#thank you nonetheless and. perhaps that would be enough comfort for me in this lonely world. a moment of respite from the pain. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kimetsunoyaibawritings · 3 years

Text

Burn like the Sun

Rating: General

Relationship: Reader/Kyojuro

Summary: “Simply knowing you are safe is a plentiful reward in itself.”

As a survivor of the Infinity Train accident, the reader seeks out the man who had saved them to try and offer some sort of proper thanks. And while he is severely injured -- enough to have to lay down his duties as a Hashira -- Kyojuro is nonetheless happy to know that his actions had protected someone.

"Is this the home of Kyojuro Rengoku?"

The question pulls the attention of the young boy standing outside the front of the gate of the vast home behind him, who had been sweeping diligently before your approach.

His bright, firey-colored hair is striking, but it is dwarfed immediately by the sharp red of his eyes as they move up to look at you. The resemblance to your savior is striking -- so much that you are sure that this is the right home before he even opens his mouth to speak.

"I-It is, yes," he says, voice oddly timid. "May I ask uh, why you are looking for him?"

He can't be older than twelve or thirteen. You try to offer him a comforting smile and gesture with your chin down to the small, cloth-wrapped bundle in your arms.

"I was one of the people he saved from the train accident a few weeks ago. I heard he was badly injured because of it and I..." you let the words trail for a moment as the boy (his brother? his son?) stares at you with a look that is not at all accusatory, but sharp all the same.

You clear your throat and speak, tone renewed, "I wanted to show him my appreciation and wish him well for his recovery."

At first the boy doesn't say anything in response. In the growing silence, you almost feel foolish. It had been hard enough to learn the man's name in the first place after the accident, but something about his presence had left a moment of terror and hopelessness instead with such warmth and comfort that the simple prospect of gratitude seemed the least you could offer.

Lost among your own thoughts and worries, the sound of the boy's voice rings out and drags you back into the moment.

"Let me go ask him first, if that's alright."

You're barely able to offer but a syllable of a reply before he's already slipped past the front gate and out of sight into the grand house beyond. It is as large as you were told, though you can't recall any prominent businessman nor politician with the family name of Rengoku. Some of your contacts had called him a swordsman -- had his family once served as samurai?

The possibilities proffered more questions than offered answers, leaving you to simmer in your own curiosity for several minutes until the young fire-haired boy emerged from the house and hurried towards you.

"He says you can see him -- he's also happy to know you're okay."

The boy -- Senjuro, you later learn as his name -- quickly explains how to get to Kyojuro's room, though you're too lost in the warmth in your chest from the too-simple notion 'he's happy you're okay' to pay all that much attention past the first two turns. But you thank him all the same and shuffle towards the house, leaving Senjuro to continue sweeping up with only the slightest, softest curiosity in his eyes.

Once inside the house, you’re taken aback by how… empty it feels. You’d expect a home as large as this to be busy with people — whether family or workers tending to it. You find neither, greeted instead by silence and an unnerving amount of peace.

It doesn’t take long to start trying to recall the directions that the young Rengoku boy had given you. A turn down the left hallway, past the third door and then… ah?

You couldn’t quite recall after that. Left or right? Was there another hall, or was Kyojuro’s room along the outside? One question bumbled into another until your unsureness twisted itself up into a ball of knots. Despite the confusion, you didn’t want to seem even more foolish by moving back to Senjuro and asking for directions again when he had gone out of his way to describe them once already. So you stand there, frozen by your own indecision at the edge of a corner-

Until someone suddenly turns it, running straight into you with enough force to leave you stumbling backwards. You would have fallen on your ass if it wasn’t for the fact that the same offender reached out suddenly and grabbed your arms, which were otherwise holding with a vice grip on the wrapped bundle still against your chest.

“I’m so sorry!” a bright voice offers, soft but merrily. “I didn’t see you standing there. Are you alright?”

It takes a moment for your thoughts to straighten and your gaze to fix upon the person who had both run into you and kept you from toppling backwards.

Blonde hair with firey tips, eyes brighter than rubies and sharper than a fine point. Though his face is covered in bandages and there’s a patch over his left eye, the recognition feels like icewater dumped over your head.

“K-Kyojuro Rengoku?” you ask, embarrassed in the stutter of your own voice.

“Yes?” the man tilts his head. You’re not able to say anything further before he suddenly winces, pulling his arms back against his body and drawing your gaze down over the rest of his body — as well as his multitude of injuries. Broken bones and layers of bandages seemed to but scratch the surface for all that he is dealing with, which made you feel the heavy weight of gratitude twice, no, three times over in his saving your life.

“Shouldn’t you be laying down?”

Kyojuro merely laughs. Though the sound must pain him, it doesn’t muffle the blossoming warmth of the noise as it fills the air around your ears. It’s strange, in a way; does the sound of his voice often have this effect on people?

“I’m well enough to walk,” he finally says, pain and aches hidden so dutifully behind his eyes that you have to second-guess yourself whenever his lips press together in a brief, but tense line. A smile, however, quickly moves across his face. “I thought it would be easier if I met you halfway so you didn’t get lost! You are the one who came to visit me, correct?”

You nod.

“Y-yeah. I’m uh. One of the people you… saved. On the train, a few weeks ago. I wanted to thank you and… maybe get to know you a little bit.”

The man watches you silently as you explain yourself, but not for a moment does a sense of judgement press on your shoulders from his attention. He simply listens, politely waiting for you to finish before responding.

“It must have been hard to find me,” he comments almost idly, some mixture of amused and impressed. “How did you manage it?”

The question is filled with an odd sort of praise, so you lower your head down until your eyes are on the ground and your mind is a shambling mess trying to piece words together.

“I uh. I have some friends in high places, you could say.”

“Well!” he chuckles. “That almost sounds like a threat!”

“Oh no, no no no no-” flustered, you immediately raise your eyes up and begin waving one hand about frantically as if to dissuade the notion entirely. “I promise I didn’t mean that as a— I mean, my family—… I…”

Your broken explanation is cut short when Kyojuro reaches up a hand towards your face, index finger curling ever so gently beneath your chin that you barely feel the heat of his skin against yours.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, and for a moment you feel your heartbeat go still. “I promise I meant it only as a jest. You went to great lengths simply to see me, and you certainly didn’t need to.” His hand slowly lowers, but your gaze is held to his as if bound by unseen threads. “Simply knowing you are safe is a plentiful reward in itself.”

“I- I uh. It’s not-” the words fall broken and useless from your lips like shards of glass with no hope of coming together to make a cohesive sentence. Perhaps it’s for the best, since you’re not even sure what you can try to say in response to such an earnest notion of safety from someone who didn’t even know your first name.

And that is what finally pulls your thoughts into clarity.

You step back, providing just enough space between yourself and your savior so that your mind can clear and your heart can stop beating so damn quickly. Once you regain a sense of sensibility you all but glare at the man.

“My name is-” you say, brows knitted and stance firm as you all but aggressively introduce yourself to the man who had sacrificed so much of himself for your safety. For the safety of hundreds.

And Kyojuro watches, and listens, and then he smiles.

“That’s a nice name,” he says, then chuckles again, then bows his head for a moment. “Though you seem to know already, I am Kyojuro Rengoku. It’s quite the pleasure to meet you then! Properly meet you, at least. One less train involved.”

As the words settle humorously in the air, you watch Kyojuro turn and make a gesture to follow behind him. For a moment you’re confused, but he turns his face back to you and nods in the direction of the hall a few steps ahead.

“You wanted me to rest, yes? We can do so overlooking the back garden. I figure you’d like to sit and talk for a while-” and then he pauses, as if a moment of realization is just now moving across his thoughts. “…unless there is somewhere else you need to be?”

Bashful instinct presses at the root of your tongue to agree, perhaps even to make up some silly excuse for why you couldn’t stay for long. But then your eyes catch and hold onto a gaze that seems like brilliant rubies, and his voice echoes so warmly in your ears. And then you remember noting how empty the house felt when you stepped inside of it, devoid of anyone but what might be the last few members of the Rengoku family.

How lonely.

A shake of your head and motion of your legs happen before you can even think.

“O-oh no, I… have the day free. Though of course I didn’t assume you yourself had the time to entertain anyone, with you… healing up, and all.”

Kyojuro smiles for a moment before leading the way down the hall, his motions a bit stilted by injuries, but proud all the same. You held a deep respect for the man and his willpower despite knowing so little about him — and you certainly wanted to know more.

“I actually enjoy the company,” he says, just as you move in-step beside him. “And you are the first person from that accident to try and find me — perhaps the only one! So, if you’ll humor me for a bit of your time… I would like to learn more about you as well.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him smiling. Despite the countless injuries that undoubtedly leave him in pain, some perhaps permanent, the man continues to smile as wide and as bright as the sun itself.

And you are glad to have met him.

#kny #kny x you #kny kyojuro #rengoku kyojuro x reader #kny x reader #fic #readerinsert #sfw #sfw writing #writing #sfw fic #rengoku x reader #rengoku kyoujurou #kyojuro #demon slayer #demon slayer spoilers #mugen train spoilers

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yandere-sins · 3 years

Note

Hello! How are you? May I pls request the prompts scratches and collar for Sakusa Kiyoomi for the yandere writing challenge thingy? I hope this is alright! Thank you <3

Thanks for requesting!! Sakusa is one of my favorites actually, so I am really excited to write for him! uwu Please enjoy!

Scratches - “Try that again sweetheart, I dare you.” (I don’t want to overlap prompts too much, so I am doing just this one!)

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Living with Kiyoomi had never been easy.

When you two got married, you’d been quite intimidated by him after your husband wouldn’t look at you even once the whole day. You thought to yourself about how much he must have hated you, considering he only agreed because you two had been promised since your childhood. This marriage didn’t seem like something he was interested in, and the moment you were ‘unloaded’ at his home, you felt like the strangest organism in the whole world.

Nonetheless, you tried to be liked. If you at least couldn’t be a nuisance to him, you thought he might accept you as his partner. But all your attempts backfired gloriously. He wouldn’t eat your cooking, clean over your cleaning, ignore you after he came home from training. For the first year or so, he wouldn’t even take you to one of his matches. You were sure other spouses were allowed to go, so why not you?

But you got used to it. You had to, somehow, or else you probably would have never stopped feeling unloved and unwanted. It wasn’t what you expected, hearing about love all this time, but you didn’t have a bad life by his side, at least. His accounts were filled with money, food was delivered fresh to your doorstep every day, and though you didn’t know anyone in the city that you two settled in, you got along well enough with your neighbors, so you didn’t feel too lonely.

And what you least expected, once you accepted that you and Kiyoomi could never be an item, he started to relax too. Had you been too much? Maybe pushing him too far without realizing? Intruding on him? Or perhaps he had just been told to be nicer to you by his parents, but your surprise was great when he joined you to watch TV one evening.

Given, he didn’t speak a word and didn’t seem too interested in the show you were watching. There also were about two seats free between you, but it was a start. And gradually, your relationship improved.

»»———————— ♡

Nervously, you looked at your outfit, wondering if it was too much. Kiyoomi had never asked you to dress up to accompany him before, scowling whenever you decided to try and impress him with your fashion sense or asked to go with him. Even now, you knew that asking you to come and meet sponsors was just a way to look good in other people’s eyes; he even had a suit delivered to him that day. It wasn’t you who was wanted. It was the image of being married to someone. But as his partner, maybe that was the only thing you could do to please your husband.

“Are you ready?” he asked through the door, not daring to step into your room. He never had entered it ever since you moved in, and you wondered if it was because he disliked you so much or because he feared you were ‘dirty’. But you gave yourself an encouraging nod in the mirror, quickly making your way out. “All done!”

You didn’t expect him to stand right in front of the closed door as you opened it, almost running into him but stopping at the last second. “Do I look fine?” you asked, noticing him appraising you over the rim of his white mask. He looked comically like that, suited up yet wearing gloves and mask as if he was going to clean, but even so, you had to give it to his looks that he was handsome. You didn’t doubt your own attractiveness, but the curt, “It’s alright,” he muttered did sting.

»»———————— ♡

Had you known how exhausting these kinds of events were, you would have almost been thankful that he never took you with him before. Giving it all you had sure was taxing when you never did it before, but you wanted oh-so-badly to be accepted by Kiyoomi’s side. You didn’t even notice your own mental exhaustion until you finally had a chance to sit down.

Alone, again.

Maybe you simply weren’t fit for this kind of life. You didn’t know much about volleyball, and there were many weird insider jokes you didn’t understand. Everyone appeared so friendly, some faces still familiar from the wedding, yet you couldn’t help but notice the pity in their eyes. They were all thinking the same thing, you were sure. Just how pitiful you were to be so unluckily married to a man who never seemed interested in what you two had.

“What’s the long face for, hm?” you suddenly heard a cheerful voice, something cold being pressed to your cheek and startling you. You looked up in confusion, only to be blinded by a warm and cheerful grin, the light of the room being reflected through a water bottle and accentuating his features even more.

“O-Oh,” you stuttered, reaching up for the drink he held out to you. “I didn’t see you coming, Atsumu-san. I’m sorry, I was in thoughts...”

“No offense, but you don’t seem to have much fun,” he sighed, plopping down next to you. “It’s such a shame Omi-Omi never shows you off, yer so cute, you know? Makes it much easier to endure parties like these!”

Laughing it off, you found yourself mesmerized by how carefree Atsumu seemed. To you, all of this was a big deal, and you had always assumed it was the same for everyone. But apparently, more people shared your sentiment of the time seemingly dragging out. Without noticing, you chuckled, and Atsumu’s eyes flitted over to you before he straightened his back briefly, crossing his legs. Smirk falling over his lips, you almost caught yourself gasping at how gorgeous he looked in the ambient lighting around you two.

“That’s much better. Ya should laugh more!”

Feeling the warmth spread through your face, you quickly cleared your throat, looking away as to not stare. For a moment there, you thought he really looked like an angel, making you feel at peace around him. “I just- You know- You call him Omi-Omi?” you changed the topic quickly, trying to hide the awestruck expression on your face by hiding behind your hand a bit.

“Huh? Oh yeah. Wouldn’t recommend it, he doesn’t really like it, but it’s fun teasing him, ya know? He gets all-” Reaching up, Atsumu pushed his brows together and put on his best impression of Kiyoomi. “‘Don’t call me that, you Idiot. Work on your serve if you have so much time.’ That’s what he says to me! I’m just trying to be friendly...”

Shaking your head slowly, you couldn’t hold back your laugh as you listened to him gush on about your husband treating him ‘unfairly’. Part of you felt sad having to hear it from a third person, never having been able to collect experiences with him yourself. Still, you were also relieved to see he wasn’t just treating you so coldly. “You’re so funny, Atsumu-san,” you chuckled, and he finally stopped talking, relaxing next to you after his tirade.

“There we go,” he mumbled, and you felt his hand fall to your head, giving it some pats. It made your heart grow to receive the affection, slowly but surely making you realize you had been missing fooling around and laughing or even being touched gently for a change. “Don’t let him get to you, ya hear me? Or I’ll come and kick his ass for you!”

“Who’s ass are you kicking?” you both were suddenly interrupted, and knowing the voice, you looked up. Shame hitting you, you stood up, Atsumu’s hand falling from you as you slipped out from under it, facing your husband cautiously. “Kiyoomi, you’re back!” you mumbled, wondering if your mood change was too noticeable. “Yeah, we’re leaving,” he announced, ready to go.

“Don’t just go around touching other people’s spouses, Atsumu,” he warned his colleague sharply, his arm coming around your back. Still, not even the tip of his glove touched you, much less gentle than Atsumu did.

“Mood-killer,” you heard Atsumu complain. “Good night, [Name]!” he called after you, and you graced him with a brief smile thrown over your shoulder, waving after him while you let yourself be led out by your husband.

»»———————— ♡

The ride home was almost as tiring as the evening itself, and the streetlights passing you as you looked out the window weren’t enough to keep you awake. It was a long drive, but the next thing you noticed was a warm body carrying you upstairs from the garage. “Bastard,” you heard a voice, slowly but surely regaining your senses.

“Kiyoomi?” you asked meekly, rubbing your eyes. Blinking a few times, when you looked up, you were met with a disgusted glare staring down at you, instantly making you shrivel into yourself. A flight instinct set in, and only now you noticed he was carrying you through the hallway of your house, not bothering being gentle with the bathroom door once he reached it.

He seemed furious and disgusted, and at least one of these were emotions you had never seen him make before. You almost expected him to drop you into the bathtub as you found yourself hovering over it, but he set you down gently. Nonetheless, the sudden stream of cold water hit you like a slap in the face as he turned on the shower without even a moment of hesitation. It grew warmer quickly, but you found yourself weirded out as your clothes began to stick to you. Kiyoomi, too, barely took off his blazer before kneeling down next to the tub, reaching for the shampoo standing close by.

It was in no way gentle or comfortable as he rubbed it onto your head, the gloves he wore not helping at all. You began to splutter as you had to close your eyes, soap going everywhere on your face. “Where else did he touch?” Kiyoomi asked, almost too calm for the fact it felt like he was trying to press the shampoo into your head rather than wash you. “No- Nowhere!” you complained, ducking out from his touch and wiping away soap from your face. “What are you doing?!”

“I don’t believe you,” was all the answer you received to your question. “Tell me. Now. Don’t make this harder for us.”

“What...” you muttered, flinching as you felt his hands fall to your body, grabbing your clothes. “What’s wrong with you!” you finally yelled, swatting his hands away harder than you wished you did. Finally, you got the time to wash off the soap and open your eyes again, feeling ill-treated and confused by his actions. Though despite the warm water, as you finally managed to look at him again, you felt your body freeze.

You thought you knew how he looked at you all this time. Disappointed, disapproving, and disgusted, but this time it was different. He looked at you as if you just ripped his heart out and claimed he was fine like that, and that hurt almost more than any look before. But in the next moment, it was gone, just like a snap of his fingers, and he grabbed your wrist, tightly and unbudging even if you complained. “Try that again, Sweetheart, I dare you.”

Blinking a few times, you couldn’t decide what was scarier; seeing him for the first time up close, face only inches from yours and without the mask, which usually gave some more distance between you two, or having him threaten you. Kiyoomi never talked more than a few words with you at a time, nor did he show any interest in anything you did. “Slap my hand away again, and I will make sure you can’t use it for a long time, you understand? Don’t you know by now who you belong to?”

His questions were so clear, yet in your head, they made no sense. Who did you belong to? Who was it?

“Y-You?” you eventually muttered. “Do I belong to you?”

A question as stupid as it sounded, and yet, it eased Kiyoomi’s rage, it seemed. “That’s right,” he confirmed. “You’re mine. You’ve been mine ever since we met for the first time, don’t ever forget that. I am the only one that is allowed to touch you and no one else. Especially no sleazy bastards like Atsumu.”

“Kiyoomi...”

“Undress,” he interrupted you. “I have to clean you.”

Hesitating, you gripped your own clothes. Never before had you heard him talk like that, especially not about you. You never even believed he could have those thoughts about you, and after being unloved for so long, they felt like bandaids to your wounds. Mind you, not strong bandaids, no. They didn’t even manage to heal you partially, but who were you to complain. Because, what Kiyoomi said...

“Okay,” you whispered, slowly stripping out of your clothes. “I’m sorry... Omi.”

You were stretching your luck, but you were so close to tears as he placed his hand on top of your head. It wasn’t like Atsumu’s. It wasn’t gentle, and it didn’t fill your core with happiness. No, it pressed you down, making you lower your head and feel so insignificant compared to its greatness. But it was Kiyoomi’s. The person you wanted to be loved and caressed by the most.

“It’s okay,” he sighed, and for once, his voice sounded almost gentle and forgiving after you did something. His hand stayed as his free one helped you get out of your clothes, and laying your own hand on top of his, you felt his warmth for the first time, no glove separating you two.

And to this day, you still remember wondering if what Kiyoomi said meant that he loved you too.

Even if that meant you were living in the worst kind of relationship possible.

[You can find the prompt list here]

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tickle-bugs · 3 years

Text

Patience (and Silence) is a Virtue

Summary: In his commitment to restlessness, Anakin discovers something about Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan can't let him get away with that, of course.

Anon: Hi I don't know if you're taking prompts at the moment but would you consider writing a fic where Obi wan is tickling anakin, maybe where it's during the clone wars and anakin is being restless and teasing Obi wan so he decides to put him in his place?? Or something obviously if you're not taking prompts don't worry! But if you're that would be really cute

Do not tag this as ship. Don't do it.

Anakin had a critical inability to stay still, Obi-Wan noticed. He had become calmer and more focused under his wing, sure, but he was restless to his very core. Other Jedi masters would certainly have found his fidgeting to be a nuisance, something to be expunged--Obi-Wan saw it as human. For the things they’d seen and had to do, a little humanity was very welcome.

Except now, of course.

Anakin paced past Obi-Wan for nearly the twentieth time this hour--he’d been doing laps around the room at a speed that’d put any trooper to shame. Obi-Wan’s attempts at meditation had given him some measure of calm, but inner peace was hard to find with your protégé stomping past you every moment.

“We are wasting time.”

“There’s nothing to be done but wait,” Obi-Wan murmured, unwilling to release his patterned breathing.

“I can’t just sit around.” Anakin switched directions, pacing the other way.

“You are far too eager, Anakin.” Obi-Wan shifted slightly, but did not rise.

“And you are far too boring!” He snapped, but it held no real venom. Obi-Wan sighed deeply, dropping his head, and the relaxation promptly left his bones. He stood, brushing himself off, and Anakin watched him tensely.

“Perhaps a bit of sparring would do you some good.” Obi-Wan drew his lightsaber and beckoned him closer, already assuming a combat position. Anakin drew his, twirling it idly, and they circled each other.

For all of Anakin’s restlessness, he paid rapt attention in the field. Obi-Wan could see the gears turning in his head as they circled one another, waiting for Anakin to inevitably make the first move.

They exchanged a flurry of blows, sending blue sparks flying into the air around them. One of the strikes set Obi-Wan unexpectedly off-balance and Anakin used the opportunity to press his advantage, crowding in closer to force a surrender. Obi-Wan smirked--he could never resist playing dirty when an opportunity arose--and squeezed Anakin’s side. He yelped, lightsaber flying into the air, and Obi-Wan caught it, sheathed it, and clipped it to his belt. He tried not to look too amused at Anakin’s pinkened face.

“Do you yield?”

“Never.” Anakin smirked, rushing forward. He swung at Obi-Wan and he simply leaned to avoid it, hands tucked primly behind his back. A mistimed strike gave him an opening--he sidestepped and shoved Anakin forward and away.

“Your impatience will cost you if you aren’t careful. Again.” Obi-Wan readied himself as Anakin charged. Of course, he could never make things easy, but if he moved a tad slower to let Anakin get a few hits in? Ah, who’s to say.

Anakin locked Obi-Wan’s arm behind his back and started twisting out another forced surrender. It would’ve worked too, if Anakin’s stance didn’t leave his free hand wide open. Another lesson for another day, perhaps.

Obi-Wan reached back and grabbed at Anakin’s side, but he didn’t let up this time. He felt Anakin’s forehead smack into his back and heard the faint laughter floating up, but it took quite a few stubborn seconds for Anakin to actually let go.

“Excellent work.” Obi-Wan held out the captive lightsaber. Anakin took it gratefully.

“You absolutely cheated.” The silly smile on his face was contagious.

“I prefer calling it ‘alternative strategy’. Either way, you did well.” Obi-Wan squeezed his shoulder.

“Thank you, Master.”

“Of course. Now, for my sanity, I implore you to clear your mind. I’m not sure how much more pacing I can take.” Obi-Wan took a seat on the ground, and when his padawan didn’t move, he patted the space next to him until Anakin followed suit.

He could sense Anakin’s mind slowing beside him, falling deeper into the tides of the Force, and the comfort of it enveloped him. Obi-Wan allowed himself to drift inwards. His spirit floated away from his physical form and deeper into his psyche, deeper into peace. Tension left him in droves. He inhaled.

The air punched out of him, though, when Anakin started poking his upper ribs. He tried not to startle so visibly, but it was a little late for that.

“Are you trying to accomplish anything in particular?” He cleared his throat. Anakin could smell weakness, he was certain of it.

“Juuust testing a theory.” Anakin’s prodding fingers marched down his ribs and his fingers twitched minutely.

“You will not find what you’re seeking.” Obi-Wan’s voice strained against his better intentions. It took all of his strength not to move and a little more to appear calm.

“Are you sure?” Anakin reached Obi-Wan’s sides and didn’t let up. He exhaled a little too hard. He couldn’t allow himself even a smile—Anakin would never let him live it down.

“Of course, I’m—“

A lone giggle shattered their dialogue.

“Woah.” Anakin beamed, slow and steady. The dangerous sparkle in his eye was about one of the only things that could make Obi-Wan nervous.

“Anakin, I’m warning you—“ He didn’t get to finish. Anakin’s hands darted through the various folds and layers of his robes, seeking easier purchase, and found a delightful (read: terrible) spot around his waistline that pulled snickers from him like fresh taffy. He folded forward, falling into fuller laughter at curious scribbles upon his stomach, and Anakin gasped in wonder.

This was so alien to him, a relic of a life long gone. He found himself trying and failing to break up a cage match between his human instincts and his Jedi ones. Had what little shred of pride he had not been at stake, he would’ve fallen over under Anakin’s absurdly nimble hands.

“This is the best day of my life.” Anakin laughed, letting his fingers slip beneath Obi-Wan’s arms, and the subsequent bark of laughter surprised them both.

It’s about to be your last. Though he couldn’t possibly stay mad at the way Anakin was lit up. Perhaps it would be alright to let him win. Just once in a while.

Not today, though.

“I wish you hadn’t done that.” He hit Anakin with a gentle pulse of the Force, enough to push him back. Anakin’s face settled into playful terror in real time and he fled, making a hopeless dash for the door. Obi-Wan watched him run--he’d gotten faster lately--before grabbing him by the belt with the Force and throwing him back across the room. He caught Anakin bodily in his arms.

“No, wait—“

“Consider this a lesson in patience, ambition, and sensitivity. Especially the latter.” Obi-Wan locked his arms around Anakin’s waist and lifted him clear off the ground, burying his fingers into as much torso as he could. He burst into squeaky laughter, rife with voice cracks, and threw his head back, narrowly avoiding cracking open Obi-Wan’s nose.

“Oh, looks like you may have a thing or two to teach me!” Obi-Wan grabbed handfuls of Anakin’s sides and he snorted around his next bout of laughter.

“Obi-Wan pleahahase!”

“You know I am not a stickler for rules, but do remember your manners. You could get in some nasty trouble.” He swept Anakin’s feet out from under him, still tickling, and lowered him to the ground, taking great care to avoid the flailing limbs.

“I’m gonna die!” Anakin fruitlessly scrabbled at Obi-Wan’s torso to get the upper hand. Obi-Wan hooked his arm around Anakin’s and pulled it up, exposing the perfect landing strip for pinching fingers.

“Nonsense. You’re so close to being free! Wiggle out from my grip there—oh, you’ve made it worse. Hm.” Obi-Wan clawed at Anakin’s stomach with two hands and an iron grip. Anakin tried to pry the evil hands away, but his strength and coordination had evacuated long ago.

He swung his legs back and forth, kicking wildly, and Obi-Wan was proud of the little momentum he had. It was a clever idea--using momentum to break free of the hold. A fruitless idea, but a clever one nonetheless. Obi-Wan crossed his arms over Anakin’s torso, burying his hands beneath his arms, and the resulting shriek had Obi-Wan chuckling.

“This is wonderfully endearing, Anakin, but not at all effective.” On the next swing, Obi-Wan caught Anakin’s knee and wormed his fingers behind it. Anakin threw his head back and cackled wildly, all bright smiles and nose-scrunched laughter, and Obi-Wan had no qualms with admitting how much the sight lifted his spirits.

“I see the problem. You’re laughing too hard to focus.”

“You thihink?” Anakin squinted at him.

“I do. Try laughing less and see where that gets you.” Obi-Wan rained a hail of pinches down upon his hips and the fight was lost. Anakin made a noise like a ship’s hyperdrive starting up and flailed hard—he caught Obi-Wan in the chest with a stray punch. An endless stream of high-pitched, hysterical giggles bubbled out of Anakin and he did his best to muffle them, but Obi-Wan’s fingers on his neck ensured that he couldn’t.

“You’re turning rather red. Is something the matter?” Gloating was unbecoming, sure, but the two of them had always done things a bit differently. Besides, this was beyond endearing. He’d earned a little teasing.

“I give!” Anakin yelped, scrunching as much as possible. Obi-Wan’s fingers slowed.

“Good. You seemed intent on passing out.” Obi-Wan poked his stomach and Anakin snickered.

“One day,” Anakin wheezed, “I am going to destroy you.”

“I would love to see you try.” Obi-Wan extended a hand towards Anakin, glowing with pride, and he took it.

Did Anakin’s promise send a minute shiver up his spine? Perhaps, but he was never one to turn down an entertaining fight.

#my fics #star wars #ticklish!obi wan #ticklish!anakin #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #i dont like this one all that much but im gonna give it a sequel! i think it's gonna be cute :)

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ficsnroses · 4 years

Text

—𝑨𝒏 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝑬𝒙𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆. 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑾𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓—

summary : you sell your virginity to John Wick.

warnings : smut, consensual sex. oral sex. x f! reader. 5.5k.

notes : hope ya like it! I’m hoping to actually maybe make a part two. I think it would be nice to explore how this turns out for them. please leave feedback! I’m a little nervous about this one, feedback would be so so appreciated. enjoy! xx

John Wick is a man of focus; little diversions that fray from his work were often absent of his mind. It’s been years since his semblance of hope, the light at the end of the tunnel had gave out on him, and he’d been dragged back into the world of gruesome sin for good.

Bound, serving under the table. A life liberate of vice was something John had stopped dreaming of long ago.

Work had been all that engrossed John, absorbed each inch of energy his battered bones could muster up for far too long. To be working, meant to be seldom alone. Being alone, translated to being unaccompanied, with himself. Listening to the weary, dark loomed thoughts that crawled in the crevices of his mind.

A crisp pour of amber bourbon sloshes into the clear crystal glass; a lone cube of sparkler ice accompanies the liquor John would soon shoot. Something that burns, something that might ease the part of him that thinks, ponders, wonders if this was alright.

Is what he’s doing, really, alright?

He stands, leaning on the high raised counter of the bar equipped in his hotel room. The crème walls of the Continental held many secrets, secured home to the worst of folk he’d had the ill-fate of dwelling among.

The men in here were awful. Cold, indifferent, chilled blood coursing wicked veins; John knew well of the evil that rummages within the corridors of this so called, safe haven.

Anyone else would destroy her.

Could ruin her.

John wouldn’t do that. Something separates John from the bulk of the crowds, something that differs him from the norm. John would on no occasion hurt an innocent being. John wouldn’t rip her to shreds. John would treat her as human; something people often forgot that John too, is.

Temporary relief, relaxation, substance; he’d vexed them all. Often, after a job well complete, he’d find himself in dire need of long repose; a minute to rest his somnolent composure. A moment to recharge, before he’d be forced to do it all over. Human contact, connection, was something he’d scarcely recalled.

A Bourbon would often have to do, the familiar scald down the cascade of his throat the only comfort he’d been accustomed to as of late. Yet recent, he’d been craving more. He’d been yearning for something more; something physical to satiate relief.

A heavy inhale floods his lungs, a lone hand held to his drink as his other toys with the collar of his brittle white dress shirt. Her eyes stayed on him, drinking in each of his features, desperate to understand how he’d be. John Wick is a man of few words, a stoic nature barely illuminating enough light to read.

He turns, the crystal glass set down on the hotel room table as he turns to her, on his bed, her legs crossed closed, silent. Like a lover, the silk of her short black dress seduces each curve of her devourable body, thin straps kissed to her satin shoulders, her silken skin gleaming under the hotel room lights. His voice is deep, ravishingly rich, throaty with gruff as it protrudes her ears. “You’ve never done this before?” He confirms, walking closer to her delicate frame, watching her equally unreadable expression.

When he’d first laid eyes on her, he’d found himself unable to look away. Captivatingly beautiful, enough to make any man week in his knees. John wasn’t one to fantasize, to want a woman, let alone offer a second look.

Yet seeing her, he’d downed in the enchant of her beautiful features; and the best part of all,

She was selling. She’d been looking to give herself to the highest bidder.

John Wick had found himself at the right place, at the right time. An impulsive buy, one might say. But he couldn’t leave her. Not only did his body yearn for someone, something to channel his deep need into, he also knew. She was far too precious, pure; whatever circumstances had brought her to do such a thing, he wouldn’t ask.

He’d buy her. And he’d use her service.

He needed it. Sex hungry, his body longs for someone real to take care of him.

Her eyes are soft, lips stained a rosy shade of mauve as she makes direct eye contact. Blushy cheeks, soft, shining hair flutters gentle in free air as she shakes her head ‘no’.

She’d never been with anyone before. She was pure. Untouched.

With a down of the final few drops of drink in his glass, John’s shirt unbuttons, peeled off his torso in a swift motion, revealing beautifully toned, bulked muscles; rosy skin, a broad back, tattooed with bold ink on display. John must have been 20 years her senior, yet his shape proved peak. Firm biceps, defined torso, beautifully groomed, lengthy chocolate locks only adding to his splendour.

She’d expected to be bought by some middle aged, unattractive man looking to be with anyone other than his wife. John was far from that. She didn’t know if he’d seen seeing anyone else, if he was married, taken.

Not that it was any of her business.

She watches his hands move to fondle a heavy worn belt, working the buckle as it comes off his dark slacks.

“Is there anything you don’t want me to do.”

John’s rich voice surges through her ears, his question falling his thin taut lips as more of a statement, an establishment of boundaries.

She didn’t think she’d get that choice. She’d expected to be used however her buyer pleased.

With a gentle clear of throat, she nods her head no, gazing out the window of the high story hotel suite. Busy New York city life buzzes below, the nightlife pulsing through the city heart. Endless opportunity. Endless chance.

John’s belt thuds to the marble floor with a heavy clink, his body inching closer, hand dangerously close to her feeble frame as he asks, the question sending shivers down her spine. “Can I undress you?”

The question came with surprise. Part of her thanked the universe for delivering her to John, of all men. He’d been hard to read, reserved, but he hadn’t done what she’d prepared herself for immense. Although she knew, her body was merely a vessel for him to use, to get what he wanted, he hadn’t treated her as such. Hadn’t treated her as she’d gave up her right to respect when she’d bartered her purity.

When Y/N nodded, John moves in closer, placing his dense frame beside hers as he begins, unravelling her as if a present. Yearning, wondering of what held underneath the rippling drapes of the sleek fabric, his eyes gloss over her skin, thick fingers removing the straps of her dress, before reaching behind her to unzip the seams of her wear. Diminishing to her mid, her modesty falls perfectly plump on her chest, embellished in expensive lace. The swell of her chest leaves him feel the weight in his pants to harden, the sight of her cleavage, pursing together with hardened nipples. Unclasping the dainty hooks that shield her breasts from his prying gaze, John allows the thin textile to fall off, exposing her beautiful femininity; her breathtaking curves, soft, supple skin tender to the touch. His hands can’t seem to resist, callous palms moving in to roam the exquisiteness, thumbs swirling her tender nipples as he sighs, drinking her in.

“Stand up.” John’s voice demands, his own form staying placed at the foot of the bed as he instructs. Doing as told, she feels his warm hands tug at the seams of her dress, allowing the fabric to pool at her feet, leaving behind nothing but her lacy underwear covering what no one had indulged in before. Paired with pencil black heels, John takes a moment to devour the look of her stood in front of him; bare, voluptuous, almost entirely nude, causing a tent to rise in his pants. Without time to waste, his fingers intrude the skimpy cloth, gentle peeling her panties down, revealing all of her, solely, exclusively for his taking.

Had this not been an exchange where John owned her, he might have just fell prisoner to her mercy. Y/N was a beauty he’d never seen, mirroring a sex siren in her own right. The dips and curves of her frame mesmerise him, a gulp swallowed down his tight throat, a hefty palm unknowingly moving to palm his swollen cock through the fabric of his slacks. She bites her lip, vulnerable, never have being shown to anyone this way before.

John was the first to see her in all her glory, she finds herself moving shy hands to cover her form, nervous to the way he scans each inch of her body, as if memorizing it, keeping the sight locked away, stored within his gaze forever. “Gorgeous…” John’s voice whispers a gruff, two of his sturdy fingers moving to slick through her folds, palming her pussy as shivers tingle down her spine. She’d been trying her best to stay calm, to allow John to do as he pleased.

Right now, in this moment, her body rightfully belonged to him. He was permitted to do whatever he sought.

“I want you on your knees.” John explains firmly, connecting his bold gaze to hers and she nods, falling in front of his form sat on the silky sheets. Without a moment to waste, his hands trail down his zipper, throwing the expensively stitched slacks off his thighs to the floor, left in nothing but a pair of thin boxers. In a swift moment, his stocky fingers dip into the opening, allowing a hardened shaft to fall out in his grip, full, bursting balls to accompany.

She’d seen a man’s cock before; but John, John’s member was a sight to be seen. She swallows, intrigued by the grandeur, the rosy tip swollen, the thick veins that run up his length, a slight curve to its form. He offers himself a few measly tugs, dark eyes connecting to hers once again. “Do you want a safe word?”

A safe word. Perhaps if a word; a small, paltry word could save her from nonetheless being in this situation, she would have used it.

“No.” Her voice falls quiet, eyes diverted to the crème marble below. “If its too much, I’ll tell.” In the dim light of the room, a channel glow casts to her exposed skin; velvet and soft, making the plump of her mauve stained lips rouse John’s needy cock in desperate anticipation.

Without hesitation, John’s lust falls deeper, his throat tight, breath heavy.

Being with a woman, was something John felt had last happened centuries ago. Seeing her, stripped, uncovered, on her knees, keenly awaiting to be wrapped around his length; a fire burns in his belly. A hunger that rumbles across the surface, desperately ready to chase sweet, sweet relief, from her.

“Here,” John encourages, taking hold of his base with a loose grip. With his spare palm, his fingers thread into the locks of her hair, gently pulling her mouth closer. Slowly, firmly, his palm glides over the bottom of his shaft, beads of glossy pre cum quivering out the pink tip as he speaks. “Put those pretty lips on me.” Obliging, she nods, positioned between John’s thighs, nervous to the core.

She’d seen videos, heard people talk. But she’d never taken a man into her mouth before.

John would be the first, to feel her in every sinning way he pleased.

“Fuck,” John sighs through gritted teeth, feeling the warm haven of her lips circle around the thickness of his tip. Tightening on her tresses, his hand falls from his base, cupping hers in a gentle hold, before guiding it to replace his own. “Use your hands on what you can’t fit.” He instructs, walnut eyes darker, yet held with a certain sympathy.

A tenderness; mortality. “Move, baby.” John manages, eyes fluttering shut as his senses indulge, the feel of her tongue gently, kindly swirling his shaft take over. Gradually, his hand, laced within the locks of her hair guides her further down the bulk of his cock, forcing her to take a little more with each eager bob.

“Hallow your cheeks, darling.” John watches her intent, in awe with the way she learns so quick. “Eyes on me,” Practically sputtering into a pool of bliss, John’s deep baritoned words sear through her veins.

“Tighter.

Deeper.”

Drawn into his, her eyes pierce into his own earthy orbs, unknown to the throb of arousal growing in her core; John bought her for the evening. Was it sick of her to be…fascinated by him?

His room is simple. A suit jacket rests to the arm chair on the right, a barely touched bar of liquor to accompany. Little of him can be told from the depths of this room, perhaps he wasn’t here too often.

The folk of the Continental were scarce when not at work, leaving little trace of who they really were behind. She’d heard whispers of a man they called John Wick, she hadn’t been entirely unfamiliar to the dread he’d upheld within the sanctioned walls. Wick was a name that held fear to the tips of even the worst of sinner’s tongues; yet she finds herself far from. She wasn’t fearful of John Wick. She wasn’t scared of what he’d do.

As John urges her further, a choked gap emits her throat, eyes filling with a char of hot tears with his cock still shoved inside her mouth. Collecting herself, she keeps him inside, albeit, allowing some of him to fall out. “You’re alright.” John soothes, wiping escaped tears with his callous thumb. “You’re doing well.” With a nod, her movements commence, eager to find her pace again, free hands massaging his thick balls and veiny shaft that couldn’t accommodate in her mouth.

The sound of hallow gags and a mouth full of cock echo the room, throaty slickness and gasp for breath, John harshly praising her with a guide of pace. “Perfect. Fucking perfect.” A firm hand follows suit to her bare breast, palming, kneading the fleshy skin as her mouth words wonders on his sensitive skin. Without much notice, John’s eager hips buck impatiently into her mouth, so nonchalantly, a test of waters if you may.

If he had it his way, he would fuck her tiny mouth senselessly right then and there. Have her throat bruising, aching for days in his aftermath.

But John Wick isn’t a monster. John isn’t selfish.

Each time she comes down, slowly, cautiously, his swollen tip hits the back of her throat, threatening to venture further with each throb John’s bulge radiates inside. With his hips thrusting into her mouth lightly, John’s jaw tightens, goosebumps peppering his ink adorned skin. With his pace fastening, his primal desires barely cease; barely offer mercy when he pulls her head closer, wrapping his palms firmly to her head as he moves her head on his cock hastier, stiff, needier, causing srteams of sweltering tears to flow her soft cheeks as she tries her best to hold in her gags. Dangerously close to release, her head yankers back in John’s grip; strings of saliva webbing off her lips, connected to his tender shaft, allowing the bulk of his member to fall out, still erect to an intimidatingly large size.

He could have done with just her sinfully tight mouth; yet he wouldn’t. Tonight, he’d cum inside her. Tonight, he’d have something other than the lonesome grip of his sloppy hand for company; to extinguish that rummaging burn.

With a rise off the bed, John offers her a larger hand, eyes interlocked as she accepts, rising off the ground. His gravelly voice is low, Y/N’s unchecked tears and swollen lips leaving her a beautiful mess as John’s inquisitive gaze washes over her. What comes next, causes her breath to hitch; her insides searing, arousal growing wetter by the second.

With his rock hard cock digging into the skin of her stomach, she finds her self locked lips with John, who’s taken her in a sweet kiss, tasting himself on her tongue. The kiss personifies appetite, thirst, all things John craved in the moment. With his hand taking hers, deliberate movements guide her to the tall side of the bed, silky sheets and cotton pillows awaiting her arrival. His skin smells of cologne, something expensive, something sauvage. The taste of his heavy liquored tongue meddles with hers before letting go, lustful eyes encouraging her to lay down in the ripple of sheets. With his cock firm in his hand, he continues to offer himself a couple of strokes, a spare hand intruding into the hard oak nightstand to the side.

“Are you taking anything?” His voice flows through the room, heavy, shallow, adding clarification when her brows furrow. “For protection.”

Fiddling with her growing nervous fingers, she tenses, suddenly urged with the realization of what would come next. This was happening.

This was

really

happening.

John was going to fuck her. John, soon, would take that piece of her. This beautiful stranger, mysterious, yet intriguing, would make a part of her belong to him

forever.

“No sir.” She answers, eyes downcast, unsure of where to look as he preps himself. Fishing out a condom from the side drawer, the silver lining falls discarded somewhere on the marble floor along with the shambles of their clothes, mindlessly placed. “Lay down.” John tells, dimming the lights further, the curtains closed shut as night falls over the shadowy New York city horizon. She does as told, awaiting his body to accompany.

Her eyes find his back once again, watching delicate, cryptic ink that coats his broad skin in curiosity. A seemingly cross centers in the middle, an arrangement of words unknown to her cognizance bedecked along. As he finds himself crawling a top her sprawled figure, his hands guide her legs open further, hand palming her mound as she bites her lip. Slow, steady, he guides in the stock of two fingers, sensually slow, preparing her pretty cunt for his taking.

Coated with her silky arousal, his fingers gleam, a creamy mixture of her gloss glazed over his hand. Punctuated by her tender, soft, barely audible whimpers, a light chuckle emits John’s throat. “You don’t have to stay quiet.” He clears, fingers pumping slightly faster now, expertly judging her expressions. “Ever done this before?”

Y/N was a virgin; but no saint by any means. She’d touched herself before, even brought herself to orgasm on occasion. With a shy nod, she answers, punctuated by her own barely held together, soft moans to the feel of John’s much thicker fingers pulsing in and out of her. With the pad of his thumb, he works her clit, his hand arranging a beautiful symphony begging to fall off her lips.

The feel of John’s touch was nothing like her own, paired with the weight of his body on hers. As if habitually, her back arches, her toes curl, a whimper secreted when he draws his fingers out. With his heavy cock in hand, John lines himself up with her entrance, wanting nothing more than to be buried inside; to feel what she had to offer. With his enlarged tip rubbing over her clit, his voice registers barely in her ears, lost in the feel of him on her.

“Tell me to stop.” His gravelly voice reminds, assertion heavy on his tongue.

John was proving awfully hard to read. She appreciates the respect; the boundaries he was willing to set for her. She’d sworn, she could see a light of humility in him, contrasted, laced with dark need. If he wanted, she knew he could ruin her.

Without much warning, she feels his tip impend into her walls, sinking slow, stretched by his weight, her eyes widening noticeably when John’s girth pushes into her, cock widening her immensely.

She knew John’s member would be far larger than the feel of anything she’d felt before; yet perhaps she’d underestimated just how much larger it would feel. Plunging in further, a tight moan escapes John’s lips, drowning in further, slower, steadier, until he’s reached her end. Hissing at her tightness, he feels her clench around him, a breathy gasp of her own fleeing, nails sinking into the sheets in a fitted clasp.

Had the circumstances been different, he’d have asked her to hold onto him instead; maybe even let her burry her face in his neck as he works her body whole.

But that wasn’t what this was. This was merely an exchange. An agreement for him to get exactly what he needed;

mind blowing sex.

All John needed right now, was a rough, and good fuck to hold him over.

He stays still for a moment, feeling her cunt pulse around him, and her eyes shut tight, breathing measured as she relishes in the feel of him full, nestled inside her wet haven, before placing both sturdy hands on her hips in a strong hold. Rapt with desire, John’s primal instincts kick in, the feel of her welcoming pussy so perfectly mould to his cock; he’d sworn or a moment that she was perfectly, exclusively crafted just for him to fuck. With his hips picking up pace, John sucks in a sharp breath, a groan of pleasure to the way her heavenly walls tighten around him, tight, blissfully gratifying.

She can’t help but gasp, searing tears returning once again to the ungodly stretch. John burns inside, allowing her minimal time to adjust. His hips buck into hers, gradually picking up pace as he thrust deeper, harder, conjuring up an almost selfish pace.

She’d never felt anything like this before. The pain, the pleasure. The sinful pleasure of him practically splitting her inch by inch. His cock glides in and out her constricted entrance, and she practically whimpers; unsure of whether the moans signified pain, or immense pleasure.

It hurt, but in the best ways possible. His aggressive roll of hips only quickens, faster and faster until Y/N’s moans caged no more. Her lips longed to moan his name, scarcely able to keep her eyes open to see the way he pants above her figure.

With her breasts bouncing vigorously to his pace, John’s want only cultivates further. Watching his cock glide in and out of her sends him in a frenzy, the way she violently jerks with each movement, the sound of his balls smacking against her sweltering core give life to a filthy symphony of her stifled yelps and moans, blended religiously with his growls and throaty gruffs.

His eyes roll shut and he bites his lip, the sounds of her wetness bobbing him fill the room to his violent labour of hips, each time he sinks in and out. His cock glistens with her honeyed dew, her hand reverting over her mouth to confine a loud moan threatening to surface. Whimpering, she bites her arm in complete ecstasy, the feel of John throbbing, completely filling her whole becoming much.

John had been practically pounding her, minutes in. The feeling of having someone to spend the night with, left him far more aroused than he’d initially planned. Her legs tremble, gazing down to observe the way his load exits her cunt fully before slamming back in repeatedly, over, and over, and over, erratic imperative. With every nerve in her body threatening to snap, she relishes a moment to feel John inside.

John’s thickness is something she doesn’t think she’ll be able to forget. Each nerve, each throbbing vein, that curve of his shaft she witnessed earlier; his thrusts become urgent, cock twitching within, grinding vigorously to her g spot as his breathe lays hot, close to her skin. Ridged and rough, his fingers threaten to leave purple bruises peppering into her hips, his hold of her body immensely stiff, as if fearful of her disappearing. The bed below creeks, headboard assaulting the walls with profound hits to his demanding haste; she’s already sore from his massive size, and he hasn’t even finished yet.

“Fuck...you feel,” John’s deep voice, sultry and stiff surges her ears, rich as butter. “You feel fucking amazing, tighten up for me, darling.” He instructs, wanting to feel her milk his cock. She follows as told, squeezing her walls around him, squirming, wailing underneath his form. He pushes as much of himself in as possible and she screams, feeling a cocktail of their fusing released drip down her thighs. John looks delectable this way; beads of exertion peppered to his forehead, muscled skin sticking to hers, the smell of sex prominent around them as he continues pumping her relentlessly, senselessly. To a particularly rough thrust, her toes curl, arms coming around his shoulders to hold on dearly, tightly as he continues his rummage into her body. She holds tight, fingernails digging into his skin as grunts and ear-splitting moans intrude the atmosphere.

John is fucking her so well, so intense, that tears fall still, the raunchy sounds of skin slapping skin, enticing whispers of praise off his lips for her body only pushing her further. John feels his release close, lost in the tender haven she’d given him to spoil in, and he shudders; shivering, buried deep, deep inside her, the sounds of her wetness slicking his member echoing the walls. Within a few particularly lewd, unaltered thrusts, she screams his name, gasping, holding onto his biceps lifelessly as he quickens his pace, his own release not far behind.

He slams, harder, and harder, channeling an animalistic pace to her core, a rhythm of lust drunk pleasure imploring each inch of his body as he still deep, deep inside her pussy, spurting thick streams of sticky, glossing white cum into the dainty condom he’d worn. He stills for a moment, neither of them speaking; heaving sighs and rapid breaths as they come down from their highs, her limbs still securely wrapped around his frame. A joint euphoria; a paradise they’d created together. A creamy mixture of their releases drips to the satin sheets below, although John ceases to care.

Right now, in this moment, he finds himself truly, wholly

relieved.

He’d gone so long, so distant without sex. Without human touch, connection. With his cock still sheathed inside her warm harbour, he sighs, relishing even in the feel of her holding him.

And a moment passes, then another; and another. With his weight rested on shaky palms to the bed sheets on either side of her, John sighs, panting, watching the way she swallows a lump in her throat; beads of vapour dotted to her glistening skin.

Gorgeous, he thinks.

She’s got those pretty eyes, satin skin. She felt surreal. He’d seen the stars buried inside her.

Slow and steady, John moves, allowing his flaccid member to slip out her warm hold. The sun has fully set, and the moonlight barely filters in through the slits of opaque curtains. With a towel retrieved, one he’d set aside prior to their session beside the bedframe, he finds place back, next to her worn out frame.

John had fucked her so good, so hard, she’d worn her legs may just give out in any attempt of rising on her feet. Relishing, sunken into the mattress as she watches him move calm, collected, the feel of John cleaning what he’s left behind off her womanhood causes the softest of blush to intrude, peppering her skin. With the condom discard, John’s hoarse voice rasps, breaking the still of long endured silence. “You’re alright?” He probes, watching the way she sits up on the bed, the threads of the duvet he’d spent countless nights burrowed in alone fixed in her grip, pulling it over her bare breasts, covering herself from his chocolate gaze.

She’s shyer now than before, after sex bliss stippled over her skin, her pussy sore from the action. The emptiness John had left ached. She’d be reminded of the mysterious man with painted skin for days;

prompted by what story his back really told.

What intrigued her so much, about the man who’d taken her in the filthiest of ways.

“Did I hurt you?” He inquires, and she’d sworn the way he looks at her…the way his eyes glaze over her features, as if watching so intently her every move, a symphony flows inside her, coursing that acquainted boil in her stomach. Nodding her head, no, she watches him pull on a pair of long forgotten boxers, opting himself a seat to the edge of the bed as she stays put. Despite having just had had sex with him, she finds herself nervous to be exposed to his eyes again; a dire side effect of the toll his handsomeness had truly taken on her.

She finds herself, tense. Intimidated by his grandeur.

A story writes itself, a tale that brews in the depth of their minds. Racing a mile a minute, he’d known. And perhaps she had too; that the sex had been far too good.

Dangerously good.

The words brew on the tip of his tongue, yet he finds himself cautious of their release. Would he be awful for thinking these thoughts? Was he soiling her, tainting her for his selfish needs, thinking of the dirtiest fate he could try her; propose to her before she’d be gone.

A fuck this good doesn’t come easy, and John wasn’t looking for romance. Love was something he’d forgotten a long time ago, wasn’t sure he’d been worthy of such a thing.

;yet he’d found her. Someone who could take care of his physical needs; someone he could use for that intimacy he too, direly needed. Had lacked for years, finally tasting it, within her.

The way she felt was something John would find himself struggling to forget. The warm, wet, deliciously slick feel of her welcoming cunt; John hadn’t had someone as good as her. She’d ruined it for him. Nothing had compared. No one had taken care of his cock the way she’d done in a meagre 30 minutes.

He’d request. He’d propose. He’d bargain her an even exchange.

With a gruff crisp in his throat, his guttural voice catches her by surprise. Under the duvet, her naked skin flushes to a warm, temperate ease. Fulfilled, relaxed, riding high on sex satisfied clouds, tingles still felt within each snapping nerve of her skin. His tone is calm, collected; upheld with dominance.

She delighted in his dominance. “I want to offer you.” He begins, a hand placed on his bare thigh. “A contract. For your services.”

Services. Bold of him to assume, this was something she’d planned on doing for more men. “An offer…?” Her tongue seeps, the words a quiet, barrel mumble to his proposition. In the barely lit room, her inquisitive eyes glow; a familiar glow to the way they’d shone, glossy. When his cock had been rammed deep down her tight throat.

“A contract.” He repeats, professionally. “I want you. Again.” His tone finds a quiver building within her core, her thighs longing to be wrapped around his waist, the way they dripped control, power. “I’ll pay you, generously.” He nods, eyebrows raised, a gaze to her smaller body buried in his sheets. “But when I need you, you come. No questions, no excuses.” He adds, studying her form, the way her brows furrow, lost in the aftermath of his words.

“You’ll be mine to use. For the duration of the contract.”

His. She could be

his.

Racing a mile, a minute, her thoughts haze, the rush of adrenaline, the weight of his proposition thick in a fog on her brain. Her senses tense, her thoughts freeze. The sight of him catches her lost.

His. To belong to the man, with the muscled back and bold tinted ink. The man who’d fucked her pornographically. Her cluster of deliberations interrupts with his thick voice, velvety, rich. “I’ll let you sit on it.” He offers, standing, the crisp white dress shirt he’d peeled off his frame earlier back in his sturdy grip as he drapes it on. “I need to take care of some business with the manager. I’ll be back within the hour.” Buttoning the top, coffee hued locks curtain his face, his perfectly groomed beard in perfect contrast with the lighter fabric; the bulge of his toned arms protruding at the textile. “And when I’m back,

I’ll be expecting another round.

Have yourself ready, please.”

And with those piercing words, he dresses himself, leaving her bare, exposed, in his bed.

A promise to come back for more left behind.

A demand, for more when he’d be back.

John wasn’t looking for love. John made it clear. This was physical. Something to quench his every longing need.

The ring of the door shut, the buzzing New York traffic below. She sits, decision tense on her mind.

John Wick, was her first.

And he, wanted her to be his last.

➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴

part 2

My taglist will be posted in reblogs, let me know if you want to be added or removed! :)

#john wick x reader #keanu reeves x reader #john wick fanfiction #john wick imagine #john wick x you

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kombatkhronicles · 3 years

Text

SANCTUARY

¦ Comfort, fluff, angst ¦ Gn!Reader x Raiden / dark!Raiden

Your thunder god returns from yet another war.

Haunted, tired eyes stare back at you from across the temple's courtyard, their red-tainted edges no doubt mirroring your own.

But the crimson hue he carries has nothing to do with your sleepless nights filled with lonely, worried tears; for gods have no need of sleep, and crying is a foreign concept they can’t seem to emulate.

The yearning, though, it is universal and relentless and drives both gods and mortals alike to rush home to their loved ones.

You lower the potted plant you tended to, eying him up and down with a chuckle that is both amused and relieved. After so many years, you now find some humor in the sight of your lover, - always so prim and proper - covered in tattered and singed robes. At least - at last! - he is back. And whole. And home.

You open your arms and he’s there in a - literal - flash. You accept his weight with a muffled oomph and a smile on your lips. When the red takes over, Raiden doesn’t hug you as much as he crumbles in your embrace.

Your arms around him are the only place, the only sanctuary that cleanses his soul of the darkness weighing on the rigid lines of his shoulders. So you endure and let him fall on you, because the idea of not doing it doesn’t even exist in your mind.

His breaths tickle your skin as he draws in your scent in grounding, deep pulls of air, face buried in the crook of your neck; you rest your head on his chest in a grounding of your own, listening to his heartbeat, steady and hard and loud as the very thunder he calls from the sky.

It’s a long time and much too early, too soon, before he steps back from your embrace. But the connection doesn’t break, not yet.

His forehead presses against yours, and you nuzzle the warm palms cradling your face; and even though your eyes are closed, you know he’s looking at you by the soft glow over your eyelids.

“Do you want to talk about it?” the shake of his head is so small you might as well have imagined it. But he straightens and pulls you along until you’re flush against his chest, engulfing you in his tingling aura, drowning you in him. It was bad, then.

You’ve learned years ago to just let it drop when he isn’t willing to share, so you let yourself be held for as long as he wants - needs - to.

Loving a god - a realm's protector at it - is difficult. You can’t begin to comprehend the things he has to see and battle in the endless times the duty calls him away to save the world once again.

In the time you’ve been together - what was it now, eons? -, you tended to injuries you didn’t even know possible, learned to protect yourself, to fight. To shed blood if - when - needed.

Still, you wouldn’t change a thing. Even when you know he would give back your mortality and let you go in a heartbeat, if you asked so.

“Just knowing you are here with me will do, my heart.” His voice is but a whisper, but you relax nonetheless. The red has faded, and he is talking to you.

You cradle his face this time, - smiling when he leans in your touch,- and place a kiss on his forehead, willing all your love for Raiden to pour into him from the caress.

With a shuddering breath, the lingering tension slowly bleeds away from the lines of his shoulders; at last, a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. It’s a ghost of one, but it’s there.

That’s victory enough for you right now.

“Thank you.”

How many eras has it been now? No matter how long, how many eternities you have spent by his side, Raiden will still thank you for the smallest of things. With words whispered and careful, and heavy with the emotion the god has never quite learned how to weave into phrases. Ever said with the caution of a man that fears spooking you away if he dares speaking too loudly.

One day perhaps, he will learn you won’t ever leave him; learn and believe. And while it doesn’t happen… You’ll keep telling him until he does.

“Welcome home.”

MASTERLIST

#raiden x reader #dark raiden #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat imagines #sweet orange juice #raiden x you #mortal kombat headcanons #angst #fluff #hurt/comfort

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thebadbatch · 3 years

Note

Hii, I have a request.

Could you, pretty please write reader being to the Bad Batch, during the Bad Batch what Omega is to them (I still don’t know how to define that ksksks), but when order 66 happens and they take Omega she is super jealous and such (and could you please also do your writer magick to include Crosshair with them)? Thank you so so much, you’re a very sweet person

A/N: I really hope that this is okay! If there's anything you want changed or added then DM me! :3 Enjoy!

The Bad Batch x Fem!Reader

Plot: You are apart of Clone Force 99 but had been captured by the Empire and seperated from your brothers who had no idea you existed. Upon escape they find you and it's your goal to get your little sister back too.

Warnings: None, just a little intense with the Empire and a little violence.

---------------

Ad'ika

Rapidly running through the halls you finally shut yourself into a room, panting heavily within an attempt to capture your breath. You were currently stuck on an imperial ship, the plan you had been trying to muster up for months was finally in place but storm troopers were hot on your tail. You were a clone, a young one a part of some experimental unit but you were said to be the first female one. The empire had gotten you when order 66 commenced and nobody cared, everybody watched as they took you to experiment on and nobody was there to help or assist you. Sighing softly you turned toward the hallway you were supposed to go down beginning to pull yourself towards it.

"Escape pods…" You whispered to nobody in particular, beginning to pull it open and activate it.

"Halt! Step away from the escape pod, kid." The storm troopers voice muffled out, a blaster pointed in your direction. Staring at him you just ran into the pod, slamming the door shut behind you which thankfully prevented any blaster shots hitting you. What button were you supposed to press? They all looked different and you couldn't mess up, not now at least. You could already hear the footsteps of the reinforcements coming toward your location, so within a final attempt you pressed one of the buttons which thankfully freed you into the space before you - guiding you throughout nowhere. You were free, but at what cost? Nobody was there, no planets were nearby and you were lost in the middle of space. A small child alone, nowhere - this was it. At least you weren't in imperial hands anymore and you were free on your own terms. Gazing around at the newly found controls, you clicked a square button that blinked rapidly. A communications device? You've seen these briefly before, perhaps some other people would find you?

"Hello?" You spoke softly, voice echoing in the small escape pod as the cold began to finally get to you. "I'm y/n, I'm a part of experimental unit 99 and I'm lost. Please help." You whispered out, praying to the stars somebody could hear you and could save you. If the empire arrived before somebody else could then that would be it. Back to square one. But there was definitely a spark of hope, one in which you were going to dream of as your eyes shut allowing you to fall into a much needed cold slumber. Perhaps when you woke up things would be better?

"Hello?" The ship's communication device lit up before 5 men who rushed into the cockpit, Tech accepting the signal and listening. "I'm y/n, I'm part of experimental unit 99 and I'm lost. Please help." The men turned to one another questioning the words that were spoken by an unknown user.

"Experimental unit 99?" Hunter repeated, keeping his eyes trained on Tech who looked equally as confused as his brother.

"That's our unit!" Wrecker interjected, confused but still rather excited at the message they had received.

"Don't be stupid, Wrecker." Crosshair grumbled, moving over toward his brothers - a toothpick lingering between his lips. "Are we supposed to actually believe they're a part of our unit?" Echo nodded lightly, gazing at them all as Tech took a soft breath in allowing the confusion to lift.

"Well, it's still highly possible they could have created others before us and lingered us all a part of the same batch." Hunter sat in the Co pilot's chair, beginning to press certain things on the control panel. "But it could still be a trap, we can't be certain they made others before us-" Hunter's voice soon pushed Techs aside, abruptly stopping him mid sentence.

"We'll take our chances." The other three brothers strapped themselves into the spare chairs, watching as Hunter set some orders. "Tech, get the coordinates that the signal sent out." He simply nodded, typing in a few things before locking onto the signal.

"They seem to be situated in the middle of nowhere, but the closest planet seems to be Jakku. I suggest we hurry if we're going to get ourselves into some mess." The others nodded as hyperspace soon commenced, blurring stars filling the window as they travelled toward the lonely signal silently hoping there was another one of them - perhaps even another brother.

Once the ship pulled out of hyperspace, their eyes fell upon a lonely escape pod floating with no destination and a single person inside. They couldn't make out the person using the escape pod due to the distance. Tech soon moved the attack shuttle closer to allow the escape pod to lock onto their beloved ship.

"I'm locking on the escape pod, the user seems unconscious." Hunter simply nodded and stood, walking toward the airlock and awaiting the escape pod to lock on.

"I'll retrieve the person. After this we need to get out of here just in case, prepare hyperspace for Ord Mantell." The others simply nodded as the doors to the escape pod opened, Hunter disappearing momentarily. As he walked in, he noticed a young girl curled up in the seat, hiding her face for any sort of warmth she could muster. He crouched down, gently placing his hand against her shoulder in an attempt to wake her up - she didn't. Hesitantly he picked her up and rushed out of the pod to his brothers,

"She won't wake up!" He seemed rather panicked as Tech disengaged the escape pod and activated hyperspace before he stood. Once Hunter placed her against the Med table, Tech ran a med scan over her as the others came to see what was going on.

"She's cold and beyond exhausted, her health is otherwise fine. I suggest she borrow somebody's bunk until she wakes." Echo was the first to step forward,

"She can borrow mine for now, is she really a part of the experimental unit?" Tech sighed softly as Hunter lifted her back up, carrying her to the bunks.

"It's possible, we can't know more until she wakes up." Wrecker had followed Hunter as he placed her into bed, ensuring the blankets were wrapped around her and placing Lula into her arms.

You awoke slowly, blinking rapidly as you took in your surroundings. You felt warm but why? Moving slowly, you felt the blankets soft texture against your hands finally being able to open your eyes fully enough to realize where you were. Was this another imperial ship? Did the empire find you first? Surely it couldn't be them, they had never let you sleep in a bed before. Turning to your side you saw a soft looking plush coloured in black and red, your childlike curiosity took over as you held it in your hands squishing it gently. Who saved you? What was this place?

"You're up then?" A voice spoke, a large gun against his back - it seemed to be a sniper rifle. You gasped and stood up quickly, preparing to run. "Woah woah there kid, I'm not going to hurt you." He took in a breath as he examined your shocked face, "We saved you from that escape pod." Nodding slowly you backed up instead, realising there wouldn't be anywhere to go.

"We?" You asked before a different man arrived with a bandanna around his head, nodding softly toward his brother who left the room.

"Hey kid, you're up. I'm Hunter, we just rescued you from that pod." You sat back against the bed, gazing around the room for whatever you could use as a weapon. "I need to ask, are you actually a part of clone batch 99?" You just nodded slightly at his words, fiddling with your hands in thought. Was this just another group of people who were going to experiment on you?

"Yes. I'm sick of the experiments - please just leave me alone, I'm sure you can find credits elsewhere." Your hands automatically clung to the plush which made Hunter smile and slowly sit beside you which made you flinch.

"I'm a part of the same batch, so is everybody else aboard this ship." It took a moment or two to process his words. Your brothers had found you? These were your brothers and they had come back for you? Rescued you?

"You're my big brother?" You breathed out slowly, eyes meeting his own. He nodded slowly at your words, gently smiling to give you some comfort.

"All of us are." He slowly stood and offered you his hand, "Would you like to meet them?" Hesitantly you took his hand all whilst clinging to the plush, everything felt scary but you had finally found your brothers, so maybe everything would be alright again. Upon walking into the cockpit, you saw your other four brothers turn toward you, smiles on some of their faces.

"Hey kid, I'm Echo." He spoke, crouching before you. "These are the others, Wrecker, Crosshair and Tech - you've met Hunter already." You nodded gently and gazed lightly at them all. Wrecker soon stood forward, a big smile against his face.

"You enjoyin' Lulas company?" He asked, gesturing toward the plush held tightly in your arms. "She's always helped me when I start feelin' scared so I thought she'd help you too!" You couldn't help but smile softly at his kind gesture, softly passing her back over to him.

"Thanks for letting me borrow her... She helped." Yeah soon interrupted the conversation, a datapad held tightly in his hands.

"Y/n, I believe that you said you were a part of our clone unit. Is this true?" You simply nodded, recalling the time you had spent on Kamino. It wasn't particularly good or bad, but it was your home nonetheless.

"Yes, I was there when you were all created along with another." Tech paused, typing rapidly into the datapad.

"Another?" Crosshair asked, eyes wide." I thought it was just us five?" Shaking your head you rubbed your hands together, it was a nervous habit of yours.

"Her name is Omega. I was created first then she was, then we watched them create all of you but you all got accelerated healing." Hunter moved forward toward Tech,

"Omega? She's our sister?" He turned toward everybody, "We left her on Kamino!" Echo stood and placed a hand against his shoulder,

"It's safe for her there, we had no choice." He sighed in response to Echos words,

"What about y/n? It's not safe for her here either." You crossed your arms softly and stared at them,

"I'm a clone too you know, I was created with war in mind."

When you had told them that you had been created with war in mind, they decided to make you a permanent part of their team. It had been a year since they saved you from the escape pod and from the Empire. You were now pretty much a fully trained soldier with incredible blasting skills, senses and some skills behind technology. There were many new memories with your brothers and you had all created an unbreakable bond. However, lately things were difficult due to Order 66 being implemented across the galaxy and you only had one goal and that was to rescue your sister Omega from Kamino. You were currently on course for the planet, prepared to try and get away with this rescue mission as quickly as possible.

"How far off are we from landing?" You asked, preparing your blaster and adjusting the custom made armour they had prepared for you. Turning toward Tech who was currently piloting the ship you felt the attack shuttle judder.

"Any moment now." Hunter moved everybody toward the door, glancing between each sibling.

"Set your blasters to stun, we aren't looking to kill any of our brothers." He grabbed onto the side and placed a hand upon your shoulder as the ship took a rather rough landing. "Y/n, are you certain you know where Omega will be?" Nodding you watched as Tech joined you all, switching his blaster to stun.

"I am, we were always there together - She never left." The ramp opened up which allowed you all to rush down, stunning any and every clone that had their blasters pointed toward you.

"Go and get Omega! We'll keep you covered." Rushing frantically down the hall with Wrecker and Tech following for cover, you reached the lab that you were certain she'd be in. Due to the facility on lockdown, Tech had overridden the systems and managed to get the door open much to your relief.

"Omega?" You called out, gazing around until your eyes fell on her placed upon the medtable. "Come on, we're getting you out of here - I found our brothers!" She recognised you as soon as you removed your helmet, rushing into your arms and allowing you to pick her up. You were young, but old enough to take care of your little sister and shoot a blaster. They had given you certain aspects of accelerated aging but not enough to bring you to your brother's ages.

"Y/n, I wanna go. The clones have chips and-" You hushed her lightly, placing your helmet over her for at least some protection until you reached the Marauder.

" I know, order 66." She hid against you which allowed you to rush away with your brothers, running into the ship and allowing Tech to fly you all away. A quick in and out with everything going how it needed to go. Omega removed her helmet, passing it back with a mumbled thanks.

"Omega, hey kid." Hunter spoke, crouching down and hugging her. She stayed silent against him though which definitely wasn't the welcome back he hoped he'd get. "What's wrong?" He asked, voice gentle in tone.

"You all left me but took y/n - I was terrified and you had all left me." Her eyes soon filled with tears, voice gentle with hints of anger. Crouching down beside her you pulled her into a gentle hug.

"I never stopped trying to get to you, the Empire took me and our brothers found me after I escaped." You paused for a moment as she clung onto you. "We couldn't come and get you until it was safe to do so, now order 66 has happened, it's safer for you to stay with us." Hunter smiled warmly as she pulled away, smiling lightly. "You never stopped being my Ad'ika." The others soon walked in, greeting Omega with a long awaited hug. In all honesty you couldn't wait to create new memories with your family now you were all together, memories of your own.

#the bad batch #Tbb #Bad batch #Clone Force 99 #Omega #The bad batch x Reader #Starwars

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folkloreguk · 3 years

Text

Shower Thoughts

A/N: I like writing about personal emotions a lot…this feels a little like writing a diary but also like self-therapy and it really helps me. I hope anyone who also feels this way knows that they’re not alone with those feelings. Also happy birthday to the sweetest @sunghoonied!! I wrote this thinking of you and I hope you have the best day ♡ PS. I didn't proofread this so if you find errors kindly lmk please! x

genre: optional bias (male), meant to comfort you, angst, fluff, talk of loneliness / anxiety but with a good ending!

words: ~ 2.5 k

taglist: @lovely-ateez, @mochi-ficz, @soundsofminho, @runaway-fics

People said that walking was supposed to clear your mind. But then why was it, that you had gotten so lost in your worst thoughts out there? The time spent in fresh air was meant to let your mind wander to calm places and smiling at strangers should have made you feel less lonely. But with every step you took and with every passing face your body felt heavier. Not only did you carry your figure, but the crushing burden that had been nagging at you for weeks.

Watching others stroll around the streets seemed so easy. And perhaps it should have been easy, after all. It made you wonder, maybe you were the only one whose mind was constantly covered in dark rain clouds. Maybe everyone had their place in the world, and they knew just where and with whom they belonged. Surely, they didn’t overthink every conversation they had with a random stranger. Did their brain also function merely on autopilot in public, while the back of your mind was chaos of doubt and fear? Was there anybody else who spent day to day worrying about never finding someone who could deal with the burden of you and your issues? How was somebody else going to love you if you were this sad?

Those people that care about you are the ones you should be honest with, after all. There was no brushing off the How Are You question with a quick “I’m fine”. How could someone deal with the real answer you would give? You didn’t want to pull anybody down with you when you were hurting. So then again, maybe it was for the better your apartment was always empty when you came home. With no one to ask you about your feelings, you couldn’t cause anyone else agony and worry. Your own pain was enough – one person was enough to deal with it.

You shoved your shoes in the corner next to your door. If it wasn’t for your mental state, you would’ve guessed your jacket was a hundred kilos heavy. But even after you had peeled it off, nothing changed. You dragged your body to the bathroom.

You’d be so proud if only you could go one day without crying. And you had almost made it, had it not been for the godforsaken shower water. There was something about seeing the droplets on your skin and on the tiles that caused your tears to come out freely. The noise of the shower made you feel shut off from the rest of the world. Now it was just you and your salty ocean tears. The tears united with the shower water. It was hard to tell which drops on your cheek had originated in your swollen eyes and which had fallen from the shower head. This way, it seemed almost as if there was an invisible force that was wiping over your face, trying to appease your sobs.

But there was nobody. And that was why you only cried harder. If only you had listened to your own words when you tried to cheer yourself up. Then maybe you would feel better when you wrapped your arms around your own body. You were desperate. The notion that someone could hold you like this, one day, should have gifted you at least some form of hope. But no, you knew it wouldn’t happen any time soon. Not with this mindset and your sadness.

You hiccupped helplessly. This was all so tiring. Before you knew it, you sat down on the shower floor under the hot stream. At least there was no one waiting to get into the shower after you. So you wouldn’t have to feel guilty about blocking the bathroom and wasting all the hot water. For a few minutes you remained on the floor, drowning out your cries under the splashing sound. You felt the impulse to scream. Look, I’m here! I’m a person with interests and passions and emotions! Doesn’t anybody see me? I’m sick of only existing! Won’t somebody teach me how to live?

But at most, that would cause you a noise complaint. If only you weren’t so terrible at talking to people. Maybe you could make a friend someday – when your anxiety got better. Like in a trance, you finally switched off the water and grabbed your towel. You were so utterly lost in your thoughts, that everything went by as if you were only watching from the sidelines. You got out of the shower, dried off, put on some body lotion – an attempt at self-care – and got dressed in the most comfortable, baggy clothes you owned.

What on earth would you do tonight? There really were only so many ways you could have fun (or rather distract yourself from feeling down) when you were all by yourself and everything reminded you of how lonely you were. The option of just going to sleep slipped past you. But you weren’t tired enough. You knew you’d lie awake for hours, left alone with your thoughts. And crying yourself to sleep was the last thing you wanted right now.

So you opted for the most mainstream idea: Netflix. You plopped down on the sofa, a steaming hot cup of tea on the small table in front of you. Now you only had one thing left to do. You needed to choose some stupid show and let the problems of tv characters invade your brain and pray they would shove out your own issues. You weren’t even hungry. Although there was a part of you that wished it could have eaten your weight in chocolate, but you knew that had little to do with hunger.

Just as you reached for the remote control, the sound of your doorbell made you jump. I’ll just let it be. They’ll think I’m not home and leave. Those thoughts came right away. It made you curse yourself. You had just cried over feeling alone, but now you’re shutting out some random neighbor who probably just needs some tiny favor from you. Way to go. So, more to prove a point to yourself than to be friendly, you stepped to your door and opened it.

“Hi.” It was your neighbor. Your handsome, kind neighbor, who you always met at the local grocery store. You were so mentally exhausted you didn’t even feel self-conscious about looking the way you did. Although you hoped your eyes had recovered from the redness, at least a little. “Hi,” you greeted him back.

“Look, I really don’t want to be intrusive. And if you want me to leave, I will,” he said. He fumbled with his hands, as if he was nervous about his words. “But I kind of heard you…cry…in the shower. And I know you live alone, and I figured if you’re crying you probably don’t have any company. I guess I just wanted to check whether you’re okay. Do you have someone to talk to?”

With every word your heart only sped up. You felt like a trapped rabbit in a corner and the meaning of his message only sunk in slowly. Yes, of course. I’ll call my friend and talk to them,you wanted to say. But that would have been a massive lie. And you just couldn’t lie to him. Not when he stood there, in his fuzzy sweater and fresh-out-the-shower damp hair, with eyes so worried and attentive. You weren’t sure if it was from how touched you were by his concern for you, or if it was your sadness catching up to you again. Before you could swallow your tears, your eyes filled to the brim and your vision turned blurry.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, not sure what for. Hurriedly, you used your sweater paw to wipe your leaking eyes. You didn’t want him to feel bad for you, but now you had achieved just that and more. Your embarrassment set in and you finally came out with the truth. “I don’t have anyone to talk to.”

“No need to be sorry. It’s alright. We all have those days, don’t we? I just want you to know that you’re not alone. And I have nothing to do…so if you need someone to talk to, or even just to keep you company…I can stay with you for a bit…or you can come over to mine. I just don’t want you to feel alone. But if you would prefer to be by yourself, that’s okay. People deal with things differently.”

You were so baffled that your ability to speak completely fell through. The idea of someone, an almost-stranger, going so out of their way to make sure you were okay blew you away. He knew nothing about you. But here he was, taking a chance on you, nonetheless. Only then you realized you probably looked like a fool, staring at him but failing to answer. Quickly, you prompted yourself to open your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.

“What were you doing just now?” he asked. “Any plans for the evening?”

“I was going to watch a movie, I guess,” you said. “And I think some company would be very nice.”

He smiled at you like was your childhood best friend and you had just reconnected after years of being apart. That’s why it felt the more natural to let him enter your apartment. You got into small talk about what it was like living in the building and how his apartment had a mirrored structure to yours. The simplest conversation took your mind off your sorrow right away. You felt like thanking him would be a little dramatic after he had barely settled on your sofa, so you kept it to yourself. Either way, the small smile on your face felt like warm, soothing sunlight on your skin after eight consecutive days of rain.

“Do you want to talk about anything?” he asked. You thought for a moment.

“No, I think I’d rather just distract myself,” you said. Even though you were grateful for having him here, you feared if you spilled your guts to him you would only scare him away.

“Alright,” he said without judgement. “What film were you planning on watching?”

And so you started your movie. There was a respectful distance between you on the sofa. But his simple presence next to you was more than you could have asked for tonight. He was like a heater, providing safety and comfort in the coldest winter. Hearing someone else chuckle at the jokes in the movie along with you was magnificent. His laughter sounded like a rainbow. It seeped into your body and your soul straightened up and bloomed like a parched flower being watered after all this loneliness.

But even under all the light, your problems were still here, waiting to nag at you. You knew they would consume you when he returned to his own apartment later. They would laugh at you for trying to socialize but staying closed off as always. Just because someone saw you didn’t mean they understood you and who you are. And how was one supposed to make human connections if they treated their thoughts like strictly confidential information in front of everybody? No, you had to tell him.Impulsively, you pressed the stop-button on the remote. He shot you a questioning gaze.

“I- I think maybe I do want to talk about something,” you confessed.

“You can tell me anything. I promise it’ll be safe with me. Let out whatever bothers you,” he said. His lovely, warm eyes were inviting like a haven for you. So you just started to talk. All your frustrations and reasons for anxiety were exiting your lips, floating all around you in the room. Airing out your weary brain finally, after holding everything in for weeks, was uncaging and nothing had felt this good in so long. Although your sadness wasn’t something that could be fixed by doing a task, the more thoughts and worries you explained to him, the easier it became. It wasn’t long before you felt your tears well up once more.

“It’s okay,” he said with his hand on your shoulder. This time, you didn’t try so hard to blink them away. Where there were emotions, there were tears, and he was right. It was fine to let them out. Through sniffles you finished telling him your issues.

“Is this okay?” he asked, gently putting his arm around your shoulder to hold your shaking figure. You hummed and nodded in agreement. His warmth was like a blanket to shelter you from the anxiety, if even just for a short while.

“I don’t expect you to know a solution,” you said. “I need to wait for it to get better. It’ll get better, eventually.”

“You’re right. It will all resolve,” he said. “I’m sorry things are so difficult. But you’re not alone, okay?”

You nodded again.

“Time will heal, I promise,” he said. “And until then, you have to hold on and keep going. The world’s a little cruel sometimes, when it shuts out the ones who struggle and don’t do as well as others. But you’re as much of a part of it as any other human on the street. And you’re just as important as them. You weren’t born to be successful or to achieve things. You’re here to live and be happy. So promise me to take care of yourself, and be gentle to yourself. Because you’re the only person that will be with yourself every second until the end. Please don’t be hard on yourself and have patience for good things to come around. And if it all feels like it’s too much for you, don’t feel guilty about reaching out for help. You can always ring my doorbell if you need something.”

“Thank you so much,” you cried. Your cheek rested on his shoulder and you sat in silence for a while. It was unbelievable which wonders such a small conversation between two people could do. Your heart felt lighter and the thoughts were no longer racing through your head. Peace was settling in, and you welcomed it more than ever.

“Now that I’ve told you about me, what kind of person are you?” you asked through tears. He chuckled a little. All you knew until now was that he had a heart of gold. Which, to be fair, meant your impression of him was off to a pretty good start already. Your thoughts were cautious as you wondered…Maybe he could be my friend.

You abandoned the movie. Instead, you spent all evening chatting about whatever came to your mind. You discussed childhood dreams, favorite dishes, your best playlists down to the cutes dog breeds you had ever seen. It felt great, getting to know somebody. And your suspicions came true. His big heart wasn’t the only thing admirable about him. He was funny and knew just what to say when you felt awkward or shy. When you slipped into bed that night, you did so with a smile on your face. You had always told yourself that you weren’t alone. But sometimes, the most optimistic person needed a small reminder coming from somebody else. Here was yours.

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lordoftermites · 3 years

Text

You Never Break ⚜ Part Ⅰ

⊰ ☘ ⊱ Cardan's POV: The Queen of Nothing, from the end of Chapter 13 through Chapter 17. ⊰ ☘ ⊱ A massive, pterodactyl-screeching thank you to my dearest punishment @euridce and the bombastic @figonas for dealing with my bullshit and allowing me to subject them to betaing this (and literally everything else), but especially for being my Hype Train Goblin Queens and not letting me lose to my perfectionism. ⊰ ☘ ⊱ { edit: the wordcount actually turned out to be 3,765 because I added more shit after I copypasta'd here but I literally cannot be arsed to change the graphic lol. }

≼ FIC MASTERLIST HERE≽

Contrary to erstwhile thinking, it is not quite as simple a task to travel at any expeditious speed whilst carrying a half-dead goblin through the biting nighttide—whilst also taking care to keep yourself and aforementioned half-dead goblin undiscovered by those who would very much like to lop your kingly head right off of your kingly shoulders.

And, if all of that is not enough of a juggling act, appending the minor detail that you’ve just taken flight on a steed conjured from the ragwort in your pocket, after leaving your wife below (at her behest and your protest) to fend for herself with naught but a magical cloak and her unspoken, mortal promise to do as you say...

Well. There are reasons you are not lauded for your prowess as a jester, just as your Queen is even less admired for her graces of verity.

Yet, surely by some feat of fortuitous magic, Cardan does manage it; the concealing mists part just enough to allow the flying mount and its travelers to slip through.

Braving a glance over his shoulder, he watches as the fog coils and swirls closed like a protective curtain behind them. It's disorienting—very like taking an overconfident step forward, only to find the ground is not quite as close as you first perceived. Even as one often besotted with wine and other such stupefacients, Cardan does not particularly enjoy that feeling.

Sea fret mingles with the haze of preternatural clouds as they begin a descent. It veils his lips, clings to his wool-spun clothing and weighs down his hair. He shakes the dampened curls from his eyes just as the four isles of Elfhame begin to take shape in the darkness beneath him, and lets out an unsteady breath; he wonders, absently, if he's exhaled at all since leaving Jude on the ground.

He cannot help the inglorious relief that the Roach, in his state, does not hear it.

It’s an odd sensation, to observe your kingdom from such a high vantage point. Perhaps, before now, he disallowed himself to feel the full measure of his obligation; the sobering comprehension that this vastness of soil and sapling and stone, along with all its inhabitants, will thrive, or decay, under his governance. Looking down at the land—his land—brings that realization crashing down upon him with as much force as one of Balekin’s punishments.

Cardan tightens his grip on the animal’s leafy mane against a bout of dizziness, abruptly wishing he had something a bit less insubstantial with which to steady himself.

The Crooked Forest rises to meet them, gnarled limbs twisting upward as if to embrace their sovereign. That seems illusionary, though Cardan does note at once the marked shift in the air; while still cool, no longer does each inhale carry an icy jab to his lungs or bite at the tips of his ears. It envelopes him and his company, gently carrying them above the mossy heads of slumbering root men and women. None of them stir, thankfully, but Cardan isn’t altogether sure his arrival goes unnoticed by them, either.

Welcome home, young King, the wind seems to whisper in his ear. Cardan shivers, and it has nothing to do with the weather.

Alighting just at the edge of the hollow hill, Cardan takes a half-breath to think—and reproaches himself for not doing more of that before they had landed; the Roach’s etiolated complexion, rattling breath, and stiffening limbs are not an entirely promising combination. Then, there is yet the matter of finding Liliver, who might not even be in the palace. And even then, there is the very real likelihood that he is already too late, that the deathsweet’s effects may have already reached its peak.

Cardan has to swallow against the bile creeping up his throat at that unsettling thought.

If only Jude had just come with him. Mistress of strategy and scheming, she would have drawn up a clever plan before they even took flight, as well as a surfeit of contingencies. Moreover, she would know better than he whether or not they held the favor of time; her province of poison is concerningly vast, as she had proven when Cardan himself very nearly shuffled off his immortal coil in dissolution.

Jude had known in an instant, merely by tasting the wraithberry that had stained his lips. How she knew its savour, to say nothing of how she knew it so intimately, Cardan knows not and she has yet to divulge. It is but another closely-clutched secret he must tack onto the growing list of queries for things a man really ought to know about his wife.

In the interim, the High King of Elfhame—and, more regrettably, the Roach—must rely entirely on himself.

Not much of a comfort, that.

Keeping a hand on the Roach to prevent his suffering an unnecessary fall from the horse, Cardan swings himself off of the thing’s back. With care, he lifts the inanimate body of his mentor into his arms. A low, distressed groan comes from the Roach at being jostled—the first sign of cognizance he’s shown since they left Grimsen’s forge. As pained as the sound is, it nonetheless gives Cardan a small hope that perhaps he hasn’t been too late after all.

Its magic spent, the ragwort pony dissolves in a puff of yellow perianths; an indolent breeze scatters some of the remnants across the dark hill, while others continue their aimless drifting to pollinate elsewhere on the isles. Cardan watches a lone petal catch in the wiry hair of the Roach’s brow and without thinking, he brushes it away. He justifies this allowance of rare gentleness with the fact that no one is around to bear witness to it.

As friendship goes, Cardan is all too aware he hasn’t known much in the way of loyalty or for reasons beyond selfish gain. His former companions had desired only what they could glean from him, the immunity his sway as a prince that had granted them the ability to carry out whatever deviant fancy they could dream up. Even Nicasia had had her own contrivances for being his lover, until she had ultimately found more excitement in the stories—and bed—of Locke.

He is not experienced in having a friend simply for the sake of it. In having someone—or a few someones, for that matter—enjoy his wit and cleverness and skills. That enjoy him, Cardan Greenbriar, rather than what advantages the crown atop his head can give.

Perhaps it is dangerous territory for a king to have bonds extending beyond those of mere allies. Perhaps the trust that comes with such friendships is a bit like handing over a blade to your enemy, freshly sharpened, and saying, Here you go, this holds all the ways with which to kill me. I’ll just turn my back.

Even so, when all you have known your entire life is the contempt and malignancy of those who ought to love you, it is not an entirely stunning realization that you would hand over that blade so willingly.

And he had done, in earnest; in his naivety with Nicasia. In his camaraderie with the Court of Shadows. In everything with Jude.

This is doubtless the reason Cardan’s feet begin to move now, carrying him and the Roach in his arms to the palace entrance with some new swell of confidence. Perhaps it is a detriment to believe that these new friends would not be so hastened and flippant as the last to betray him, but he believes it nevertheless. He also knows, albeit by way of unfortunate experience, that when the situation had been reversed, they had not wasted an idle moment in saving him.

So on he goes, through the wall and into the brugh, careful to keep the Roach’s pallid face hidden in the crook of his arm and denying any assistance his guards offer with a firm shake of his head. They move to follow, but halt at once and return to their posts when Cardan waves them off. Of the merits that come with being King, Cardan is especially grateful that denying explanations is one of them.

Even more fortuitously, his journey is not further hindered by any member of the Living Council—who have undoubtedly been tearing at their beards and skirts attempting to locate and descend upon their unruly monarch. Cardan imagines even now they are in the war room or assembled in his chambers, pacing and theorizing and crying out in panic. At the thought of the Minister of Keys pounding his fists on the table and cursing his luck for having such an impudent master to serve, the corner of Cardan’s mouth twitches. If only the wizened Randalin had the sense to make himself more difficult to nettle, perhaps Cardan would try to do so less.

Though the hill is yet alive, with lingering revelers still clutching the edges of twilight and servants clearing the remnants of food and drink, the many tricks of sly-footing he has been taught manages to keep him out of sight from any who might notice; it takes no time at all to slip through the hidden passage, into the wine cellar and emerge on the other side of the new Court of Shadows.

Cardan had hoped to show and consult Jude on the plans for these rooms, including the strategy chamber he had in mind for her—of which he was particularly proud: he had designed it himself—after she pardoned herself and returned to him. That hadn’t gone entirely the way he had imagined, and so they had gone on with the rebuilding without her. Cardan resolves that now, he can simply give her a full tour of them, should she come back posthaste. Should she decide to come back at all.

No, he rebuffs that line of thinking. Jude will return, just as she promised. When she comes home, Cardan will lead her through the rebuilt Court, and she will ooh and ahh and find him so ridiculously clever she’ll be too awed to do anything but kiss him for his prodigiousness.

She will forget she had ever been angry with him—or, at the very least, spare him the full measure of her wrath. She will forgive him for his trickery and assure him again that she had not fed his letters to the fire; she will tell him how desperately she missed him, that the mortal world is awful and terrible and nothing worth going back to. He will kiss her hair and tell her they need never be parted again. They will begin their reign as they should have done the moment their vows were made, and all will be just fine and well and as it should be.

These are all of the things Cardan tells himself as he steps into the main chamber.

He chuckles quietly to the darkness, a sudden incredulity sweeping over him; after all his prior distaste for mortals and those little hopeful deceits they allow, to wish away an awful thing or to make that awful thing seem less terrible, he has caught himself doing just that. He wonders what Jude might say, if he said her mortality was rubbing off on him?

Upon entering the main hall, Cardan is met with a collective gasp—either from the sudden, unannounced arrival of the High King or at the state of the Roach, he doesn’t know, nor does he have time to find out; before he can call for her, Liliver is already there, her dark face paled and taut. She does not seem to even notice Cardan, her frantic, wide-eyed gaze fixed on the Roach.

“What happened to him?” The Bomb demands, seeming to realize Cardan’s presence only as an afterthought, though he does nothing to reprimand her for her tone. The current circumstance, along with the raw fear on the rogue’s face, is enough to cast any necessity for formalities into shadow.

"Darts, poisoned with deathsweet," Cardan tells her, elaborating when Liliver's piercing glare flickers up to meet him. "We... misestimated the cleverness of the traps Grimsen set to protect his forge." The Bomb frowns at that, and Cardan is sure he’ll have much more explaining to do before the night is through and she is fully satisfied, but neither of them need reminding of the more important matter at hand. “Let’s—let’s get him to a bed,” Liliver says. Though her voice wavers, her eyes never leave the disturbingly still body of the Roach as she leads them into a small room carved out from the main one.

She steps aside to allow Cardan to enter and lower the Roach onto the single bed, before seating herself on the edge of it. A bundle of tinctures and salves rest in her lap, from where or how she procured them so quickly, Cardan doesn’t know and isn’t inclined to ask. By the deep-set furrow of her brow and the way she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, she is calculating the situation and he wagers any unnecessary queries might hinder—or annoy—her deliberation. So he simply stands there, silent and helpless, watching her work.

The light emitting from the small orbs hanging above their heads does little to illuminate much of the Roach’s features, but it’s bright enough to view the waxen sheen of his skin, the odd way his limbs lie rigid at his side. He looks as close to death as one could appear, and if not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, one could easily believe he had already gone. Cardan swallows and looks away, as if staring instead at the rough stone floor will quash the disquiet he feels.

If the Roach succumbs to the poison, he knows with whom the fault will lie, and there will be none among them to scorn him as much as he will scorn himself.

As Liliver works, sifting through the assortment of small glass bottles in her lap until she picks one filled with a thick, amber solution, Cardan gives her as much detail of the night's emprises as he can in short order: their attempted (and rather unsuccessful) rescue of Jude, of the Roach’s poisoning; of why they had entered the smith’s forge in the first place.

Upon hearing the truth behind the Ghost’s betrayal, the vial slips from her hand and Cardan barely manages to snatch it from the air before it shatters on the ground. The Bomb’s eyes are wide as saucers as she takes back the bottle, but Cardan thinks he catches the smallest glint of hope in them, despite their current predicament.

“You mean, all this time... he was being commanded? Controlled by Locke and Madoc?”

Cardan nods. “Doubtless by my brother as well, though Jude didn’t say one way or another.”

He wouldn’t have considered it debasing of Dain's character to control someone in such totality. In fact, he has no misgivings at all that there was anything, save perhaps a grubworm, that had been beneath his brother. He shakes his head and shrugs, more to his own thoughts than the Bomb's question. “I’ll let her tell us which it is, when she comes home.”

It is too afflictive to imagine she will not, that he has yet again voraciously lapped up a lie she has fed him. He cannot believe that as he waits, Jude is riding off through the air with her sisters back to the mortal world, laughing as she tells them how effortlessly she has fooled the desperate High King of Faerie.

He will have time enough to wallow in his own selfish, agonized reveries; Cardan wills his attention back to the present, back to the Bomb and the Roach, who appears even less on the fortunate side of time since they arrived.

“Will he…” Live, or die. Both words are there on his tongue, but he cannot bring himself to say either and the question lingers, thick and unfinished in the air between the three of them. Liliver doesn’t seem willing—or able to answer, only giving him a small shake of cloud-white curls as she keeps her back to him.

Watching how carefully she wipes the Roach’s forehead with a damp cloth, hearing the hushed, unintelligible things she tells him, the understanding that Cardan perhaps ought not intrude further becomes all too clear. He has completed his task, what he promised Jude he would do. There is nothing more required of him.

With Liliver’s promise that she will send word of any changes, good or ill, Cardan excuses himself from the Court of Shadows.

Cardan spends the remainder of the day in his chambers attempting sleep, because he has proved himself of little use elsewhere, there is nothing else to do, and because if Jude were here she would tell him a High King needs rest if he is to go delegating and answering petitions and doing whatever else there is that good, proper kings are supposed to do.

However, it is precisely because Jude isn’t here that he cannot rest.

Though he does give it an honest effort. He tries lying on his back, drawing forth tiny white blossoms to count as they bloom above his head, aiming to bore himself into a stupor. He counts and counts and counts. The mingling fragrance of several different flowers permeates the room and penetrates his nose. When he reaches six hundred forty-seven for the third time, he gives that up.

Exasperated, Cardan flops onto his side, stretching an arm across the sheets. He stares at the empty space beside him, where Jude had rested the first night they had spent together—the night he had convinced her that becoming Queen of Elfhame, his wife, was the better choice for both of them.

It had all been true, of course: everything Cardan had said to get her to agree. There had been no deception or scheming in his words; he had desired his freedom, as desperately as Jude craved power, and their union had the ability to grant both in absolution.

The Living Council had become insistent on the idea that their King should take a wife anyway, for their own overboring political reasons, and so Cardan had.

The only addendum to all of this, the only detail that he had surreptitiously kept from both the Council and Jude, was that he wanted to marry her. Not Nicasia, as the Council had wanted, as Cardan had once believed he should and could enjoy. Not the hag Mother Marrow’s daughter, who likely would have found some clever way to cause his demise so that she might live on as the sole ruler of Faerie. None of them would have been well-suited for him, nor he well-suited for them. None of them could give him what he wanted, because what he wanted was Jude.

That is all he wants now—to have her home and here in his bed, to fill the space that has been empty since she left. Since he made her leave.

Cardan pushes himself off the bed in a frustrated huff. Deciding he could do with a little less sober thinking, he calls for wine, and when the servant arrives with a fresh decanter and goblet, he fills it to the brim and drinks it to the dregs. After repeating this process a few more times, Cardan rounds the large desk—his father’s desk, he cannot help to remind himself, no matter how many times he sits at it—to continue the speech he’s been writing. He picks up the slip of paper between two fingers and holds it to the guttering candle flame to examine it. It’s already a rather lengthy speech, admittedly, but more important than any he has articulated yet. It is one explaining to Jude that her exile had not been methodically planned, that he thought she would work it out much more expeditiously. He would further explain he had not accounted for the fact she hadn’t worked it out at all, and that he had come to fully regret his own cleverness midway through his second letter.

Of course, Jude had told him she hadn’t received any of those letters.

He cannot help recalling how she looked at him then, the last time they were here in his rooms: skittish and trembling, desperate as a wild animal backed into a corner.

Hardly a fortnight has passed since Madoc had taken her, believing he had heroically rescued her twin from nigh execution. And yet it feels as distant as any half-remembered dream upon waking, blurred on the details and every attempt to grasp the memory only causes it to slip further away. Like a hand waving smoke.

Except a dream is something usually pleasant; smiling faces, a kiss one might yearn for in the waking world and only receive when they close their eyes. Dreams are things of wonderment. Pretty visions and heart’s desires.

No, it had not been like a dream at all—not the way she had looked at him.

That hatred, burning into him like white-hot iron, the fear she could lie away with words but could not conceal from her face, the venom in her voice when she spoke. It was more terrible than any of Cardan’s nightmares.

Everything you say to me, everything you promise, it’s all a trick. And I, stupid enough to believe you once.

He had wanted to reach out to her, to take her hand and tell her his trick had been only that, a hasty plan to keep her out of Orlagh’s grasp. He had wanted to pull her to him and breathe in the comforting scent of her hair, to feel her warmth against his chest. To beg her forgiveness and will away her anger with a kiss.

Then he had seen the glint of the blade in her hand.

Even after Vivi’s flustered explanation of her sister’s capture, after he and the Roach had set out from the mortal world to find her—even after their brief moment in Madoc’s camp just hours ago, when Jude swore she hadn’t thrown in her lot with her betrayer of a foster-father, Cardan cannot rend from his mind the image of her holding that knife.

He passes the paper through the flame and watches it burn until it is nothing but a stain of black ash on the desk.

Waving away the lingering smoke, he rises and goes to dress for the night ahead, without rest, and knowing that no amount of sleep or drink or honeyed words will erase what he has done—or may yet do.

⊰ ☘ ⊱ okAY so this first bit turned out a lot longer than I'd originally intended (legit this whole thing was supposed to just be a oneshot lmfao) but if you made it this far, I'm very sorry but thanks for taking the time to read. I hope you enjoyed it, and as usual—if you didn't, don't tell me about it.

If you want to be added to my tag list, just yeet a reply to this post and I'll add you.

⊰ ☘ ⊱ @euridce @figonas @jurdanhell

#felix's fuckin' fic list #; felix does a write #cardan greenbriar #jude duarte #jurdan #cardan x jude #jude x cardan #the folk of the air #the queen of nothing #tfota #qon #holly black #tfota fic #tfota fanfic

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caesthetix · 3 years

Text

SAY A LITTLE PRAYER — Ep. What Paradise Is

↪Eren Yeager mini-series

↪content; major character death, canon universe, heavy angst, description of violence, established relationship, spoiler for season 4, alternate ending, manga spoiler

"You know, I can't help but thank Eren that he killed her that night."

Everyone was busy with themselves after Jean beat Reiner to a pulp. The rest of them who were still awake, circling the campfire, waiting for sleepiness to engulf them. But that sentence was enough to stop them from dozing off, some pairs of eyes decided to fall upon them instead.

Hange tried to be neutral all the time. They needed to be the mediator between the Marleyans and the rest of the Survey Corps. After all, they needed each other if they wanted to stop the rumbling. Yet they couldn't help but speak up, they were human too after all.

"Huh?" It was Connie. "What do you mean by that, H-Hange-san?"

They just smiled softly as they looked down, watching their own reflection from the brown liquid in their hand. It was your favourite drink, coffee. Every sip would always be savoured as they imagined you sitting right in front of them.

"But we could use her strength. If she lived, she could help us to sway Eren." Armin spoke up, responding to their statement before. His blue eyes staring at the crackling fire, deep in his thoughts. "When we lost her, we lost seventy-five percent of the chance for winning this without having to harm Eren."

"You tell me that is the reason why he killed her?" The scowl on Connie's face hardened as he tried to connect the dots. "So we can't use her against him, eh? What a coward at the end. That lunatic bastard—"

"She would have followed him."

Mikasa's voice was soft and tiny as she cut his sentence. Yet even though it heard like a whisper, everyone could hear what she said. They blinked in confusion, except Hange and Jean who currently stood a few feet from them, somehow understood. The Marleyan raised their eyebrows in confusion, Annie could not understand what they were all talking about.

The rest of them were begging for more information, but the ravenette didn't give them any.

"She would have followed him."

Instead, she repeated the words. Her friends would understand her sentence — if they decided to use their brains for a while. They all knew you, she didn't have to give any further explanation regarding her statement.

Of course, now they understood why Hange thanked Eren for what he did to you. Even if you were alive right now, you were not going to be here, eating stew and drinking coffee while fretting about how to stop your lover who tried to commit genocide to the whole world.

You were going to be there, by his side, with your swords ready to be pointed out to anyone who tried to stop and harm Eren in any way. You would stand there, devoting your heart not for humanity, but for him. That was how big your love was, something that was blinding you, to the extent of worshipping him.

And they couldn't imagine themselves to be the one who sears their blades at you.

"You never told us, Hange."

Jean's voice filled the void, his feet stomping the grass underneath him, echoing through the quiet night. "That night, you never told us what happened." He stood on the other side of the campfire, his tall body looming in front of them as they seated on the ground.

The brunette stared at the man with a stern gaze, contemplating if it was the right moment to tell them. But their time was limited now, as their friends, they all deserved to know what happened that night.

"Alright." They put the metal cup down their lap. "Though I remind you now, it wouldn't be pleasant but," It even felt so heavy for them, by just thinking about your death. "But it would be so — her."

The veteran scout told them everything. From how you stood in front of their door, the coffee that they shared with you, to the time you cried when they gave you the key so you could go inside his cell. They were sure that you went there to talk and asked for a reason, but they knew thirty minutes wouldn't be enough.

Jean felt bad for asking, as he could see how much the commander suffered from this burden. Hange's hand balled into a fist, the other gripping tight on the cup's handle. Yet they keep on going, telling them how they saw Eren wash his face as if his hands were not stained by his lover's blood.

They explained the bruises on your neck, shaped like fingers as an indicator of how you died.

"Fuck." Jean cursed, his eyes glistening with tears that were threatening to fall. "Fuck." He shouldn't have asked, but it was too late, he could see the horror in your eyes, how afraid you were that night, how you were screaming for help but no one came.

For you to die, and the one who was responsible was your lover, he couldn't imagine the betrayal on your—

"But you know what's funny?" Hange spoke up once again, they were not finished yet. Their comrades immediately looked at them once again, asking for them to continue.

They sipped their coffee, recalling the gleam in your eyes, the comfort that they remembered up until now. There was no terror, you were not afraid of him even in your last moment. "There was no sign of resistance."

And that fact was enough to wake them up.

"Even from the start, when Eren choked her, she just stood there, letting him do it." They chuckled, almost maniacal. "Her eyes still shone with comfort as she looked at him. I-I always figure her out, I understand a lot of things about her. But, but I can't with this one."

They stopped, groaning as once again your eyes were the only thing that they could see. "I don't know anymore if she really believed that he must have to kill her for a reason," His hand shook the cup gently, letting the liquid swirl inside. "Or she believed that he would stop and let her go, even until she's gone for real."

And that last sentence broke them all.

The Marleyan couldn't look at the broken soldiers in front of them. Gabi and Falco pursed their lips, trying so hard to sleep. Annie who was sitting beside the unconscious Reiner, now having her pupils dilated as she understood the story, and who would be the mysterious woman that made them distressed like this.

Connie was silent as he kept gulping down water down his throat. Armin closed his eyes, but he could see it so clearly, the faith in your orbs. Jean just chuckled bitterly, muttering stupid woman again and again as tears were cascading down his cheek.

Then, Mikasa, her lips trembled as she tried not to sob. But whimpers already slipped, her empty cup fell to the ground as she put her hands on her ears as she wanted to stop the noises in her head. You brought joy, even in her life, and to be reminded that you were killed by Eren nonetheless, tore her apart.

The rest of the night was filled with nothing but sorrow. Tears accompanied them all to their sleep, silent weeps and choked-out sobs could be heard here and there.

Hange could only stay put under the white cloth that works as their blanket, staring into the dark green of trees, then went beyond that to see the night blue skies which adorned with stars. They subconsciously raised their hand, as if they were reaching for someone.

“Tell me, Hange!”

They tried to understand him, they really did. When they closed your eyes as you laid on the infirmary bed, they knew that you would appreciate it if they tried to understand why he killed you. Down in the basement, they tried to bait him with your condition, blaming him for how they lost another comrade.

“If there’s another way, then tell me what it is!”

But they were not you, they couldn’t see it. They wanted a reason but all they got from the man was just subtle answers, pain, anger, and how what he did was something inevitable. They just knew that he suffered too from what he had done, so perhaps it was enough.

They just wished — they could understand you.

"Oh, (Y/n)." They sighed, finally letting the tears slip down their cheeks. No one else saw them, it was just their lonely soul and the craving for your existence. "I think I didn’t know you enough."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ༶•┈┈⛧┈〄┈⛧┈┈•༶ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

His vision was supposed to be filled with lights, dark blue lights that came from the coordinate. He used to know it all, see it all, what happened in the world as he activated the rumbling, he could hear all the screams from those people underneath him. Trampled by gigantic power, without given any mercy.

He couldn't remember when it stopped. The terror, his friends fighting him so they could stop his plan — suddenly all he saw was just a bright pinkish sky. It was as if he was laying down on one of the clouds, soft and free.

The breeze tickled his long hair, good that it just swayed his brown strands softly, but not good enough to give him comfort.

Comfort, oh, how much he longed for that word.

The past few days had been so hard as he kept on living to grant freedom to the Island of Paradis. He could not count how many of his comrades died, how many of his followers ended up not seeing that freedom, let alone all the lives that he took.

And now when he knew that he failed, he chuckled as the realisation dawned upon him. After all these years — he was still the same useless boy.

"Eren."

He sat up in an instant. Dark green eyes searching for the source of where it came from. Surely he was not hallucinating, but that was a possibility. He didn't even know what this place, let alone believing that it was her voice.

"Hey, Eren."

But it was indeed your voice. No matter how many days or weeks passed after some time he had to part with you, he could always recognise that voice anywhere. Gentle, warm, and comforting, it felt like he was so close to heaven.

"You are here."

Then he felt it. He felt you. He looked down on his torso, finding two arms wrapped around him from behind. It felt so right as his hand slowly covered yours, testing it in case it was all in his head. But he could touch, he could trace his finger on the back of your hand.

He laughed, just a short one as he still processed what kind of magic existed in this place. You rested your chin on his shoulder, planting a peck on his cheek without warning that caused him to blush a hundred shades of red.

"(Y/n)?" He called out your name. "Are you real?" You only answered with a single hum. "How come are you real? Where is this place? Why am I here? I am not supposed to be here, I needed to finish the plan, Ymir is—"

You shut him up by placing your finger in front of his lips.

"You are free, Eren."

Silence. He could not understand that. Did it mean that he already died? But if that was the truth, why did he even feel more alive now compared to all those years that he spent before?

You slowly retracted your finger, pulling yourself from his embrace as gently as possible. Eren was still deep in thought, hands falling to the cloud-like ground he was sitting on right now. You stood up and walked in front of him, bare feet were now within his eyesight.

He could touch you before, and it didn’t feel like he was hallucinating. He felt your kiss before, and it made him sure that it was real. Bewildered, he looked up only to find you looking forward. Even though he felt that he was finally free, he was still curious about what happened in this moment.

"What is this place?" He asked again, now a lot calmer than before as he gazed at your face which showed nothing but peace.

"A transit." You started, eyes never leaving the glowing sight in front of you. "A place where you are finally free, but still misplaced since it was not the last destination where you should go." He hummed, processing your words that still felt unreal.

"Then why are you here?" All this afterlife thing was so foreign for him. "Why don't you leave and go to your last destination?"

"Oh, boy, you really asking me that?" You chuckled softly, snickering as if that was the dumbest question that you ever heard. Your eyes finally cast down to face him, and when he still looked so confused, you could only let out a sigh. "Because I am waiting for you, Eren."

You smiled wistfully, extending your hand for him to take. "What else could it be at this point?" He took it as he nodded at your answer. You helped him up, letting him stand by himself. And now as he looked around the endless clouds, he could finally embrace the fact that he was indeed — dead.

Anywhere he looked, he could only find the soft, white clouds refreshing the air. The colour was tinted orange as the sun in front of him shone like it would set anytime soon. But it had been perhaps minutes by now, and yet the colour never changed.

If he was finally here to feel his freedom, then he would take it. The world where he lived before was not his responsibility anymore. His friends had won, and it was not his place to ask for what happened next. Yes, he was ready to be free. But as he looked at you, he still had one, unanswered question that he needed to know.

"Hey, (Y/n)." He cleared his throat, melancholy striking his feature as your gaze met with his.

"Yes, Eren?"

How come you are here on his side? Why did you stay in this place alone just to wait for him? He killed you, why are you not running away? There was so much, so many questions that he never dared to ask you. But one, he needed to know the answer to this one question.

"Why don't you fight back when I try to kill you?"

You didn't flinch, you stood there with a neutral expression as if he just asked you if you had eaten before.

"Truthfully, Eren? I always thought that you were just trying to make me hate you. Looking at me with those cold eyes, tightening your grip like that." Your finger subconsciously went to your neck. "At first, I thought you were going to let me go at some point."

He could feel a lump start forming in his throat as he listened, tears were threatening to fall already. That was what you felt that night, you didn’t want to die. Of course, who in the right mind wanted to die? Let alone killed by someone that you loved.

"But as seconds passed and you were not loosening the grip, I understood." Then you continued, your hand now fell back to your side. Though, you still looked at him with earnestness written all over your face. "I understand that you had to kill me for a reason, that you knew it was for the best."

His breath hitched at your statement; which was supposed to make him feel guilty, to make him feel like he was not worthy of your faith. But with how there was no ill will nor sadness in your intonation, he couldn't feel any other feelings except — relief.

"So I believed in you, and I wanted you to know until the end that wherever I go next, I will always devote my heart to you."

You said it without doubt, as if you have been saying the same thing over and over again throughout your life. Yet somehow he could know that it was the truth. Perhaps you said that inside your heart for all the times that you spent with him.

While you still alive, you have put your faith in him, following him anywhere he goes. No one could sway your belief, you were devoted solely just to him. You praised his name, never leaving his side under any circumstances.

And he realised — that was the way you said you loved him.

So now, it was his time to do the same, to believe in you.

"Come on, Eren." You dusted the non-existent wrinkles on your clothes before extending your hand for him to take, a smile never leaving your face as you waited for him patiently. "Let's go home."

And without wasting another second, without any hesitation, he reached for your hand. The smile on your face widened at this, and the wind suddenly twirled around the two of you. He didn't know where home was, he didn't know where you would take him.

But as you started to walk in the direction of the sun, he followed. His eyes looked forward, dark green eyes turned into the emerald shade that was gone before. It was so beautiful, how he walked above the clouds, with your hand around his, guiding him to a new place called home.

Your laugh resonated in his ears as he caught up with you, gripping your hand tighter, afraid that he would lose you if he loosened up. Yet somehow he knew that he wouldn't have to be scared anymore.

Now he was finally free. From the burden on his shoulders, from the duty that was thrown at him by his ancestors, from the endless nightmare that he saw on each vision — it was all gone. And as his gaze fleeted toward your running form, he blinked in astonishment.

He saw you, a younger self of you perhaps, maybe when you were nine or ten. You looked beautiful, even with your hair slightly shorter, with chubby, adorable cheeks. Then you turned to face him, and he saw those glossy beads filled with purity.

And inside those, he saw a reflection. Of a boy not older than ten years old, with a brown outer and a sage green shirt, holding on to someone. Oh, it was him. He looked so free as he ran side by side with you, he looked so free with you leading him to his new home.

Laughter filled the air that surrounded you and him; high-pitched, carefree laughter that people would hear when children ran around the street to catch one another. That happy laugh slipped from both of your lips.

He held your hand tighter, not because he was afraid to lose you, but so he could feel your love even more. He ran with you faster, now becoming the one who followed you as he believed that you were going to take him somewhere, to the last destination.

A place where he could finally be free.

With you.

↪Back to Wall Maria

↪Citizen; @queenofcurse

↪Send an ask if you want to be a citizen of Paradis (taglist)!

#eren x reader #eren jaeger #eren yaegar #eren x y/n #eren angst #eren jeager x reader #eren aot #aot x reader #aot imagines #aot x y/n #aot #shingeki no kyojin imagine #shingeki no kyoujin #snk x reader #snk #eren imagines #eren yeager x reader #eren yeager imagines

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burberryharold · 3 years

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hey, lovies! i’ve been so excited to post this fic because i am in love with Harry and Jules and i hope you will be too (and excuse the lousy banner i just wanted to have something lol)! this is a part of @1dffchallenges’s valentine’s day challenge, so i hope you enjoy reading it and happy valentine’s day, it’s all about spreading love around so here is some love from me to all of you ❤️

a special thank you to @fireproofrry @bodejacketharry @strawberryystyles for beta reading and giving feedback, you are absolute angels <3

word count: 7.7k

warnings: none!

challenge prompt and dialogue: strangers alone on valentine’s day + “I’m allergic to chocolate. And roses.”

It’s official, valentine’s day is the worst.

At least that’s what Jules thought as she adjusted herself on the bar stool, trying to get into a comfortable position while she waited for her drink to be served.

It wasn’t in Jules’ agenda to spend what was supposed to be the most romantic day of the year alone at a bar ten minutes away from her apartment. If she was still with Leon, they would have been having a nice dinner somewhere, laughing over whatever funny story one of them had to share about their day at the company.

But alas, Leon was someone else’s now and Jules was only left with her own company.

Truth be told, though, Jules never minded being alone, in fact, she enjoyed being by herself because people were simply exhausting.

But being alone and being lonely were too completely different things, and Jules hated feeling lonely.

And valentine’s day only made that worse. Seeing loved up couples around her, flashes of red and pink everywhere she glanced, hearing cheesy love songs blasting through the speakers of the shops she passed by. Everything about valentine’s day just seemed to remind her of her lonely status.

Instead of staying at her apartment all night long doing nothing but watching rom coms and feeling sorry for herself, Jules thought of a better alternative, which was to get pissed drunk. So when she got up in the morning to go to work (because even on valentine’s day duty calls), she put on her favourite black dress, one that was sleeveless and had a deep v-neckline, and put on enough makeup to feel confident in the way she looked before pulling on her coat and venturing into the cold streets of London.

If she was going to get pathetically drunk by herself at a bar after work whilst everyone else was being all lovey dovey, then she would look hot doing it.

The sound of a glass coming in contact with the wooden surface broke her out of her reverie and she glanced up, finding that the bartender had placed her drink in front of her and he was beaming at her. “There you go, love, happy valentine’s day.”

After squinting at the name tag (she’s never seen him here before, he must be new), Jules forced herself to return his smile and lifted her glass. “Cheers, Jonah.”

Poor guy must have thought she was waiting for a date or something. Too bad, no one was going to be joining Jules on this fine evening. Just me, myself, and I.

Setting her glass back on the counter after taking a big gulp, Jules scowled as she was reminded of the items she had received earlier in the day. For some reason, Leon thought it was a good idea to give her a box of chocolates and a rose, even though they were no longer together and he had another woman by his side.

She appreciated the thought behind it, he probably just wanted to be nice or maybe he felt guilty, but his gift was staring at her, almost laughing at her misery and she wasn’t having it.

That is why she instantly asked Jonah for a fork, which caused him to send her a confused look but he complied nonetheless, and she proceeded to stab the pieces of chocolate placed perfectly in the box, taking out her frustration on the sweets.

Once satisfied, she dropped the fork with a clunk and heaved out a sigh, lazily resting her chin in her right hand before looking back at Jonah. He was staring at her with wide eyes as he dried off some shot glasses, surely thinking that she was a lunatic, but Jules just flashed him a sweet smile and shifted her eyes back to the chocolates she had just assaulted.

Poor chocolate, but oh well.

“Are you alright there?”

“What the fuc-“ The sudden voice caused her to jump in her seat and she almost fell off the bar stool if it weren’t for the hand that magically materialised behind her, holding her steady.

Before she had a chance to slap the hand off her back, the stranger retracted it and returned to his seat and she had the chance to take a proper look at him.

The man stared back at her with concerned eyes, a stool separating the two of them, but he was still not that far away from her. Jules wondered when he had gotten there because she certainly didn’t feel him arrive. Perhaps it was during her chocolate rampage.

What really surprised her though, more than his sudden appearance, was the fact that she knew who he was. In fact, she believed everyone knew the man sitting beside her because it was none other than Harry Styles.

Many questions ran through Jules’ head, the most important being what on earth was a guy like him doing at this bar on valentine’s day? Jules never believed in the image the media painted of him, but surely he has something better to do than be here, all by himself it seems?

As big of a fan as she was, the fact that he was right before her didn’t faze Jules all that much, her mind was more preoccupied by other matters. So, she ended up doing what she would’ve done if it was any other person: she glared at him and wordlessly turned back in her seat, pretending as if he wasn’t there.

He didn’t seem to take the hint.

“You were quite aggressive with the chocolate there.” His deep voice floated in the empty bar as he pointed at the box in front of her.

Jules inhaled deeply before responding in a flat tone. “I’m allergic to chocolate.” Glaring at the single rose lying beside the box, she grabbed it and tossed it on the floor beneath her, silently cursing Leon once more. “And roses.”

She felt guilty for littering, but she’d pick it up when she leaves. Eventually.

“Are you really?” The man beside her questioned, leaning forward in his seat, his body completely turned towards her at this point. She could tell from her tone that he was skeptical of her supposed allergies and she honestly couldn’t blame him.

“No,” she found herself shaking her head, signalling for Jonah to get her another drink, still keeping her body facing forward and only glancing at him from her peripheral vision, “I’m just fucking with you.”

To her surprise, he let out a small laugh, not seeming to be upset. Jules couldn’t help but turn her head a bit to look at him, finding a dimpled smile on his and she wondered what was wrong with this guy.

“May I ask why you were stabbing the poor sweets then?”

Figuring she should just put him out of his misery and answer his question, Jules huffed and crossed her legs, not missing the way his gaze flickered down for a split second before returning to her face. She ignored it and sighed, “Well if you must know, my ex gave them to me this morning.”

“Trying to get you to take him back?”

“Oh god no,” Jules laughed at the notion, her hand waving off his wrong assumption, “he’s as happy as can be with his new girlfriend.”

The blatant confusion on his face prompted her to provide more explanation.

“We broke up a couple of months ago, he left me for someone else. So he probably just felt guilty.”

“He left you for someone else? And before the holidays?” When she nodded in confirmation, he shook his head with a frown. “Bastard.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Valentine’s day just sucks, it’s just a reminder of how lonely you are,” she muttered with bitterness, “Of how lonely I am.”

“Well if it’s any consolation,” Harry said, pausing to ask the bartender for another drink, “I’m lonely tonight too.”

“Well, obviously, otherwise you wouldn’t be here getting drunk on your own.” With a few drinks already in her system, Jules practically had no filter whatsoever (not that she really had one in the first place).

“Touché,” he clicked his tongue, then leaned back to chug down the rest of his glass. Jules was almost concerned by how quickly he downed his drink, but she’s not in a position to talk, after all, she’d been doing the same. “But I’m not getting drunk on my own now, am I? You’re right here.”

She scoffed, eyebrows raising at his words. “Who said I’m keeping you company? Or that I’m not leaving any second now?”

“I don’t think you are.” He responded with much conviction that it almost threw Jules off.

“You think too confidently about a stranger you just met.”

“Let’s fix the strangers part then, shall we? I’m Harry.” He extended his ring-clad hand and Jules noticed a coat of red nail polish on his fingers. How ironic.

She sighed before deciding to entertain him, grabbing a firm hold of his surprisingly warm hand. Maybe she’ll allow him to keep her company tonight. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to leave her alone anyway.

“Jules.” She simply responded before turning back to her drink, swirling the pink straw around. She made a mental note to thank Jonah later for the cute straw.

“Jules” Harry repeated, as if testing the name on his lips and Jules would be lying if she said that she didn’t like the way it rolled off his tongue. “Is that a nickname for Julie? Julia? Short for Juliann-“

“Juliet. It’s Juliet.” She interrupted his ridiculous ramble. He surely was inquisitive. And did she really look like a Julianne?

“Huh,” he hummed, gliding a finger over the rim of his glass, staying silent for a few seconds and Jules thought he was maybe done for the night.

She thought wrong, it seems.

“Oh, Juliet, oh, Juliet, where art thou, Juliet?” He dramatically recited, voice going deeper as he stared upwards at a spot over the bar. Simply put, Jules thought he looked ridiculous.

She could hear Jonah snickering in the background.

“It’s where art thou, Romeo, but nice try.” She rolled her eyes in response to his theatrics. Almost everyone she’s ever encountered has commented on her name and made a reference to the infamous Shakespearean tragedy that she’s never been too fond of. It’s why she mostly went by Jules.

No one’s ever recited that line though, however wrong it was. That was a first.

“I knew that,” the curly-haired man mumbled beside her, swirling his glass and watching the ice cubes swim around, “was just joking, geez, tough crowd.”

Jules couldn’t help but roll her eyes again in response. That joke got old a long time ago.

She’s beginning to regret coming to this bar tonight. Maybe she should’ve just headed straight home and cuddled into her blankets.

“It’s pretty, though,” he added a few moments later, “beautiful name for a beautiful woman”

No way. She huffed, spinning in her seat to face him once again. “That’s your line? Tell me, Mr. Rockstar, has that really worked on anyone before?”

She could tell he was a bit surprised but tried to hide it; unluckily for him, Jules was a very observant person, hardly anything passed her.

“I-I didn’t mean it like that-“

She interrupted him again and leaned in closer, resting her elbow on the countertop and raised an eyebrow. His eyes flickered for a fleeting second to the charm bracelet adorning her wrist. “So you don’t think my name’s beautiful? Or that I’m beautiful? Sheesh, Harry, you’re not looking good here.”

Harry spluttered, staring at her with eyes blown wide in panic and Jules almost felt bad for messing with him; it was just hard not to, she was lonely and he was right there annoying her with his lousy jokes, so he has the unfortunate fate of being her victim tonight (and truthfully, he brought it on himself). And if she was being honest, messing with Harry Styles was just too entertaining of an opportunity for her to pass on.

To be fair, she was a little annoyed by his presence in the beginning, having originally planned to wallow in her misery all by herself, but now she’s having fun. She might just enjoy her time with him.

“No- no of course I think you’re beautiful, y-your name too,” he responded in clear panic, seemingly trying to figure out how he can redeem himself. Jules’ attention was momentarily caught by the way his rings glimmered under the light as he flexed his fingers, still fumbling for a response. “I was just-“

“Styles,” she interrupted him, yet again, with a light-hearted laugh and shook her head, hair falling forward on her shoulders, “Relax, was just messing with you.”

His shoulders visibly relaxed and he heaved out a sigh of relief; his eyes then narrowed and he lifted his hand, pointer finger wagging in her direction. “You really like messing with people, huh? Not very nice of you.”

“Made you sweat, no? Was just having fun. I can now say that I’ve made the infamous Harry Styles stumble over his words. How much do you think they’ll pay me for that hot gossip? Reckon it would be a lot.” She said as she turned back in her seat, now facing the bar once again, but she knew he caught the smirk on her face and the teasing lilt in her tone.

Coming to the bar was definitely a good decision.

Harry felt like a proper idiot.

Here he was, sitting at a pub with a lovely woman that clearly didn’t want to be bothered, yet he had to fuck things up and be a git.

And the Juliet bit? Harry had never been more embarrassed, he didn’t know what he was thinking, or if he was thinking at all. He made sure to remind himself that he wasn’t that funny and should just stop trying to be. You’re making a fucking fool of yourself.

In spite of his rather embarrassing advances, Harry found himself enjoying Jules’ company immensely, even if she had barely looked his way when he had arrived at his spot.

She might’ve looked irritated by his insistent attempts to start a conversation with her in the beginning, but from the way her body has been facing him for the past half an hour and the smile or two she’d thrown his way, Harry had a feeling she was warming up to him.

He discovered that she was an accountant, which thoroughly surprised him because she didn’t seem like one. Harry doesn’t like to judge a book by its cover, but Jules definitely didn’t scream accountant, more like a Greek goddess or something. Her black dress hugged her body in a way that almost made Harry dizzy; he had noticed her the second he walked into the nearly empty pub – and before he could even think about it, he found his legs carrying him in her direction (he was already headed to the bar anyway, or so he told himself).

Admittedly, the way she was stabbing the chocolates had him fearing for his life for a split second, but Harry brushed it off and figured she just wasn’t a fan of valentine’s day, if her apparent disdain for the sweets and the rose before her was any indication.

He was also surprised to learn that she’d moved here from America about five years ago and this pub was one she often frequented, yet Harry had never run into her somehow despite coming here a lot and living not too far himself.

He’s glad their paths have finally crossed tonight, though.

That being said, Jules was definitely keeping him on his toes. He never knew what she was going to say next, and she certainly did not hold back from saying exactly what was on her mind.

Harry found himself liking that about her, even if her forwardness came at his expense sometimes (he couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it). Oftentimes, people acted cautious around him and treated him differently just because of his status. Not Jules, though.

But now he could tell that she had something on her mind, from the way she looked at him then shifted her eyes elsewhere a second later.

“What is it?” He questioned, deciding to put her out of her fidgety state. He wasn’t sure what was holding her back, she certainly had no problem handing his ass to him earlier.

“It’s just,” she started, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, the movement catching Harry attention for a second before he reminded himself to be respectful, “what are you doing here by yourself tonight? I find it hard to believe that someone like you doesn’t have anyone to hang around on a day like this.”

Someone like him? Harry furrowed his eyebrows, not sure what she was implying with her words but he didn’t believe she meant it in a negative manner necessarily.

“That came out wrong, I didn’t mean anything like that,” she quickly defended, face becoming redder by the second and Harry was a little endeared by the sight. The woman before him was confident all throughout their conversation, having no fear in expressing her thoughts, yet now she was the flustered one. And Harry couldn’t help but enjoy it.

Time to give her a taste of her own medicine.

“What, thought someone like me had a flock of women at their beck and call and that I’d be off with one or some of them tonight?”

He gave her a blank look afterwards, pretending that he found offence in her words and he almost blew his cover at the way her face visibly fell.

“N-no!” she exclaimed, voice rising a few octaves and Harry could see the bartender, Jonah, suddenly flinch behind her from the sound. He pressed his lips together to silence the chuckle that threatened to escape and continued to stare Jules down.

“Of course I didn’t mean it like that,” she added in a much calmer tone, though Harry could detect that panic lacing her voice and he was starting to feel guilty. “I never believed that you were like that, I just,” she paused, averting her gaze away and staring at the lights above them instead, “never mind, just ignore me.”

Harry figured that she already knew of who he was and his status, and despite having just met her, the fact that she just said she doesn’t believe the rumours about him filled him with inexplicable warmth and he had to remind himself again that he’d only just met this woman. He shouldn’t feel anything of the sort towards her.

He could tell by the way her eyebrows were furrowed that she felt bad about what she’d said, so Harry called out her name and waited for her to look at him again.

When she did, her face holding an apprehensive look, he smiled at her and leaned a bit closer, which made little difference because there was still some space separating them.

“I was just messing with you, Jules,” he reached forward and flicked her nose, causing her to instinctively scrunch her face in a cute manner that had Harry’s stomach fluttering. “Doesn’t feel that nice now, does it?”

Jules chuckled in disbelief, wide eyes staring back at him and a smile was slowly stretching on her lips. “Touché. I see how it is then.”

Harry just shrugged, his own lips twitching as another smile threatened to appear. “Just having some fun, eh?”

Jules was now beaming at him and if Harry was standing, he was certain that his knees would’ve buckled at the sight. He already knew that Jules was gorgeous, and he was sure anyone would agree with him, but when as she smiled at him like that, eyes shining bright under the warm orange lights, brown hair cascading loosely yet somehow perfectly on her shoulders, there was no doubt in Harry’s mind that there was an angel sitting before him.

“Truce then?”

Her voice brought him back to earth and Harry chuckled before he shook her outstretched hand, marvelling for a moment at the way it felt enveloped in his. “Truce.”

“But to answer your question,” Harry said after a few beats of silence, glancing at her to find her eyes already set on him. “I didn’t have anything planned, haven’t been on many dates recently to be honest, so I just figured I’d come here and spend time with my good friend,” he lifted his drink with a wide grin on his face, “alcohol, the one thing that never let me down.”

Jules threw her head back in a laugh, the sound being music to Harry’s ears and he wished he could record it just to hear it again and again. “Amen to that.”

The two clinked their glasses together, laughing stupidly for no reason, before they threw their heads back to drink.

“Another round, then?”

Jonah suddenly appeared in front of them, startling Harry a bit. Sometimes he forgot that the man was lingering around behind the bar.

Jules took the liberty to respond for the both of them, exclaiming a “hell yeah, buddy!” that had the two men laughing, and soon enough their glasses were refilled.

After taking a sip, Harry leaned his head on the palm of his hand and set his eyes on Jules again, “So, are you a fan? Of me or of the band?”

He had to ask, he couldn’t help but wonder. If she was indeed a fan, she certainly didn’t show it.

Jules shrugged, playing nonchalant it seemed, but it didn’t escape him the way her cheeks seemed to redden. “Eh, I dabble. You’re alright.”

Her response made him chuckle. “Good to know.” Call him a narcissist, but he really wanted to know whether or not she liked his music. Perhaps he’ll inquire further later.

Because Harry knows that there’s no way he’s letting Jules go anytime soon.

Getting to know Harry was fun.

Sometime during the night, Harry had migrated from his seat onto the bar stool beside her, their thighs brushing against each other every now and then.

Tapping his fingers around his glass, Harry’s rings clinked against it and Jules couldn’t help but be slightly captivated by the action. She wasn’t one to stare at anyone’s hands, but she had to admit that Harry’s were fascinating to look at; his long and slender fingers, adorned by a number of his infamous rings, were truly a sight to see.

She took the chance to also admire his outfit, something she was too busy to do earlier on. His coat was long discarded on the stool beside him, which allowed her eyes to run over his figure. His upper body was covered by a plain white t-shirt with the word “Sex” displayed on his chest, a pair of pair of wide-legged black pants covering his long limbs; it was a simple fit yet it made it difficult for Jules to take her eyes off him. And his hair just looked so soft that her fingers were begging her to touch the fallen strands on his forehead.

Hearing Harry clear his throat broke her out of her trance and Jules realised from the smirk that stretched on his lips that she’d been caught in the act.

She tried playing it off, as if she hadn’t been shamelessly checking him out for the last couple of minutes and smoothed her hands down her dress, adjusting in her seat because honestly, her butt was starting to ache.

But she didn’t want to leave just yet.

Seeming to notice her discomfort, however, Harry downed the last bit of his drink before setting his glass down with a smack, causing Jonah, who was still lingering around them, to shoot Harry a warning glance and a low “careful!”, to which Harry smiled sheepishly before turning to face her again.

“Want to get out of here?”

Jules’ eyebrows shot upwards in surprise, having not expected him to want to continue spending the night with her.

“Sure there’s nothing else you’d rather be doing?” She couldn’t help but question, still struggling to grasp the fact that he still wanted to be around her. Her hands were fidgeting with the hem of her dress, eyes staring into his emerald ones as she waited to hear his response.

Truth be told, she was enjoying his company far much more than she had anticipated and she didn’t want to part from him just yet.

To her relief, a dimpled smile adorned Harry’s face as he took in her words before he shook his head, “Trust me, Jules, there’s no one else I’d rather be with tonight.”

She’d be lying if she said her heart didn’t skip a beat at that.

The two got up from their seats after thanking Jonah and fighting over who’s paying because Harry insisted on paying for her drinks. As she was gathering her things, she felt Harry’s presence behind her and she realised, after looking at him over her shoulders, that he was holding her coat up for her.

Heat rushed into her cheeks at the gesture, finding it sweet that he was helping her when he didn’t really have to. “Thank you,” she whispered, turning to him with a smile after feeling him adjust her hair.

His only response was a faint “No need” and he quickly turned to shrug on his own coat, the bashful smile on his lips not going unnoticed by her.

Flashing Jonah another smile, Harry extended his arm towards her and nodded his head towards the exit. “Shall we?”

“We shall.”

The two stepped into the night, the biting London air hitting Jules’ cheeks immediately and she was positive her nose was already red from the cold.

Jules reached into her pocket to grab her phone, realising that she hasn’t checked the device since she walked into the bar. There weren’t any notifications that she missed, which wasn’t surprising since her friends (all four of them) were out on dates or staying at home with their partners, so she was sure no one was thinking of her at the moment.

Noticing that it was already 8 in the evening and they were aimlessly walking down the street, Jules turned to Harry with a questioning gaze. “Where are we going?”

Leaning his head down to look at her (or perhaps to be closer, Jules wasn’t sure), he paused, seeming to think, before shrugging his shoulders. “Dunno if I’m quite honest.”

Jules found herself chuckling at him. How did her day end with her walking around with no purpose with a man she’d just met?

She looked at the sign closest to them before she turned to him and did something she rarely ever did. She found herself inviting him to her apartment because they were quite close.

A smirk found its way onto Harry’s lips and she started to regret her decision. “Already trying to get me into your bed, Juliet?”

She mentally cursed at the way her heart leaped upon hearing her name roll off his tongue. Almost no one called her Juliet anymore, except for her parents when they were being serious, but she found herself wanting to hear him say her name over and over again.

Shaking her head at the thought, Jules reached her arm out and lightly slapped his shoulder. “Oh come off it, you idiot. You can just go ahead and cry alone in your mansion if you want.”

Harry raised his hands in surrender and muttered an apology, although the smile lingered on his lips and Jules tried to ignore the fluttering feeling in her chest.

“Lead the way, then.”

“Make yourself at home, I’ll get us something to drink.”

The walk to her apartment was full of smiles and laughter. She’s come to the conclusion that Harry loves making people laugh, even if his jokes were actually awful, but she found it endearing; he was like a ray of sunshine bringing joy to those around him.

She was glad that she had cleaned up the place a couple of days ago, it would’ve been embarrassing to have someone over to see pyjamas and junk strewn over her furniture. Suffice to say, Jules was a bit of a mess around the house.

After hanging up her coat and Harry’s, she made her way into her kitchen and looked for the good wine she reserved for special occasions. She easily grabbed it, along with two glasses, but then Jules found herself lingering by the kitchen island.

It dawned on her that there was a man in her living room, and he wasn’t just anyone. This was Harry Styles, someone she’d long admired and holy shit was this really happening?

And as sad as it may sound, she’s never felt this connection with anyone before, never felt like the person before her got her and could keep up with her. Yet with Harry, it felt different, and that scared her because she’d only just met him a couple of hours ago.

And he was bound to forget all about her after tonight. He’s just looking for some company, and Jules didn’t think she was that special. Eventually, he’s going to leave. Just like everyone else.

Feeling like the black marble of the island was starting to swirl in her vision, Jules snapped out of her thoughts and sucked in a deep breath before moving back towards the living room.

Harry had his hands interlocked behind his back, perusing through her record collection and it made her inadvertently smile. She was proud of her vast collection of vinyl records, a good portion of them handed down to her by her father; they both had a deep appreciation for records that her mum often made fun of them for.

“Found anything you like?” He jolted at her voice, not having noticed her presence behind him, but then his shoulders immediately relaxed.

Turning towards her with a wide grin, Harry gestured to the shelf behind him. Jules liked the way he seemed to glow underneath the dim lights and she wished she could take a picture of this moment as a keepsake. “This is amazing, there are records here that I couldn’t even find.”

“You can thank my dad for that,” she told him, making herself comfortable on the couch but not breaking eye contact once, “he’s been collecting them for decades and I’m so glad he let me have some, like you should see his collection back home, it’s even more impressive.”

“Hope I’ll get to someday.”

His response caught her off-guard. Before Jules could react, Harry’s teasing voice carried through the room.

“You dabble, you said?” He smirked, turning the Fine Line record in hand to show her and also nodding to the space that held One Direction records. Jules groaned out loud and flopped against the back of the couch.

“A little yeah. Sue me.”

She blushed under his amused gaze, a little embarrassed that he’d found her collection of the band’s records and his own solo music.

“It’s okay,” he assured her, dimples adorning his cheeks, “think it’s cute that you’re a big fan.”

“Don’t know why that makes me cute but okay if you say so.” She mumbled under her breath, realising that he heard her when he chuckled.

“Mind if I put on something then?”

Jules shook her head, signalling for him to go ahead while she poured their drinks. Soon afterwards Stevie Nicks’ voice filled the silence and her lips tugged up at the choice.

The couch dipped beside her when Harry sat down, the scent of his cologne invading her senses. Jules doesn’t think anyone has ever smelled as good as him, but she chose to keep that thought to herself and instead handed him his drink.

A few moments of silence passed after he quietly thanked her, Stevie’s voice the only thing that can be heard.

“So,” he started, throwing an arm on the back of the couch, a shit-eating grin on his handsome face, “would I find any 1D posters if I went into your room?”

“Oh fuck you.” She threw one of the cushions at him, smiling at the way he threw his head back in laughter.

Jules did not mind his company at all.

“Hold on a minute,” Harry straightened up from his previously relaxed position on the couch, “you all work together and you see him and his new girlfriend every day?”

“Yup, you can imagine how fun that is.” She loved her job as an accountant, having always been fascinated with numbers, but she hated having to see him every day in the office across from hers.

It’s not like she hated him, they actually ended on good terms, all things considered. Leon wasn’t bad, he never cheated on her, but the feelings between them just died out, a flicker of something that dwindled into nothing. So, they were friendly with each other and that’s probably the reason why he brought her a box of chocolate and a rose.

But Juliet just didn’t like the daily reminder that she was in fact much lonelier than he was; it’s like rubbing salt in the wound.

“Shit, Jules, that must be hard,” he frowns, leaning forward to pat her hand, “I’m sorry you have to go through that.”

“It’s not that serious,” she mumbles, feeling heat rushing to her cheeks at the simple touch and she mentally cursed herself. She had sworn off men for the unforeseeable future. “I’m over him. You know, I actually think I was never really in love with him to begin with.”

“Why’d you think that?” He questions, his thumb still softly caressing her hand; Jules wasn’t sure if he was aware of that or was absentmindedly doing it. Either way, the touch warmed her.

“I think,” she started, setting her glass of wine on the coffee table so she could sink in further into the couch, the move unintentionally bringing her body closer to Harry’s. “I think I was just happy to have someone around, someone to spend time with. I’ve spent a lot of my life alone and I think I just clung onto him because he kept me company.”

A few beats of silence passed before she continued. “That makes me sound horrible, no, it’s not like I used him, I did enjoy his company and we had a lot of fun together, but I think I was just in love with the idea of him, not him.”

Harry nodded his head, leaning back and mirroring her position, “I understand. That’s how I felt in most of my relationships actually. I longed to have someone around so I wouldn’t be lonely, but I’ve learned over the years that having company doesn’t mean that you won’t feel lonely.”

“You sounded pretty heartbroken on your last record though.” If she wasn’t as inebriated as she was, Jules would have probably had some filter and wouldn’t have said that.

Luckily, Harry chuckled in response and relaxed further into the couch, retracting his hand from hers (she instantly missed the warmth), but he didn’t seem upset. “I was. I would say that I was actually falling in love with her, so I was a bit of a mess when she left me.”

His words made her frown. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t know how anyone could leave you.” She muttered under her breath, forgetting that she was usually louder than normal after she’s had a few drinks.

“Could say the same thing about you.”

With her cheeks flushed, Jules forced herself to look him in the eye again. “You don’t even know me.”

“But I’d like to get to know you.” He almost instantly shot back, resting his chin on his hand and his dimples made an appearance, “I think you’re very interesting.”

“Pfft, me? Interesting?” She laughed, waving him off with her hand. “I am anything but.”

“That’s not true!” Harry vehemently denied, sounding almost offended at the thought, which admittedly made Jules’ heart skip a beat. Just a little.

“I’ve spent a few hours with you now and I can already confidently say that you’re one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met,” his eyes shone bright as she stared into them and she could somehow tell he was being sincere, “and trust me, I’ve met a lot of people.”

Dramatically placing a hand over her heart, Jules flashed him her biggest smile. “Oh how special that makes me feel, I can just die happily now.”

Even though she was being melodramatic, his words did cause Jules’ heart to flutter. In the past, some people told her she was annoying, or brash, and some others would make her feel invisible and undeserving of attention.

Harry, though, was unlike anyone she had ever known. From the moment they met, Harry made her feel like the centre of his attention, never once ignored her or brushed her off, even when she was taking the piss; his emerald eyes were always set on her, giving her his undivided attention as he listened to every word that came out of her mouth.

Jules was definitely not used to that.

Harry threw his head back in laughter, a sound that Jules found to be a beautiful melody, and gazed at her with those bright eyes. “Oh you’re insufferable, I take it back.”

She gasped in feigned shock, crossing her arms with force. “No backsies.”

Another melodic laugh left Harry’s mouth and she couldn’t stop the smile forming on her lips; right then and there, Jules decided that his laugh was one of her favourite sounds.

“Backsies?” He echoed, his tone still laced with laughter, “what are you, five?”

“Shut your pretty mouth.”

“Oh so you think I have a pretty mouth?” His smirk caused his skin to flush and she cursed herself for saying those words. She really needed to think before she spoke, something her parents always reminded her of.

She recovered quickly, bringing her glass closer to her mouth. “I mean, it’s fine, your lips are a little on the thin side but-“

“Heyyy now,” he protested, pink lips forming a pout and Jules definitely thought about kissing them at that moment. “That’s not nice.”

“Never claimed I was nice now, did I?” Jules smirked, feeling a sudden surge of confidence as she took another sip from her drink.

Jules did not miss the way Harry’s eyes seemed to darken just a little, his jaw tensing as she continued to stare him down. Harry leaned forward, mouth opening to respond when suddenly a shrill tone burst their bubble.

Patting the couch cushions, Jules was trying her hardest to forget the look on Harry’s face as she searched for her phone. Stop it, Jules, he’s an international rockstar and he won’t even remember you after tonight.

She sighed in relief when her hand made contact with the device, but that quickly turned into a groan upon seeing who the caller was. Looking back at Harry, who was leaning against the armrest simply staring at her, she shot him an apologetic look before she answered the call.

“Hey, mama” she closed her eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Not that she was expecting anything to happen between her and Harry, but the mood was definitely ruined now.

“Hello, honey, how are you? Are you home yet?” Her mother’s calming voice sounded from the other side of the line, making her smile a bit despite the interruption. Ever since the breakup, her mom made sure to call her frequently to check up on her, even though Jules insisted that she didn’t have to.

“I am home, mom, yes,” she responded, shifting her gaze back to Harry who was now leaning his head against the back of the sofa with his eyes closed.

“Good, good. Just checking on you, cariña, how was your night then?”

“It was fine,” she paused for a second, not sure if she should mention meeting Harry now, but she decided it was best not to, “had a few drinks then went straight home. Think I’m gonna go to bed in a few actually.”

She could tell by the way Harry’s lips twitched that he was awake and listening.

“I won’t keep you up then,” some noise was in the background and she heard her mother whisper to someone, “okay, honey, good night! And your dad says good night too.”

“Good night, mama,” Jules smiled, finding herself suddenly missing her family that she hasn’t seen since the holiday season. “Tell dad I said good night too, and that he better spoil you today.”

Her mother’s laugh ringed loud on the other side, “We’re going to dinner tonight, cariña, and he even got me a large bouquet of my favourite roses! Joseph shh- Alright then, bye bye, sweets, love you!”

“Bye, mama, love you too.”

A few seconds passed after she ended the call before Harry spoke up, head tilted to the side. “That sounded sweet. Does she check up on you often?”

Jules hummed in response, resting her head sideways on the sofa so was mirroring his position. “Especially after the breakup. She just worries too much about me.”

“I don’t think she needs to,” he shot her a gentle smile, one that made her want to wrap her arms around him and bask in his warmth, “her daughter’s a very strong woman.”

Not finding any words to say in response, Jules continued tracing Harry’s features, lazily admiring the slope of his nose, the curve of his brows, the sharpness of his jawline; everything about the man before her was mesmerising.

Turning her gaze back to his eyes, Harry flashed her another smile before sitting up straight, the smile slowly dropping. “I should probably go now, it’s getting late.”

Jules immediately wanted to shout “no!” and ask him to stay, but the rational part of her mind told her that she shouldn’t, that she would only set herself up for heartbreak when he finally leaves her.

So the only thing she could say was a faint “Okay.”

As they stood up, it seemed like Harry was holding back from saying something, but she didn’t know if she was just reading too much into things. It was probably just her hazy mind (though she’d argue her head has never been clearer)

They silently made their way to her door, Jules feeling deflated at the prospect of his departure. Would they keep in touch? Would she just become a distant memory, a miserable woman he spent a lonely valentine’s day with?

“Can I-“ Harry abruptly stopped in his tracks, causing Jules to almost run into his back because she was trailing behind him. His demeanour was suddenly all shy when he turned to face her, cheeks flushed crimson.

Jules waited with bated breath and wide eyes for him to continue, heart beating loudly in her chest.

“Can I have your number?”

Relief washed over Jules and Harry visibly relaxed at the bashful smile on her lips. Jules didn’t know why he was so nervous, but the sight was so endearing to her.

She added her number after he handed her the device, secretly smiling at her contact name Juliet x. She already earned herself an x after her name after a few hours? Jules’ heart was beating so loudly she feared Harry would hear its calls for him.

Jules watched him put his shoes on, wishing the night wouldn’t end so soon and wondering if it would be too forward to ask him to stay longer.

Deep in her thoughts, Jules didn’t register that Harry was standing in front of her, bodies close enough that the scent of his cologne engulfed her senses once more.

“I should go now.” Harry whispered, leaning down and wrapping his arms around her and Jules had never felt so whole. She’s heard about Harry’s incredible hugs and now that she’s experiencing it, she never wanted to let go of his warmth.

Harry broke their embrace much too soon for her liking, but not before peppering a gentle kiss on the side of her head. “Good night, Juliet.”

Say something. Don’t let him leave. “Good night, H.”

And then he was gone and Jules was left on her own once more.

After staring longingly at the closed door, as if he would suddenly appear behind it, Jules sighed and made her way back to the living room, slumping against the couch cushions and wishing Harry’s arms were around her again.

Her phone dinged on the coffee table, signalling the arrival of a text. A simple “Hey. I really enjoyed tonight. H” was staring back at her.

Jules contemplated for a few seconds, heartbeats picking up their speed again, before she whispered “fuck it” and clicked on his number.

“Juliet?”

Deciding to go after what her heart wants for once, Jules didn’t hesitate to respond, “Do you want to-“

But an insistent knock interrupted her and Jules wanted to scream at the intrusion. Who on earth would be knocking at her door at this hour?

“Harry, hold on just-“

She takes frustrated strides to the door, ready to yell, but the sight behind it made her anger immediately evaporate.

“H-Harry? What are you doin-“

“What were you going to ask me?” He interrupted, sounding a little out of breath and she wondered if he ran all the way back to her apartment.

Feeling emboldened by his return, Jules took a few steps towards him and wrapped her arms around his neck, his hands immediately grabbing her face and pulling her closer, their lips joining together in a gentle yet eager kiss.

Jules felt her body melt in his hold. Their kiss only lasted for a few seconds before they pulled apart, still lingering so close that she could taste his wine-stained lips.

“Stay?” Jules asked, rubbing her nose against his, her heart thudding in her chest as she waited for his answer. Her words carried more weight than she had intended them to and she hoped they wouldn’t scare him off. But her worries vanished when she felt him smile widely against her lips.

“For as long as you’ll have me.”

Maybe valentine’s day isn’t so bad after all.

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed it and please come talk to me about Harry and Jules and tell me your thoughts!

#1dffvalentine #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles fluff #harry styles x ofc #harry styles imagines #harry styles fanfic

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softcallofdutyimagines · 3 years

Note

Sorry if I request too much lol. I really love your writing. If you haven't wrote this yet, could you do headcannons of the safehouse crew (or just Adler, Woods, and Hudson if the whole crew is too much) with an S/O who feels unlovable?

Aw, of course I can. But just so you and all my followers know, everyone is worthy of love, even if you yourself may not feel it, I promise it's true :) I love each and every one of you, this blog and these writings are as much for you guys as they are me.

You are seen. You are valid. And you are loved, more then you may know 💖

Adler

This man knows exactly how it feels to consider yourself unlovable

He's divorced for Christ's sake...

Honestly, he's not sure he could receive a bigger "fuck you", let alone a "no one will love you"

Alder's lived with that pain for quite some time, the dreaded voice nagging in the back of his mind that his wife was right

That he'll never be enough, he'll never find someone to love him...

And those horrible scars on his face seal her words and his thoughts like venomous sting, a curse that will never be lifted

Too old, too ugly, too broken...

Why would anyone want him?

Words cannot describe how awestruck he was when he met you, let alone when you two became official

He does all he can to makes sure you never feel the way he has, rejected and discarded, but sometimes...

Adler feels so helpless when you feel that way, but all he can do is try to reassure you and sit with you on it

He'll do or bring whatever you ask, but he finds it most comforting to hold you until you feel steadied again

Hudson

Some may experience the sensation of feeling unlovable now and then, and certainly, he doesn't mean to invalidate that, but...

Hudson knows a thing or two of having every damn person he meets treat him as such

He knows he's a callus guy, and maybe the choice he makes for the betterment of most doesn't settle with the conscious of the few

He knows he's not one for socializing or engaging conversation like seemingly everyone else in this damn organization

But does he really deserve the shunning and disrespect most everyone directs at him?

He's not sure, to be honest...

You see, that changed when he met you however

Finally, someone who loved him for him and didn't cast him aside or treat him as less when things got tough

You are the most lovable and worthy of love person in his entire life, perhaps that he's ever even met

It breaks his heart to hear you feel otherwise

He's not very good with fancy, soothing words, so he hopes holding you and telling you he loves you while kissing you softly will be enough

He'll stay with you as long as you need, because nothing matters more to him then your wellbeing

Lazar

Now this big guy has a bit of a different angle then most of the others on here

He's friendly, kind, and all around a lovable person

He doesn't know much at all about how it feels to be rejected or denied affection

At least, not in a serious, traumatizing way that is

Admittedly, it's a bit hard for him to understand how you can feel that way

After all, you're the most wonderful, amazing person in his entire life!

He loves you deeply, whole and completely, through and through with every fiber of his 6'4, 240 lb frame

But, just because he doesn't understand doesn't mean he doesn't want to take the time to learn

He wishes he could shield you from all the hurt and pain that's in this awful world, and if he could take it all on for you, he would in a heartbeat

But for now, he listens to your feelings and provides a shoulder to cry on if you need it

Lazar tries to instill a sense wantedness and belonging in you by trying to take you out to little dates and places you love

Anything to show you that he hears you, sees you, and wants you to know that he cares for your interests and desires

Mason

Oof, honestly I'm not sure anyone on this list seems themselves as truly more unlovable then Alex

If we're being completely honest, he doesn't even love himself after all

He seems to be a mean to an ends wherever he goes

Someone's tool to accomplish their own, selfishly motivated goals

The Soviets, the CIA, the Military... It doesn't matter

The things something like that does to you, it's...

It fucks you up

Even when he does meet you, things are slow going to start a relationship

But once he's confident in his standing with you, there's no one he trusts, confides in, or loves more in the whole world

That said, it pains him to hear you feel that way, especially because he knows exactly how you feel

Mason isn't sure how to comfort you really, considering he finds most of his comfort in being with an s/o, but he hopes to provide reassurance through being present for you

He's a thoughtful listener and can provide a hug, kiss, or cuddle whenever you need

Park

Park is a bit of the odd one out tbh

She's had nagging whispers of doubt that's she's unlovable, mostly thanks to her scar, but she never seems to really buy into them

And, as far as she's concerned, why should she?

She's intelligent, successful, friendly, and a whole list of other approachable, inviting traits

But, she does underrated where you're coming from when you tell her how you're feeling

All she knows is what she would want to receive when she's feeling low and in that dark place

She may give that a try if you're feeling unable to communicate, but she will always try to respect your needs and ask what she can do for you first

If you can't conjure the words, she'll bring you a nice glass of water and sit with you, hip to hip, until you feel a little more soothed

Sims

Sims is a guy who's lived his whole life as a drifter

The key point however, is that this is by his own choice

He's never really allowed himself the opportunity to feel unlovable because he never puts himself in such a position in the first place

When he feels lonely, he hopes on to the next person

When he feels smothered, he finds the smoothest way possible to create distance

You however, are his first real romance and he's determined to see this one through for as long as possible

The idea of feeling totally and completely unlovable is a foreign concept to him and he, like Lazar, will need a bit of guidance to understand your feelings

But nonetheless, he's happy to learn and wants to support you to the best if his ability

He most likely takes the same route as Lazar anyways, and tries to plan bonding style activities for when you're feeling down

His hope is that doing something to bring you both closer together might help you in the long run one day

Woods

You know, he's not as emotionally unintelligent as most people seem to think

Deep down, when he has time to reflect, he does get that sense of being unlovable

He's so just fucked up

And that's not even scratching the surface

Who'd want him, right?

Now, he doesn't usually feel that way is the thing

But when he gets with you and you express similar feelings...

He can understand at least

God, he'd do anything to keep you from having to feel that way...

He does whatever he can to try and show his love

Through deeds, through words, whatever it may be

Sometimes he just wishes he could punch the bad feelings away

But not everything is a physical issue, and some things have to be learned through trial and error

Woods wants nothing more then to please you and you'll find an adaptive, quick learner in him

Once he gets on track, a favorite tactic of his is to provide physical comfort through warm blankets and long cuddling sessions

#black ops cold war #call of duty #russell adler x reader #jason hudson x reader #eleazar azoulay x reader #lazar x reader #alex mason x reader #helen park x reader #lawrence sims x reader #frank woods x reader

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alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer · 3 years

Text

seventeen (paris, 1901)

this is inspired by "seventeen" by MARINA! i recommend giving it a listen! the way she sings the chorus honestly gives me chills, it really makes me think about how young alastair was when all of this was happening. sorry in advance for the angst!

cw: toxic relationship, bullying

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

Could never tell you what happened

The day I turned seventeen

Seventeen, Alastair thought. The number sat happily in his mind. It wasn’t a particularly special number. He still was not an adult in the eyes of the Clave, but he took comfort in the number. One year older.

When he was younger, he thought of his birthdays and the years passing optimistically, imagining that in the future there would eventually be a day where he felt like the age of his body matched the age of his mind. Now, however, he doubted that day would ever come.

Adults liked to tell him he had an ‘old soul.’ Parents always commented on his maturity. Not his parents, of course, but when he visited the boys from school or his family found themselves at some gathering of sorts, those were the words he always heard. Oh, Alastair is so mature for his age.

Perhaps that was his problem, he’d always thought. That was the reason he could never make friends the way that Cordelia did. The reason he never got on well with people his own age. He was never any sort of teacher’s pet in school, but he always found it easier to converse with adults nonetheless. He felt far more comfortable with Charles than he ever did with any of the boys from the Academy. It was all because he had an old soul, and his peers did not.

As he grew older, however, these designations made less and less sense to him. He did not feel as if his soul was old at all. In fact, most of the time, he felt more like a thirteen-year-old pretending to be a thirty-year-old than anything else. Now, he was certain that he would never feel like his physical age fit the rest of him. Still, seventeen was a nice number.

Alastair didn’t have strong feelings about birthdays. Most of the time, he simply did not wish for the attention. Back before he went away to school, birthdays were never much of an ordeal. They were far too busy with his father’s health to spend much time, money, or energy on something as relatively insignificant as a birthday. Still, he and Cordelia had a habit of making each other presents for their birthdays. His was in early autumn, September, and they’d spend the day outside, wherever they were living.

They’d collect the prettiest flowers and stones and anything else they could find, then build whatever they could make out of what they had. A castle out of clay; a crown out of twigs. It was nice; it was special. It was theirs.

Then, Alastair went away to the Shadowhunter Academy. He was not excited to spend his fourteenth birthday alone. He missed Cordelia dearly, and the bullying did nothing to help. On the morning of his birthday, he’d gone to the mess hall, attempting to contain both his excitement that there would be letters waiting for him and his anxiety that there would not.

When he arrived, however, the boys were waiting for him, Clive and Augustus and the rest. Clive was in the front, holding an opened envelope. He twirled a flower stem in his fingers, the petals clearly torn off. He could see a few other broken flowers, crushed at his feet. Augustus was beside him, holding out a letter for the others to see, already mocking the writing on the page simply because he could not read it.

Alastair would never read it either, whatever his mother had written him, nor would he read Cordelia’s letter. In fact, he would not remember most of that day at all, only the bruises after.

He did not write to them after that, and when he returned for the winter holidays, conveniently the same time as Cordelia’s birthday, he let the occasion pass without a word. When she asked him if he’d received the flowers she sent to him, he told her he didn’t.

She did not send him anything for his fifteenth birthday.

He spent his sixteenth birthday at home again, but it did not matter. He’d already put far too much distance between him and his sister. He considered trying to apologize for the way he’d treated her, promising to do better, but when the day came, he’d spent the entirety of the night before searching for their father who always decided to go on a bender a few weeks after they arrived in a new city. He’d wistfully wished himself a happy birthday at some early morning hour, gone to bed, and decided it simply was not worth the effort. The only thing he wanted for his birthday was for it to no longer be his birthday anymore.

Today, he was finally seventeen. He’d received two letters at the Paris Institute the day before, one from his mother, wishing him well on his travel year, and the other from his sister, though it was short and he was fairly certain their mother had forced her to write it. There were no flowers, and he did not deserve them. The boys at school may have hurt him, but the way he continued to treat her in the years after was entirely on him. He thought for a moment that he should find her something in Paris, a book or a piece of jewelry so beautiful and thoughtful that she would need to forgive him. He did not believe he deserved her forgiveness, though.

Charles was away visiting his family in London, so Alastair would spend his seventeenth birthday alone. He doubted Charles even remembered it anyways, or that he would have wanted to do anything special for it if he had.

Thus, he did what he did any time he needed some cheering up: he started by visiting various bookshops across the city. He did not typically purchase much from them, but he found the atmosphere comforting. His father was an avid reader and was always severely critical of his son’s tastes in literature. He had many opinions over what was worthy of reading and what was an utter waste of time. Any time Alastair attempted to choose a volume to purchase for himself, he inevitably felt his father’s voice creeping up in the back of his mind. He wasn’t certain whether he preferred the books that the voice favored or the ones it didn’t. Nonetheless, he disliked anything that reminded him of his father, so he resigned himself to casual browsing, purchasing books as gifts for others, and only ever buying for himself what he had the space to hide.

After, he’d take himself to an art exhibit or the Louvre. He was fairly certain he could spend weeks in the Louvre and never grow tired of it.

When he finally returned to the Paris Institute that evening, he’d felt content that at the very least, his birthday was not as terrible as the ones preceding it. As he entered the building, he was startled to see Charles’ coat in the cloakroom. He quickly hung up his own belongings and went to the dining room where dinner was already being served. Charles was there, politely chatting in French with the head of the Institute, Jean Beauvale.

“Monsieur Fairchild!” It felt odd to address him so formally, but while it may be appropriate to address Charles by his first name in English, it was not in French. “You’ve returned from London.”

“Yes, I just got in a few hours ago,” Charles responded. “How was your day?”

“Yes,” Monsieur Beauvale added. “You must tell us how you spent your day off.”

Alastair always felt like this question was a bit of a trap. He knew that Shadowhunters viewed art and literature as a waste of time, but at the same time, he did not want to show a lack of appreciation for the culture. In the end, he simply commented on the beauty of the city and the language, thankful that he could spend a bit more time learning about France.

A servant arrived then with a bottle of champagne, and Monsieur Beauvale proposed a toast. This was how Alastair learned that the Beauvales would be traveling for several months, and Charles would serve as interim head of the Institute. “That is not the only thing we have to congratulate you for, is it,” he added.

Charles grinned a humble, sympathetic politician’s grin. “Oh, thank you, Monsieur. Yes, it’s true, Ariadne Bridgestock and I are to be married,” he announced.

Alastair felt his blood run cold. He bit the insides of his cheeks, forcing a smile and a congratulations. The rest of the meal dragged on, though Monsieur Beauvale and Charles did not seem to sense any tension. When it was over, Alastair promptly excused himself and returned to his room. He suddenly wished desperately that he had purchased a book earlier, anything to take his mind off of this awful truth. Charles was to be married. He was marrying a woman. Of course he was, why would Alastair have ever been enough for him? Still, he felt as if he’d at least been owed a warning.

He heard a knock at his door, but he did not respond to it. “Alastair,” he heard Charles say gently. “Please allow me to explain.”

He should have refused. He should have told him to leave and been done with the whole ordeal. When he looked back on this moment years in the future, he’d wish he did. However, he was lonely, and it was his birthday, and thus he let Charles inside.

“I know you’re upset,” he began.

“I’m not upset,” Alastair said quickly.

“Right,” he responded. “Anyways, this is merely what needs to be done to please our families, both mine and Ariadne’s.” Of what Alastair knew of the Fairchilds, he had a hard time believing that they cared that much about Charles’ romantic life. “This is what I need to do if I wish to secure a position in the Clave, a real position, not simply interim head of an Institute. It means nothing, I swear it. She has no interest in me. It’s merely an arrangement; it’s not real.”

“Not real? You mean, you’re not getting married?” Alastair asked, not fully believing Charles’ words.

“No,” he said quickly. “I mean, perhaps, one day far, far in the future, I will need to, but I have no intention of getting married right now. I am merely doing what I must, you understand that, don’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“You know what the world we live in is like. We must do what we can to ensure our success in it.” Satisfied with Alastair’s reluctant acceptance, he pulled a long, thin box from his pocket. “I have a present for you.”

Alastair blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t think I would forget your birthday, did you?” Charles handed him the box, already smiling in anticipation.

He slowly untied the string securing it, and uncovered a fine, ornate dagger made of stunning Damascus steel. He must have paid handsomely for it. He knew that Charles did not understand his collection of blades, why someone, a warrior, would collect weapons with no intention of using them, but the dagger was gorgeous, each element of it expertly chosen. Alastair could not keep himself from smiling.

“I knew you’d like it,” Charles said, pleased. “Alastair, you know how deeply I care for you. I would never do anything to hurt you. I swear, everything I do is so that you and I could be together.”

Alastair looked at him in stunned silence. He’d never heard those words before, but he’d hear them many, many more before their relationship finally came to an end. At that moment, Alastair felt as if Charles’ words were true. He felt as if there had never been anyone to care for him as much as Charles cared for him, and there never would. He felt as though the key to everything he desired lay within this man. The way he was looking at him, this beautiful dagger in his hands, how was he to feel anything but loved?

He’d look back on it years down the line and wonder how long Charles must have planned that moment, if he’d organized his trip and his engagement all around Alastair’s birthday so that he could have an excuse to give him such a very expensive gift, whether the existence of it was merely a ploy to distract him from the reality of his engagement. If it was, it worked.

That night, Alastair held no doubts in his mind that Charles’ words were anything but the full truth, even as he left him cold and alone that night to return to his own room, only ever staying until he himself was satisfied. Many months would pass before Alastair would even begin to question that night, when he would begin to wonder whether it was the beginning of the end.

The rise of a king and the fall of a queen,

Oh, seventeen

Seventeen

thanks for reading! taglist (lmk to be added/removed or if you only want to be tagged in certain fics): @stxr-thxif @satanisanauthor @zosiaenrique @lifewouldbebetteronmars @littlx-songbxrd @dianasarrow @eugeniaslongsword @bookswitchcraftandcats @jamesherondaleofficial @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood @livingformyself @anarmorofwords @foxglove-airmid @writeforjordelia @sapphic-in @jem-nasium @fortheloveofthecarstairs

#alastair carstairs #anti buford boy #the last hours #tlh #fanfiction #fanfic #cw toxic relationship #cw bullying #stairstairs appreciation month 2021

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ibijau · 3 years

Text

Futures Past pt12 / on AO3

Lan Xichen gives Nie Huaisang a music lesson

Everything was perfectly laid out on the low table when Lan Xichen finished his preparations. There was a guqin, of course. Not his personal one, since it would have been unwise to let a complete beginner touch an instrument that valuable, but a very good one nonetheless, borrowed among those Gusu Lan used to teach its newest disciples. Along with the guqin Lan Xichen had also taken a manual detailing the different hand positions, how to play different types of notes, and how to care for an instrument. In case Nie Huaisang took a liking to playing music, as Lan Xichen so hoped he would, permission had even been obtained on his behalf to keep both the instrument and the manual for the duration of his stay in the Cloud Recesses.

With how unpredictable Nie Huaisang was, there was a real chance he wouldn’t want to learn after all, or that he’d be as unfocused with this as he was with most things at this point of his life. But if Lan Xichen’s plan worked, if Nie Huaisang took to music…

It was unlikely at this point that Meng Yao would ever work for Nie Mingjue, or for Jin Guangshan. Just that morning, Lan Xichen had received a letter from Jiang Cheng who had wanted to give news about Yunmeng Jiang’s newest recruit, stating that Meng Yao seemed to get along with everyone so far. Only Madam Yu had reservations, having predictably guessed that Meng Yao was one of Jin Guangshan’s many bastards, but his good manners and respect for authority apparently pleased her, leading Jiang Cheng to believe that his mother would eventually warm up to this new disciple. Lan Xichen fervently hoped it would be so, and intended to answer that letter to thank Jiang Cheng for letting him know everything was going well, and for taking good care of Meng Yao.

If Meng Yao settled well in Yunmeng, then Jin Guangshan would find it much harder to conduct a plot against Nie Mingjue’s life. The man had treated his bastard son like dirt, never realising Meng Yao was the best thing that had ever happened to his sect, never seeing his true potential. Without his son, Jin Guangshan would hardly be a threat to anyone.

Still, there were hard times coming in the near future. Even without the Jin conspiring against him, Lan Xichen had suspected in that other future that Nie Mingjue’s temper and inner balance had been hit hard by the pressure of the Sunshot Campaign, and so Lan Xichen had now inherited his future self's fears on that subject. There was a good chance that the Jins had only precipitated a death that would have happened too soon even without their interventions.

But if there were someone in Nie Mingjue’s entourage who could play Cleansing for him, properly play it, someone as determined as Lan Xichen to keep Nie Mingjue in good health, but with the advantage of proximity and availability…

Cleansing was not an easy song. Even among Gusu Lan disciples, there were many who could not play it well, and they were not considered inferior cultivators for that failure. Teaching such a complex piece of music to a stranger, untrained in the ways of Gusu Lan, would be a gamble, one Lan Xichen had lost in another life.

He would not fail again to protect Nie Mingjue.

A knock on the door called Lan Xichen back to the present. He was not surprised to find Nie Huaisang there, whom he invited to come in. Nie Huaisang appeared to be in a good enough mood, and bore almost no more trace of his fight with Jin Zixun. It seemed to Lan Xichen that the other boy’s nose used to be a little straighter, but he couldn’t be quite sure. It was nothing horrible to look at, anyway. In fact, it might even have added something to Nie Huaisang’s face, giving his face a certain charm he wouldn’t otherwise have developed until well into his twenties, around the time his brother died.

Or perhaps it was just that Lan Xichen had never paid attention this early into their other lives. Not his worst mistake perhaps, but a mistake nonetheless because it had allowed Nie Huaisang to turn into a cold, lonely, and cruel man, one who haunted Lan Xichen’s nightmares in this life. But maybe this Nie Huaisang, with his slightly crooked nose proving a brave heart, with a loyal friend to count on, would turn out differently.

Lan Xichen must have stared too obviously, because as soon as he was done removing his shoes, Nie Huaisang covered his face with his hand.

“It’s really noticeable, isn’t it?” he whined. “Everyone says it’s just like before, but I know it’s not. I’m disfigured!”

“You’re certainly not disfigured,” Lan Xichen assured him. “I don’t think anyone who hasn’t met you before would even realise the shape isn’t natural.”

“I will have to hide my face behind a mask for the rest of my life,” Nie Huaisang insisted, going to sit without waiting to be invited to do so. He picked the side furthest from the guqin, which Lan Xichen thought didn’t bode well for his plan. “Good, honest folks shouldn’t have to ever see something so horrific. I will have to go into hiding! I will live and die alone, having never kissed anyone because I missed my chance when I was handsome.”

“You’re still quite handsome.”

“I’m not! Lan gongzi, there’s no need to lie, there’s no need to pity me. My life is ruined. With a face like that, what do I have left to attract others to me?”

Lan Xichen didn’t know whether to laugh or be annoyed. It wasn’t the first time he was comforted to realise that not all of Nie Huaisang’s behaviour in that future that wouldn’t be had been a comedy aimed at distracting Lan Xichen from his true intentions. It also wouldn’t be the last time he found such comfort in those antics either. Still, Nie Huaisang really was too dramatic, and Lan Xichen wasn’t sure how to deal with it.

“Nie gongzi has many other qualities that might attract a cultivation partner.”

“I do not. Really, I don’t!”

“Then let’s teach you some new skills,” Lan Xichen offered, calmly gesturing at the guqin. “The history of Gusu Lan is filled with musicians who wooed their true love through their talent, surely Nie gongzi might find success that way as well.”

Nie Huaisang pouted, and glared at the instrument as if it had insulted his parents.

"I really don't know if there's a point," he said. "I won't have any talent for it."

"I've heard that before," Lan Xichen said, opening the manual to its first page. "From people who in the end proved very good at playing, once they got over their worries and just started. Wangji was absolutely terrified he would disappoint us all, and look at him now."

In fact, Lan Wangji had cried his entire first lesson. And the second. The awkward timing of it, soon after their mother's death, hadn't helped. Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren had needed to reassure him they would still love him and keep him in the family even if he turned out to be the worst guqin player in the world before he would touch the instrument.

And then he'd enjoyed it so much that within a year he'd caught up to Lan Xichen's level, before promptly surpassing him.

Brat.

"Oh you can't compare me to Lan Wangji," Nie Huaisang complained, but he still leaned over the table to better look at the manual, peeking inside with some curiosity. "He and I are of a different sort. Everything your brother sets out to do, he succeeds at. I'm just a normal person."

Lan Xichen's hands clenched. He remembered too well the respective failures and successes of Lan Wangji and Nie Huaisang in that future he hoped they would avoid. Though thinking about it, Lan Wangji did usually get what he wanted. He'd even gotten Wei Wuxian, though it had taken him a while. All Nie Huaisang had gotten was bloody revenge, at the cost of everything else.

"Ah, sorry, I shouldn't speak like that of your brother," Nie Huaisang quickly mumbled. "I guess I spend too much time with… it's just that people in your sect tend to be unfairly compared to him, when he's a natural prodigy."

"I suppose I cannot blame Su She for finding it tiring," Lan Xichen generously conceded. "Though he has qualities of his own, and should take pride in those. Although your punishment is now over, I hope you won't mind if I keep stealing him from you here and there to help copy texts."

Nie Huaisang gasped in horror.

“Wait so it’s your fault if Su-xiong hasn’t been around lately?”

“I thought it would be better to keep him away from Jin gongzi,” Lan Xichen quickly explained. "And even though I told this to him on your first day of punishment, I still caught him trying to come and see you again the second day, so this seemed a good way to prevent problems."

“I’m really so relieved that’s the reason Su-xiong wasn’t around,” Nie Huaisang said, looking more relaxed indeed. “I was so scared he didn’t want to hang out anymore, or that he was upset about getting scolded because of me…”

“Nie gongzi should have a little more faith in others,” Lan Xichen gently scolded. “Especially in your friends.”

Nie Huaisang nodded, looking at Lan Xichen with some surprise.

“It sounds like you almost don’t hate him anymore.”

“I am currently reconsidering my opinion of him,” Lan Xichen admitted. “I thank you for encouraging me to do that. You were right in accusing me of unfairness.”

It had been with great reluctance that Lan Xichen had involved Su She in his project to prevent their sect's library. He'd only given him some texts of minor importance, which Su She could not put to use if he still broke out from the Lan sect in the future. And even those texts were only given to him for Nie Huaisang's sake, because Lan Xichen realised he wouldn't get Huaisang’s trust without making concessions toward Su She.

Much to his surprise, Su She had acquitted himself of that task with diligence and skill, producing an excellent copy of the text given to him, without a single wrong stroke on any character. Lan Xichen had praised him for his work and, since there had been two days left to Nie Huaisang's punishment, had given Su She another text to copy.

Since then, he had become curious about Su She, something he'd never done in his other life.

Lan Xichen had trusted his sect to be fair in that other future, both as a youth and as a sect leader. Because the rules ordered fair treatment and respect towards everyone, he had believed that things were so. If anyone was unhappy, they would have reported their trouble to an elder, or directly to him. Indeed such things had been brought to his attention sometimes once he was sect leader, which he had investigated and set right again, proving to himself that the system worked. And if the system worked, then someone like Su She who had betrayed his sect in such a despicable manner could only be a villain.

Nie Huaisang’s surprising attachment to Su She had forced Lan Xichen to pay more attention to him. He hadn’t liked what he’d seen so far, but not for the reason he would have expected.

Su She was not only skilled in cultivation, something Lan Xichen had always reluctantly been forced to admit in that other future, but he was also dedicated to playing by the rules of Gusu Lan, bending to every rule even though the sect’s way of living clearly went against his entire personality, obeying his elders, working hard to please his teachers. And yet in spite of those efforts, Lan Xichen heard from some teachers that Su She was considered lazy and difficult. If pressed, those same teachers might say that Su She’s background meant he didn’t value hard work as a peasant’s son might have, that he lacked the education in classics he might have acquired in a family of scholars, and that he just didn’t have any refinement of manner as befitted a cultivator.

Su She didn’t belong, the same way Meng Yao didn’t belong.

Lan Xichen had a feeling that in that other future, his adult self had often been puzzled by the friendship between Jin Guangyao and Su She. Even when they had been revealed to be partners in crime rather than merely friends, Lan Xichen still hadn’t understood what might have brought those two to become so close.

It was starting to make sense now.

And this meant, also, that Gusu Lan had betrayed Su She no less than he had betrayed them.

“I’m glad as well, if you’re changing your opinion about him,” Nie Huaisang said with a happy smile. “He’s really a good person. Maybe he doesn’t always have the best of tempers, but neither does da-ge and you like him, so…”

Lan Xichen, however willing he was to give Su She a chance to prove himself in this new life, still shivered at hearing him mentioned at the same time as Nie Mingjue, whose death he’d probably helped in the other future. Jin Guangyao was very skilled, but it was doubtful he’d have mixed Cleansing and that other piece of music without a little help.

But that wouldn’t happen again. Meng Yao wouldn’t grow to hate Nie Mingjue, nor would he go to serve his despicable father. Not this time.

“Now that you’ve been reassured about your friend’s loyalty, how about starting the lesson?” Lan Xichen offered. “I do fear you’ll have to come sit on my side.”

Nie Huaisang grimaced and threw the guqin a worried look, but made no movement to get up.

“I really don’t know if it’s a good idea,” he said. “I’m such a bad student… I always get distracted and bored...”

“I think only because people usually try to teach you things you don’t enjoy,” Lan Xichen replied. “Come sit here, and let’s start. If really you don’t like it, then I’ll let you go and we’ll just forget about this, it’s fine. But you can’t give up without at least trying once.”

“You sound like my brother,” Nie Huaisang complained, but at last he stood up and walked around the table to sit closer to Lan Xichen. “Always saying I won’t know unless I try… and then when I try things and I don’t like them, he gets all upset and we fight. But… fine. Fine, let’s try this, I’m here already, anyway.”

With Nie Huaisang in such a mood, Lan Xichen thought that the whole endeavour was doomed to fail before it had even started. His uncle often said that it was near impossible to teach someone who didn’t want to be taught, and seeing Nie Huaisang like this made Lan Xichen understand what he meant.

Still Lan Xichen started his lesson as if nothing was wrong, explaining the very basics of how to play a guqin, demonstrating hand positions, pausing sometimes to play a few notes so Nie Huaisang would better understand what he was explaining. At first Nie Huaisang’s posture was closed off, his expression as reluctant as if he were listening to one of Lan Qiren’s lectures.

But as the lesson progressed Nie Huaisang's attitude changed. He looked more focused, and started imitating the different hand positions Lan Xichen was explaining even before being invited to do so. When invited to try playing a note or two, Nie Huaisang seemed to immediately know when the note was wrong, and dutifully listened as Lan Xichen corrected the movement of his fingers or their positions on the string, his expression one of intense concentration. He would then replay the note until he got it right, showing a determination that Lan Xichen wouldn’t have thought him capable of, not at this point of his life anyway.

Maybe it wasn’t just that the death of Nie Mingjue had changed him, or the lonely decade that followed, Lan Xichen realised. Maybe Nie Huaisang had always been that stubborn, but only about things that mattered to him… and because the things that mattered to him didn’t matter much to Lan Xichen, nor indeed to most people who met Nie Huaisang, they assumed he was easy going and unwilling to make effort,even perhaps a little stupid, just as he often claimed to be.

After a while though, Nie Huaisang appeared to hit his limit. It had taken longer than Lan Xichen would have expected, and indeed the lesson had gone on longer than he’d initially planned, but he’d allowed it to drag on, fascinated by Nie Huaisang’s unexpected determination. It was only when Nie Huaisang started failing to play a new note several times in a row that Lan Xichen finally suggested they stop for the day.

“I told you I wouldn’t be much good,” Nie Huaisang sighed, flexing his fingers to stretch their muscles. “I just couldn’t do it, in the end.”

“On the contrary, you’ve proven yourself an excellent student,” Lan Xichen replied. “Better than many I’ve had to help, and more serious as well.”

“But…”

“It’s only your very first lesson, Huaisang,” Lan Xichen said, “and we have gone much further with it than I expected. You have real skill for it, I believe, and far more importantly it seems to me that you have a taste for it. Am I wrong?”

Still flexing and rubbing his hand, Nie Huaisang nodded quickly, a shy smile on his face.

“It was… it was really fun,” he admitted. “Lan gongzi is a good teacher.”

“Nie gongzi is a good student, when the subject pleases him. Do you wish to continue learning?”

Lan Xichen would have expected Nie Huaisang to take a moment to consider the question. Even if he liked music, it seemed to him that Nie Huaisang had little affection for Lan Xichen, something he might have deserved.

It was a pleasant surprised when Nie Huaisang immediately nodded.

“I think I do want to learn, if Lan gongzi can spare the time.”

It would be complicated to organise. Just this one lesson had taken a lot of rescheduling. Lan Xichen had a lot to do, between helping teach the juniors, his own lessons, his uncle trying to involve him in the ruling of the sect, and of course the copying of books from their library. But becoming closer to Nie Huaisang was essential to ensure this new life would turn out better than the old one.

It might also be pleasant, Lan Xichen realised with some surprise, thinking how quickly time had passed while teaching Nie Huaisang, and how pleasant it had been to have such an eager student. If Nie Huaisang's interest in music remained, if he learned enough to have conversations on the subject, if his understanding increased enough to have debates even...

Lan Xichen's plan upon gaining knowledge of the future had been to gain Nie Huaisang’s trust rather than his friendship, seeing no value in the latter. A mistake on his part, he was starting to realise, and he hoped now to get both trust and friendship as a result of his efforts.

#xisang #nie huaisang #lan xichen #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #jau writes #double time travel #and with this I've exhausted my tiny buffer already lol #but hey look they're learning to get along!

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notnctu · 4 years

Note

a jeno smut (agressive😳) with 61, 11, 50. enemies to lovers - high school au

thanks for requesting! i hope you like it, you can read it under the cut!!

-author doie ❀

p.s. soft reminder to everyone that requests are now closed. we apologize for the wait and are doing our best to finish them all! thank you for your patience :)

e2l!jeno x fem!reader prompt #11, #50, #61 - “I’ve never wanted anyone to fuck me this badly.” & “You’re so god damn amazing.” & “Would you just shut up and kiss me already.” genre - smut (unprotected sex)

lee jeno, the popular attractive jock that had every person wrapped around his finger. who made the corrupt high school social hierarchy with athletes reining at the top anyways? jeno sits comfortably at the top of the food chain, while everyone gets chewed and spit back out. high school is going to be something you’d never want to look back on.

but your spitefulness doesn’t make you blind to the heavenly sculpted body lines of jeno. and if anything you felt for him that isn’t hatred, it is completely lust.

as you watch him dash across the open green field, his helmet protects his soft face, but the uniform hugs the thickness of his thighs. if it isn’t for your school spirited friend dragging you to a football game, this event would be no where on your agenda for a friday night.

“go jeno!” the cheerleaders jump at the bottom of the bleachers, with pompoms and their pretty matching uniforms. spins and twirls. claps and excitement. cheering in unison. the entire squad whipped for one player on a thirty person team. lee jeno.

the crowd goes wild when he lands the touchdown at the end of the field, earning the final winning point. the commotion overwhelms you and through the screams, you try to speak to your preoccupied friend, “can we leave now?”

“no y/n! we still have to join the players at the diner around the corner!” absolutely not.

you groan and cross your arms, “i’m just going to go home.”

“who’s going to take you?” she asks, completely immersed in the triumphant energy that surrounds the both of you.

“i’ll walk.” you say your goodbye while hurrying down the stairs. you kick at the dirt out of frustration and slight annoyance, a small cloud of dust circling at your shoes.

but when you look up, a sweat drenched jeno is running up to you with his helmet in his hands and the most taunting smile that has you walking off. “wait! y/n..” he calls and you really debate whether or not you’re willing to deal with him at the moment.

“bold of you to approach me.” you spin on your heels to face him and he shares the same annoyance at the encounter.

scoffing, “bold of you to actually show up to my game.” he bites back harder, a smirk growing at your silent figure.

“you did ask me to come.” you mumble, avoiding eye contact. and you feel a bit flattered that he even noticed you in the crowd of so many people.

he runs his free hand through his hair, pushing it out of his gorgeous face. “i’m joking. i know you didn’t come to just see me... right?” he lifts a suggestive eyebrow.

“oh because you’re so god damn amazing?” sarcasm lingers your tone, “don’t get your hopes up, jeno. unlike everyone else, i’m not brainwashed by your popularity complex. i had to be dragged out of my room to participate in such cliche high school sporting event.”

“okay, sweetheart..” the tinge of the nickname isn’t friendly, accompanied by an irritable smile through his teeth. “i need to go change, but is it too much to ask if you can meet me outside of the locker room?”

“it’s asking much more than i ever offered, which is nothing. why would i wait for you? nonetheless want to keep speaking to you?” his teammates are quickly rushing off the field, pushing at jeno’s shoulder playfully every time they passed by you two. and he’d only give a small smile in return.

“i think we really misunderstand each other..” he begins softly, “i just want to get to know you better.”

“make it quick.” you grumble. jeno’s face lights up, and his happiness puzzles you and makes you wonder why he actually cared to talk to anyone of lower status. he runs off to the boys’ locker room and you exhale heavily.

perhaps, you’ve never really given jeno a chance. he’s just always been in a bad light in your eyes, arrogance and pride? he never seemed like he cared about anyone other than his own status. and you never understood the hype around the school’s prized possession. and what made up your hatred for him was assumptions of his character... besides his random flirtatious comments, you avoided ever actually having a conversation with him.

when you see the rest of his teammates walking out of the locker room, changed and chatting among themselves about heading over to the diner, you walk over to the open door.

“jeno?” the locker room is empty, with very dim lighting. and you catch a glimpse of jeno’s bare muscular back, shorts hanging around his waist.

“has anyone ever told you not to freely walk into a boys’ locker room?” he chuckles and turns around, distinct lines across his abdomen from long hours of working out. jeno is extremely fit.

“i got lonely waiting outside.” you sit on the bench next to his bag. “you’re not going to the diner with everyone else?”

he shakes his head, pushing his things on the cement floor to sit right by your side. the heat of his skin brushes against your shoulder. “i know you’re not going, so there’s no point.”

you really couldn’t tell if he is being genuine, “when were you so obsessed with me?” you mockingly eyed him.

“when you became the only girl not obsessed with me.” he picks your chin up to face him and through the poor lighting, you see his seriousness blinking back at you. and he’s suddenly so close to you, feeling his hot breath pant on your lips and the drop in his gaze.

but he pulls away and begins cleaning up his football gear, what the fuck was that. “do you want to grab food somewhere else?” he asks nonchalantly, like he wasn’t about to kiss you several seconds ago.

“jeno, i’m suppose to hate you.” you stammer over your words, clenching the bench at the confusion that settled in your heart.

“why do you hate me?”

and you rack your brain with all the possibilities. “you walk around as if everyone is suppose to kiss your every step. you’re like the typical popular meathead.”

“you hate me because everyone loves me?” he laughs, “i guess it gets annoying when i’m all everyone talks about.”

“it is.. no offense.” you rub your arm sheepishly, but jeno doesn’t seem to take any hurt to your comments. instead, he’s still the go lucky happy boy that approached you off the field.

“i’m sorry then, i apologize on behalf of everyone’s obsession that it stopped us from getting to know each other.” jeno smiles kindly at you, “because i think you’re really worth getting to know.”

“we’ve barely ever talked.”

“but from those small interactions, i feel more than i would speaking to anyone else.” he grows a bit shy, rubbing the back of his neck out of habit.

it’s almost like jeno’s egotistic front faded away and you’re left with a shy high school boy. it’s so out of his regular character, so you wonder if this has always been the real him. underneath all the powerful glitz, is a shy jeno lies fiddling his fingers.

it’s your turn to lift his chin to face you. “maybe i’ve misjudged you.” you admit, your whisper tickling his bottom lip and you notice the tightness of his jaw.

inching closer and closer, he stops again and moments from pulling away, you hold his face in your hands. “is this okay with you?” he’s nice, remembering to check in on your comfort levels despite the heavy sexual tension that filled the locker room.

“would you just shut up and kiss me already?” without another second of hesitation, jeno leans in and presses his lips against yours. his hands travel up into your hair, down your neck to your waist.

“the first thing i learn about you...” he speaks in between each feverish kiss, his fingers holding the ends of your shirt. “you’re a great kisser.” he plants one on your cheek as he helps you out of your pants.

you lay down on the cold bench, your shirt is lifted to reveal your bra. he pulls down the fabric, your breast spill over and he sucks harshly at your nipples. your moan echos against the walls of the empty locker room and he slips a hand into your panties.

he rubs your wetness around your clit, dipping his finger into your hole. there isn’t enough time to dance around each other’s bodies, anyone could potentially walk in like you had before. you push at his bare chest, and slip off your underwear.

jeno follows, his cock springing up against his abs. he’s much thicker than you had anticipated, and you gulp at how good you’re about to feel. your legs wrap around waist as he rubs the tip of his dick up and down your pussy.

your back arches every time it hits at your sensitive bud. “fuck, i’ve never wanted anyone to fuck me this badly.”

jeno feels pride swell at his chest, “i’ve never wanted to fuck anyone this badly.” a small glint reflects in his dark eyes when he pushes into you. you muffle your scream into your forearm from the incredible stretch and the sudden intrusion.

jeno inserts him fully into you without mercy to you adjusting to his length. he pulls out, only to snap back in harshly. he grunts at the tightness of your walls around him, and it only makes him want more of you.

his grip on your waist steadies him as he fucks you into an oblivion. you’re a moaning mess every time you feel how good his hips roll into you. “fuck me like you fucking hate me, jeno.”

he smirks, “fucking the enemy? that’s bold of you.” jeno pulls you to sit up, his dick now hitting upright into you. your arms naturally wrap around his neck and your legs fall over his thighs.

his hands hold your ass, moving your hips up and down for you. “does this feel good, baby?” he whispers into your ear as he grinds more aggressively.

“fuck yes.” you breathe out. his tip kisses your sweet spot so harshly, enough for you to see stars. then he bottoms out as your legs start to shake around him.

“you want to cum, hhmm?” he hums, holding your hips in place as he rolls deeper and deeper into you. his grip on you is too strong, unable to move away from the pleasurable sensation, it’s inescapable.

“y-es.” you barely get out before every part of your lower half spasms out of control from the goodness. a soft moan erupts from your throat as your climax runs its course. jeno bites down on your shoulder lightly, muffling his low grunts.

despite your walls gripping onto him for your dear life, he gets a few rough thrusts to edge himself to his own orgasm. right when he’s about to explode, he pulls out and sprays across your tummy. his white liquid creates paint strokes across your skin.

you kiss his cheeks, leaving a small peck on his lips. through hot deep breaths, you both try to control your fast paced hearts. “so, did you still want to get food?” he chuckles.

“you still want to get to know me?” you quiz him, getting lost in his dreamy eyes.

“of course, i meant it. this..” he stands up to carry you to the bathroom. “..this is just the beginning of us.”

#nct smut #nct scenarios #jeno #jeno smut #lee jeno #nct #jeno scenarios #nct asks #nct requests

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