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Dazai didn't mind you playing with his hand. In fact, he kind of liked the attention and care you seemed to be showing him, even if it was just towards one appendage. Light tugging and pushing on fingers, delicately tracing his knuckles and the scars littering the back, and even occasionally lacing your fingers with his for a moment — Dazai was happy to let you do it all. To think hands that have previously participated in such horrid acts could be treated so gently made butterflies erupt in his tummy.
He let you do whatever (having trouble saying no to you) while he wasted time rereading his book. You'd pull his hand to your face sporadically through your time playing with it, so it never caused Dazai any alarm. Sometimes you would inspect it closely, sometimes you'd drag his calloused fingertips along your cheek just to see if the degree of toughness had changed, but his favorite was when you'd press a tiny kiss to his palm. Usually that meant playtime was over — soon you'd drop his hand onto his lap and scurry away. Even knowing it brought about the end of his favorite time with you, the tingly feeling of your lips on his skin lingering long after you'd leave made it worth it. All this to say, Dazai was used to you tugging his hand up towards his face, bringing it closer to your mouth. He had to work overtime to keep his heartbeat steady, certain of what was to come next, when...
"Ow!"
It was hard to catch Dazai off guard. You weren't even trying, you just... Well, you wanted to see what would happen.
"Did you just bite me?" He couldn't help the amused (his coworkers would say smitten) smile on his lips as he turned to look at you.
You turned to him with wide doe eyes, a deer caught in headlights as you seemed unaware you had even done something wrong. Timidly, you press a tiny, chaste kiss to the tip of his middle finger — the same finger you'd gently bitten the top of moments prior.
"Mmh... Sorry, Dazai." Your words were languid, gently squeezing his hand before dropping it out of your hold.
Dazai wanted to pout, to say 'you forgot my kiss' while pointing to his palm, but he was too focused on his middle finger — the tingling of where you kissed him and the warmth of your mouth he'd felt around his fingertip for a fleeting moment. As you shuffled beside him, preparing to stand up, his hand shot out to grip yours.
"Where do you think you're going?"
The smirk on his face told you he wasn't too upset by your impulsive action, breathing out a sigh of relief. "Um, away..?"
A grin spanned across his face as he leaned closer. "Not before my payback, you aren't."
Losing distance, his mouth opened slowly until his head stopped just over your shoulder. "I require penance, you know," he mumbled before biting down onto the soft skin.
As well as being super busy, I've felt quite unmotivated for a while too
Even if it's just a "insert-username liked your post" it makes me remember that people do want to read my writing. One simple thing changes a lot, whether it be a comment, share, or follow.
I'm not trying to persuade anyone to follow/share because of a single post that they like, I'm just trying to let you see how it affects me, as a writer.
A World Without Him
Chapter 11
(TW some strong language and minor blood)
Tang could feel himself wake from unconsciousness. His body became solid as he was pulled from the void that made up his dreams.
His eyes and limbs felt heavy, as if he was buried beneath the ground. Still, he could barely feel a cold breeze flow over his forehead as he listened to the sounds around him.
The rustling of curtains, birds chirping outside, distant voices of people on the street, and his own breathing flow into his ears. The sounds distant, yet too loud as they rushed into his head.
Then he tried to focus on his surroundings instead of losing himself in the white noise, as that wouldn't help him move any time soon.
Now Tang felt the smooth and cold surface he was laying on. The grooves of age in what seemed to be hardwood flooring gave him an idea of where he'd been placed after he collapsed outside...
How did I even get back inside, in my bedroom, no less? My apartment's on the 5th floor...
The hard floor dug into his side as he felt his clothes and hair had layers of grime on them. It gave an uncomfortable weight to his clothes. Then he remembered this was what he had on while at the library.
Don't think about that.
The point being, he was covered from head to toe in dust and other debris. He must have looked crazy yesterday when he ran panicked through the streets.
I shouldn't have left.
With a sigh and with his eyes still heavy, he planned to start pushing himself off the floor to stop the stabbing pain in his side.
However, he could barely sit up straight before he felt two hands grab harshly onto his shoulders. His eyes flung open as he was pushed up into a standing position by the hands, stumbling forwards from the excess force like a rag doll.
He snapped his head around to look behind him, but he couldn't see anything because of his damaged vision. A blurry silhouette was all he could barely see before it seemed to dissipate back into thin air.
Tang froze in place, waiting for the thing to make another move. Yet, he didn't hear or feel anything else for the minutes he stood completely still.
A small chuckle broke out from his short, silent breaths. He then broke into manic laughter as tears ran down his face and onto the hardwood floor. He could barely breathe as the laughter kept getting louder and louder as he doubled over.
'...Geeze, has he already gone insane?'
'From our efforts in stopping the big guy, I don't really blame him.'
Tang's laughter abruptly stops, his vocal cords stinging from continuous use. He shoots up, grasps his glasses, and looks around his room frantically for the source of the voices. He finds nothing other than a breeze from the open window.
The laughter returns, now louder than before. "I'm going insane!" He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling strands into his face. "I just wanted everything to go back to normal! I JUST WANTED TO BE FREE OF THESE FUCKING VOICES! I never wanted any of this!"
Smoke started to rise from where Tang stood on the hardwood floor as tears started to run down his face once again. "But no! I have to almost die! I have to see someone I care about LOSE A FUCKING LEG! I have to be tortured every night through my nightmares and have them FOLLOW ME THROUGHOUT THE DAMN DAY!"
Everything was suddenly too quiet for Tang as his labored breathing echoed through the bedroom. Tear streaks ran rapidly down his cheeks and onto the steaming floor.
He stared as the drops fell and dispersed among the ground. He could hear more whispers enter his mind, but he couldn't care less at the moment.
A small chuckle was the only warning before he bolted out of the bedroom, through the complete mess of a living room, and into the bathroom.
He wanted to be free of the filth covering his body. The dust and debris that killed maimed Allan when those monsters attacked the library...
Monsters?
Don't go farther down that road.
Tang only sighed at his thoughts before stripping and seeing the scorched handprints on the back of his overcoat. He grimaced before dropping it onto the ground, putting his glasses onto the edge of the sink and throwing himself into the shower. The scalding hot water turned his skin red as the stinging replaced the grime that used to cover his body.
Still, he scrubbed and scrubbed at his skin and hair until he was sure there was no more filth stuck to his body. Afterward, he let the water flow over him as he stood unmoving. Closing his eyes, he relished over the burning feeling.
He only opened them again when the water started to turn cold: the heat no longer being supported from his overuse. He slowly turned the knob to stop the water before stepping out and grabbing a towel off of the door handle.
After ruffling his hair with the towel and wrapping it around his waist, he sat down onto the toilet seat to take a breather. The cold air from the door left ajar helped him to cool down and think.
Am I really going insane? He thought. This has happened too many times to write off by now. Why is this even happening to me?
Why can't everything just end?
He choked up quiet sobs, putting his head into his arms. The lights above him flickered, and yet he just couldn't care anymore. He looked up blankly at the light bulb before rubbing his eyes and standing up to walk to the mirror.
He took his glasses off of the sinks edge and leveled them onto his face. He noticed the left side was cracked as he looked into the fogged up mirror, seeing the left side in pieces.
Tang grumbled as he wiped the mirror to uncover his eyes so he could see the damage done.
The lights flickered. He gasped as he saw his eyes suddenly turn blinding orange with blood splatter caked over his face in the mirror-
*CRACK*
Pieces of the mirror fell to the floor. His knuckles barely stung from the force he put into the punch. The mirror was now cracked and scattered onto the tiled bathroom floor.
With his heartbeat steady, Tang slowly pulled his fist from the reflective remnants. A hole through and mirror and into the back wall was now shown, some blood speckled in from his cut hand.
Holding his curled up hand, he saw the small shards now embedded into his knuckles: small trails of blood running down his arm.
He stared blankly at the cuts before rummaging into his cabinets and taking out a nail kit. It took some effort, but he was able to wrangle out tweezers from the case eventually.
He washed the hand with warm, soapy water before taking the tweezers and slowly pulling out each shard. His face was blank the entire time as he took each chunk out of his skin, even when washing his hand again and wrapping it up in bandages.
The whole debacle was over in a few minutes, even though it felt like hours to him. He looked back at the mirror. I guess I have to put another thing onto the to-do list.
Brushing the shards off the ground and clothes he left on the bathroom tile, he threw them into the bin and walked back into the living room.
In the messy state that it was, he could see many random pieces of clothing all over the floor and broken furniture. He could see leather jackets, old headbands, and even a Pigsy's shirt from when he used to work there.
Yet the thing that caught his eye was his matching jacket and pants he used to wear for special occasions. The soft navy fabric of the jacket and gray fabric of the pants Tang remembered helping calm him in those high tension situations.
The overcoat was long and had silver floral designs at the bottom near the calves and on the cuffs of the sleeves. The pants were similar, having those same floral designs at the pant cuffs. They were both hung over what was left of the coffee table.
He barely had to think before putting them on with underwear, a tan turtle neck, black flats, and the maroon scarf he snagged from his old clothes pile. It had the least debris on it.
Now feeling snug against multiple layers, which made him feel less cold and empty, he could finally do, erm...
Why did he dress up anyway?
He really didn't know why he put in this much effort, but now he supposes he might as well go out and do something other than being cooped up in his apartment.
Walking into his bedroom, he noticed the window was still open from the night before. The breeze barely bothered him as he shut the window yet again.
Now, hopping onto his bed, Tang reaches for his cracked phone to see if anyone messaged him for something. The only things in his notifications were a text from Pigsy and some ads about manga sales and new releases.
He then suddenly remembered how he had promised to see Pigsy. Yesterday morning, where he basically had a mental breakdown the entire day...
I am going to get so much crap for this.
He sat up and out of bed before turning off his phone. Maybe if he got there quick enough today, Pigsy would be a bit more forgiving? Who is he kidding, but maybe it was better to get it over with and a good distraction from what happened yesterday.
With that plan set in his mind, Tang took quick strides out of his apartment after locking it, of course, and started to walk the regular path to Pigsy's noodles.
The day was cloudy, yet no rain was supposed to come down today. With the sun blocked out, everything seemed a bit less vibrant than usual, which he was glad for as it would be a bit overwhelming otherwise with all the neon to go with the sun's rays.
The walk was quiet up to Pigsy's, putting him on edge as he looked back, on top of roofs and into alleys to see if anyone was following more times than he could count. Yet when he got to the shop door, there was something wrong with it: it was closed. Pigsy's was closed, on a weekday, during rush hour.
Oh no, did something happen to him?!
Tang quickly took out his phone to text Pigsy and realized he still had a message from him he hadn't read yet. Sitting on one of the outside benches, he opened the text from Pigsy
Pigsy 🍜🩷
10:46 AM
Pigsy: Hey
Pigsy: Just letting you know Mk dragged us onto a trip to Flower Fruit Mountain to help wrangle some Monkeys for Monkey King or something, might be gone for a few days.
Pigsy: I couldn't tell you earlier because Mk just grabbed me and Sandy out of the shop and I could barely close it in time.
Pigsy: I tried to tell them what we had planned but Mk and Mei were too energetic to reason with
10:47 AM
Pigsy: I'm sorry for ditching you yesterday, but we're still having that talk when I get back. No excuses.
Tang just stared at the message, trying to reason with what it said.
Mk took Pigsy and Sandy without me? I know they haven't talked to me much lately, but they still would've dragged me along to whatever stunt they were going to pull. Even if not, they would have told me before doing anything! There wasn't even a text...
That left a gross feeling in Tang's chest.
And what if I had shown up yesterday? I wouldn't have even known if they were okay until this mornings text! Did they not even think about how worried I would've been? Did they even consider how I could have felt at all?
He only shook his head at the thoughts, trying to drive away the bad feelings that came with them. He knows he and Mk haven't talked much lately; the same goes for Sandy and Mei, but he still knows what's going on with them! He still talks and tells them what's happening through the group chat to show he's still there!
Yet why does it feel as though I've been forgotten about? Why do I feel a sense of doubt now? He thinks as he leans back onto the bench.
He thinks back to the library, an unwanted thought crossing his mind. Mk didn't even try to keep the damages to a minimum as he redirected the strikes to the roof instead of blocking them with his staff.
And he looked so carefree and happy after the incident! Did Mk even know Tang was there? Did he even think about the possible damages he had caused? And he just leaves afterward, posing with tea and smiling!
Do they ignore or filter everything he says?
...Does Mk even care about him anymore?
...
...
I should stop.
All this self-loathing is getting him nowhere. It's not as if he was hurt during the battle. He doesn't have a right to be angry about a lack of care when someone got it worse than him.
Now, his thoughts were back to Allan. He didn't deserve anything that happened to him that day. He had gotten it so much worse than him, so why is Tang complaining?
Suddenly, an idea crossed his mind. He could check all the hospitals near the library to see if Allan was registered anywhere! It's not a full proof plan, but it was something worthwhile he could do while he was already out of a slump.
So he started to walk to the library, or what was left of it, to see if he could start there. When he arrived, he could barely believe what he could see. The entire roof is gone, save the few glass panels still stuck on the back, the walls were seemingly about to crumble at a slight breeze, and different holes ranging from sizes were stuck throughout the building, making it dangerous if most of it weren't already crumbled onto the ground.
Yellow tape covering the premises swayed back and forth as Tang walked onto the parking lot sidewalk, not daring to get closer lest something were to fall again.
He already had a bad feeling when he arrived, and it almost got doubly worse when he stopped at the sidewalk. Nevertheless, he had wanted to see what the remains looked like, and now he knew. Taking a deep breath and looking away from the building, he checked his phone for the nearest hospitals.
Among the list was one that looked eerily familiar. MSH was listed near the top, and it seemed like a fever dream to be seeing it here.
Now, along with this feeling of familiarity, he felt compelled to follow this lead. Maybe to help the new bad feeling in his stomach from those letters, but he'll try anyways.
The walk isn't that far; it's about the same length it takes to get to the docks from his apartment. When he arrives in front of the hospital, he suddenly gets a sense of deja vu, like he's been here before.
Ignoring the feeling, he steps through the doors and heads up to the receptionist at the desk. "Hey there." Tang greeted a bit awkwardly. The receptionist just smiled. "Hello there, how can I help you today?"
Tang seemed to lose vigor as he continued to speak. "Erm, I was wondering if you had any teenage admitants named Allan? I-I was just wondering since I was his colleague at the library when it got attacked, and I know it's probably personal information but-"
The receptionist held her hand up halfway through his ramble. "I understand your concern, and if he is permitted here and allows friends to visit, you're welcome to see him. I'll just have to see if he's registered in our care, so please give me a moment."
Tang sheepishly sat down at one of the lobby seats as the receptionist went back to typing on her computer. After about 10 minutes, she called him back up to the desk. "We do have an Allan Bentley in room 1225. He's in for an injured leg, is allowing visitors, and he came from the library attack. Is he who you're looking for?"
He knew it was Allan from the leg injury; he saw him get wheeled away himself. He quickly affirmed the receptionist and thanked her before moving towards the elevator.
Following the signs on the walls with little difficulty, he was able to find room 1225. Yet, Tang hesitated in front of the door. Did Allan even want to see him? Did Allan blame him for what happened? He wouldn't put it past the kid if he did.
But he wanted to see if he was alright. Wanted to see Allan breathing and alive, even if that was a bit selfish of him since he's the one who slowed him down in the first place.
So before he can back out of it, he opens the door. The room is steril and white, with the acception of some window stickers from previous patients, most likely.
He walked slowly up the bed and gasped at what he saw. Allan seemed more thin and pale than he remembered. His brows were creased even in his sleep as he breathed slowly in a rhythm.
Tang thought Allan would be awake since visiting hours were still open, but he must be lucky to catch him right after he fell asleep.
Looking at the bedside table, he could see comics of some kind, with the first addition of Monkey Cop at the top. It seemed like Allan was able to keep it, even through the whole debacle.
This lifted a weight off of Tang's shoulders. Seeing how Allan kept the comic must mean he doesn't completely hate him now and is coherent enough to read already, as it seems to have more wear than when he first gave the comic to him.
He gives a small smile as he slowly puts his hand on Allan's head, comforting the kid to uncrease his brows just a bit and feel his chest rise and fall.
He left quickly after that. He couldn't stay in that room much longer when he knew how much pain Allan was in right now. He could see the void where his left leg used to be under the blanket.
The feeling of regret only got worse as the sky started to dim on his way back. Why did Allan have to suffer like that? Why couldn't I save him? Why wasn't he able to make it out okay like everyone else?
It was the fight.
Tang was now in front of his apartment door. He had stopped in front of it as the voice spoke from behind.
That child took to fight too recklessly. He directed the strikes to the ceiling, causing it to fall onto you and Allan.
No, no, it wasn't Mk's fault. There was a lot going on, and everything was just chaos-
Yet the child seemed to deny those stakes. You saw how he moved on so quickly, how he smiled and joked about it afterward, taking nothing about it seriously.
Tang looked to the ground, a gross feeling climbing up his throat.
But he did care! He even reached out to me after he found out I was there!
And that is the problem. He only cared about the companion he could have lost, not for the other lives he'd endangered. Heck, he only started to care when someone else showed him you were there.
The voice spoke with certainty, venom apparent in its tone.
Do you think he would have worried were it not for that reminder? Do you really think he would have looked twice if you were someone unrelated to him?
But Mk is a good kid! He didn't look only because he thought everyone had made it into the shelter.
He started to shake with rage as the voice kept going with its remarks.
Yet he knew you were there, and he didn't even stay to check if you were alright? Did he even know you were there? Did he not give you the simplest time of day that he completely forgot about your existence.
Stop.
Do you really think you matter to him anymore? It's not like he even bothered to tell you about the trip yesterday, where he left you completely alone with no contact. Do you think someone like that is worthy of having those powers?
Stop it.
Someone like that shouldn't be worthy of anything, nonetheless powers to destroy whole cities. You know what happened, and you couldn't save Allan that way. That boy doesn't deserve the abilities he has, and takes them for granted.
Why are you doing this?
Tears roll down Tang's face yet again.
Why should he get these powers? Why should he be the chosen one when you are much more deserving? Why does he get to take power for granted when you struggle every day to keep people safe and survive? Why does he get to feel happy and live without worry while you have to lie down and suffer from how many people you have had to watch die?
"JUST GO AWAY!" Tang's voice cracks as he yells into the open air. Silence is the only thing that greets him as he numbly stares at the door in front of him, still unopened.
His face is now blank. The tear streaks on his face have dried to the point they're stuck on his face. He slowly brings his key to the door and numbly walks inside, seeing the mess of his living room and bathroom of the doorway.
He only ignores the mess, stopping briefly where The Origins of JTTW had been left open before grabbing it and beelining to the bedroom, shutting the door behind him and walking towards the window. He lifts the window up and lets the breeze blow through the room, ruffling the sheets and blanket on the bed.
The cool breeze doesn't bother Tang, though, as he only turns towards the bed and bats the loose strands out of his face from the down hair he didn't bother to put up.
He doesn't lay down on the bed. He instead kicks off his shoes to the side, takes off his cracked glasses, and puts them on the side table with his matching phone.
Then he stares out the open window, looking towards the blurry figures of stars and planets as he lifts up the barely decipherable book showing Golden Cicada.
I can't keep going like this. I need to leave. Maybe that's what these horrible dreams have been trying to tell me. I just want to get away from it all.
He roughly shuts the book and throws it into the wall. Whatever he's dealing with, he's not gonna put up with it anymore starting tomorrow. He's going to leave, and he's going to get better.
That's what he thinks as he falls back into his bed and looks back to the blurry lights once again before blacking out, hopefully for the last time.
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▶ 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓.
⊹ 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑..
✧ 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍!
𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐄: 𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽.
◇ ◇ ◇
ＩＮＦＯＲＭＡＴＩＯＮ
ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴇ;
[Not a best introduction]
I am now officially writing for the time twins, mostly to post fanfics for time twin enjoyers, I am just sharing my love about my hyperfixations with everyone, this blog is still in wip so bear with me. ^^
☀︎ 𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄𝐒 ⌑
𖤛 I have decided to only post SFW version of my works/fics here on Tumblr.
𖤛 explicit/mature content won't be happening anymore for the readers so they can choose based on their preferences. [my Wattpad and AO3 will be revealed soon once this wip is final.]
𖤛 For my x reader fics, below is what I can write:
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾:𝑊𝐻𝐴𝑇 𝑇𝑌𝑃𝐸 𝑂𝐹 𝑅𝐸𝐴𝐷𝐸𝑅 𝐷𝑂 𝐼 𝑊𝑅𝐼𝑇𝐸 𝐴𝐵𝑂𝑈𝑇?:☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙:
~ Reader inserts.
~ Different Genders. [Fem, Male, Non-binary]
~ Specified Insert Species. [Beings in different folklore or mythology]
~ Inserted Different Power. [Being o.p or lower]
~ Different AU. [Involvement of reader in a specific fandom]
~ Different Types Of Personality For The Reader.
~ Normal context scenarios between the character and you.
Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ*:..*:..｡o○ 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐈 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄?:○o｡..:*..:*Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ
> One-shots. [Short Or Long]
> Headcanons. [Short Or Long] ☚ [I mostly do this.]
> Imagines. [Short Or Long]
> SFW ALPHABETICAL.
> VARIOUS.
.•♫•♬•𝑯𝑶𝑾 𝑫𝑶 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑹𝑬𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑺𝑻?•♬•♫•.
> My inbox is always open whenever you just want to ask or request something.
> I will allow direct PM's, Just please remind me if you want to stay anonymous if you don't want to be tagged.
ঞ 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖𝐒ઈଓ࿐:
> Feel free to send some feedbacks on my writing if I misspelled or input a wrong output.
> Positive feedbacks are very appreciated, It'll help me keep motivated.
#P/S: 𝖯𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝖣𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝖿 '𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗀𝗈𝗋𝗒' 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗀𝗈𝗋𝗒.
> REMINDERS: In consideration of answering questions, I had the right to deny yours if It made me uncomfortable, So please be respectful when you interact.
𖥸𖥸𖥸𖥸𖥸𖥸𖥸𖥸𖥸𖥸𖥸𖥸𖥸𖥸𖥸𖥸𖥸
𐂃
> WHAT I WILL WRITE:
▹ FLUFF.
▹ ROMANTIC.
▹ PLATONIC
▹ ANGST.
> WHAT I WILL NOT WRITE:
▻ Stuff related to personal or mental issues.
▻ Proship dynamics.
▻ Shipping pairs.
▻ Graphic content.
▻ Non-consesual or problematic scenarios.
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‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ 𝙇𝙚𝙩'𝙨 𝙜𝙤 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢! ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
♡*♡∞:｡.｡.｡:∞♡*♡♡*♡∞:｡.｡.｡:∞♡*♡♡*♡∞:｡.｡
◆ 𝑵𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 ◆
CHARACTERS
◈ KRUX
▻ 【“Why leave history written by victors when you could be the one who wrote it all from the beginning?”】
Nothing here yet...
◈ ACRONIX
⨳〖“Time doesn’t break people; it molds them. But I prefer to take the mold in my own hands.”〗
#VENT. (Can be seen as angst nor comfort if you needed it.)
╰ 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐉𝐀𝐆𝐎 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒.
— TBA.
╰ 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐉𝐀𝐆𝐎 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒.
— TBA.
◈ 𝐌𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 ◈
◇ 𝐒𝐂𝐏 ◇
╰ 𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐎 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐄.
◦•●◉✿∿✿◉●•◦
➥ TBA.
©leftalpacavoid 2024.
It's. Genuinely strange to be the first person to like someone's post specifically here on Tumblr. Because what if they think I'm weird?? Especially when it's multiple times in a row that I do.
On most other stuff I use likes are anonymous, so I can like a YouTube video within the first few seconds of it being up without worrying that someone might get paranoid that someone's stalking them online, but here?? Pretty sure I can't do that.
I think I might be projecting MY worries onto random people on Tumblr I don't know. Like bro YOU'RE the one that'd get paranoid about that wtf are you worrying over??
Anyways, if I've done this to you, then I swear I'm not stalking you or anything like that I'm just here at the right/wrong time OR Tumblr gives me notifications for when you post. :((
homecoming | sam x reader
word count: 3.2k
tags: hurt/comfort , family struggles , reader and sam are married , set somewhere in year 2 (kent is back) , oneshot , intimacy
synopsis: Sleep evades you on nights like these, without Sam by your side.
a/n: i love sam but the allure of angst is too hard to resist!!! sorry babe i still love you 😔
Sleep evades you on nights like these, without Sam by your side.
Your feet are bare as you linger at the entrance of your room. The dimmed light of the living room washes away the darkness of the hour. It's late, the air is cool and damp smelling of night dew—you take a deep inhale. It feels thick as you breathe it in, like smoke is clouding around the room, restricting your breaths.
Sleepless nights were not unusual in your household. Before you married Sam, you hardly slept—the satisfying ache of collapsing into your sheets after a day at the mines was an addiction you couldn’t get enough of.
Now, you earn enough to afford coming home before sunset. No longer having to worry about how you’d afford the next day. And if you are being completely honest, evenings spent with Sam are far more addicting than the sting of a day’s work.
The ache is still there. It comes with the profession. Though not anymore the dull humming ache in the muscles and joints of your arms and legs, but a bone deep ache settled deeply curling around your chest.
Somehow, it stings even more.
It is as if it drags over your heart, catching on every ridge and edge of your bones. Daring to fill your lungs with ichor—hardening like stone around your ribs. No amount of stardrop you swallow can ever relieve the stinging soreness.
The cushions of the old second-hand couch groan and squeak as you twist and turn atop of them. Perhaps as restless as you are. The light flickers—on, off, on.
It doesn’t scare you, but it makes you uneasy. You’re long over the notion the farmhouse was haunted, but nights like these make that conviction waver. The nape of your neck prickles—like a person is staring from behind. Sam isn’t here to tease you about ghosts nor curl his arms around you in mock protection.
He hasn’t been here in hours, hasn’t been present in so long. It feels wrong. It feels like an omen. Your fingers find the back of your neck, brushing over the vulnerable skin.
You hold a tassel cushion tightly to your chest. Your knuckles whitening with the strength of your grip on it. The strength of your heartbeat is so loud you’re convinced it would be heard without the pillow to muffle the sound.
Little Vincent is sound asleep, snoring softly away in his dreamland. He looks like the epitome of innocence under the quilted blankets of your bed. It's soft, worn and covered in stitched cartoon-y lions and tigers. A temporary parting gift bundled up in his dinosaur backpack from jodi. Before he came to live with you and his older brother.
The separation was painful. there were tears—for both him and for his mother.
(Sam stood next to you then, gripping at your hand so hard you felt it prickling with numbness. You didn’t dare look up to see the tears you know are there, the crystalline tears dripping down his lash line.
It would’ve made the teardrops in yours fall over too. You’d stay strong for the both of you.)
The entrance door to the farmhouse creaks open and you immediately know it’s him. Relief floods your whole body—to your fingertips to your toes. He's safe, and home at last. You stand up and hurry to him, throwing the pillow to the ground, before the door creaks shut.
The air goes still, calm before the storm. The anticipation before potential terrible news.
(You expect there will be. You can tell by the way Sam slumps, like the weight is physically bearing down on his shoulders.)
Sam is still at the doorway, slumping over you when you wrap your arms around him. He smells of sweat and the cloying scent of rubbing alcohol—something must’ve happened, you think. It smells like the clinic.
The paper bag in his hand loses from his grip, it falls unceremoniously to the ground with a dull thump. You pay it no heed, mentally accounting to pick it up later. Though you note that it lands right over your ‘home sweet home’ doormat. Fitting.
“Sammy.” you greet him with a chaste peck on the cheek. He barely has the energy to hug back, more so stay steadily upright on his feet. you both sway slightly, suspended in the tranquility of the moment.
You try again, slowing the movement of your lips. “Welcome home, my love. you there?”
His lips move against the skin of your neck, a whisper of a greeting. It is enough for you.
Sam retracts his face from your jaw. There are blue-purple eye bags under his eyes, like bruises. The trademark twinkle in his brilliant green irises have dulled to nothingness. He looks so unlike himself like this, older than his years and so unbearably tired.
And you wish, with all your heart, to take his aches away. To wash them away like ink in water.
You pull him into the living room with you, the skin of his wrist enclosed in the firm guiding grip of your fingers. He's fragile like this, this sunshine of a man reduced to a shell of his usual demeanor.
He trails slowly behind you, silent. You say nothing, either; choosing to focus on the rhythmic sounds of your footsteps padding against the floor. In the living room, you dim the lights to a mere whisper of light.
These days, when he comes home, you’ve built some sort of routine.
You drag him down to you, spread lying down on the length of the couch. Your thighs frame his hips as he melts into the warmth of body. He lays on top of you, his cheekbone against your chest. You watch as his eyes flutter shut, as he presses his ear to the epicenter of your chest—the sound of your heartbeat quieting the swirl of thoughts in his mind.
You gently remove the woolen beanie nestled on his head—revealing the stringy oily mess of hair under. A sign of how little care he has been sparing himself after his father’s homecoming. You feel your lips downturn into a frown. He hasn’t even been using that hair gel you like to tease and groan about.
(You lied when you’d say you hated it. You don’t, never did.
You miss it. You miss the things that make him, him.)
You don’t hesitate in running your hands through the softness of his hair. Your fingers scratch gently on his scalp, eliciting a soft sigh from your weary husband. Eyes watch raptly as his shoulders unwind and ripple. The tension in them melts away with the deft caress of your hands.
Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. Like a knife twisting. You love him, you love him.
Moments pass, the silence is almost comfortable when you ask, speaking it to the silence of the room. There’s a wavering lilt in your voice reassuring him. You aren’t going to push him for an answer. He doesn’t need to respond. Him being safe, home and warm in your arms is all you ever want. All you’ll ever need.
“How are they?”
(The first night, you and Sam stayed the night in his family home. squeezed in his twin bed with Vincent curled up by his ribs. The little boy couldn’t bear sleeping alone that night, not with the anxiety of his father being back making him pace a mile a minute.
The air in the household had shifted that day.
In the dead of the night, the fire alarm went off—a blaring loud beeping sound from the kitchen. Totally harmless, a malfunction. A disturbance to sleep more than anything.
Except it was not.
You still remember the blood-curdling scream that came from Jodi and Kent's room. The panicked sobs of Jodi as she tried to calm her terror stricken husband.
You remember the way Vincent clung onto you, like a koala to a tree. You cupped your hands tightly over his ears—he didn’t need to suffer the consequence of it.
Sam removed the fire alarm and Vincent from the house the next morning.)
His voice is hushed when he speaks. A pin could drop and be more clearly heard. “Mom's… getting better.”
Not getting worse than she already is.
You plant a kiss on the crown of his head, lips soft and adoring on his skin. You ache to take his burden, to take his share of suffering.
It hurts sometimes, to be right beside him but feel so faraway. Yet like this, feeling every curve and edge of his body—you can convince yourself that it doesn’t.
“Is Vince asleep?”
“Yes,” you reply, tucking a blond curl behind his ear. His head unconsciously tilts to the room where his younger brother rests. Ever so protective of him even like this.
Continuing you say, “He was looking for you,” you thread your fingers through the short blond strands at his neck. Sam untenses slightly in your arms, his arms going limp at your sides. “He's been fidgety lately. Restless.”
“He usually is.” his feeble attempt at a joke. Though the rasp in his voice only makes it sound resigned. You purse your lips, eyes tracking back to the cedar wood of your bedroom door on the other side of the room—and the sleeping child behind it.
You stroke Sam's hair, thinking. “More so than usual.”
(You know why. He knows too. Kent wasn’t the same when he returned from the war. He was vulnerable, not the fragile type but vulnerable in the way a ignited bomb threatened an explosion.
Vincent wasn’t either—grown much more from that thumb suckling toddler when he left.
“My dad is coming home soon,” Sam confides in you on that day on that day on the beach. Him standing a few feet away from the shore line, and you; next to him.
“This isn’t how I wanted him to grow up,” his voice cracks with vulnerability. “I—I want him to have a better childhood than I did.”
“He will, Sam. He will.” I know you’ll make sure of it.
His eyes are red-rimmed and raw when he looks at you. All you wanted was to wipe that anguished expression off his face.)
He is silent. All is silent. Tranquility is like a honey thick syrup poured over your chest, smeared all over the expanse of your body. The soft sounds of your synchronized breathing is the only sound you can bear to hear. It makes your eyes droop, the lethargic feeling dulling your senses.
Your hand reaches for his, intertwining your palm with his long-fingered one. You relish in the familiar feeling of his calloused fingertips, earned from afternoons spent with his guitar. His skin is warm, warmer than yours. You give his hand a tentative squeeze, he squeezes back.
“Mom told me to say hi to you both for her,” he tells you, his breathing slow and deep. “She misses him, and you. She’s coming to visit as soon as she can.”
“Vince misses her too,” you sigh, craning your head forward to peek at the top of his head. “It's affecting him, I can tell. Penny's getting worried. She tells me he hasn’t been himself at school.”
All that Sam can manage is a deep intake of breath, then a softer resigned exhale. There isn’t much nor enough for him to say. Your free hand goes to smooth down his back. The muscles there are tough—bunched up and tense.
He shifts between your thighs, baring down heavier on your pelvis. Even as tired as he is, Sam is restless. Always has been, whether it be on his skateboard or with his guitar. You ignore the growing ache in your lower back—it is not your moment, but his. The warmth of his weight on top of you overpower any discomfort you have.
Twirling the stray curl at his neck, you finally ask. Fingers featherlight against his shoulder. “How… is he?”
Sam stiffens above you, the lean line of his body rigid. He’s clearly distressed with talking about his father. You suck a breath through your teeth, knocking your leg gently against his, giving your silent push for him to continue.
“I can't even lie,” he squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face away. “It isn't good, Doc Harvey says dad’s got PTSD from the war. It's triggered by loud sounds. Remember the time he woke up because of the fire alarm?”
You nod, curling your fingers around his. You try to provide him any semblance of comfort—to reassure him. You love him, always.
It's painful to see, to watch what he’s going through only by the sidelines.
Sam looks up at you from your chest, eyes blurry with exhaustion. His jaw tensing ever so slightly, you see the patchy blonde stubble starting at the jut of his jaw. The wrinkle in his brow growing more prominent at the mention of his father. It's a fresh type of wound, raw and open. You dance around the topic, like poking a sleeping lion that threatens to attack at any given moment.
“We’ve transferred him to stay in my old room. He’s been holed up there most of the time. The nightmares are keeping mom up. He wakes up screaming most nights." Sam rasps, squeezing your fingers. He speaks lowly against the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, the heat of his body bleeding through it and into you.
His voice dissolves into a pained crack when he speaks. “It sucks.”
“It will get better, we can get through it,” you sit up slightly, elbows bent behind you. Sam's been out the whole day. You assume he must be starving and tired. “Do you need anything?”
Sam doesn’t let you up, though. He tugs you back down under him with the gentle pull of his arm. You still in his arms, looking down at him.
“No,” he pleads. “just… stay with me, okay? Let's stay like this, please.”
You swallow, nodding. “Yes, of course.”
You wish you could ease his worries. You wish you could tell him that it’ll be alright and he would believe it.
You love him, more than life itself. Like you are a planet that orbits around him, the sun. You show him so everyday—and will continue to do so with everyday that will come.
You just wish he’d be more selfish with you.
If he falls, you’ll piece him back together. Glue his bones together with your hands, relying on the familiarity of his being. Anything, you’d do anything.
The matching mermaid pendants resting over his and your collarbone symbolizes that.
“I want to help you, sam. You take all this burden up on your own. please?”
He sits up, back hunched over you. A dim shadow of him filtered over you. You follow him, like you can’t bear to be apart from him.
“You are, you always have,” Sam softens, gazing at you so reverently you could sob. He looks at you as one gazes at master paintings, like he is in wordless awe of you.
The room is dark with night. If you strain your ears hard enough, the cooing of the owls filter through the cracks of your windows. The moonlight is scarce, you can barely see the expressions painting his face. Though, you’re sure your expression is as lovesick as his. Practical hearts in your eyes as you stare.
“Looking after Vince is more than I could ever ask for, honey.” he whispers, pinching the hem of your sleep shirt between his thumb and pointer finger.
“No Sam,” you murmur, taking his face into your hands. your hands frame his face, warming the cool skin of his cheeks. Desperation fills every movement in a plea for him to understand. “I meant you.”
You inhale, relishing the smell of sweat, mint and rubbing alcohol on his skin. The scent smells so comforting, and so familiar.
You hope he finds that same solace in you as you do with him.
“I want to take care of you,” you say more firmly, stroking him on the skin of his brow bone. “Won’t you let me?”
He stares at you, enveloping your hands with warmer ones. You sigh contentedly at the feeling. They sear into your skin, warming you with the righteous heat of his devotion.
To you, he is the sun and you have the sun right in the palm of your hands. You know he won’t ever burn you, nor leave your skin red and raw from his intensity. His rays are gentle, a featherlight whisper of a kiss on the expanse of your body.
But the sun never stops shining. It is steadfast in its duty to provide. You worry, will he explode in a grand supernova or crumple into a black hole?
Either way, you will never allow it. You’d rather douse the sun in the water of the ocean to hold him in your arms. Maybe then, he can finally rest soundly.
You feel his thumb rub back and forth on the back of your palm, silent and considering. The brush of it melting you against him like a contented cat. A smile graces your lips, you can wait.
Though you do not need to. Sam turns his head and kisses your wrist. His nose bumping into the crease of your thumb. You feel honeyed warmth drip down your heart, collecting in the cavern of your chest.
That's all the confirmation you need.
(There are some days his words fail him. The days his mind is bursting with ideas, so much so it’s difficult for him to convey a singular thought.
That's alright. Perfect, even. Sam has always been better at expressing himself through actions.)
“I love you,” you kiss his forehead, then over each of his eyelids. You want to kiss every inch of his skin until there is nothing left to cover. “so, so much.”
You press your lips to the corner of his. Opting to speak your promise against his skin, to tattoo your undying love into the smooth expanse of it.
Sam tilts his head, causing his lips to brush completely against yours. He presses them firmer against yours, the taste of spearmint gum heavy on his tongue. You lick the seam of his lips—let me in, let me in.
“I love you too. more than you know,” he gasps, tearing his lips away. His breath puffing warmly against the skin of your cheek. He declares it as if he’s running out of breath, and it is his final words. A willing sailor drowning in the deep ocean that is you. “More than anything, more than life itself.”
You press your forehead against his. Your eyes meet the depthless green of his. The twinkle is there; flickering and faint but present.
Love is what brought him to you. It’s what keeps bringing him home to you every night. You want to be his refuge, his comfort, his partner for life.
Your eyes shut, eyelashes fluttering against your cheekbones. “Share the burden with me, Sammy. I can take it.”
At the end of the day, he is all you want. All that you need. If it takes him time, you won’t mind. even if it takes centuries.
Sam captures your lips again. Murmuring his agreement greedily against you. You love him, you love him and he loves you.
You are the one he comes back to, his spouse. The greatest love of his life. Home isn’t the farmhouse you’ve built a life in—
It’s you, always has been you.