from a young age. Fingers itched to comfort him. A more sensible part of her yelled not to dive too deep into this weakening state. But the part that wished she took the hit instead of him spoke a different story. She padded closer to the edge of the bed and sat down.

Pulling the wet cloth away from his forehead, Belle dipped it back into the basin of water placed on the nightstand. She lifted the heavy piece and squeezed out the excess before carefully resting it back on his warm head. Taehyung left the tray of simple tools over next to the bed. Grabbing another cloth the woman softly patted away the film of sweat on his bare torso.

She could still make out the faint traces of scars from previous battles. One stab wound right in the middle, the faint camel toned mark leftover. Scratch marks from a war tiger on his chest looking far less threatening than she recalled. Belle could still see how proud he looked having a mark of a glorious creature on his skin as if it were a sign of good luck. Then the newest addition. Bandaged and slightly soaking through with fresh blood.

Even to this day, Jungkook took a terrible wound somehow and still breathed. Taehyung wasn’t wrong in saying that he suffered far worse than this but the tug in her belly never changed. She still had to look at him in this manner. Breathing uneven and a pained expression across the features she loved so much.

Then Belle’s gaze caught something glimmering around Jungkooks’ neck. A plain silver necklace wrapped around his neck a little too tightly. Gently she pulled at the chain to fix it up and felt a larger object dangling from it just behind his jawline. Brows furrowed, Belle carefully brought the pendant back to the front of his chest and her heart skipped a few beats.

Breath caught in her throat as her shaking thumb brushed over the blossom design. It still shone so bright after all these years, capturing a simplistic beauty of a shy warriors’ gesture of love. Thick tears flooded at the brim of her eyes. The last time she saw this it had been drowning in a puddle of her mothers’ blood. Now as if a ghost of the past came back to haunt her, she had the ring in her hand. Reminding her of just that. It was the past.

Something she could never fix. The only she could fix was the future.

Belle looked over at Jungkooks’ half-conscious form, lips trembling. “You have to wake up for me.” She whispered, caressing his glowing cheek. “You have to be okay.” Tears trickled down her face as she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss at the corner of his lips.

The door clicked open. “Your Majesty?” Seokjins’ voice rung through the room.

Belle hurriedly wiped away the wetness from her cheeks and took a deep breath. Standing up from the bed, she clasped her fingers together, standing as professionally as she could. “Yes?”

Seokjin stood near the door, glancing over at Jungkooks’ form before looking at her again. “I have some important news.”

She looked over her shoulder for a moment checking if the male didn’t change in his demeanor. “Okay.” Belle addressed walking out of the room despite feeling utterly disquiet about leaving Jungkook alone.

Leaving a small crack in the door, Belle turned to face the Prince with as much as of a calm expression as she could muster. Although her eyes were still reddened and her posture a little deflated. “What kind of news?” She continued the conversation in a small voice so it would not echo too much against the walls of the hallway.

Seokjin glanced over his shoulder at the four guards now stationed near the Queens’ chambers. Their expression blank as per usual but they both knew their ears now stood sharper than ever for any strange sign. Facing Belle again, he spoke under his breath. “I started asking around about the incident and what might have allowed the assailant to get this far into your chambers.”

Curiosity piqued, she straightened up. “And?”

“A few servants…” He side glanced possibly at the guards once again. “They saw King Hoseok conversing with the guards and handing them a jug of something. The guards that were supposed to posted last night were found unconscious.”

Belle took a deep breath feeling a rush of heat burst through her body hearing that name. She wanted to be extremely shocked by the whole ordeal but admittedly Hoseok had been welcomed with open arms to cause whatever secret havoc he needed to. Of course he’d take it in a heartbeat. “Was the assailant one of his men?”

“Well, no...” Seokjin leaned on the wall beside him. “…he was one of ours.”

The Queen averted her gaze, hardly any shock spread across her features. “Not really ours, was he?” Not everyone could be elated about her taking over all those kingdoms. Last night now became a painful reminder of that notion.

Seokjin sighed. “There’s one other thing.” His voice rung lower. “While the scene was being investigated they found a potion spilled on the floor. I asked for them to get a sample.”

Belle could vaguely remember the assailant holding something over her but the events just after waking up replayed in a fuzzy manner. “What was it?”

“According to the potions master, it’s an elixir to get douse someone’s willpower. For a small amount of hours of course.” He lifted a shoulder.

“Long enough to sign any contract.”

“Or make any public announcement that he wants you to make.”

The more evidence came to light, the more Belle knew Hoseok was not a man of change if it meant he needed to change. It only became relevant when things were moving his way. Poor traits of a King but also fooled when turned around, she thought.

“Should we organize an arrest?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not yet.”

Seokjins’ brows furrowed searching her expression. On a normal day, an execution or exile would have been organized at most but he noticed a rare glint in her eye. “What did you want to do?”

Belle met the Princes’ eyes. “King Hoseok isn’t fully aware of the aftermath, I’m assuming.”

“No he isn’t.”

“Perhaps we can deal with this situation on more familiar grounds to the Sun King.” Chin raised, the glint in her gaze became clearer now. A sense of mischief and manipulation for the traitor King. Any monarch with a strong will to do his bidding loved hearing things that benefit him somehow. Even if it was a bold-faced lie.

The Prince couldn’t help but have a tiny smile tug at his pillowy lips. “I’m sure that can arranged, Your Majesty.”

She nodded. “Good.”

Large mat laid out on the grounds of the royal garden, dark mahogany floor table placed in the middle as Queen Belle sat on one side and Sun King Hoseok on the other. Colorful rice cakes centering the two cups of auburn tinted tea, light wafts of steam still flowing up from it. The maid neatened up Belle’s dress train around her for comfort. Golden dress with meshed sleeves adorned in rich floral patterns and pink flowers around the borders of her straight neckline. Colours of the Queens’ dress contrasted beautifully amongst the pinks and purples of the garden and matched pleasantly with Hoseok sky blue ensemble.

From afar they may have looked like the perfect royal couple despite the light twinge of disgust at the back of Belle’s mind, knowing just what kind of a person she was betrothed to. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard. There was an attack in the palace last night.”

Hoseok had been taking a careful sip of tea when she spoke. He hummed in response, placing the tea back onto the table before nodding. “I did hear King Jungkook got injured. Has he been recovering well?” The man was talented in playing the saint. Every conqueror had to, after all, try to convince everyone that what they were doing was good hearted to prevent any revolution.

“He is. It’s a surface wound so he’ll be ready for trial.” Belle picked her cup, blowing onto it gently before taking a small sip only enough to disappear on her tongue and barely reach her throat.

“Trial?” His brows furrowed.

“Well a few servants saw him wandering around the hallways during the attack. It’s a classic move.” Belle took one of the smaller rice cakes and bit into it carefully.

Hoseok searched the Queens’ expression with an air of interest, leaves rustling a little against the day breeze. “You think maybe he tried to plant himself as an innocent bystander?” He stated rather than asked. Truthfully he never expected her to blame him so easily but it was understandable considering their dark history.

“Of course he did.” She placed the half bitten rice cake back on her plate. “Sending a servant to do his dirty work was already in poor taste as it were.”

The corner of his lip twitched as he tried to keep a neutral face while the Queen insulted his tactics. No, Jungkooks’ tactics. “That’s true.” Hoseok spoke through a slightly tightened jaw. “Usually professional assassins are chimed in for those situations.”

“Right.” Belle smiled. “If you ever think of assassinating me during our marriage, please do send your best.” She mused.

Hoseok let out an almost forced chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Anyway he’ll be held on trial as soon as he’s awake. Then that kingdom is as good as ours.” A bright grin graced the Queens’ features.

“I can see why you’re the most feared Queen in our land.” Hoseok chuckled.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“What fun is life without a little fear, yes?”

Belle hummed in agreement.

Candles lit to welcome the night. Another fresh bandage now wrapped around Jungkooks’ shoulder. Belle had a significant rush of relief watching the male breath in calm patterns with his face relaxed from any nightmare induced contorts. He looked relieved from pain. She stood near her vanity as one maid folded up some used clothes and stuffed them into the hamper.

Her hair now completely open from any pins, she could finally let the tightening headache pass from the release. Fluffing through the locks the Queen turned to smile at the maid as she bowed and walked out of the room with the hamper rested on her hip.

Once the door closed, Belle relaxed in the comforting silence of her bed chambers for the night as she sat on the empty side of her bed.

During the early years of her reign she remembered breaking down on the floor. When all the eyes were off her and the young Queen was left to her lonesome, dark thoughts and painful memories sunk right into her very core. It overwhelmed every vein and limb to a point where a maid sometimes found Belle sleeping on the floor. Namjoon caught her in that state more times that she would like to admit. He would immediately carry her back to bed without speaking of it again for her comfort.

Recalling that vulnerable version of herself in the past, Belle felt a slight twinge of accomplishment that she could sit in her chambers with pride. Not grief or heartbreak.

Except one thing had been left unresolved as of late. She turned to see Jungkook stirring, a long drawling sigh passing through his nose. Belle shifted closer as her hand caressed his forehead to help him relax. She pushed back his long locks watching him slowly flicker his eyes open.

Vision blurred as Jungkook finally stirred awake, the room slowly materializing around him. He relished in a familiar warm touch on his forehead causing a hum under his breath. When his gaze turned over to the side, he felt an immediate rush of comfort seeing Belle’s face. For so long the man had been dreaming of waking up to see her every morning only to find an empty space beside him.

Now every piece of his damaged body and mind calmed as if a long held wish came true. “You’re here.” Jungkook whispered in a rasp, clearing his dried throat.

Belle smiled before nodding. “I’m here.”

With a light grunt, the male tried to push himself up before a hot flash of pain caused him to drop down again. “Shit.” He hissed.

Belle placed a hand at back of his neck, helping him lift up gently before adjusting the pillows so he could sit up comfortably. His back now rested on against the soft headboard. She reached out to the nightstand and grabbed a cup of water.

Jungkooks’ eyes partially closed as his body tingled, getting used to the new position after lying down for who knows how long. A few seconds passed and he felt something cold touch his lips.

“It’s water.”

The word immediately caused his parched lips to part. Refreshing, cool liquid gracing his tongue and dampening his throat while the heaviness in his head slowly lightened. A light hum emitted from under Jungkook’s breath as he swallowed down the nourishment. Even as the cup emptied, he kept suckling on for more.

Pulling the cup away, she gave him a faint smile. “I’ll get some more.” Before Belle could climb out of the bed however Jungkook quickly used his good arm to hold onto hers.

“Stay. Please.” He let out a relaxed sigh, mind clearing in almost minutes.

The Queen looked at the male over her shoulder before nodding. She placed the cup back onto the nightstand and sat next to him, body facing him completely. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I just got slashed on the chest with a sword.” Jungkook chuckled weakly. Licking his lips, his gaze fixated on the woman before memories of last night began sinking in. “Are you hurt?” Instinctively, he reached out to touch her hand. Thought of consequences seemed to bury itself somewhere deep under his weak state.

Belle shook her head with a reassuring smile. “Thanks to you.” She gulped down. “You didn’t have to do that though.”

“No one has to risk their life for someone.” His lips curled up. “But I’ll always want to for you.”

“That’s not comforting.” She frowned. “How did you think I was going to feel if you died protecting me?” Belle’s brows furrowed as the freshly lingering memories of last nights’ events now burst in harsh colours around them. She could almost still feel his blood between her fingers as it soaked through her robe.

“Belle…” He whispered, the grip on her hand tightening. “It’s what I do. I’m a soldier, remember?”

“You’re not just a solider and you know that.” Her voice cracked heavier at every word, eyes growing glossy. “You’re a King, all those people are looking up to you.” She nodded towards the door. “You can’t just come back to me after so long and then leave me alone again, it hurts.” Belle hung her head, swallowing the painful lump in her throat. She never thought after all these years, seeing Jungkook hurt brought her the same deep sorrow it always did. “The last thing I said to you was I don’t love you.”

Jungkook blinked slowly, lips twitching a little. “I know.” He whispered.

Belle let out a shaky sigh, eyes flickered up to meet his glossy gaze. “I-I didn’t mean—” She shook her head looking down at their hands connected. Caressing the top of his hand, she brought it up to her cheek. Warmth from his palm radiated to her skin.

He felt a rush of comfort touching her again. The distant broken visions of their past now hitting him like a bag of rocks to his chest. It’s been so long. Too long. How he survived without her touch for so many years. Unable to bear the distance, Jungkook leaned in, nose nudging on hers affectionately.

Heart raced out of her ribcages as her free hand came up to softly caress the side of his neck. Belle slid closer until their lips brushed. Thick heat tingled through her limbs feeling those familiar lips again.

As soon as their twin flesh touched, Jungkook took her bottom lip and suckled lightly. The faintest tinge of sweet berry still lingering on it intoxicating him further than he already was. A buzz swirled around his head. He wound his good arm around her waist, pulling her close against his body.

Hum emitting under her breath, Belle shifted as he held her, one leg swinging over so she straddled him. She felt his tongue slip through her teeth. Jaw slacked, she let him explore her mouth while her soft dress rode up, exposing her thighs.

Jungkooks’ hand snuck under the hem of her dress, nails grazing down the soft skin causing a tingle down Belle’s spine. Further and further he moved until he reached the swell of her ass. Instinctively, he kneaded the bouncy flesh.

Feeling the firm squeeze, Belle swayed her hips against his feeling something hardening between his legs. She felt the males’ grip tighten at every grind.

Jungkook broke the kiss moving his flushed lips down to her jawline. A flowery scent from the day lurked from the back of her ear as he nibbled on the lobe. His hands continued to push her dress up until the long skirt bunched at her waist. Her whole lower body now left exposed while she rubbed against his growing tent.

The more Belle grinded her bare core against the bulge, the more she could wetness soaking the thin fabric. Sloppy sounds slowly floating in the thickening air of long suppressed pleasure. A light moan croaked from her throat when she brushed onto a particular sensitive spot.

Pausing his small kisses, the male stared up at the beauty watching her features twist elegantly as she relished in the tiny waves of ecstasy passing through her. Jungkook could come undone just staring at that tiny smile appearing whenever Belle felt the right surge. Fingers dug into her hips, guiding them back and forth until his pants were practically drenched with both their arousals.

Belle met his hazy eyes, brushing their noses again before locking their lips into another heated kiss. Tongue almost immediately danced together as her hips grew relentless in its movements. She felt bundled area of heat collecting around her lower belly and shivering through her thighs causing a drawling hum to vibrate into the kiss. “I want you.” She mumbled breathily, their lips still barely connected.

Lightly groaning from the constricted heat around his crotch, Jungkook latched one of his hands off her hips and fumbled with his pants. He pushed it down far enough down to his knees before shifting it to his ankles and kicking it aside. His length now sprung free already twitching as if it could sense her heat.

She reached down and wrapped her fingers around the base of his cock, lightly squeezing.

Jungkook hissed lightly as his other hand scratched down her thigh. He pulled at the hem of her dress over her head and threw it to the side. Wrapping both his arms around her waist, he dipped down to suckle on one of her nipples.

Belle threw her head back relishing the light tickles of pleasure from his tongue flicking at her erect nubs. She looked down at him pressing wet kisses on the valley of her breasts before traveling up to her neck. Affectionately, her fingers brushed through his cold hair. Her hips jerked a little feeling his teeth sink into the sweet spot of her neck, sucking until it made her head spin around in circles.

Impatience slowly creeping in, Belle raised herself a little causing Jungkook to softly detach from her neck and watch her ministrations. She positioned her dripping heat at the tip of his length carefully sinking down. A burning tinge of pain and mix of pleasure concocted in the bubbling reactions of her body.

He couldn’t help the deep groan vibrating in his throat when he felt her snug walls wrapped firmly around his cock to the point of near suffocation. If she moved too quick, Jungkook could have embarrassingly spurted in seconds. Nails dented the skin of her hips as his dark orbs watched his Queen adjust to his size. His whole body shivered a little seeing himself disappeared completely inside her.

Belle could feel the tip of his cock shyly brushing against her sweet spot causing a thick waft of pleasure to shoot through her. The ache from her stretched walls subsided, drowning in her desperate need to feel him again. She began with slow thrusts, grinding up and down to let the tip tease her spot at every move. One hand cupped at the back of his neck while the other gripped at his inner thigh. Hair curled over her face as the heat curdled around her lower belly, exuding through her skin in a light film of sweat.

Jungkook admired her little movements in awe, eyes near pitch black from lust. The deep friction from the patterned swaying caused his breathing to lose all control. Sounds of her cunt getting drenched by the second, squelching a little as she ground their hips together. Looking down, he saw the skin of his cock glistening more and more as she moved.

She bent her knees, pressing her feet against the soft bed as Jungkook wrapped an arm around her waist. Writhing bodies now stuck together, Belle gripped onto one of the ridges of the headboard to keep some of her balance. With an almost dizzying ease she began bouncing up and down his length. The new position allowed for stronger pressure on that tingling spot inside her while her clit rubbed against Jungkooks’ lower belly.

Sweaty skin burned a little as it rubbed against each other thrust after thrust. Slapping sounds echoed across the sin scented room. Belle’s wavy hair bounced along with her, lips parted and eyes closed, practically drowning in the thickening pleasure.

“I missed you so much.” Jungkook breathed out before biting down her collarbone to suppress a much louder groan.

Belle let out a shaky whimper, the pressure of her orgasm hurdling and his words creating a deadly mixture of emotions to bubble inside her. Tears gathered at the corners of the womans’ eyes. “I missed you too.” Lips quivered slightly as she moved legs as her feet rested on his thighs. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she quickened her pace up and down his member.

Trembling breaths passed through Jungkooks’ lips as he caressed the swell of her ass, nibbling on her earlobe. He felt the coil in his lower belly tightening beyond his own control. Arousal splattered all over their thighs from the relentless thrusts.

In a harsh sudden wave, her limbs locked as the pleasure shot through her shaking body. Arms grabbing onto him for dear life. Belle kept on with her sloppy thrusts despite her hips jerking at every contact against her sensitive clit.

Her walls clenched around him so tightly, it made his own orgasm burst out of him. Ropes of cum filling the beauty up to the brim until he could feel more wetness dripping down to his thighs. Body twitched as they held onto each other, catching their breath and letting their hot bursts switch to a serene bliss.

Cleaning themselves up with a washcloth, the couple lay down peacefully next to each other. Belle’s head rested on his chest tracing the stab scar on his torso. As the swimming feeling in her mind began to settle down back to reality, she was reminded of the responsibilities that needed to be taken care of tomorrow. “I know who did it.” She broke the calm silence.

Jungkook stared down at the woman, fingers still absentmindedly brushing through her hair. “Dare I even ask?” Sarcasm oozed in every word hardly needing any explanation as to who might have wanted Belle harmed. He let out a small sigh. “What’re you going to do?”

“There’s a small plan. I’m not completely proud of it but he’s already into it.” Belle looked up to meet the males’ gaze. “Except I might need your help.”

His brows furrowed. “What kind of help?”

In the early hours of the morning as the greyish horizon sported a golden lining, Queen Belle’s council along with the Sun King and his guards gathered in the main throne room.

Belle adorned a slightly casual dress with soft tones of blue and green. She sat on her throne with a calm demeanor as per usual even in situations that welcomed a great deal of stress both politically and personally. Sun King stood on her right holding a small smile either by habit or he simply dove headfirst into her little play.

The council and guests then quietened down to a pin drop silence watching the Queen in anticipation. “This trial has been held to try the one responsible for organizing an attempt of assassination during peace holdings.” Belle announced.

Double doors opened with a light thud followed by armors from the guards clanging as they made their way in. Jungkook positioned at the center keeping one arm bent and hand placed on his torso. He walked and halted a little in front of Belle.

Hoseok watched him with that same smirk growing the tiniest bit. The sense of accomplishment exuded from him a little too clearly.

Though at the same time, Jungkooks’ lips curled into a faint smile as he bowed down keeping a fixated gaze on his Queen. The slight darkness in his eyes hinted what he was thinking about causing a slight tingle down her spine. Turning on his heel, the male stood over next to Seokjin casually.

Her light smirk then faded into a more professional expression. “King Hoseok…” Belle spoke calmly. “Please make your way to the center for your trial.”

The council once again turned deathly silent, eyes turning to the Sun King. This kingdom had been no stranger to having Kings or Queens standing for their crimes and being punished accordingly. Hoseok simply entangled himself into a long running tradition of intolerance for abusing power.

Belle noticed Hoseok trying to look around the room to see if anyone else was as confused as he was but his search failed in seconds.

Hoseok scoffed lightly, keeping a close eye on his men peeking through some members of the council. He noticed their hands tightly wound around the hilt of their swords. The action gave him a slight ounce of reassurance. Walking to the center of the throne room, a small smile played on the Sun Kings’ lips. “I assume there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.”

Belle shrugged briefly. “You tell me. Evidence came to light that you were conversing with the guards outside my door, providing them with a jug which they were then found unconscious with the next day.” She restated the information written out to her before this trial. The woman decided to keep the witnesses anonymous to prevent any bloodshed only to keep a secret.

“I was attempting to test your guards’ ability to stay at their post.” He explained with an expert sense of casual tone. “Clearly they failed.”

“Your diligence as the possible future King of this empire is appreciated.” Belle nodded in acknowledgement. “However the assailant was also found with a potion known to strip anyone of their willpower.” Her gaze narrowed. “Who might want me to lose my willpower? So close to our wedding.”

“The loss of your willpower can benefit anyone, Your Majesty.” Hoseok shook his head, struggling to keep his smile together.

“Yet conveniently this servant was last seen talking to you.” Belle smiled.

Hoseok stayed silent this time. All the explanations that seemed to be smoothly rushing through his mind now halted all of a sudden. Every piece of evidence now lay exposed in front of everyone to hear. The staggering grin on his face made it all too obvious that the all-powerful Sun King had been cornered.

She leaned in and rested her elbows on the table. “See this is the difference between you and me. You inherited your empire from your mother. I built mine.” Belle explained in a lower tone but it still echoed in everyones’ ears. “And I most certainly didn’t do it by being an inattentive fool.”

One of Hoseoks’ guards screamed sheathing his sword alerting all his other men to do the same but Belle merely gestured. All her soldiers overwhelmed the small crowd, choking and sounds of slashing swords echoing across the room. Armor clanged to the ground along with the unconscious bodies now filling them causing Belle’s council members to move to the side. Some of them murmured to themselves but otherwise used to the sight of proud citizens trying to protect their problematic Kings because of duty.

Hoseok glared at the Queen after seeing his men limp on the ground. The intention to keep a fake smile now completely dissipated. “Killing me will only heighten your enemy count.”

“Which is why I have no intention in killing you or those men. If you listen.” Lips curled up into a small smirk. “I don’t want war…but I also don’t tolerate kings who don’t quite understand who they’re dealing with. Though I understand my small and pretty demeanor may sway delusional fools into thinking too loosely.” Her brow raised. “You will ride back to your kingdoms and we’ll continue on as silent neighbors…or I can kill you right now and take your lands. It’s easy for me and your people either way.” She leaned back on the chair. “Your choice.”

Hoseok swallowed down, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re good, Your Majesty.” He licked his teeth. Glancing around the room, the Sun King bowed down with a light bitter taste on his tongue as he did so. “I will take my leave. Let’s never meet again.”

“Lets.” Belle lightly scrunched her nose, a proud smile adorning her features as the Sun King finally walked away from her and Jungkooks’ life.

Belle and Jungkook stood at the main palace balcony watching the chariots of the Sun King ride out of their gates. Sun rose out from the mountains giving the kingdom a new refreshed golden glow to welcome the new day. When she saw the chariots finally disappear and the gates close with a piercing thud, she let out a deep sigh of relief.

“I’m starting to like this new side of you.” Jungkook leaned to her side, closer to her ear.

“When I’m threatening to kill people?” Belle chuckled lightly.

“Not exactly that but it’s exciting to look at.” He grinned, shoulders brushing against each other gently.

When the light chuckles between the couple died down, Jungkook hung his head in thought for a moment. “I’ll step down from my throne.” He muttered. “I might be good at protecting people but you’re better at protecting kingdoms.” He nodded towards the closed gates. Belle knew how to communicate in politics. To Kings and Queens. She made him realize how many sides of a person it takes to make a monarch.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter with you.” Belle shook her head, keeping her gaze on her people beginning their days. “You’re going to be King eventually anyway.”

Jungkook eyed the woman curiously, brows furrowed.

Belle met his confused gaze with an innocent expression. “Unless your previous offer isn’t on the table anymore.” She gave him a cheeky smirk.

A bright grin slowly faded across Jungkooks’ features as his heart burst into a fit of joy. He grabbed onto her hips, pressing her body close to his making her giggle lightly. “It always was.”

Belles’ eyes flickered down to his chest, the thing silver string glimmering on the sides of his neck.

Jungkook followed the womans’ gaze down immediately understanding what she was looking at. He reached behind his neck and unclasped the necklace. It coiled on his open palm as he pulled out the ring pendant.

Stuffing the chain into one of his pockets, he held one of her hands up and slid the piece onto her ring finger. Another beautiful burst of memory spread through him reliving this moment again after so many years. He brought her ringed hand to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss.

“This time, no more leaving.” Belle whispered, staring up at the male.

“No more.” Jungkook pressed his forehead against hers.

After what felt like an eternity of distance and dread, they could finally feel like their kingdoms were home again. Their own shared home just like they always wanted.

<< prev chap | next chap >>

#jungkook #thebtswritersclub #jungkook fanfic #jungkook imagines #bts fanfic #bts imagines #bts royal au #jungkook royal au

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love-bokumono-fics · 3 years

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Trope Tuesday - AU's!

I don't know about you, but a always enjoy a fun AU, particularly when they take something we know and love and put such a creative twist on it. An AU can be anything from a minor divergence from canon, to a complete shift in time and location and character dynamics.

Today we'll look at some of the AU's that the fandom had created!

One Missed Call - by durotos; Completed, 1/1, <1k; Retail AU

Rating: General Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M

Fandoms: Friends of Mineral Town

Relationship: Claire the Farmer/Cliff; Characters: Claire the Farmer, Cliff

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Retail, Alternate Universe, Awkward Flirting, two shy people attempting to have a phone conversation, Fluff, Budding Love, yes I still use a flip phone

Summary: Claire is roused from her sleep when her phone alerts her that she has a missed call. She snaps awake when she sees who it is from. Sappy, happy fluff. Modern AU, Retail AU.

Side Effects - by Measured; Completed, 1/1, 13k; Soulmate AU

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M

Fandom: Trio of Towns

Relationship: Farmer/Ford; Characters: Ford, Female Farmer, Ensemble

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending

Summary: When Ford meets her, the world becomes brighter. Literally.

Island of Sanctuary - Mai_Blade; WIP, 1/?, <1k; Zombie Apocalypse AU

Rating: Not Rated; Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death; Category: F/M

Fandom: Island of Happiness

Relationships: Reader & Other(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added; Characters: Reader, Other Character Tags to Be Added

Additional Tags: Reader-Insert, POV Multiple, Multiple Pairings, Angst and Tragedy, Blood and Gore, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Don't copy to another site, mentions of bullying, referenced suicidal feelings

Summary: An island is a piece of land surrounded by water, a thing separate from the mainland. Fate brought you to an abandoned one, and you've helped bring it back to life. When the dead walk the earth, the island you call home becomes a defensible place, a refuge. A sanctuary. But. Even here, death comes.

Seedlings & Hammers - by MOcarina; WIP, 1/1, 2k; Modern, Urban AU

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Categories: F/M, Gen

Fandoms: Harvest Moon 64

Relationship: Claire the Farmer/Rick; Characters: Rick, Claire, Ann the Innkeeper | Ran, Gray

Additional Tags: the makerspace au no one asked for, Urban Farming, Meet-Cute, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community Garden, non-profit, Eventual Romance

Summary: Claire is an enterprising newcomer to Flowerbud City working for a non-profit and meets a man with an inventive streak who can help her get her new initiative off the ground white trying to figure out his own dreams. A makerspace/community garden AU in the HM:64 world.

Tear You Apart - by indoorsy; Completed, 1/1, 7k; Soulmate AU

Rating: Mature; Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings; Category: F/M

Fandoms: Friends of Mineral Town

Relationships: Claire the Farmer/Brandon, Elli/Doctor Trent | Torre, Claire the Farmer/Doctor Trent | Torre; Characters: Claire, Brandon, Doctor | Trent, Elli | Elly

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, So much angst, Drama, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Unrequited Love (Kind of), Some Supernatural Elements, Sex Pollen, Dubious Consent, Mutually Dubious Consent, Cheating, But not on purpose, Non-Explicit Sex, Suicide Attempt, yes his name is still Doctor

Summary: Claire had grown up believing in the prospect of soulmates as something incredibly joyous. It sounded just like a fairytale – like the ones her grandpa would tell her about the goddess in the pond – except, somehow, this one was true. A first touch that would ignite your skin, fill you with dizzying euphoria, and magnetize you to one another – it sounded like a divine blessing. But now Claire knew it was a curse. - Your soulmate isn't always the one you are meant to love, but that doesn't mean it won't hurt like hell.

Excuse me, do you want 10 thousand dollars? - by kurikku; Completed, 1/1, 7k; Fake Dating AU

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences; Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings; Category: F/M

Fandom: Trio of Towns

Relationship: Holly | Nanami/Wayne; Characters: Ford, Daryl | Darius, Hector, Stephanie, Carrie, Brad, Lynn

Additional Tags: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Alternate Universe

Summary: Wayne was offered an absurd deal of $10,000 if he was to pretend to be Holly's girlfriend for a week. Sounds easy and harmless, right?

In Good Taste - by Nenalata; WIP, 1/?, 4k, Chef AU

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M

Fandoms: Animal Parade, Trio of Towns

Additional Tags: AU, Restaurants, Chef AU, Alcohol, Rivals to Lovers, what else do you expect with Chase, Crossover, Teenage Rebellion, coming a decade too late I suppose, Cooking, Just a Lot of Food and Fluff, Not-Great Parental Relationships, People Interrupt Holly A Lot, Romance

Summary: “Top show, Holly! Even pro chefs have a tough time with legend class. You could have probably been successful as a full-time chef. Actually, it’s kind of a shame you didn’t become one.” "It's not so simple or easy a job that anyone could take it up on a whim and hope to succeed. What do you know of cooking? Running a kitchen? Have you any idea how to manage a business?" Holly has dreams of soufflé and meuniere, not Silkies and manure. The trio of towns is no place for her. She has bigger fish to fry on Castanet Island.

Chemistry for Beginners - by Lady_Malvence; WIP, 46/?, 72k; College AU

Rating: Explicit; Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings; Category: F/M

Fandoms: Story of Seasons (2014)

Relationship: Klaus/Minori | Annie; Characters: Marian, Iris, Other Harvest Moon characters, Giorgio

Additional Tags: Romance, Fluff, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Explicit Sexual Content

Summary: Reagan (Annie/Minori) was making her way to her new chemistry class when she found herself hopelessly lost. Frustrated and not looking where she was going she literally ran into the man that will change her life. A/U

Harvest Moonshine - by Nenalata; WIP, 4/10, 11k; Bootlegger AU

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M

Fandoms: Grand Bazaar

Relationship: Amir/Anita; Characters: Amir, Gretel | Anita | Marl, Felix, Antoinette | Enju, Original Antagonist Character(s)

Additional Tags: Alcohol, bootleggers AU, Tax evasion, mild violence, Mild Language, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Political Intrigue, Renounced-ier Future, Implied Sexytimes Easy to Ignore if That's Not Your Thing, Painstaking Descriptions of Banking, Slight Canon Divergence, Blackmail, It's Still a Romance Though Don't Worry

Summary: In the eyes of Zephyr Town, Anita is a hardworking farmer who is doing remarkably well in the bazaar. To those in the know, Anita is who you see when you're thirsty and need a good strong drink from her less-than-legal liquor side business.

What You Want - by your_blackheart; Completed, 1/1, <1k; High School AU

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences; Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings; Category: Multi

Fandoms: Story of Seasons, Harvest Moon DS Cute, Tree of Tranquility, Animal Parade, Grand Bazaar

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - High School, Self-Harm, Underage Smoking, Pining, Unrequited Crush, Platonic Female/Female Relationships, Platonic Relationships

Summary: Crushes are an absolute nightmare, but it only makes things worse when your crush has a thing for one of your teachers. Jill silently muses over what she wants as she awaits the period bell. It's a good thing there's someone around to smack her out of her daydreaming.

#tag tuesday #harvest moon #story of seasons #friends of mineral town #trio of towns #harvest moon 64 #animal parade #grand bazaar #sos1 #tree of tranquility

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scarletaire · 4 years

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homeland (Chapter 2)

A/N: This chapter is basically me fulfilling my headcanon that Cardan looooves to help Jude get dressed. 🙈

Fandom: The Folk of the Air

Genre/s: Contains Fluff, Slight Hurt/Comfort, Slight Angst, Smut

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Post-QON, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Protective!Cardan, Bewildered!Jude, Jude and Cardan discuss the Undersea, but they get a little Distracted

Description:

Cardan’s eyes flash open.

“Why?” he repeats, and Jude feels the power shift between them. “Don’t you remember, wife?” he croons. “It was the Undersea who stole you away from me.”

And Jude has only enough time to think, danger, before he lunges at her.

or:

Cardan and Jude work on removing their armor. Taking off this particularly stubborn piece happens in varying states of undress.

Links: Masterlist | AO3

The moment shatters like glass.

They remain unmoving for several, thudding heartbeats. As if the noise will go away if they just ignore it hard enough. Jude is breathing too fast, too close to something she didn’t reach. The sound of it is somehow deafening in the silence left behind by their interruption.

She doesn’t register the sound completely at first. She’s too busy staring at her husband’s mouth. It’s too far away.

Cardan kneels between her legs with the stillness of the fae. It’s only his tail lashing from side to side that betrays him. His eyes pin her in place even as he cocks his head to the side, listening.

“The door,” Jude realizes. But her voice comes out far too shaky for her liking.

“Hush, wife.”

His arms are braced on either side of her head. His chest is still pressed flush against hers, and she feels her breasts brushing against him with every inhale.

There is a predatory edge to the way he watches her struggle to regain her breath. She wonders what she must look like to him, flushed and frustrated against the spread of their bedsheets.

Something like satisfaction curls the corner of his mouth into a smirk. It isn’t entirely kind.

One hand comes up, slowly, to lay flat against her sternum. The weight of his palm bears down.

“I can feel your heart racing,” he whispers.

Jude feels an irrational urge to slap him.

He must see it in her face, because his smirk grows. “So vindictive,” he says, once again bowing his head. And even though she’s irritated, Jude feels the answer in her body, powerless to resist the siren song of his waiting mouth, her eyelids fluttering closed and her spine curling up –

Knock, knock, knock.

Cardan bares his teeth at the door with a snarl.

Jude blinks up at him in a daze, and with a little bit of surprise. Cardan so very rarely shows his temper like that.

She thinks that she likes the violence in his face perhaps far too much.

Even so, without the weight of his eyes on her, her thoughts clear a little bit. Whoever it was had sounded a little frantic this time. She sighs, and moves to get up.

“No.” Cardan yanks her back beneath him, swinging his uncharacteristic glare toward her. But, no, it’s not entirely a glare. His expression is too bright, too fevered.

He sweeps his gaze over her, following the flush of her desire from the heated skin of her cheeks, down to the wanting part of her mouth, down to the mess he has made of her nightgown. The ties in the front are a tangle and half-undone, and the thin strap on one side has completely slipped off. She feels the expanse of her shoulder and the upper swell of her breast exposed to the cold night air – and to outside, prying eyes.

“No,” he grits out again. Jude is surprised to hear how uneven his voice is. “Not as you are. Not looking like that.”

Jude probably looks utterly debauched, but she sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.

It’s this that has her reaching for the slim, stiletto blade under her pillow. The one she never sleeps without. The one that ends in a silver needlepoint that she wastes no time in pressing to the soft underside of Cardan’s chin. His breath trips even as he stares down, imperious as ever.

“Let me remind you, husband,” she says, her voice soft with danger, “that I can do whatever I please. Besides, it’s your fault I look the way I do.”

“Truly, I can find no remorse.”

She runs the tip of the blade all the way down the line of his throat. “Can’t you?”

This close, she can see it when he swallows.

She smiles. It isn’t kind, either. “Won’t you be a dear and get the door?”

He sighs, looking for all the world a little wistful. “I do so love waking up with you.”

“Get on with it.”

His black gem eyes glint down at her, an answer to the silver at his throat. “As you wish.”

Cardan rises from the bed. If he notices Jude staring at his naked back while he walks, he doesn’t show it.

The sight of it, bare and unguarded in her presence, strikes an arrow into her heart.

He almost attends to the door like that, without a stitch or a care on him, but stops when she hisses his name.

Rolling his eyes, he pulls on a robe of crushed velvet, in the color of too-ripe rowan berry. It’s unfair, really, how good he looks even though he has just rolled out of bed. The robe is lazily tied and it gapes open to show the lines of his chest. His feet are bare. Still, he looks like he belongs on a throne.

He catches her staring then, and tosses her a decidedly unkingly wink.

Jude grits her teeth and moves to get up as well, tucking her stiletto back into its place. The damp fabric of her underwear scrapes against sensitive skin as she slides to the edge of the bed.

That’s going to be a problem.

Irritation flaring, she stomps to their closet. Small budding violets sprout in the wake of her footsteps, as if the loam is answering her with a peace offering.

Jude grabs the first decent thing she can find that is both easy to put on, and passably presentable.

She doesn’t feel presentable, though. Her hair is loose, and wild. She spots a residual flush heating the skin of her neck and cheeks when she peeks into the mirror. The intricately embroidered material of the damask robe that she slips on, exquisite as it is, grates against her bare arms.

It’s a far cry from the silk-spun sheets of their bed.

Cardan is watching her.

His hand rests on the door knob while he waits for her to finish tying the knot at her waist. His eyes linger as she adjusts the lapels over her chest, as she tugs the end of the robe over the tops of her thighs.

Their gazes meet.

The moment holds.

Knock, knock –

Cardan turns and wrenches the door open. It swings so hard the doorknob crashes into the adjoining wall. Earth and vine shudder.

The messenger on the other side starts, his hand still raised.

“Your Majesty!” It’s one of Randalin’s squires. “The Council has called for an urgent meeting.”

“Oh?” Cardan leans against the great oaken door frame. It creaks a little, as if in admonishment of his rough handling. “Urgent, you say?”

Jude thinks that perhaps she ought to warn the imp away from the look her husband is giving him. She also thinks that perhaps she ought to run him through herself.

She hears the squire squeak out something about the Living Council and land treaties. Cardan murmurs something back that has the imp’s oversized ears twitching in agitation. Even from across the expanse of the royal suite, she can recognize the menace in his tone. Before the messenger can say anything in reply, Cardan slams the door in his face.

“Would you look at that, Jude,” he says, dryly. “The kingdom calls.”

Jude is already pulling out her trousers and tunic. “You didn’t have to be so rude.” Even though she would have probably done worse.

His eyes flash. “Didn’t I? As it stands, I shall ask no forgiveness. I had more urgent things in mind.”

There are pillows on the floor, she notices. Thrown and abandoned from the bed in their urgency.

Jude begins to tug on her clothes with more force than necessary. Her everyday attire as Queen of Elfhame is not so different from what she wore as seneschal. She favors close-fitting trousers and jackets for ease of movement as much as possible, and saves the elaborate dresses and trains and ball gowns for the revels. Of which there are many.

However, her husband’s flair for the extravagant has somehow seeped into her own fashion choices, like a wine spill she couldn’t have stopped if she’d tried.

Tonight, she wears an ensemble of skin-tight black leather trousers and a matching long-sleeved top. The extravagance comes in the form of a hammered gold overlay, the filigreed metal made to fasten over her torso and shoulders like a chestplate of burnished feathers. The bottom edge flares out at her hips in the slightest suggestion of a skirt.

She’s in the middle of putting her arms through it when Cardan steps up behind her.

His hands settle on her waist. “Let me,” he murmurs. The words brush against the curve of her too-round ear.

Jude stills. This isn’t the first time this has happened. Much to the dismay of Tatterfell and Jude’s other hopeful attendants, she discovered early on in their marriage that her husband is sometimes just as useful – and obliging – with his delight in helping her dress.

But there is something different about the way he handles her now. Something infinitely more gentle. As if confessing his nightmare has shorn off a little of his sharp edges.

Standing behind her, he helps her into the golden shell of the chestplate. He is a searing presence at her spine, and Jude is painfully aware of him. The way his chest and shoulders cover her entire back. The way his hands feel as they skim over the fabric of her shirt. The way he’s so tall, he has to bend a little bit to reach around her. The room around them feels like it’s holding its breath.

The first clasp clicks into place at the small of her back, and she almost jumps out of her skin. There is a huff of breath at her ear. She considers kicking him in the shin. The second clasp clicks in the middle of her spine.

Why is he standing so unnecessarily close?

She thinks she feels the brush of his nose against her hair.

He slides the last clasp closed against the back of her neck. Jude isn’t sure if the sweep of a finger up her nape, light as a moth’s wing, is intentional or not.

Cardan turns her around to face him. His fingers are so long that she feels them across the entire expanse of her hip bones, feels the tips of them dig into the softness of her stomach.

There is something heartbreakingly intimate in this act of dressing her. It’s a sense of vulnerability completely different from that of taking off her clothes. It’s one thing for him to tear off what she’s wearing in a haze of lust and desire. It’s another thing entirely to help her back into them with the patience and the attentiveness of a partner.

Jude fears that if she speaks, the thrall will be broken.

She barely notices it when he secures the clasps at her shoulders. She’s too busy watching the soft focus in his face.

No one else, she thinks, would have dressed me so carefully.

He straightens when the body piece is fully secured. “There,” he says. “My fearsome queen.”

And then, eyes locked on hers, Cardan sinks to a knee.

“Cardan, what –”

“Just your knives now,” he murmurs. She doesn’t even want to think about where his mouth would be if she weren’t wearing anything.

Jude keeps her weapons in the same closet as her clothes. Her weapons and her clothes are the pieces of armor she puts on to face her kingdom.

Cardan plucks the first knife from her armory, and gives it an appreciative twirl. She wonders idly from where, or from whom, he learned how to do that. It glints silver and sharp between his fingers. There is an answering knife’s edge in his smile as he tucks it into her left boot.

“One,” he says. And then traces a fingernail across the top of her ankle. Jude narrows her eyes at him.

The second one goes in her right boot. “Two.” His hand lingers a little too long on the tender skin of her Achilles’ heel.

Jude isn’t entirely sure if she likes this game.

The third is her favorite of all her knives. The blade is a delicate scrollwork of curling vines and twisting ivy, and it ends in a deadly point. It is beautiful and dangerous and everything she wishes she could be. It’s the knife that reminds her most of the fae.

Cardan thumbs the hilt as he decides where it will go. There is a holster built into the right leg of her trousers, a common feature of most of her clothes. He eyes it with interest.

His free hand begins its journey up, cupping the curve of her calf, up and up to the delicate skin of the back of her knee –

Jude sucks in a breath.

Cardan grins.

The sight of him, looking up at her like that, sears itself into her brain. They’re fully clothed, but something about the way he’s kneeling before her, his hair deliciously mussed, his robe barely hanging on for dear life, feels utterly illicit.

He palms the back of her leg, ever so slowly slipping her favorite knife into place.

“Three,” he whispers, and then he leans in and takes his teeth to the inside of her thigh.

Jude pitches forward, helpless to stop the curl of her body as she grasps at his shoulders for balance.

“Cardan,” she gasps. She wants to shake him, to slap him, to kiss that stupid smug expression off his stupidly gorgeous face –

“Mm?” The fabric of her trousers is caught in between his teeth.

Jude shoves him. Hard.

He doesn’t fall, exactly. The fae are much too graceful for that. He catches himself with his elbow and follows his momentum down, until the length of his body is laid out before her, amusement clear in his face.

He smirks up at her, that trouble-making smirk that Jude knows ruined her for anyone else the moment she first saw it.

His mouth had left a wet mark on the inner seam of her trousers.

It isn’t the only thing that is wet anymore.

Jude turns away with something like determination. “We’re needed at the Council,” she says through clenched teeth.

The Council is that last place she wants to be but she is the High Queen of Elfhame, and this is what she has worked so hard for.

Jude finishes dressing, continuing the count that Cardan had started. Four is a small dagger that she tucks under her left sleeve. Five is a twig-thin, needle-tipped stylet that she uses to pin her hair up. The final piece she puts on is a golden dragonscale sash that shimmers and flows over her right shoulder. It hides the knives she wears close to her body, but not Nightfell, heavy and comforting strapped proudly on her left hip.

Cardan hasn’t moved, lounging on the floor as if it were a throne. His tail swings in the air, tapping teasingly at her ankles. “There are a lot of needs not being met right now, darling.”

“Such as your need for a knife up your – ”

“Tut.” He has the audacity to actually look affronted. “Such crude words. We haven’t even eaten yet.”

She keeps her eyes away as she stalks past him. To look at Cardan now is to look at her ruination.

There is a food tray waiting for them in their sitting room. It has tea, and wine, and honeycake, and various cuts of meat and slices of fruit. The tea is still a little too hot; Jude relishes the burn of it on her tongue. A suitable distraction from other sensations.

Cardan throws himself into the seat beside her. One long leg dangles over the armrest.

“I wonder what could be so important,” Jude mutters into her honeycake. She’s eating dessert first and she doesn’t care. She damn well deserves it after everything.

“I suspect the Living Court wishes to talk about Insear.” He heaves a groan. “I loathe land grabs.”

“I thought you’d already handled that.”

He makes a pass for her honeycake but she snatches her hand from reach. He pouts. “I did. The peace talks are scheduled for later tonight.”

“Peace talks?”

Mischief hides in his smile. “Peace revels, then.”

Jude sighs. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Of course I know what I’m doing. I just never know if things will turn out the way you want them to.”

Jude frowns, opening her mouth to reply, what’s that supposed to mean, but Cardan is suddenly sitting up.

“I propose a toast.”

“A toast?” She stares at him. “To what?”

He grabs for a teacup, and, completely bypassing the freshly brewed pot, fills it with dark, red wine.

“To escaping the Undersea,” he says, and something in Jude jolts.

His nightmare. Hers. The dampness of the dark cell, the ache of her exhausted body, the cold brush of Balekin’s lips –

In the haze of desire, she’d almost forgotten.

Cardan raises his teacup to hers. His eyes are heart-wrenchingly soft in the newborn moonlight. “And to the truths we have laid to rest.”

Something in her stomach sinks.

I haven’t told him.

The weight turns into lead. She recognizes this feeling, now. Despises it to the core of her being.

Guilt.

Mutely, Jude clinks her cup against his.

I still haven’t told him about Balekin.

______

[End Notes]

The Meaning of Violets:

Peace, mental clarity. 🙈

Chapter Visuals:

Jude’s outfit inspo.

Favorite knife.

Moodboard.

_________

So, the chapter count of this fic has increased! 😂

I realized that there are still some things I'd like to explore with this fic, and I'd love for you to join me as Cardan and Jude work out the complications of her kidnapping, and improve on their Communication Skills. (And hopefully resolve some, er, tension.)

I have the entirety of this fic already outlined, so stay tuned for the next chapter! In the meantime, I have updates, inspo pics/moodboards, and an open inbox on my tumblr!

Would love to know what you think of this chapter ❤️

#jude x cardan #cardan greenbriar #jude duarte #jurdan fic #tfota fanfic #jurdanfanfic #tfota #The Folk of the Air #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #queen of nothing #tqon #tcp #twk #tcp fic #jurdan #zita writes #fic: homeland

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wickedgamesoyaoya · 4 years

Text

Amnesia - Hearts ~ Aug 4.

Malignant emptiness had secured reign over your heart. Slowly it spread throughout your system, beginning its quest to contaminate the liquid coursing through your veins. Not a single atom would be spared – each memory attached to your skin would be vanquished. The simplest touches to the warmth of your best friend, nothing would remain. Any efforts to combat the virus plaguing you was futile; you were no match for the craftsmanship of an ethereal being. As your final memory was seized by the excruciating cleanse, the person you once were ceased to exist. Born anew, y/n, welcome to your game.

The sound of foreign voices engaged in casual conversation had jolted awake your dormant senses. Due to your malfunctioning hippocampus, your face had naturally scrunched up as fragments of still-shots flickered inside of your head, resembling a filmstrip with numerous punctures. The only image that persisted long after the others incinerated was of a bed-headed male crouched on a staircase, with his face buried in his hands. It was the same male that regarded you with such concern the second your eyelids had fluttered open.

“She’s awake.” Within seconds, the droopy eyed stranger was at your side, his irises searched yours for any sign of injury, while yours struggled to retain any recognition. “Hey, y/n. How are you feeling?”

That was a valid question, one you were not prepared to answer, not because you did not want to. But because you did not know the answer yourself.

Groggily you pressed your hands on either side of the single mattress, as your elbows threatened to cave in, Kuroo slid an arm around you, stabilizing your movements. Behind him Makoto released a sigh, locating a hand to her forehead as she mumbled a comment about her blood-pressure.

Your heart skipped an involuntary beat the second his fingers connected with the fabric draped over your skin. The sensation, however, was prompted by fear, rather than fondness. Kuroo, who had felt your muscles tense, had removed his arm after confirming you were steady.

“Y/n, honey. Can you say something?” Makoto proceeded a cautious step closer, with a reassuring smile on her lips. “Are you in pain?”

Your y/e/c irises focused on the black-haired girl’s ensemble, searching for any indication of where you were or who you were with. A nametag had revealed her identity along with their location – Jack Rose. A small ache developed in your temples as you repeated the café’s name, striving to instigate any recollection. Using two fingers, you applied pressure to the throbbing location, with your gaze settling on your own uniform. Y/n – employee of Jack Rose was sewn into the right corner.

The reality of the situation was beginning to dawn on you. From what you could gather, something had occurred during your shift and now you were experiencing a form of amnesia. Miraculously, the realization had not thrown you into a state of distress. The memories would come back, they would have to... You just needed a trigger.

“I’m okay. Um…Where’s my phone?” The sound of your own voice had startled you – a fact that had chipped away at the little hope you were clinging to. How could you forget yourself? What had happened to you…?

If there was anything that would kick-start your mental processes, it would be past photos or videos. For now, it was vital to discover your relationship to the three people gawking at you.

“She’s asking for her phone, how typical. She’s fine.” Makoto clicked her tongue in distaste, while fetching the device from her apron pocket. “You dropped it when you fainted, silly bird.” She then lobbed the phone towards your lap.

“I don’t know…I still think we shoul’ take her to the hospital.” From the very moment he arrived, Atsumu’s attention had remained secured on you. The older male was tracking your every movement to form mental notes that he could relay if need be to a physician. “What do ya think, ‘surou?”

“If she won’t answer our questions, then we have no choice.” Kuroo’s response did not register as your attention was solely on the smart device held within your palm. The quest to discover your identity began with Twitter – your profile to be exact.

It was strange to say the least to read over your inner thoughts with no recollection. Twitter was in some forms the new generations version of a dairy. What had you meant about acting on your feelings? Feelings for what? Or feelings for who? The guessing game was brought to a pause as an incoming message demanded your attention.

It’s not safe…? The three simple words had punctured your lungs, the air within the confines of the lunchroom could no longer be accepted. Dread etched across your chest, yet the small voice in your head directed you to present yourself as collected.

“Y/n?” Suddenly the blonde male had a palm over your forehead to assess whether you had a fever. During your little exploration, Makoto had exited the room and only the two boys remained.

“I’m fine, guys. But I am a bit tired, do you think I could go home?” A weary smile was forced onto your lips to verify the truth of your words –but it failed to convince either of them.

“You already worked a shift today; I can help in the kitchen. It’s alrigh’. Take her home. But if she doesn’t feel any better, take her to the hospital.” Atsumu lifted his shoulders into a short shrug, the response was evidently directed at the black-haired male who agreed with a nod.

“Okay, let’s go.”

* * *

The journey home was laced with silence, outside of the occasional inquiries from the younger male on your health. He was insistent, you mentally noted, but also endearing. Before leaving Jack Rose, you skimmed through your contacts and following to ascertain the names of those closest to you. The one from earlier was Atsumu – the person you had tweeted about. The girl was Makoto, your co-worker and perhaps one of your best friends. The person who was currently staring at you questionably was Tetsurou. At one point a spark of longing had flashed in his irises, only increasing the guilt hovering over you for forgetting his existence.

Well, if it made him feel any better, you also forgot your own –

“Oi. Where are you going?” Kuroo’s fingers tangled with the fabric of your collar, tugging you a few steps back as you accidentally missed the entrance of your building. “Did you forget where you lived?” The latter part of the sentence was spoken through a slightly higher pitch, demonstrating his growing concern.

“Oh, sorry. I was lost in thought.” Artificial laughter bubbled in your throat, irritating your tonsils in the process.

“If something was wrong, you would tell me, right?” His hands found refuge in his jacket pockets, yet his gaze did not waver from yours. Your attempts to reassure him were once again dismissed instantly. Withholding the truth from him was beginning to become more difficult, and you were unsure whether you could – he was incredibly perceptive.

“Yes… I promise. After some sleep, I’ll be brand-new.” Or so you hoped.

“Okay. I’m going to hold you to that.” Truthfully, there was nothing you could say to ease his concerns. But a promise would suffice for now. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen whole minutes until you were able to determine what apartment number was yours. The task would have been much simpler if you checked your ubereats account rather than scrolling through your messages. A small sliver of hope had ignited within your heart when you twisted the key in the lock, perhaps seeing your apartment would trigger a memory or two. Anything would be helpful at this point; you were sincerely grasping at straws.

Instantly any hope that lingered deflated, only to be replaced with frustration. Answers – you needed answers. Retrieving your phone from your bag, you tapped on messages and alerted the one person who knew about your predicament that you were home.

No, this could not be happening. An elaborate joke, maybe, but not the truth. How could you digest this information – how could anyone? A sob clogged the back of your throat as fear washed over your system. Desperate to confirm you were simply stuck in a warped nightmare, you forced yourself to search the apartment for anything that would make sense. If you had to accept this reality, how could you arm yourself without your memories? Who was friend or foe?

It was only when you crumpled onto the ground in defeat when your eyes landed on a charm glimmering under your bedframe. Attached to the dazzling piece was… a dairy. Instinctively, your fingers brushed along the cover before tugging on the string to where the latest entry was written.

Aug 3rd.

One day will it be different…? Will he wake up and see me differently? Or am I destined to feel this way forever? Ah, unrequited love, the subject of many Shakespearian stories and the source of my latest dilemma. Could he come to love me? See me beyond a sister-figure? The question remains unanswered… and I doubt I shall ever know it. And so, I welcome this bittersweet misery.

Ew, this sounds like a cheesy poem, not a diary entry. I feel sorry for my future self, having to read this garbage. But my problem remains. To be or to not be? Just kidding, this isn’t Hamlet. To tell one of my childhood best friends that I love him or to not? I guess not.

Amnesia - Hearts ~ Aug 4.

Masterlist - Previous - Next

A/N: I really hope the formatting on this didn’t fuck up. someone pls let me know if it did.

Tag-list: @kara-grayson04 @namyari , @cuddlesslut , @iloveanime691 @shakiraisawesome @idiot-juice-enthusiast@fangirling-25-8 @krynnza @yetchann @chxrry-wxne @tsukiak4ri

#haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu smau #haikyuu fanfiction #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo x y/n #kuroo smau

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memcaked · 3 years

Text

Design

Source: Subarashiki kono Sekai | The World Ends With You

Characters: Sakuraba Neku, mentions of dead best friend, mentions of shibuya kids, mentions of joshua

Additional tags: Nightmares, TWEWYTOBER, TWEWYTOBER 2020, Not beta read

Summary:

When Neku turned fourteen, his best friend took him to the CAT mural and presented him with an A3 sketchbook with CAT’s art on the covers.

When Neku was fifteen and a half, he was raised from the dead. The week after he bought two A4 sketchbooks.

Beginning notes: tie in to secret ig since the second part uses shit from there. he's so traumatised im sorry mate

Body: When Neku turned fourteen, his best friend took him to the CAT mural and presented him with an A3 sketchbook with CAT’s art on the covers.

He filled, by his own count, 7 pages in the first week glueing in all of the drawings lying around his room. They were CAT traces and his best friend’s face and all the doodles they plotted together. They’d visit each other for studying and ended up filling three new pages of their ideas, bursting at the seams and fitting together like they just found their missing pieces, giggling and congratulating themselves over how great artists they were. Neku could point at any stray pattern and explain it was for their world where scientists learnt how to add more hours to the day, this machinery for their apocalypse where a new ice age forces everyone underground.

He stopped drawing after the accident. Stops is too abrupt of a word; he’d come here expecting he’d get his spark again, see the flowers and toys and condolences by the roadside, and his hands shook and he couldn’t see his sketchbook and by the time he calmed down everything was so flat it fell apart nine lines in. His sketchbook was so big, unwieldy just to remind him the one person who made all his art was never going to come back. He tried to draw one last thing, but the proportions were such misshapen, broken mockery he forced the thing in a cardboard box and duct taped the top.

When Neku turned fifteen, he ate breakfast, heard the “happy birthday” platitudes from his parents, and left for the CAT mural after. He stood there until dark, haunting, like he could’ve been the one that died plagued with regrets.

When Neku was fifteen and a half, he was raised from the dead. The week after he bought two A4 sketchbooks.

He can’t really explain it to himself: maybe he wanted to burn all the money he racked up, maybe he wanted to share it. Maybe he felt so invigorated and inspired that he wanted not one, but two. Neku likes that last explanation. He goes with that, and starts using his first sketchbook.

A month later, Neku finds a good way to balance this.

A4 makes his first sketchbook easier to carry, and it comes with him wherever he goes: he draws skylines and clothes and studying the graffiti that captures him, draws the powerful concerts at A-East and the products at 104. He spends 4 pages noting designs and planning for when Beat asked him to spray his new skateboard (the hug he got when he presented the finished thing to him broke a few bones, Neku thinks). His new project is getting to realise how his art translates to clothes; Shiki said she wanted to do iron-on patches and embroidery wasn’t her strong suit, but some fire burning Eri’s eyes when she heard it made them change their plans entirely to a full ensemble. Sometimes he thinks about it and he’s so filled with excitement his feet don’t stop thumping five minutes later.

On bad nights he keeps the sketchbook close by in his room, close with Shiki’s wipes and linen she bought him. He tears pages up and folds them and shoves papers in and the pages are wide, fanned apart and wavy wet. Wavy wet stained pages of curly blonde he tries to remember and high-pressure blood and Leo Cantus and what he thought those homogenous hiveminds looked like fill the second sketchbook. The breath catches in his throat when the chalkboard scratches of his pencil shade the dark stains on his dharma, hands trying not to shake and leave his pencilwork scribbly and off-kilter.

He thinks it’s a good way to work it out for now.

#twewy #the world ends with you #neku sakuraba #16/10/2020 #twewytober 2020 #fanworks #writing

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turtle-steverogers · 5 years

Note

I can’t write for shit but I know you are really talented ,so what about an angst about Spot going to war and he doesn’t make it back and Race and their 1 year old son go to visit his grave and talk to him? Idk you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to but I thought it was a really cool idea

hi! so this is a pretty on brand prompt (especially for a certain upcoming Thing, but...,,.,) but anyway yeah here’s a fic. hope i did your idea some justice!

warnings: lots of talk of death, but nothing graphic. my shitty, caffeine muddled writing (truly, not my best work, sorry)

ship: sprace

word count: 1529

editing: nein

Just Out of Reach

“Aye, Sergeant, need some water up there?”

“Yeah, thanks man.”

A water bottle is passed up to Spot, and he takes it, taking one hand off the M2 machine gun that’s deadbolted down in front of him and using his teeth to unscrew the cap. He hadn’t realized how goddamn thirsty he’d been, but it’s fairly easy and not at all uncommon to lose touch with yourself during the methodical cycle of a mission.

Really, it’s just reconnaissance. Mapping out the desolate land that surrounds base- cataloguing the unknowns and the possible threats. It’s the simple stuff. The required bits that make the more strategic missions possible. But they still take long as hell and Spot’s willing to bet that he’s sweat through his fatigues by now as he bakes in the desert sun. His helmet is scratchy and the army-issued goggles are digging into his skull, squeezing his brain and making his head throb. The water helps a bit.

His vehicle is at the front of the convoy, and somehow, he found himself perched in the turret, calculating gaze scanning around for anything amiss. They near an Iraqi village, vacated looking buildings lining either side of the sandy, dirt road.

Spot thinks he sees a few windows shutter closed and when he looks to his left, there’s a little girl (she can’t be more than five. Christ) sitting on her stoop, knees pulled up to her chest. She’s staring at the convoy, eyes wide and fearful and fingers plugged into her ears. Spot feels a pang of...of something. Guilt, maybe. Sympathy.

Really, none of these people asked for this. They never wanted big, scary men in big, scary vehicles shouting out foreign remarks and invading their space- their homes.

Spot forces his gaze back to the front, willing himself to focus back on the task at hand. But he can’t help his mind wandering back to that little girl. There was something about her. The innocence, maybe. The simplistic look of discernable fear in the face of something scary.

He thinks of Teddy.

His son’s own wide, brown eyes and chubby, five year old cheeks. Really, they’re not so different- that girl and Teddy. They’re lives are so drastically diverse from one another, but they share that same, innate naivete. The all prevailing look of curiosity that only kids can convey.

Spot misses Teddy.

Granted, he always misses him and Race. The feeling isn’t mutually exclusive to any one moment, but sometimes the ache will grow into more of a pain, gripping his chest with longing to kiss his husband and hug his son. Maybe dig his fingers into Teddy’s sides as he picks him up and swings him, planting an exaggerated kiss on his cheek. It’s a foolproof way to make him laugh. And if Race is there, he’ll laugh too. There are some things in life he can count on to be constant, and his family is one of them.

He comes back to himself as he nears a stoplight and suddenly, something in the world seems wrong. He’s just about to secure himself around the gun when there’s a shout from down below and then the humvee is jerkily rolling to a stop and that’s when Spot sees the wire and that can only mean someone’s going to die if they don’t fucking stop right fucking now and--

Nothing.

“Papa, can we go see Daddy today?”

Race freezes halfway through screwing the cap off a carton of milk. He turns to look at his son and finds him staring at him in all his six and a half year old glory. His hair is a mess of bedhead and sleep and even though Race had gotten him up and dressed in a decent amount of time for a Saturday, he still looks rumpled. But that’s just how kids are, Race guesses.

It had been a year since Race’s life took a tumble into the realm of his worst nightmare. A year since Lieutenant Kelly and Sergeant Jacobs had shown up on his doorstep, clad in Army Service Uniforms and wearing twin, somber looks.

It hadn’t taken long for Race to piece together why they were there.

That day was still hazy, a jumbled mix of numb shock and things like, “we regret to inform you” and “killed in action” and then there was Teddy pulling at his pant leg and asking him with those wide goddamn eyes why “guys dressed like Daddy” were there and Race didn’t know how to tell him that Daddy’s gone, because how the hell do you explain that to a five year old and he wasn’t equipped to deal with something like this and he still isn’t and-

Yeah. A nightmare.

Race still isn’t sure if Teddy knows exactly what happened. He seems to understand that Spot is gone and that fundamentally, he isn’t coming back, but he doesn’t think Teddy understands death yet. The finality of it- the weight behind the concept.

It was inexplicably haunting to see Teddy not crying at Spot’s funeral. Race was crying. Hell, Race was a mess. It was so bad that Albert had to take over his eulogy and Jojo had to watch Teddy for a few minutes while he lost his shit in the bathroom.

But Teddy hadn’t cried. He’d just clung to Race with a tight grip and wide, bewildered eyes, not saying a word.

“Sure, bud,” Race says, shaking himself and pouring the milk into Teddy’s bowl of Lucky Charms, “we can go see Daddy.”

He takes Teddy along to Spot’s grave fairly often, but he never really knows how much of it he processes. Like at the funeral, he’s always quiet and subdued when they go, never really saying anything. Just sitting in Race’s lap, head bent into the crook of his neck as he stares at the headstone.

“Yay!” Teddy bounces a little in his seat, grinning as Race sets his breakfast in front of him, “I want to tell him about my dance recital!”

Something in Race’s chest cracks open, making him feel simultaneously warm and cold and entirely overwhelmed.

On their way to the cemetery later, they pass a man selling custom bouquets on the street. Brilliant mixes of orchids and roses, gardenias and anemones, bleeding color into the cold grey of winter, and when Teddy sees them and turns that pleading look on Race, well, who is he to say no?

“Hi, Daddy!”

For once, Race stays a little off to the side, watching his son sit cross legged in front of Spot’s grave. He’s talking, words spilling out at about a mile a minute, but Race tunes them out. This is their private moment and he doesn’t want to get in the way of that.

“I kinda wish you coulda seen it, but…” Teddy shrugs, mouth grimacing in a way that’s so strikingly Spot that Race has to close his eyes for a moment, “That’s okay. I know you woulda come if you coulda.”

And, well, ouch.

“Anyway, I brought my scarf for you, Daddy,” Race opens his eyes to see Teddy carefully wrapping his little Thomas the Tank Engine scarf around the headstone, just over where he’d placed the flowers they picked up earlier, “‘Cause it’s getting cold and Papa always tells me that scarves help make you super warm.”

Race has to bite his lip to keep from crying or doing something stupid to ruin his son’s moment and, like, breakdown in front of him.

“Anyway, I’ll let you talk to Papa now, ‘cause I know he always likes to talk to you a little,” He smacks a kiss onto his palm and presses it to Spot’s engraved name, “Bye bye, Daddy, I love you.”

When he turns to look at Race, he’s smiling. It’s big and unyielding and Race fucking melts, because this is all he really wants. Sure, when Teddy gets older, Spot’s absence will ring loud and daunting, but hell, if he can have any ounce of peace with it then, well, Race...Race is fucking ecstatic. He can handle this.

“Your turn, Papa!” Teddy says, beckoning Race to sit down and climbing into his lap when he does.

“Thanks, little man,” Race hugs Teddy close, “Did you have a good time talking to Daddy?”

“Uh huh,” Teddy says, squirming a little in Race’s tight hold, “I know he was listening super good, I could feel it.”

Race swallows, “Oh yeah?” Teddy nods, “I’m super glad, Teds.”

And maybe, really, that’s what this is about. Spot’s death was a curveball thrown with the wrong hand, jarring a perceived reality and shifting everything Race had known a little too far to the left. And no, it isn’t okay. Maybe it’ll never be okay, but it doesn’t have to be. Spot’s still there, lingering somewhere in their hearts and made real by his memory- their memories of him. He’s still palpable, still reachable, and if Teddy can feel it, maybe Race can too.

Race takes a breath, fortifying and fond, then smiles. It doesn’t feel so strained and Race feels just that much lighter when he clears his throat.

“Hey, Spottie…”

it wasn’t very good don’t clown me please my brain said ‘sorry bud’ today

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

TAG LIST: @getchapapes @we-dont-sell-papes @suddenly-im-respecsable

@aw-jus-let-em-try @well-the-kids-do-too @spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn @felix-loves-albert-and-ralbert @technically-whizzy

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#newsies #racetrack higgins #newsies fic #spot conlon #sprace #oof

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prolestariwrites · 4 years

Photo

Time To Go [8]: Shut Up And Start Talking

Fandom: Devil May Cry Rating: M Characters: Nero, Dante, Vergil, Kyrie, Nico, Trish, Morrison Tags: Mystery, Humor, Missing Person, First Time, Family Drama, Family Bonding, Post-Canon Chapter: 8/9 Chapter [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7]

Summary: When Kyrie goes missing, Nero goes on a desperate search to find her. Unfortunately, Dante and Vergil go too. Sparda boys shenanigans, fighting demons, a smattering of family drama, and male bonding (otherwise known as Nero’s worst nightmare). Please check it out below, or you can read on FFNet or AO3. Beta read by @copper-wasp.

Now posted! Chapter 8: Shut Up And Start Talking, in which the guys find a whole lot more than just Kyrie.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━

Nero takes a steadying breath as he stares at the building across the street. The address Morrison had provided had led them to what looks like a closed shop, an apartment on top, in the middle of a perfectly normal street in Fortuna. He had let them borrow a car, and Nico drove as she rattled off what little she remembered about the demon named Mammon. The city is just starting to wake up, the bagel shop on the corner opening its doors and a smattering of people leaving for work or school, but mostly the street is quiet.

He checks his holster out of habit, then reaches back to press his fingers on Red Queen's handle. It's a ritual he usually does before walking into a job, reassuring himself that he has both at hand. His arm is laden with extra weight, however, and he glances at his wrist as it moves to his side, flexing his hand under the weapon Artemis that is now attached to him. He tugs the sleeve of his jacket down, wanting to remain as inconspicuous as possible for as long as they can. Sneaking into the building is definitely their best play.

Artemis had seemed the easiest one to choose, not wanting to be left out when Dante and Vergil had squabbled over their choices as they strapped weapons to their bodies. They look more than strange now with so much gear, and Nero's brow twitches when he examines them both next. Vergil is already holding Yamato in his right hand, Cerberus in his other as Nico straps Beowulf to his limbs. The ensemble makes his appearance stick out in the pale light of the morning, and Nero grimaces.

Dante is no better, wearing the cowboy hat gifted to him by Nico, Nevan strapped to his front and his Devil Sword strapped to his back. He was going to bring Agni and Rudra too, but after the two swords argued over who would wear the hat Dante had left them behind. Nero had wondered how he would use his guns or his swords with the scimitars as well, but decided that whatever answer he received wouldn't be worth the ask in the end.

He remembers what the motel clerk had said about them looking like the circus, and Nero has to agree at this point.

"Ready to roll?" Dante asks.

"Shouldn't we have a plan first?" The brothers look at him in slight confusion, and he sighs. "Kyrie is in there. We can't just bust in with guns blazing. We need to be careful."

"Let me go in," Vergil says. "I'll kill them all before they even realize I'm there."

"We're not killing anyone either, not unless we have to," growls Nero. "They might be humans. And if we kill them, then we won't find out why they did this, and if they're working for someone."

Vergil grumbles a half-hearted agreement as Dante tilts his head up. "You got an idea, kid?"

"...No," he admits, looking back at the brick building.

"Y'all are a bunch of dumbasses," Nico says as she straightens. She pulls out her cell phone and swipes the screen, giving it a tap as she scrolls. "Can't believe I gotta rely on damn Wikipedia for this shit. I got plenty of research on Mammon in my van." She gives Nero a scowl on the last word before turning back to her phone.

Nero swallows in embarrassment as she reads. "Okay, Mammon is one of the seven princes of hell. Can't believe you guys haven't faced him before."

Dante shrugs. "They all kind of blur together. But the name doesn't ring a bell."

"His thing is greed. Money, wealth, profit, that kind of thing."

"That's why they want this fortune," Vergil says. "If Mammon really is behind this, it makes sense."

"But how do we kill him?" Nero asks.

"Doesn't exactly say," she replies.

Dante flicks the brim of his hat. "Same way we do every time."

Nico folds her arms with one of those know-it-all looks he hates. "Just go in there and get her. With all this stuff you shouldn't have any trouble. You'll probably scare the shit out of them before you even get a chance to fight. Something tries to kill you, kill it first. Leave one alive. Jesus, a baby could do this."

"I'll go in," Nero growls, knowing this for sure won't be that easy. "The two of you cover me. Stay hidden unless you have to fight."

"Nah, not my style," Dante replies. He pulls Ebony and Ivory out and jerks his head. "Three of us are goin' in together. Let's go."

He nudges Vergil and the two cross the street. Nero watches for a moment, but before he can take a step Nico grabs his sleeve. "Don't fuck this up."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he grumbles.

Nero checks to make sure the street is clear before crossing. The air takes on an unusual quality, the only sound a muted thunk of his boots as he walks across the street. He stops in front of the door and gives the street one more backward glance before leaning in to listen. Vergil and Dante move on either side of him, watching his back.

There is no sound inside. He pulls Blue Rose and with one quick movement, he activates his demon power long enough to bang his shoulder against the door and pop it open. In a flash he is inside, arm extended as he sweeps the room.

The other two sweep in, one of them kicking the door shut. They fan out together, Nero going straight as Dante and Vergil move towards either side. The room is empty, completely empty, no furniture even. The only light streams in through the dirty windows and Nero squints as dust dances in the air. On one side is a wide staircase that leads to the upper loft, which is also empty, although the space behind the guardrail is covered in shadow. Nero steadies his breath as he scans it with narrowed eyes, the revolver ready in his hand.

His heart pounds loudly in his ears as he slowly turns. The others also move slowly, Dante gripping his pistols while Vergil holds Yamato, both ready to fight. But there is nothing, not a footstep or a voice. "Anything?" Nero calls.

"Nothing," Vergil replies.

"I'll check upstairs," says Dante.

His footsteps echo as he takes them two at a time. Nero glances to the side as Vergil walks over. "Looks like an office or something back there," he murmurs, jerking his chin towards the back.

They approach together, and Nero points the revolver at the door, nodding at Vergil as he opens it. He enters first, Vergil at his back, turning until he finally lands on a lone figure in the center, giving a gasp when he recognizes Kyrie.

"Kyrie! Kyrie!" He holsters the gun as he rushes forward. She is tied to a desk chair and blindfolded, her head turning sharply at his voice. Quickly he pulls a gag from her mouth and the blindfold from her eyes, his hands shaking as he cradles her face.

"Nero," she says, her voice raw. "You found me."

"Of course, fuck, fuck." He presses his lips to hers for a quick moment before crouching down, starting to work on the cords around her arms and legs. "Are you hurt? Are you okay?"

"Just sore." He frees one of her arms, then the other, and his lungs struggle for breath as he watches her rub them together with a wince. "You came for me."

"Of course I came, shit, I gotta get you out of here." Nero bends down again to pull at the cords, cursing under his breath.

Behind him, Vergil says, "I'll go find Dante. Stay here."

He walks out of the office as Nero goes back to working on the knots. "Where are the guys that took you?"

"I don't know, they left before daybreak."

Nero grits his teeth. "Did they say why?"

Kyrie doesn't answer, so he glances up. Fear crosses her expression as she stares over his shoulder, but before he can turn and look he feels the barrel of a gun press to the back of his head. "Don't move."

Nero locks eyes with Kyrie. "Let her go," he growls.

"Not until our business is done," the voice behind him answers. "Don't look like you got our money."

The barrel pushes hard against his skull, forcing Nero to drop his chin a bit. "I'm working on it."

"Get up."

Nero raises his hands, trying to give Kyrie a reassuring look. Her eyes are wide in alarm, and he swallows thickly, his arms and back tensing in preparation to fight. Slowly Nero stands, his jaw clenching as he makes a quick calculation. Then he spins, his arm activating and grabbing for the gun, and just as the movement registers the guy shouts and pulls the trigger.

The shot goes wide, flying through the ceiling and bringing a piece down as the drywall crumbles. Nero yanks on the barrel of the gun, the metal twisting in his grip as his other hand swings. His fist connects to his jaw and sends the man through the wall of the office, more dust and drywall flying in the air as he crashes through and skids across the floor.

"Nero!"

Immediately he swings back to Kyrie, using his demon strength to snap the rest of the cords. "Stay here," he says, grabbing her and pushing her under the desk.

Kyrie scrambles underneath and he jumps through the hole in the wall. There are shouts from upstairs, but he can't worry about that right now. Nero moves in a flash over the guy, grabbing him from the floor and hitting him again. His devil arm holds him tightly by the collar of the shirt as he pulls Blue Rose, pointing it at his forehead.

The guy moans and shakes his head. He blinks his eyes clear, and then they widen on the gun. "Hey!" he shouts.

The flesh glows blue as his fingers sharpen into claws, and with the extra strength he easily holds him steady. "Stop struggling or I'll shoot," Nero growls.

"What the fuck is this!" he screams, his eyes wide in horror as he looks at the blue skin. "Danny!"

More commotion comes from behind them, and then a familiar shout of "Jackpot!" makes Nero grin devilishly. "Looks like your friends are toast," he says. "Now tell me who the fuck you are."

"Fuck you!"

A body goes flying, slamming into the wall and crumpling to the ground. Both of them turn to see, and Nero peers through the dark room. It's not either Dante or Vergil, so he stands, dragging the guy by the collar behind him. "Dante!" he shouts.

The railing that lines the edge of the loft is now completely smashed, and Dante appears, giving him a wave. "Hey! You alive, kid?"

"Yeah," he calls back. "You good?"

"Just knocked some bozo out."

He jumps from above, sliding Ebony and Ivory into the holsters on his back. Vergil follows, but he strides over to them furiously, elbowing past Dante until he pulls up in front of Nero. "Which one of you shot me?" he demands.

Before he can answer, Yamato flashes in the air, the blade slicing between them. Nero pulls back to avoid its edge, and both he and the man he has pinned gape up at Vergil, who is scowling at them both. "It was him," they both answer in unison.

Vergil lowers the sword when Dante steps up and pats his arm. "It didn't even hurt," Dante laughs.

"Holy shit," the guy says. Nero glances down to see he has scrambled to his knees, looking between the two brothers with wide eyes. "Holy shit, you're real. You're really demon hunters."

Dante and Vergil exchange a glance as Nero gives the guy a shake. "Shut up," he orders. "Now start talking."

He gulps, his eyes darting from Nero's hand still electric blue and Vergil's sword. "You're Dante and Vergil, right? I'm Mickey. I'm your cousin."

"His what?" Nero shouts.

"C-cousin," he stammers. "You're related to Eva, right?"

Blood rushes through Nero's veins, pulsing inside his head. From the corner of his eye he sees Dante and Vergil both tense, until a moment later Yamato is tilted and pressed to the base of his throat. "How do you know Eva?"

"Don't kill me! She's related. We're related!" he cries, his voice going wild.

"You're lying," says Vergil in a growl.

"I'm not! I swear!" He winces as the sword lifts to his neck. "My father was Eva's nephew on her father's side. My great-grandfather is your great-grandfather. He threw out his son and she inherited all the money." He glares up at Nero. "All I heard all my life is how we were robbed of our inheritance because Eva turned her parents against her brother. I just wanted my cut."

Nero eases back, dropping him in a heap. Yamato keeps the guy still on the ground as he turns to look at the others. "Is that true?" he asks Vergil.

"Of course it's not true," he growls. "Eva wouldn't do that."

"But you don't know that, do you?" Nero counters.

Vergil's eyes snap to him sharply. "Don't you think I would know what my own mother would do?" Nero huffs, wondering how to even begin answering that, when Vergil continues, "Besides, she never mentioned a brother, or a nephew."

"How did you know about us?" Dante asks. "Who told you who we are?"

"And it doesn't explain why you took Kyrie," Nero says threateningly. He points his gun at the man's head. "What does she have to do with it?"

"We just wanted the money! We weren't gonna hurt her!" he cries. He sits back on his legs and holds up his hands. "It's really you, isn't it? The demon hunters. He said you guys were Eva's kids and—fuck, I didn't think you'd kill Danny!"

"I don't kill humans, numbnuts," Dante says, then nods towards Nero. "But you better start talking before he shoots you. He's been really wanting to shoot someone today."

"Already shot me," Vergil adds.

Nero raises his brows, and the kidnapper nods. "Okay. We knew Eva had two sons, and we tracked down Dante. We didn't know where the other one was." He swallows thickly and looks at Vergil. "You're Vergil, right? We couldn't find you."

"You keep saying 'we'," Vergil says.

"Yeah. Me and Danny. We're brothers too. Our pops knew there was money from the family and we figured we'd come and get our piece, you know? We tracked down Dante, but he lives in a shit hole, so it didn't make no sense."

"Hey!" Dante protests.

Vergil snorts. "He has a point."

"We saw this one there," he continues, nodding towards Nero, his eyes trained on the gun. "You're his kid, right? That's what we figured, you were always hanging around."

"Wrong again, asshat," Nero growls, pressing the barrel to his forehead.

"Okay! Sorry! We just thought—I mean you both got white hair and you both hunt demons, like damn! We thought you were his kid. So we watched you too and you and that girl live in that nice house with kids and all and figured you had the cash. And you'd make a trade." He takes several quick, deep breaths. "We were just gonna trade. I swear we weren't gonna hurt her."

Dante puts his hands on his hips. "How did you find me?"

Mickey swallows thickly. "Mammon. He found us, told us he knew where Eva's kids were. He said he knew my pop. He knew a lot of shit, so I believed him."

"Wait," Nero frowns. "Mammon's a human?"

"A human?" he answers. "What are you talking about? What else would he be?"

He can feel the demon presence a split second later, like a pinprick on his neck. Nero turns at the same time as Dante and Vergil, and it's like a spark, a charge inside his chest. There is nothing but shadow, but it is there, and he can almost hear Yamato buzzing in his head and the Devil Arms reacting, one by one, as he reaches up to pull Red Queen from his back. To his left, Dante grabs his own sword and laughs. "Looks like we get to kill something after all."

"He's mine," Nero mutters.

But Yamato stops him as Vergil lifts the sword to block his way. "Take Kyrie and get out of here."

"Screw that!" he bites out.

Nero turns to argue more, but before he can a figure finally materializes. It is just a man, tall and broad and thin, and for a second Nero blinks, thinking it is V. But that is impossible, and as it approaches, he sees the skin is without tattoos, the features more round than sharp, the black hair cropped neatly instead of laying in waves across its face. "Mammon!" Mickey shouts behind them. "Help me!"

"Isn't this interesting," Mammon says. The voice is certainly not human, a deep rumble that makes Nero's stomach turn as he tightens his grip on Red Queen. "I came for riches, and instead, I got the sons of Sparda."

"Jokes on you," Dante answers. "You ain't getting us, and we don't have any money either. So you're wrong twice."

Mammon laughs. The demon takes another step forward, the shadows swirling around its arms and legs, almost sucking the oxygen from the room. "I don't care what Sparda did, you know," it says. "I was sick of Hell long before he came here. But I want that money."

"Did you not hear him, dipshit?" Nero snaps. "There's no money."

The demon laughs. "Then you're in real trouble."

It begins to grow, its body twisting out and up, stretching as the shadows pull it like taffy. "What the hell?" Mickey moans behind them. "What the fuck is this? Mammon!"

"It's a demon," Vergil says through gritted teeth. "Nero, take the humans and go."

"Like hell—"

Mammon gives a roar, reaching its arms out and grabbing the roof. It pulls, and Nero dodges to the right as a piece of drywall falls, choking on the dust that rises. He gasps as he sees the demon thrash around, taking out the rest of the wall to the office, and he is on his feet with a cry. "Nero! Get Kyrie and go!" Vergil shouts, but he doesn't need to be told twice.

He sheaths Red Queen and bolts to the office, jumping over a pile of rubble when something grabs his ankle. Nero lands with a crack of his chin on the ground, and he kicks hard, pulling himself free. The shadows themselves are attacking, reaching for him with solid arms and hands as Nero lifts his arm and shoots Artemis.

Arrows through the air and slice through the shadow, which disintegrates on contact. Mammon takes a step towards him, but then bullets sail from the other direction as Dante begins shooting. He covers Vergil who dashes forward so quickly Nero sees only a streak, and when Mammon roars as the first swipe of Yamato slices through him, he is up on his feet and running for the office again.

"Kyrie!" he shouts once through the hole in the wall. He drops to his knees and reaches for her, and from under the desk she grabs his hands, sliding when he pulls her out. "Time to go," he pants, hauling her against him, and Kyrie wraps her arms tightly around his neck as his right arm holds her to his hip.

Together they climb back through, and he hears Kyrie whimper over the sound of the others fighting Mammon. Dante and Vergil take turns distracting the demon as the other hacks at the shadows that protect it. Nero is itching to get a few blows of his own in, but Kyrie goes limp against him, and he realizes she is going to faint if he doesn't do something fast. "Come on," he says, scooping her up in his arms, and he runs in an arc in the room as she presses her face to his neck.

Mickey watches the melee with wide eyes, but he shakes himself as Nero approaches. "Save me! Save me!" he screams, grabbing at Nero's pant leg.

Nero aims a kick at him. "Get up."

He obeys immediately, limping as he stands. Nero leads them towards the door, and he pauses and sets Kyrie down. "Go get your brother," he says.

"I can't!" His eyes are wide as he stares back at the demon. "Fuck, what is that thing?"

"It's a demon, idiot!" Nero shouts. "You stupid asshole, your greed woke the fucking Prince of Money." He glances at Kyrie, taking a deep breath. "Can you stand?"

"Yes," she says breathlessly.

"Good. Go. Nico is outside. I gotta go save this asshole."

She presses a kiss to his cheek before darting for the door, and Nero winces as the sunlight streams in once it opens. Mickey also starts for the exit, but Nero grabs him by the shirt. "No fucking way," he growls. "You're coming with me."

"Don't kill me!" he whines.

"Let's get your brother, then I'll decide." Nero practically drags him along, heading to the other side of the room where Danny still lays unconscious on the ground. He uses Artemis and sends a few warning shots when the shadows slither too closely, and when they reach the body he lets go of Mickey and grabs the brother by the arm. Hauling him over his shoulder Mickey does the same, he practically drags him out of the door, the sun too bright when he hits the sidewalk, dropping the body on the ground.

"Nero!" Kyrie is there, and Nico, who eyes the two kidnappers as Mickey collapses next to his brother. "Cops are coming. This them?"

He can hear the sirens way off in the distance, and nods. "Yeah, they're humans. But Mammon is inside. I need to get back in there."

Kyrie grabs his arm. "Wait, Nero, please—"

A blast from inside has them on the ground, Nero twisting to cover Kyrie as he kneels over her. His ears are ringing as he looks back, gasping when he sees most of the building is gone—or rather, reduced to a heap, the only things standing a few structural walls.

"No!" Nero screams. "Dad! Dante!"

He runs and vaults himself over the bit of wall still standing, landing hard on the ground on the other side. Nero scrambles forward but skids to a stop when he sees both Dante and Vergil in the center, very much alive in front of the smoking carcass of the demon. Vergil is kneeling, leaning on Yamato for support, while Dante stands with his hands on his hips, stretching his back. Nero stumbles forward with a cry, and both turn to look at him, Vergil frowning and Dante grinning when he reaches them.

"You okay there, kid?" Dante pants with a laugh.

"Yeah," he says, shaking his head to clear it. "I thought you were both goners."

"Nah," scoffs Dante. "Bastard got mad he lost and thought he'd pull down the building. No biggie."

"Where is Kyrie?" asks Vergil as he stands. "Is she safe?"

Nero nods. "Yeah. She's out there, with Nico. I got the others out, too."

Dante grins and pats him on the shoulder. "Nice work. Knew you had it in you."

He laughs and shakes his head, and then the three pick their way back over the rubble, heading towards the street. Once they are clear of the building, Kyrie runs to him, and Nero pulls her into a fierce embrace, pressing his lips to her temple. For a long moment he holds her closely, his arms trembling a bit as his fingers slide into her hair. His heart beats wildly to have her safe, and here, her warmth pressed to his as he makes a silent vow to never, ever lose her again.

A gunshot rings out, followed by a cry, and he jerks up and pulls out Blue Rose, yanking Kyrie behind him. Mickey is howling and grabbing his thigh as Vergil looks smugly over him. "You shot me!" he yells. "What the fuck, you shot me!"

"What are you doing?" Nero cries.

Vergil shrugs as he hands Ivory back to Dante. "He shot me first."

"Christ in hell." Nero rubs his neck, his shoulders drooping. "Now what?"

The sirens grow louder, so Dante says, "Give them to the police. They'll handle it."

He nods with a deep sigh. "Yeah. You two should go. I'm the only one here who is supposed to have a weapon in Fortuna."

"Right." Dante hits Vergil on the shoulder. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Nero pulls Artemis from his arm and hands it to Dante. "Thanks for this. And for uh…" Suddenly embarrassed, he turns to the side, his arm snaking around Kyrie's waist and pulling her against his hip. "For what I said earlier, I mean…"

"No problem, kid." Dante grins and salutes him as he walks towards the car. "Come on, Vergil! You're buying breakfast."

Nero glances at Vergil, who regards him with an unreadable expression. "I guess we're done here," Vergil says.

"I uh…" He squeezes Kyrie's hip as he clears his throat. "Thanks. For your help and everything."

Vergil hesitates, looking as though he wants to say something. Nero swallows thickly, wanting to say something: maybe thank you or sorry about tonight or hey I'm glad you didn't die back there, but none of it seems right, or not enough. They stare at each other for a long moment, but finally Vergil only nods before walking past them, following Dante. But he gives Nero a pat on the shoulder, and Nero's mouth quirks up a bit at the gesture.

"I'll drive them back," Nico says. She gives him a scowl before poking him in the chest. "Then you're taking me to my van."

"Fine," Nero sighs, waving her off.

Nero pulls Kyrie into another embrace, wrapping his arms tightly around her. He strokes her hair gently, kissing the top of her head, his heart feeling grateful and his body tired when a groan catches his attention.

He glances over to see Mickey sitting on the ground, holding his bleeding leg and looking at him pathetically. "You're not really gonna tell the police, are you?" he moans. "Come on, dude, we're family!"

"Family, huh?" Nero laughs. "I got plenty already, thanks."

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━

A/N: Only one more chapter to go! Thank you so much for reading so far. See you next Friday for the conclusion!

#dmc #devil may cry #nerokiri #dante sparda #vergil sparda #nero sparda #dmc nero #dmc dante #dmc vergil #dmc kyrie #dmc nico #fan fiction #myfic #time to go

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strawberry-skies-xx · 4 years

Text

you wingless thing

C H A P T E R S I X

tags: rape/non-con, dead dove: do not eat, geralt / jaskier, original female character, original male character, angst with a happy ending, angst, angst and feels, rape, past rape/non-con, implied/referenced rape/non-con, implied/referenced abuse, emotional hurt/comfort, psychological abuse, emotional abuse, emotionally repressed, fae jaskier, fae magic, hurt jaskier, torture, revenge, past torture, hurt/comfort, past abuse, jaskier whump, feral jaskier, creature jaskier, inhuman jaskier, eventual happy ending, love confessions, idiots in love, wing kink, homoerotic wing grooming

author’s note: short chapter because the banquet is one whole scene and fits one average chapter.

scheduled mondays, wednesdays, and fridays.

main masterlist | story on ao3 | next chapter >>

A week after Geralt first finds himself locked in the room, and four days of waking in the middle of the night to Jaskier twisting in the sheets and calling Geralt’s name out in a jagged, broken voice, with the faint scent of Nyla’s magic on Jaskier, the sorceress comes into their room in the early morning and wakes them both with a sharp lash of magic against their tangled bodies. Geralt sits up sharply, his first thought wondering how the mage entered the room without him waking up, and Jaskier flinches and groans from beside him, sitting up slowly. His hair is messy and eyes half-closed - Geralt wants to run his hands through the fae’s hair, coax him back to sleep with Geralt right next to him, but he knows he can’t and he has much more pressing issues right now than Jaskier’s sleepy state.

“Come on, both of you,” Nyla says impatiently. “I’m having guests tonight and I expect you to sing,” she pointedly looks at Jaskier, then at Geralt, “and you to stay by my right hand.”

Geralt fights the urge to sigh. He knows exactly why Nyla wants him as her right hand - and it’s not because she trusts him. No, she just wants her guests to know how powerful she is, and she wants the power trip of knowing she can keep a Witcher by her side. Dozens of other noble lords and ladies have tried it, and if it was up to Geralt, he’d slip away from the table and out of the room the earliest chance he got - he did, several times before.

But, Jaskier wants to cooperate with her to get his magic back, and he isn’t going to ruin the fae’s chances because Geralt is being put on display like a rare artifact.

Jaskier frowns from where he sits next to Geralt. “You can’t expect me to sing without my collar being taken off. Everyone there will notice my wings if I don’t have a glamour on,” he says.

Nyla smiles, but it doesn’t have any humor in it and it makes Geralt uneasy. “Don’t worry, songbird. I know enough magic that you’ll be just fine, and I have an instrument prepared for you already.”

Geralt doesn’t miss the way Jaskier’s scent briefly fills with anger when she calls him songbird, and it reminds him far too much of a noble lord and the words little lark being said in a similarly smug accent. He makes a mental note to make Nyla pay for that remark - it’s bad enough Jaskier is getting nightmares again, he doesn’t need to be reminded of Erynd any more than he already is from living in the noble’s mansion the sorceress stole.

Nyla pulls two outfits out of thin air and lays them on the bed in front of them. “You’ll wear these to the celebration tonight,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument - not like Geralt and Jaskier could give one anyway.

Jaskier slides off of the bed and walks over to look at the outfit obviously picked for him. Geralt doesn’t move, but his eyes flick over to Nyla and he watches her eyes rake down Jaskier’s body, arousal and appreciation threading through her scent. A low, protective growl rises in Geralt’s throat.

Nyla seems to sense this, because she looks up at Geralt with a smirk on her face and steps closer to Jaskier, not breaking eye contact.

“Get dressed quickly,” she purrs in the fae’s ear. Geralt watches Jaskier tense, going unnaturally still as she leans so close she’s almost pressed up against him. “I have plans for you today.”

Jaskier’s voice is oddly flat when he replies, and it ruffles Geralt in all the wrong ways, like a cat who’s brushed backwards. “Yes, Nyla.”

Nyla grins, fingers trailing along Jaskier’s shoulder as she pulls away, breaking eye contact with Geralt, and walks to the door, stopping at the doorway and looking back at Jaskier. Geralt’s eyes track her every movement, anger and protectiveness coursing through him and his mind running through all the lethal and non-lethal places he could stick his sword in the sorceress. Not for the first time, he wishes he wasn’t constantly locked in the room for days on end, with nothing to do except worry about Jaskier and deal with the damage when he was let back into the room at night.

“I expect you downstairs in ten,” she says to Jaskier, and then her gaze moves to Geralt. “Witcher, you’ll have food brought up to you and be escorted downstairs when I want you.”

She closes the door, the lock clicking loudly into place and echoing in the quiet room.

Jaskier’s entire body relaxes all at once, a sigh of relief leaving him as he turns to Geralt. “I truly hate that woman,” he informs him, with all the expected emotion in his voice. Geralt feels his own relief flood through him, though he still doesn’t like imagining what Nyla does to the fae to make him have to speak like that in front of her. It sounds all wrong to him, and Geralt doesn’t ever want to hear that sort of flat, emotionless tone come from Jaskier again - even though the horrifying tone is practically seared into his mind now.

Jaskier picks up his outfit, holding it up with both hands. They’re both lavish, with much more color than Geralt would ever willingly wear and just enough color and extravagance for Jaskier. The fae’s outfit is a sheer black dress, shimmering with small stars embellished on it and sparkling with sapphire accents. Nyla added some sapphire earrings and a necklace to it, and together, the ensemble brings out Jaskier’s near-translucent blue eyes, the contrast striking with his pale skin and dark hair. Geralt doesn’t miss the reason why Nyla chose such an outfit - he looks beautiful in it, and Nyla gets to put him on display in front of the entire ballroom, like a prized pet. Which, Jaskier has already been for far too long in his life.

Jaskier slides the dress on, and Geralt feels the wave of magic pulse through the air just as Jaskier’s wings vanish and he gasps, yanking the dress down over his hips as fast as possible and letting it pool on the floor around his ankles.

“No. Nope,” Jaskier says quickly, almost hysterically, his magic stirring slightly from where it drifts around them. Geralt moves to slide off the bed as Jaskier runs a hand through his hair, fear and panic threading through his scent, eyes darting from the dress to Geralt. Geralt hadn’t known how special Jaskier’s wings were to him, but he supposes that they would be important. They’re part of what makes him fae, after all - Jaskier wants desperately to be human, but he still will fiercely protect what makes him inhuman anyway.

Geralt steps close to Jaskier, not touching as the fae looks up at him again, blue eyes wide and panicked. “I can’t wear that,” he says. “It feels too- too complete, it’s like they’re being taken away from me and it’s-“

Jaskier trails off, eyes darting around, panic flooding his scent and his magic charging the air in response. Geralt frowns and brushes his fingers along Jaskier’s arm, bringing his attention to him as his eyes snap to Geralt.

“Jaskier,” he says, and stops, unsure how to continue. He pauses, trying to figure out what to say next.

“They’re… not actually gone,” he settles for, lamely, and curses himself for not being better at words.

Jaskier sighs, running one hand through his hair again, the panic edging slightly off of his scent at the familiarity of Geralt’s terrible relationship with words. “Yeah, I know. Manipulative fucking sorceress,” he says bitterly. He picks up the dress after sending it a glare and slowly slides it on. Geralt can feel the shiver he gives when the magic falls into place and his wings disappear, slicing right through like a knife. Geralt reaches forward and waves his hand through the air where his wings were, but there’s nothing there except the low thrum of magic that isn’t his own surrounding Jaskier.

Jaskier lets out a low, carefully controlled breath that’s just on the edge of panicking, and puts on a tight smile, meeting Geralt’s eyes. “Well. Another day, right?” he says, far too cheerfully.

Geralt hums, something uneasy settling in his stomach. He doesn’t like how Jaskier is being made so uncomfortable by this dress, all so the sorceress can show him around like a pretty piece of jewelry. And, Nyla seemed far too eager for Jaskier to come downstairs. It makes Geralt still more protective of the fae, even as he holds back from doing anything - because he can’t, really. Jaskier chose to let Nyla keep them essentially captive for the month, and as long as Jaskier doesn’t go back on that, Geralt has to cooperate, no matter how much it goes against every protective instinct he has.

They both jump and tense as they feel a sharp wave of magic lash abruptly through the room, Nyla’s annoyance tied with it as a warning to Jaskier about being late. Jaskier sighs, giving one last forlorn glance at Geralt before he leaves the room, black dress swaying gracefully around his legs, and Geralt is left alone in the locked room with all too active an imagination of what Nyla could do to Jaskier.

next chapter >>

#the witcher netflix #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier

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sweetestrequiems · 4 years

Text

kit’s release radar + reflecting on things

alright so let me give y’all a normal post now aka the release radar for this account just without dates.

they’re all under the cut cause it’s a LOT.

aka, look under the picture of the broadway queens. thank you.

-foreboding (targets part 2) will come your way soon. jo and i need to finish writing and editing.

-chapter 2 of out of a book is in the works. it will be a parr-centric chapter. -out of a book will go between boleyn-centric/parr-centric until i start working on chapter 6. chapter 6 and onward should be an even split or just about. -the title of the chapter is Scones and Coffee, by the way.

-aragon angst is finally being written. i was going to have the nightmare aragon has be set in historical times, but i can’t see myself doing it because i am not confident enough with history. so, i will set it in modern day instead.

-the boleyn fluff i promised jo is being plotted out as we speak. im gonna turn it into beheaded cousins fluff because i felt bad for asking for kitty angst lmao

-i might do some queen x reader one shots. they’re gonna be super cute, too. i think my favorite idea i had for one was jane seymour’s. cause stargazing and picnics. yeah. -if you guys actually want some queen x reader stuff i’ll write it for y’all.

-my apex legends fic titled spark of hope will have a release date pending in the next two months. with apex legends’ lore of it being a bloodsport, i have to properly think of the trigger warnings, tags, and so on. i also have to replay through titanfall 2 for the twentieth time, and play more apex legends to actually memorize the layouts of the maps (world’s edge/kings canyon). -i will probably release spark of hope as an Ao3 exclusive. i have the good understanding that i might have followers who are very sensitive to certain triggers involved in this, so i don’t want to put anyone in harm’s way.

-with new day, same queen getting ready to finish up in the next two weeks, it gives me more time to openly take requests and stuff. so if you have a prompt you’d like for me to do, once part 6 is finally up, come into my ask box and drop it in there. -cleves is part 4, she comes out friday. -seymour will be entering the world of the living next friday, april 17th. -howard will be the last queen to wake up on friday, april 24th. -pretty much a complete series which wow good job kit you did it lmao

-jo and i (mostly jo) are planning for a total of FOUR parts for targets. the last part is just us indulging in the softness of parrlyn but that’s besides the point. but, because the events of parts 2 and 3 are so emotionally charged, we decided to make it parrlyn because boleyn seems to be the only one that has been able to calm down a very angry parr. and it gives us two an opportunity to write out the complexity of parr’s emotions.

-so do y’all remember the ask that boleyn got from kitty about a prank? -rest assured i am actually writing that because jo and i accidentally plotted that out. -honestly it is the most hilarious thing we have thought of. -can you just imagine aragon dumping a whole ass bucket of water on boleyn and screaming “THE POWER OF OUR LORD AND SAVIOR JESUS CHRIST COMPELS YOU!” -part of me wonders how i think of this shit and i’m sober 99.9% of the time.

-sending in asks for the queens is ALWAYS welcome btw. i love responding as the queens and it gives me motivation to write for the queens that answer so... go for it.

-i am most definitely doing Six x [insert show here] stuff. will it probably be parrlyn singing something cute? yeah. -do i care? not really because it gives me an excuse to be a nerd. -i mean... writing fanfiction makes me a nerd but besides the point!!!

-speaking of, Six x Soho Cinders is apparently the actual brightest idea i’ve had on this account because almost if not 70 notes on it???? -like thank you??? so much???? -i honestly thought y’all were gonna be like “oh no here she goes again” but y’alL REALLY ACTUALLY MADE MY HEART HAPPY

i honestly cannot stress enough that i am grateful for all of you that follow me. for the ones that like my stuff. the ones that reblog. the ones who reply. ALL OF YOU. we are in hard times. the world is fucking terrifying. i mean, i’m an adult for fuck’s sake but i’m scared too. i write for you guys. let me explain what i mean:

i have spent a solid fifteen of the twenty years i have been alive on a stage of sorts. under a spotlight, or in an ensemble. i’m a semi-professional musician. i am a novice/amateur actress. i have played in a symphony orchestra.

during hard times is when people turn to the arts. whether they love seeing dancers fly across the stage, actors tell stories, visual artists create landscapes and portraits of scenes unknown... they’re all turning to these people for something i like to call a gift.

my former saxophone instructor is a well known man. he plays in a world renowned saxophone quartet. this man took a chance on me, and taught me the greatest thing i could ever learn as an artist of sorts.

the arts, performance or visual, are a gift. you are taking your raw emotions, your feelings... you’re making yourself vulnerable for the world to see. you are giving these people a light in their darkest times. you are helping them escape their cold realities for just minutes at a time. you are giving them a piece of you that you would only think to give to your significant other. you are taking something from your heart, filled with your emotions, and allowing someone else to be a part of that. and that is the greatest gift of all.

truth be told, that’s what i consider all of this writing. an art. it is as valid as dance and as music. as valid as painting. as valid as ceramics. as valid as any breathing and living art form out there.

so, for me to see that you all do enjoy this? it lets me know that this gift is well received. it’s... loved. it's in the right hands.

so from the bottom of my heart, thank you. thank you so much for not only allowing me the chance to do this, but for letting me into your lives.

i will see all of you later with the tumblr release of out of a book, and a video.

much love to all of you, kit

#Kano Announcements #Thoughts with Kit

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ao3feed-skk · 5 years

Link

by uzai_sagi

It finally happened. Corruption finally killed him. What's worse? The one person he trusted to save him, to bring him back, wasn't there.

Now Chuuya is trapped in a weird ballroom looked after by a strange old woman, who claims that he is now in purgatory. He's in despair until she's come with a solution.

Now he's going to have to find the pieces to a powerful ring that'll grant wishes by going through nightmares, all the while dealing with facing his own fears. He just wished this asshole demon would stop trying to kill him during his task.

Words: 1921, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: Gen

Characters: Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Armed Detective Agency (Bungou Stray Dogs) Ensemble, Port Mafia (Bungou Stray Dogs) Ensemble, Original Characters

Relationships: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs)

Additional Tags: Dark Deception AU, Temporary Character Death, Canon Related, POV Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), mostly - Freeform, because look what he's going through, No Beta, We Die Like Men, Eventual Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Dazai-Typical Suicide Mentions (Bungou Stray Dogs), Yandere Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), I mean, he's kind of a Yandere, but it's not open, If you know Dark Deception, You know what happens

#Soukoku #ao3feed #fanfic #Bungou Stray Dogs #Skk #Nakahara Chuuya #Dazai Osamu #Chuuya #Dazai

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ariaadagio · 6 years

Text

Aria’s Long List of Lucifer & Deckerstar Fic Recs - Part 3

Hello, all! Since I completed writing Castaway earlier in September, I’ve finally had a chance to start catching up on my reading list. I still have tons left to read, but I think I’ve hit critical mass on fics I liked enough to recommend, so I’m back with another round of recs!

These recs are organized by author name and category (for the most part), and the list order is not meant to imply an order of preference. All recommendations are completed fics unless otherwise noted. If anyone knows the @ tumblr names for any of the authors I missed tagging, or if I got anything wrong, please let me know.

You can find my other recs posts here (part 1), here (part 2), here (part 4), here (Part 5), and here (part 6).

S3E24 Aftermath Fics

Some Kind of Mysterious by Autumn Rayne

~2300 words

This is a lovely little peek into Chloe’s reaction. She’s somewhat thrown for a loop and initially pulls back, but as she slowly regains her footing in this new reality, the repeated refrain of “she does not miss Lucifer” becomes increasingly full of denial. Charming!

It would be for this by Dreamline

~4600 words

Heaven and hell were words to me by nosecoffee ( @nose-coffee )

~2600 words

I’m listing these two stories together because they’re a series of sorts. The first story is told from Trixie’s POV, which is a great use of dramatic irony. Because of how the story is constructed, the reader knows far more about what’s going on that Trixie does, which prompts a bit of puzzle solving on the part of the reader, and the result is lovely. The second story is told from Lucifer’s POV, waking up in the aftermath. The last few lines in particular are heart-wrenching and perfect.

Beautiful man with a beautiful face, who was not a man at all by an_earl

~8800 words

An_earl has a lovely, lyrical style of writing that’s captivating. I enjoyed reading about Chloe, now in the know, considering past events in a new light. Also, delicious angst so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Carry On by IceQueen1 ( @disappearinginq )

~5000k words

Chloe reacts. Lucifer misunderstands said reaction. Some lovely heartfelt drama ensues. Perfect all around.

heart to heart (soul to soul) by Lesza ( @spiacooczna )

~3000 words

This story starts with Chloe and Lucifer at odds, but the ice is gradually broken via the use of text messages, which is something I can intimately relate with because I’ve lived it (not the Devil reveal, obviously, but social anxiety that was resolved in a similar way). This was the first story I read in my current “binge,” and I was captivated from start to finish. Lovely angst, and the ending will make your heart soar.

Simpatico by pixelbypixel ( @pixelbypixelfanfic)

~3100 words

For a funny, more off-the-wall approach to post S3, a distraught Lucifer commiserates with Deadpool. This made me laugh and smile so much, which was something I sorely needed when I read it.

Aftershocks by Subsequent ( @inclines )

~19400 words

A lovely, more light-hearted approach to the “aftershocks” of S3E24. Chloe deals with being “in the know,” and the gang deals with fixing the mess left behind by Cain. Lots of humorous touches and great lines, to include everybody quickly being brought into the Lucifer is Lucifer loop.

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea by @spirantization

~31,000 words

A series, currently of three works. I haven’t yet had the opportunity to read the third piece, but the first two are a delight. Poor Chloe is trying desperately to keep up with her new reality, and failing woefully at every turn. Meanwhile, in the second story, Lucifer and Maze perpetrate some of the most hysterical sniping and snark at each other that I’ve ever read. And, of course, there’s M.V.P. Linda, a perennial presence in both stories, trying to referee this whole mess. I have so much love for this series!