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mrsstruggle · 2 years

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The Lost Child - Chapter 21 // Teen Wolf x Marvel AU

Summary: Y/N Stark was taken from her family when she was three years old. It's fifteen years later and her family believes she is dead. Then how is she living in Beacon Hills?

Warnings: Language, Mentions of Death/Torture/Drugs/Violence/Injury, Brainwashing, Possible Grammar Mistakes (please let me know if there is anything else)

Pairings: Derek Hale x Reader, Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes, Bruce Banner x Natasha Romanoff, Vision x Wanda Maximoff, & More To Come.

Previous Pairings: Tony Stark x Pepper Potts, Scott McCall x Allison Argent

Words: 2.7k

Note: I am posting every 3-4 days!

Additional Note: While this is a Teen Wolf x Marvel AU, not everything is true to the shows/movies/comics. I had to change things for the story. This also loosely follows Teen Wolf Season 4.

One Last Note: Y/N was adopted by Tony Stark and Pepper Potts. I did this so more people can see themselves in this story.

***I do not own Teen Wolf or Marvel or any related characters. This is a work of fanfiction and is meant for entertainment only.***

Masterlist

The Lost Child Masterlist

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“How can you tell where she is just by a carving in the wall?” Sam questions Derek.

“I know who carved it. I’ve also been there before.” Derek replies.

Nat notices the time at the top of Stiles’s phone, “It’s two o’clock now. We have an hour until we need to meet them. It’s obviously a trap and they’re hoping we take the bait.”

The sheriff inhales a shaky breath before sitting down in the empty chair Natasha once occupied. He knows his kids deal with monsters every day but they’ve never had to deal with this. Hell, Beacon Hills has never had to deal with a situation like this. People are found brutally murdered or used for sacrifices but they aren’t taken by massive terrorist organizations. He always thought his kids were safe because they know how to take care of themselves, but even he doesn’t know how to deal with this problem.

“It’s definitely a trap but we still have to go. We just need to outsmart them.” Scott states, handing Stiles his phone back. He’s trying to think of what they could do to get out safe and with Y/N but he can’t seem to think of anything.

“They’re already there waiting on us so we can’t get there early, and we shouldn’t run the risk of going late in case they do something to Y/N as punishment.” Lydia doesn’t know what they could do to avoid running into a trap. She’s also very confused about what her abilities are telling her about Y/N. They were screaming at her that Y/N would be dead soon or that she already was, but now she can’t feel anything. Considering she’s a banshee that should be a good thing but she’s not sure if it is.

“The place will probably be lined with mountain ash,” Kira states. “They might use it to keep us out or to keep us in.”

“But it doesn’t work on Y/N. She can just walk past it.” Scott tells her.

“What’s mountain ash?” Sam asks.

“It’s ash that can be used as a barrier against the supernatural. Well, some supernatural. If you were to create a circle of mountain ash they wouldn’t be able to cross it as long as it’s connected.” Lydia informs him.

They all spread out again in the living room as they hear a jet land in the backyard letting them know that Steve and Bucky are back from the Hydra base. Tony watches as Steve and Bucky quickly exit the quinjet before jogging towards the house. He can tell by the looks on their faces that they didn’t find anything.

Steve holds the backdoor open for Bucky to walk through before walking into the house himself. He notices that everyone is quietly staring at them, “What happened?”

Stiles tosses his open phone toward Steve who quickly catches it. He looks down at the phone to see the photo of Y/N tied to a chair in a warehouse with scared tears falling down her face. His heart hurts looking at the photo. This was the girl he was supposed to protect and he failed her. He then notices the other messages below the photo.

Bucky looks down at the phone and a look of anger washes over his face as he sees the photo. He’s had so many emotions going through him in the last twenty-four hours but right now all he feels is anger. Anger at Hydra, anger at himself, and anger at the fact that they still haven’t gotten her back yet.

Steve tosses the phone back towards Stiles who clumsily catches it, “What’s our plan?”

“We’re making one right now,” Nat informs him.

“Who’s he?” Bucky asks, pointing to the sheriff sitting in the grey chair whose eyes haven’t looked up from the stack of files on the coffee table.

“That’s Noah Stilinski…Y/N’s father,” Tony mutters quietly.

Steve and Bucky share a look of understanding with Tony. This whole thing has been hard on all of them but it’s been especially hard on Tony. Not only did he find out his daughter is still alive, but she has no idea who they are and she has a completely different family.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Stiles mumbles under his breath, staring at the photo of Y/N that was sent to him.

“What doesn’t make sense?” Steve asks Stiles.

“Why would you go through all the trouble to kidnap her, take her to a secret Hydra location, move her, and then send a crappy photo of her in an abandoned warehouse? They even sent coordinates on where to find her and a time, but they didn’t send anything else.” Stiles states, still looking at the photo of Y/N.

“We know they did that because it’s a trap,” Wanda looks at him with a confused look on her face. What doesn’t he understand about this?

“This is Hydra we're talking about. Do you really think they went through all of this trouble just to take out some teenagers from Beacon Hills and the Avengers? If they wanted to do something to take out the Avengers, they would’ve done it when they first took her. Why wait fifteen years?” Stiles questions.

“He’s right,” Tony agrees with Stiles, “If they wanted to kill all of us, they would’ve done it years ago. We were all at a low after Y/N was taken, some of us even lower when we were told she was dead, and that would’ve been the best time to attack. We’re stronger now and a lot angrier. Why wait?”

While Tony was just trying to help Stiles point, he didn’t see how deep his words cut through the silent sheriff. Y/N is Noah’s daughter and she always will be, but he also knows that he can’t keep her away from her other family. As much as he’d like for her to only choose him and her Beacon Hills family, she has another family she has to consider as well. Noah doesn’t know the pain of losing a child, but he knows what it’s like to lose someone he loves. Part of him wanted to come here and help so that maybe he could somehow prove to himself that Y/N doesn’t need this other family of hers because she doesn’t know them and she never truly has, but they definitely know her and he can see the pain in their eyes that have been there for years as well as the love. He just hopes they can see this from his point of view as well and not take Y/N from her family here.

“I don’t think it’s us they want dead.” Everyone turns their heads towards the stairs to see Peter walking down towards them. He looks a lot better than when they first rescued him. His wounds have completely healed and all the drugs Hydra gave him have been flushed from his system. “They had multiple opportunities to kill me but they didn’t. Once it was just a test but the test wasn’t for me, it was for Y/N.”

“All of Y/N’s files show that they were using her and some other subjects to make the ultimate weapon. They tried making weapons out of Bucky and Wanda and her brother but they ultimately didn’t work out. They probably took her to continue what they started. My bet is that either the warehouse is empty and they just want to lure us there to kill us because we’d be the only ones to stop them from using Y/N, or they’re luring us there to have her kill us.” Stiles states, finally looking up from his phone to look at the others.

“There’s no way Y/N would kill us, right?” Kira looks at Scott for an answer.

“She would if they brainwashed her,” Bucky states, clenching his fist thinking about them doing what they did to him to her.

“She’s been with them for less than two days. They couldn’t have brainwashed her by now.” Natasha knows that it would take months or even years for them to fully brainwash her. There’s no way they brainwashed her in just a day or two.

“This is Hydra we’re talking about. They can do a lot of things we don’t think is possible.” Steve looks at Bucky with worry in his eyes. He’s been worried enough about him with them having to deal with Hydra and even more so with Y/N involved, but now they might be dealing with them brainwashing her into possibly killing them.

“I think they want her to kill us,” Stiles mumbles, carefully examining the photo of Y/N.

“What makes you say that?” Wanda questions him.

“This photo was taken to show us they have this scared and terrified girl with them so we feel obligated to run over there and try to save her, but I don’t think that’s true. If you look at her hands and where they are strapped against the side of the chair, you can almost see blood dripping from them. I could just be seeing things but it’s something she used to do all the time in order to get her way with our dad. She digs her claws into the palm of her hands to help her force herself to cry.” Stiles holds up his phone to show everyone where he has zoomed in on her hands. “She also would’ve gotten away by now. There is no way they would be able to hold her.”

Scott squints trying to see what Stiles is seeing, “This picture is awful. Are you sure you’re not just seeing things?”

“Even if I am, this is Y/N we’re talking about. She’s barely scared of anything. This photo would be more believable if it was a photo of her rolling her eyes at them.” Stiles gives Scott a look as if what he’s saying is obvious.

“Or she could just be scared? There’s no way she wouldn’t be if they are doing anything they’ve done to her before. I don’t think there’s anyone who wouldn’t be.” Lydia states.

“As someone who was with her after Hydra kidnapped us, I think Stiles is right,” Peter states from where he’s sitting at the bottom of the stairs. He doesn’t know what photo they are talking about but he remembers his time with Y/N when they were in Hydra. “I was definitely freaking out but she mostly just yelled at them and threatened them. She seemed more angry than scared.”

“Okay, let’s say they’ve brainwashed her and they want her to kill us. Why did they bring her here instead of leaving her at their base? They would’ve had a major upper hand and it would’ve been a lot easier to take us down then.” Scott doesn’t understand why they are back in Beacon Hills.

“They’d also need a place to hold her here. If they had one, they would’ve taken her years ago instead of now. Someone must be helping them.” Nat states.

Everyone goes silent as they start to think. There is no way Hydra has a base in Beacon Hills. If they did, they would’ve taken Y/N years ago. She would’ve been a lot easier to control when she was younger. Why wait until now? Why bring her back to Beacon Hills?

Stiles's eyes widen when he realizes why they brought her here, “I know who’s helping them. It’s Gerard.”

The look of realization washes over the pack’s faces as the Avengers look at them confused. “Who’s Gerard?” Steve questions.

“He’s Allison’s grandfather. He’s also a werewolf hunter. He’s sick but I’m sure Hydra who help him out if he gave them a place to stay and a place to work.” Scott informs him.

“Hydra wouldn’t want us dead but Gerard would. He would also be the person who has a connection with Hydra.” Stiles scoffs in disgust.

Tony looks down at the watch on his wrist, “We need to leave soon. What’s our plan?”

“We should go in with the assumption that she’s been brainwashed. She might try to kill us but we need to figure out a way to take her down before she can.” Steve states.

“I say we kill her,” Malia shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly. “I will kill her before she kills me.”

“Sorry, she was a coyote for most of her life. Surprisingly, that’s progress.” Stiles apologizes for Malia’s comments.

"I don't think Malia's plan is that bad," Peter Hale shrugs his shoulders.

"He's just an asshole," Stiles mutters under his breath.

“You can’t take her down,” Derek states. “There are no weapons or powers that will be able to stop her. None of you have ever seen the extent of her powers but I have. She’s shown me. We just have to hope we can break her free from whatever hold they have on her before she kills us all.”

“I’m gonna get Bruce and Thor,” Sam states, walking up the stairs to go get the missing two Avengers and fill them in on what’s happening.

Scott sighs and looks at the time on his phone, “We need to go. Right now the plan is to save Y/N and stay alive. Lydia, you and Mr. Stilinski should go get Deaton and go to Y/N and Derek’s loft to wait for us. We’ll make sure Y/N gets back there tonight.”

Noah wants to protest against Scott’s command but he knows he’s in no condition to help out. He came here to help but instead the fear of losing Y/N has hit him hard. He could lose her to Hydra or the Avengers and he doesn’t know how to handle that. His mind is shutting him down.

Scott turns to Lydia to see if she heard him and sees her clutching her head in pain, “Lydia? What do you hear?”

Lydia looks up and her teary eyes lock with Scott’s, “Screaming. Lots of screaming.”

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The Avengers and the pack pull up to the abandoned distillery. To the normal eye, it looks like they’re the only ones there but they know differently. The wolves can hear multiple heartbeats in the distillery and the woods around them.

“Y/N?!” Stiles yells out as they enter the distillery.

The door slams behind them as the last person walks in. Scott looks around and notices the ring of mountain ash that’s around the edge of the building.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you but Y/N won’t be joining us today.” Gerard steps out from behind a broken machine and into the light where everyone can see him.

“Where is she?” Derek growls at Gerard.

“She’s here, but she goes by a different name now.” They all whip their heads around to see Rumlow standing behind them closing the gap between the mountain ash, fully trapping the werewolves in the distillery. “Shadow Wolf!”

They all turn to watch Y/N step out from behind the same machine Gerard was just hiding behind, but she’s not alone. She currently has a clawed hand wrapped around Liam’s neck and is holding his body in front of hers. She has a smug smirk on her face while Liam looks terrified.

“Why don’t you show them what you are about to do to them.” Gerard shifts his gaze from Y/N to smile at the horrified group.

“Y/N, this isn’t you,” Stiles tries to get through to her, “They’re controlling you somehow but I know you can fight it. Don’t do what the–”

The group watches in complete horror as her claws rip through Liam’s throat before he falls to the ground. Dead.

She holds her bloody claws up for them to see and smirks at the Avengers and pack looking at her, “Who’s next?”

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electric--blanket · 3 years

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a place where the heart rests

so, because @thekaiserroll drew fanart of my fanfiction i decided to return the favour by writing a long Wintersberg one-shot based off of her short comic! i hope you enjoy touch-starved Heisenberg.

warnings for death (not for main characters) and some angst.

read on ao3

Mama… I want mama. It hurts.

Where’s mama?

Karl Heisenberg always suffered from nightmares. Even before he was taken in by Mother Miranda — as a child, Heisenberg often experienced night terrors that had him screaming in his bed. There were distant memories in the back of his mind, where he’d wake from a terrible dream that had him screaming for his mother — and she’d always come to his side. In that terribly large, cold estate that Heisenberg once called home, it always felt so lonely. But, his mother always eased his fears; with her silk nightgown and the distinct smell of expensive soap. Her soft fingers would comb through Heisenberg’s locks of ashen brown hair, hushing him in a soft tone of voice — a voice he could no longer remember.

During the experiments, it was the only thing Heisenberg begged for when he felt the cadou infesting his body. It felt like a worm wriggling around in the wet soil during a storm, curling and writhing through his organs. He screamed for his mother, wishing she would save him from the pain and take him home again. A seventeen-year-old boy screaming for his mother to come and save him looked utterly pathetic from Mother Miranda’s perspective, and the feeling of fear only intensified when she stroked Heisenberg’s hair whilst he screamed. A soft whisper that uttered, “I’m your mother now, child.” It made Heisenberg nearly vomit.

That was the last time someone had ever touched him so tenderly. He’d not felt a loving touch since then and ducked away from Miranda’s so-called ‘motherly’ touches.

At first, Heisenberg coped with the intense trauma of his bodily changes by taking it in stride and calling his newfound power of magnetism a ‘gift’. He knew deep down it was the opposite: it stopped him from ageing, rendered him infertile and stripped away his dignity by becoming a slave to Miranda. It took a long time for Heisenberg to fully process what had happened to him. His father had left him in the clutches of a madwoman, and his life only got worse from there.

In a fit of rage — perhaps at the age of twenty-nine — he revisited his parent's estate to confront the man he could no longer call ‘father’. He had aged since Heisenberg last saw him, but those steel eyes he’d inherited were still as hard as ever. His mother lingered in a doorway just down the hall, but she didn’t dare come to greet her son as he snapped with a short, interrupted breath. Heisenberg had grabbed his father by the neck and pinned him to the nearest wall, knocking down a beautiful oil painting his mother adored. His fingers didn’t seem to stop, squeezing on the skin and bone until he felt a sickening crack vibrate beneath his fingers.

Heisenberg hadn’t meant it, not really. It was as if a demon had taken control of his body and sought revenge that barely mattered anymore. He didn’t realise what he’d done until he heard the sound of his mother screaming; distraught and fearful of her own son that she’d once coddled so long ago.

That was the last time Heisenberg saw his mother and father. The estate was quickly abandoned not long after, and from what he knew, his mother took her belongings and moved to Austria with some distant relatives. That large house teased Heisenberg every fucking day, with how it towered near the factory grounds and reminded him of what he’d done. Arson wasn’t exactly on his bucket list, but Heisenberg couldn’t resist taking a match to the place and watching it burn. Whatever childhood remained in that house was left in a pile of ashes, and he never looked upon it ever again. All of the silly dreams and hopes he’d had for his life were gone.

That was until Ethan Winters showed up. Nearly a hundred years later, Heisenberg felt something he’d sought after for so long — hope.

“Karl? Karl—!”

Mama. I want mama. Everything hurts.

Heisenberg forced his eyes open. It felt like his life was replaying in front of him whilst he was passed out; like watching an old film reel repeating itself and becoming more distorted each time. Up until that very night, Heisenberg’s life had been a series of traumatic events and unforgivable actions.

That night, he’d turned it all around just by laying his eyes on Ethan Winters. A man so incredible, resilient and insane… He’d do anything to get his little girl back. It was the man Heisenberg had oh-so wanted his father to be, and he admired that about Ethan. He’d never been so good at expressing his emotions honestly, or even laying out his ideas in a proper fashion to others… Oh, but Ethan was special. He’d shown Heisenberg patience that he’d not been offered before and decided to join him at his side to kill Miranda. Together.

“Karl… Fuck— Don’t die on me, asshole.”

Ethan… Ethan…

Above the metal remnants of what his mutated body had used as a shell, he could hear Ethan pushing the scrap aside to try and find Heisenberg buried beneath it. He could also hear the distinct cries of a distressed baby, something that brought him back to Earth. Heisenberg reached up through the metal until his bare, calloused fingers brushed up against Ethan’s soft knuckles. There was a moment of silence when their skin touched, but Ethan didn’t waste any time in grabbing Heisenberg’s hand and pulling him out.

The moment the pressure around his body ceased, Heisenberg felt the telltale feeling of sickening warmth seeping from many wounds across his body. The cadou inside him didn’t react too well to it, trying to cope with the trauma done by squirming and pulsating inside of him. Heisenberg drank in the expression of Ethan’s relieved face for just a moment, only until it warped into one of worry and horror. Heisenberg was weak, and his knees buckled beneath the weight of his torso before he fell back onto the ground.

The baby cupped carefully in one of Ethan’s arms began to cry again as Ethan jostled her accidentally in an attempt to help Heisenberg. A baby crying wasn’t really helping Heisenberg’s already distressed state, but it made him realise just how fucked he was. There was no way they would get away in time together, and Heisenberg was too injured to walk. The cadou might have helped to some degree, but it didn’t ease the burning pain in his body, and the loss of blood that was making him dizzy.

Ethan’s horrified expression was pinned on an appendage from the Megamycete, which rose up from the cave systems like a flower bud in spring, ready to bloom. The small, red flashing light alerted him to the fact that Chris Redfield had succeeded in planting the bomb. They had to leave.

“Go.”

A silence hung in the air for just a moment, and Heisenberg didn’t realise what he’d just said. For the first time in his miserable existence, he was being selfless and urging Ethan to leave him behind. It was the last thing Heisenberg wanted.

Don’t leave me here. I’m fucking scared. I don’t want to die yet.

“Fuck you,” Ethan’s voice trembled with venom, “I’m not leaving you here now. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

Heisenberg let out a bitter chuckle, tasting the blood seeping from his gums as he grinned, “I don’t think we have any time to be arguing about this, buttercup.”

“No. I— Mia’s dead, Karl. I need you.”

That’s right. Heisenberg briefly recalled Miranda’s kidnapping of the not-so-innocent woman and the experimentation that followed. Unfortunately, her body gave in due to her state after giving birth and she died on Miranda’s operating table. Ethan’s wife was dead, and Rose was now left without a mother’s loving touch.

“I said go. Rose needs her papa intact, not blown to pieces.” Heisenberg insisted, slumping back against the pile of scrap metal.

“Damn it—” Ethan looked hesitant to leave Heisenberg. It was a truly sweet sentiment: to see someone care about him after all this time. After all of the terrible things he’d done, and the love he’d been deprived of… Someone cared about him. Maybe that was enough. Maybe it wasn’t so bad to die like this.

“Fuck.” Ethan stammered again, licking his dry lips and swallowing, “Karl… I… Thank you.”

“... Yeah. I know, Ethan.”

That was all he needed. A trembling, watery smile shot his way before Ethan held Rose close with both arms and turned to run.

He’s going to be a great father.

Heisenberg looked up at the plant-like form the Megamycete had taken, looming down upon the ceremony courtyard with writhing mold creeping closer to Heisenberg. It was then that he decided that giving in like this wasn’t who he was: he was a fighter to his last breath.

In a last attempt to preserve his life, Heisenberg parted the pile of scrap metal and shuffled beneath it all. He rolled his wrist, the cocoon of metal surrounding him and tightening. The metal creaked, drowning out the sounds of the mold writhing around the metal to try and get inside. Heisenberg closed his eyes tightly, gritting his teeth. I won’t die. Not yet.

The explosion that followed shortly after was deafening, causing the entire ground to shake beneath him and the metal to shudder against his body. It felt painful, rippling off his injured skin like that… But, fortunately for Heisenberg, the explosion wasn’t nuclear — the blast was enough to do the job and wipe out the mold and the Megamycete.

A silence followed the explosion, brick and ash collapsing against Heisenberg’s metal cocoon. Each noise made him flinch, and his fingers twitched instinctively as some final line of defence. He didn’t know how long it was before he felt brave enough to let his guard down and release his telekinetic grip on the metal. The scraps suddenly slumped, collapsing around him as Heisenberg pushed the metal off of his body and emerged like a phoenix rising from the ashes of its former self.

The smoke and dust still remained, causing Heisenberg to cough heavily as he took a sharp inhale of the air. He squinted through the dust and remains of what was left of his home town and realised how much he’d lost. It hit him all at once; his childhood, his parents and his fucked up little family. Even though he hated Miranda and his makeshift siblings deeply, they were all he truly had left to call ‘family’. It was over in the blink of an eye, and Heisenberg suddenly felt like a child all over again. Like a child waking from a nightmare, scared and alone.

Heisenberg’s fingers twitched into tight fists, clamping his mouth shut as tears threatened to spill down his face. Even after all this, he tried to will himself not to cry, to never let down the walls he had so carefully built. But, at that moment there was nothing left to keep the foundations upright. Heisenberg’s fists loosened, and he brought his hands up to cover his face instinctively. A knot seemingly untied itself in his chest and throat, and a guttural sob left him. Maybe — just maybe — it was okay.

Navigating the woods was even worse during a snowstorm at night. It was bad enough that Heisenberg’s body was weak from his healing injuries, but it felt haggard from his intense emotional breakdown. In a strange sense, he felt relief from it but at the same time, it felt awfully inconvenient. Heisenberg was sure he looked like a terrible mess; his clothes were torn and his hair was damp with clumps of ash hanging from his silver locks. Not to mention the blood staining his clothes, and his valuable dog tags that hung low on his chest.

In his many idle chats with Ethan before they fought Miranda, he could recall the other man mentioning he didn’t live too far from the village. It was a fair distance away, but not too far that it would be impossible to reach if your car broke down on the road between them. Still, it wasn’t a pleasant or short walk.

By the time Heisenberg even managed to reach a place that looked like a livable home, he was close to collapsing in the snow… But, he held out. The lights were turned off inside, but a motion sensor light on the property turned on once Heisenberg got close enough. The bulb blinded him briefly, and he held a hand up to shield his eyes as he walked up the porch to the door. Heisenberg sluggishly lifted his hand, knocking on the door as hard as he could and leaning against the frame. It took a few moments before he could see a light turn on inside from the windows, and the sound of someone walking down a wooden staircase slowly.

The person on the other side of the door stopped before they reached for the doorknob, and they spoke out.

“Who is it?”

Ethan Winters. That voice Heisenberg had missed so dearly; in all of its glory and full of caution. It almost made him laugh.

“Let me in, Ethan. I’m freezing.”

“Karl?”

“As smart as ever, Ethan. Can you hurry up?”

Ethan was quick to unlock the door and remove the security chain, twisting the doorknob and pulling it open. There, Ethan was standing in a pristine white shirt and some boxers that hung low on his hips… Along with a pair of comical slippers that seemed to resemble a cartoon dog. Heisenberg’s lips twitched into a tired grin.

“Oh my, too much skin, Ethan. Back in my day—”

“Shut up and get in here!”

Ethan grabbed Heisenberg’s arm, tugging him inside to shield him from the snowstorm outside. He slammed the door shut and quickly locked it back up, and the two men finally stood face-to-face. There was a silence that hung in the air, with so many unanswered questions on the tip of Ethan’s tongue, but none came. Without any further hesitation, Ethan threw his arms around Heisenberg’s neck and tugged him close for an embrace.

It was the first time Ethan had touched him in such a way. So full of affection and genuinity, it made Heisenberg’s fingers tremble with uncertainty. He didn’t know what to do with his hands: so overcome with the touches that smothered him. His brows creased into an expression of relief, and Heisenberg’s steel eyes fluttered shut as he succumbed to the hug. He wrapped his arms around Ethan’s waist, squeezing him carefully and burying his face into Ethan’s shoulder. The smell of talcum powder and formula milk permeated his shirt, giving Heisenberg the comfort he craved. He never wanted Ethan to stop touching him, and he was content to stay like this for as long as he could — to make up for all the time he’d lost aching after affection.

“I thought…” Ethan mumbled slowly, “I thought you were dead.”

“Mm.” Heisenberg hummed lowly in response, curling his fingers into Ethan’s shirt. “So did I. Turns out I’m hard to kill.”

Ethan snorted softly.

As it turned out, Heisenberg wasn’t too bad with kids.

It was a tough adjustment for the two men at first; Ethan had to keep Heisenberg a well-guarded secret as he was moved to a new location with Rose (courtesy of the BSAA). Heisenberg followed their steps at a safe distance, but he was never too far from them. Understandably, Ethan was moved into a smaller home: a humble bungalow in a quiet German village. Once the BSAA had left Ethan in peace with Rose, it didn’t take long before Heisenberg settled into the bungalow with them.

Ethan had insisted that if Heisenberg was going to stay there with him and Rose, then he’d need to learn to help take care of the baby. At first, he was extremely hesitant to do something akin to a parental figure… But, Rose was a surprisingly sweet baby. She didn’t fuss too much and rarely threw a tantrum over the little things. Rose was the right amount of responsibility for Heisenberg, and that made him a patient parent.

He’d been taught how to properly hold her (after many lectures), how to prepare her formula and change her. Rose was understandably unhappy with Heisenberg’s presence at first, perhaps longing for her mother that was no longer around… But, after a few months, she took to Heisenberg very well.

Because of Karl’s lack of mortality and infertility, he never thought he’d take the figure of a father like this… But, it wasn’t exactly an unwelcome opportunity. He’d even upgraded from sleeping on the couch to Ethan’s bed.

The first night Ethan invited him to bed, Heisenberg could tell from the flustered look on Ethan’s face that it took a lot of courage to ask him to bed. A sexual joke lingered on the tip of Heisenberg’s tongue, but he bit it back in favour of keeping the proposal on the table. Instead, Heisenberg had nodded with a cheeky grin and followed Ethan to bed.

There had been some nights where the loss of Mia hit Ethan harder than he’d liked it to — even after Mia’s work with The Connections was revealed, he had still loved her to a degree. Those nights were the hardest. All Heisenberg could do was hold Ethan in his arms and comfort him with nothing more than his presence.

This invitation into Ethan’s bed was far more intimate than a comforting hug. At first, they stayed a polite distance apart on either side of the bed, with Ethan turned on his side whilst Heisenberg stared up at the dark ceiling. In the darkness, his eyes created shapes that danced across the ceiling and warped before him. Much like the mold that infested him, it was as if it continued to taunt him with its presence. After a moment, Heisenberg finally turned onto his side and glanced at the lump that was Ethan with his back to him. That urge to touch returned to the forefront of Heisenberg’s mind. It was that deep ache in his chest, like a lump of flour stuck in a smooth dough that needed to be coaxed inward.

He reached out but stopped himself before he could touch, trying to plan the best way to move forward with what he wanted. Heisenberg pursed his lips, shuffling his body closer to Ethan’s back until he finally slid his arm over Ethan’s waist. He could feel Ethan’s body freeze and tense up a little, which made Heisenberg’s heart feel like stopping altogether. Had he gone too far?

But after a moment, Ethan relaxed, pressing his chest back into Karl slowly. It was all the permission he needed to slot himself fully against Ethan and quietly seek out his hand. Once Heisenberg found it, he carefully laced their fingers together as he held Ethan like that, tugging him close with his elbow.

No words were spoken in the darkness, but a silent understanding of what they both wanted. Heisenberg finally felt complete like this, closing his eyes and exhaling tiredly. His body suddenly felt tired, releasing all the tension it had been holding trying to psyche himself up to do it.

A feeling of affection swelled in Heisenberg’s chest as he held Ethan, finally giving in to the darkness and drifting away with their bond now stronger than ever.

“Are you fucking insane, Ethan?!”

Chris Redfield. A thorn in Heisenberg’s side, but not as bad as Miranda. His voice filling their home put Heisenberg on edge, but it didn’t really matter too much to him. It was around ten in the morning, and the couple had just had breakfast. The television was on, playing some cartoons in the background as Rose was sitting on the soft carpet of the living area with her toys, and Heisenberg sat close to her.

When Chris made an unexpected visit, and he spotted Heisenberg in the living room, the yelling began. Ethan had kept Chris just outside of the room so that Rose didn’t see her father getting angry, and Heisenberg made sure to keep her attention on her toys. Heisenberg was wearing a pair of tartan boxers, along with a button-up pyjama shirt with a white tank top beneath it. It wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of bedtime fashion, but it made him comfortable enough at night.

When the yelling only got worse and Rose seemed irritated by the noise, Heisenberg carefully brought Rose into his lap and crossed his legs.

“Hmm,” He hummed in feigned thoughtfulness, “Does ol’ Karl need to perform for little Rose again?” Heisenberg sighed dramatically, “Oh, the things I do for you.”

He turned his body subtly to the kitchen area, holding his hand out and focusing on one of the drawers. It slid open, a few tablespoons floating out from a cutlery tray. Heisenberg pulled his hand back, the spoons floating across to the living area and bringing them to a stop in front of him and Rose. With a simple, slow roll of his wrist, the spoons began to twirl and move in a circular motion above Rose.

Her eyes widened with fascination, the corners of her mouth opening into a gleeful smile. Absently, she reached up with her soft, pink hands and tried to reach for the spoons half-heartedly as they continued their motions. A soft laugh bubbled from her, causing Karl to smile softly.

“He’s a dangerous bioweapon, Ethan. He could hurt Rose!”

Heisenberg managed to hone in on those words; a sharp pain digging into his chest when he realised the implications Chris was trying to make. That Heisenberg was a monster. A bioweapon without feeling. A creature that would kill a child.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ethan pointing wordlessly at the soft scene of Heisenberg with Rose in his lap, entertaining her with spoons. That was all he needed to say, really — without even saying it. Even Chris was at a loss for words, and he quietly relented. Ethan was surely in for an afternoon of lectures.

It made Heisenberg smile a little more, turning his head subtly towards Ethan and catching his gaze. It was his quiet way of saying thank you. It went beyond thanking Ethan for trusting him with Rose but thanking Ethan for listening to Heisenberg, taking him into his home and loving him. Even though they’d never spoken those three little words out loud, maybe they didn’t need to. Their actions, affections and closeness spoke those words loud enough.

Truly, after all this time, Heisenberg didn’t think he was capable of ever being loved or trusted. Now that he’d left that horrible life behind, he was now a father, a friend and possibly a lover. The trauma would always remain, yes, like the cadou and the mutations. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be happy like this, in this simple little life he’d started to build with Ethan.

Maybe it would be okay.

#ethan winters x karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x ethan winters #heisenberg x ethan #heisenwinters #wintersberg #winterberg #karl heisenberg #ethan winters #resident evil village #resident evil 8 #resident evil fic #fanfiction #oneshot

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young-dumb-and-vaccinated · 3 years

Text

A Deafened Bard (Stephen Strange x Female!Reader)

I can explain.

Please don't come at me for starting a new project before finishing Cult Girl Doctorate. I hit a wall and needed to take a break. I am trying not to let this one take up too much time.

Y/n is a sorceress-in-training who’s known for being hard to teach. Sensing her potential, Doctor Strange takes her on as an apprentice.

You firmly believed that shattering the urn of Fei-Amie was the best thing that ever happened to you.

It happened a year ago, but it still replayed in your head over and over again. You made a conscious effort to remember it vividly.

Sure, it was terrifying, Stephen Strange's initial look of anger when he heard the ceramic shatter. It softened when he saw that the culprit was just a clumsy sorceress-in-training who looked on the verge of tears with remorse. Still, it was a face you never wanted to see again: his teeth bared, his already sharp features accentuated under the constraints of anger.

It diluted into silent, simmering frustration that revealed itself to you in short sarcastic jabs and body language.

"Just, stop." He cut you off after a string of profuse sorries. With no disarming smile in sight, you could tell he was tense. "Artifacts get broken all the time. Don't cry. It was an accident."

His tone indicated that he was trying to convince himself more than he was you. You were a closed-off person and could hardly stand the idea that anyone out there didn't like you. The idea of the Sorcerer Supreme being mad at you, personally, made you briefly consider ritual suicide. You lowered your head. "Yes, Master Strange."

"Hey, butterfingers." He called out after you as you tried to make a painless exit. You looked back at him and he gestured to the pile of broken ceramic pieces. "You gonna fix what you broke?"

It hadn't dawned on you that an ancient relic could be fixed. Especially one that once contained the ashes of the ancient necromancer Fei-Amie. You were embarrassed to say that your knowledge of manipulating time was surface-level at best, and couldn't think of any other solution.

You wordlessly gathered the pieces up in your skirt and carried them off, striking out any plans to go into town that evening. Instead, you poured through book after book for any instruction whatsoever on repairing broken artifacts. You ran out of desk space, so books were just floating in the air, suspended on pages that briefly mentioned relic breakage.

You started to believe you were given an impossible task. Or perhaps all the resources you needed, he was withholding. Even so, you didn't want to go back to him empty-handed. You changed into your street clothes and opened a portal to the local craft store.

You returned with two types of extra-strong superglue and got to work. First, you made all the pieces come together and had them hover over the desk. Unconsciously, you began to sing as you pieced the urn back together.

Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels

Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles

Brown paper packages tied up with strings

These are a few of my favorite things

"Haven't heard that song in years."

You dropped the tube of glue and the few remaining pieces fell back to the desk. "Master Strange!"

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." He said, though his apology was undercut by his smug tone. "Carry on."

You picked up a piece and began to line the edges with glue.

"Aren't you going to finish the song?"

You looked up to see that he hadn't been just passing by. He was leaning against the threshold, watching you.

"I don't usually sing for an audience." You laughed, uncomfortably. "Just me."

"A man and his sentient cape should not count as an audience," he scoffed. "But, if you insist, I guess I'll have to just listen to Julie Andrews instead."

"What's wrong with her?" You raised your eyebrows in surprise.

"Oh, nothing. She's a treasure." He put his hands up. "But everyone gets to hear her sing. And I take it that only a very select few get to hear your rendition of my favorite things. I just have to be one of them."

You blushed, suddenly forgetting all the words to my favorite things.

"Girls in white dresses..." he offered, an impatient edge to it.

You swallowed. "Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes. Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes-"

"Hey, butterfingers." He interrupted again. Before you could object, he pointed to the way that the pieces floated gracefully overhead at the sound of your voice.

"I'd like to see Julie Andrews do that." He said with a wink.

"Looks alright," Master Strange said, running his finger along the tight seams that showed where cracks once were.

"Will it still work?" You asked. That was really all you were worried about.

"Beats the hell out of me." He shrugged. "I didn't know how to use it to begin with."

"What?!" You spat back. "Are you kidding?"

"I'm afraid not." He said, taking the urn and placing it back on its pedestal. "Don't worry, you did a good job. I'm not mad at you anymore."

That was really all you needed to hear. "Thank you, sir."

"You're an apprentice, right?" He asked.

"I'm..." Your voice trailed off in embarrassment. "Between masters right now."

He raised an eyebrow. "If I were to ask around, would I receive glowing reviews from your last masters?"

You admitted it point-blank. "No."

"Let me guess," he folded his arms. "Something didn't make sense to you and instead of giving you the space to question it, they insisted you follow blindly."

You wanted to throw your head back and shout in relief; finally, someone understood!

"Bingo, bullseye." You put your hands up in surrender after being read so easily. "Right on the money."

"I see." He said, tucking that thought away for later. "Could I trouble you for one more odd job before you go?"

"That depends." You folded your arms. "What is it?"

He looked over his shoulder at his cape. "How are you with sewing?"

‘Sewing' was not the verb you would use to describe repairing the tears in the Cloak of Levitation. It was taller and stronger than you and it did not want to be repaired. It was closer to performing surgery on a fully grown mountain lion that could rip your head off at any minute.

"Like putting eyeshadow on a cat," Master Strange said. It flicked its edge contemptuously, while still clinging to his shoulders for dear life. "I'm a licensed surgeon and it won't let me within 20 feet of it with a needle."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." You said, thoroughly discouraged. All he'd given you to work with was a spool of thread and a pack of needles.

He tried with sincere force to remove the cloak, but it wouldn't budge. "Of course, now it knows you're coming at it with the sewing kit and it won't leave my shoulders."

"Maybe I can work with that?" You shrugged. You threaded the needle and hid it in your hand.

You approached the cloak, only for it to shove Master Strange in your way like a human shield.

"Listen, you naughty little blanket." He scolded, turning around to face it as if it were a puppy that had just wrecked the living room. "If you don't let her fix you, you're going in the washing machine. Extra spin."

It shuddered, and, for a moment, you thought it was going to comply. You slowly took a step forward, only for it to dart as soon as your foot hit the ground. It made its escape with a large crash through the heavy wooden doors of the library.

"Hey!" You shouted, chasing after it. "Get back here!"

You caught a glimpse of it headed towards the relic room, so, without thinking, you opened a portal to make it there first. You reached it only seconds before the cloak breached the threshold, with only enough time to grab it by the edge.

"Come here!" You exclaimed, giving it a full force tug. It tugged back, overpowering you to the tenth degree. It dragged you across the room and into the foyer. You yanked on it, only for it to escape from your grip and send you flying back into the wall. You wondered for a second how such a sturdy piece of fabric could possibly be in need of maintenance.

"Bastard." You mumbled, rubbing the spot where your head collided with the wall. The pain didn't stop you, though. You were on your feet within seconds, pursuing the naughty blanket all over again.

You heard the words of one of your many, many masters ringing in your ears; "never outrun what you can outsmart". Or maybe that was from a Garfield comic. Either way, whether or not you could outsmart the cloak was still unknown, but you had to at least try.

You took a second to catch your breath and tried to remember where you saw it heading next. Downstairs, you thought. To the laundry room. The one place you would never look.

You slowly but deliberately descended the stairs to the basement where the laundry was. You turned the light on and saw overturned baskets of towels, clothes, and sheets everywhere. And then a washing machine door slammed shut. You turned your head and saw a twinge of dark red hiding in the washing machine.

You removed your shoes and socks to minimize noise, then picked up a fitted sheet that had been thrown on the ground. You mounted the washing machine and affixed the sheet to the front. The cloak would have to come shooting out the door, and you would ambush it.

You forced the door open with your heel, holding the sheet like a giant net. As predicted, the cloak shot out like a bullet from a gun, getting caught in the sheet. It thrashed around aimlessly, trying to escape, but you had a tight grip and it wasn't going anywhere.

"It's curtains for you!" You said, then laughed at your own joke. "Stop struggling!"

It flailed and fought, but eventually ran out of energy and sunk to the ground. Not trusting it quite yet, you pinned it down with your whole body weight before releasing it from the sheet. As expected, it tried to fly away, but couldn't get anywhere.

"The less you fight, the faster this will go." You said, examining the fabric for any visible tears. The rip presented itself right away. About as long as your hand, right in the center.

"What did Strange do to you?" You asked, pulling the threaded needle from your pocket. "Hold still, I'm going to fix it."

Once the needle hit fabric, the cloak stopped trying to fly away and instead writhed about on the floor like it was about to die. You fixed the tear with as many stitches as you could make, then pulled it shut. Once you knew the thread was secure, you rolled off the cloak and let it fly free.

It shot up, but froze, noticing something was different. It swished itself around, unaccustomed to the feeling of air not blowing right through its center.

"You're welcome." You said with a shrug. "It's not like I had to chase you all around the sanctum to make it happen."

Without any warning, the cloak scooped you up and squeezed you. Your initial reaction was that this was its revenge and you were taking your final breaths, but you could tell it was gratitude by the way it gently set you down on the ground.

"Happy to help." You gasped for air. "Just remember this feeling if I ever have to do this again."

"Not bad, butterfingers." Master Strange told you, though the tone of his voice conveyed he was impressed beyond a simple 'not bad'.

"Not bad?" You protested. "I absolutely crushed it."

He ran his finger down the uneven but sturdy stitching. When his face met yours again, he was smiling with genuine enthusiasm that managed to eek through his dry, sarcastic exterior. It came out as an admittedly very handsome sideways smirk as his eyes scanned you up and down.

“If you don’t need anything else, I’ll get out of your hair now.” You said, heading towards the open doors.

“Wait.” The doors slammed shut before you could reach them. You turned around to see Master Strange still examining the stitching. "You wouldn't leave without tea, would you?"

A pot of chai tea sat between you, filling the air with an aroma of spicy vanilla. You held the teacup in both hands, determined to never give him a reason to reinforce the "butterfingers" nickname he'd become so fond of.

"Chai is my favorite." You said, letting the scent waft into your nose. "Yerba mate used to be my favorite, but if I drink more than two pots of it I get sick."

"Yeah, definitely don't do that." He chuckled, bobbing his teabag up and down in the cup. "Out of curiosity, are you wondering at all why I invited you to tea?"

"Oh, definitely." You nodded. "I was just wondering about that."

"Would you believe it's just because I find you interesting?" He raised an eyebrow. "Good company, perhaps?"

"Interesting? Absolutely." You agreed. "Good company is debatable."

"I can't believe I never thought to trap the cloak in the washing machine." He rested his chin in his hand. "It seems so obvious now."

"If it makes you feel any better," you shrugged. "It was mostly dumb luck and reckless disregard for my own life, considering it almost threw me off the balcony.”

He glared at the cloak. “What did I tell you about trying to kill our guests?”

It lowered its collar shamefully in his direction.

“Don’t apologize to me!” He scolded. “Apologize to her.”

It turned to face you and repeated the somber motion.

“It’s okay.” You shrugged. “My family adopted a retired army German Shepherd growing up. I’m used to high-strung creatures that could end my life at any second.”

“Well, rest assured, butterfingers,” He said, leaning back in his chair. “This will never happen again.”

“I, uh-” You opened your mouth before you could even really pick up on the implication he was putting down. “Wasn’t aware that there would be a chance for it to happen again?”

“I suppose we should get down to brass tax, then.” He folded his hands in his lap. “How would you like to stay here?”

“Well-” You said, not wanting to come off as too enthusiastic, which you certainly were. “Not if it’s going to kill me-”

“If I could promise you that your life won’t be in constant danger, I would.” He cut you off. “But if you wanted safety, you wouldn’t have started studying the Mystic Arts.”

“Got me there.” You conceded, your made-up objection withering away. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” He shook his head. “I’ll help you train and in return, you help me preserve the integrity of the sanctum.”

“So an apprenticeship?” Your eyes widened. "Are you saying you want to take me on as an apprentice?"

“I know you’ve got bad associations with that title, but yes.” He answered. “If it brings back memories of your previous masters treating you like garbage, we can call it a ‘partnership’, if you’d like.”

Partners with the Sorcerer Supreme? You thought, butterflies materializing in your stomach.

"That sounds great, but-" You broke eye contact and fidgeted with your fingers. "I feel like I should disclose that it wasn't really all that one-sided. I am… notoriously hard to teach."

"And who told you that?" He tilted his head. "The ones who refused to teach you?"

You hadn't thought about it that way. "I guess."

"The way I see it, you've repaid your debt and are free to leave," he began. "But seeing how dutifully you reassembled that urn, wrangled my favorite piece of defiant outerwear, and how desperately this place is in need of some life, it might be a good idea to keep you around."

You put your hand over your chest to still your heart. "It would be an honor."

"Excellent." He nodded. "That saves me the trouble of having to convince you."

He brought you to a small but comfortable room with a bed and connected bathroom.

"There's plenty of closet space for all your clothes." He said, gesturing to an antique looking bureau set.

You dumped your duffel bag out on the bed, revealing the extent of your possessions. "Thanks, but this is all I've got."

"Travel light, huh?" He asked.

"Yeah, I moved around a lot growing up." You admitted. "Got no real roots and all that jazz."

"That changes now." He told you. "This is your home now so I want it to feel like it. Make the space your own."

“I don’t know how I can thank you for this.” You lowered your head, still feeling undeserving.

“Don’t thank me yet, butterfingers.” He chuckled. “I’ve been told I tend to be a little on the egotistical side. That I don’t work well with others.”

"It's actually [F/N], if you were curious." You said, sitting on the bed and folding your hands in your lap.

"Okay, [F/N]." he smiled. "You've been in and out of enough apprenticeships to know the drill. Early mornings, late nights. And I've got a laundry list of odd jobs for you that I'm too important to do."

"Naturally." You nodded. His dry self-awareness inspired a little confidence that he wouldn't be a complete tyrant.

"You did a good job today." He said, bluntly. "Thank you for your help. Keep it up and you'll make an invaluable addition to the sanctum."

You smiled downwards. "Thank you."

"Do you often sing when you're trying to focus?" He posited. "Just, as an aside."

You could tell the gears in his neurosurgeon's head were turning, undoubtedly trying to pin some kind of diagnosis on you as doctors were known to do.

“I guess it’s just a force of habit.” You admitted. “I used to play piano, so when I’m working with my hands, it just kind of happens. My last master was not happy about that.”

"Oh, screw him." He waved his hand dismissively. "He pissed away an opportunity to nurture a sorceress with a special gift for the sake of tradition. That's a mistake I won't make."

Special gift? You thought. Nobody who practiced the Mystic Arts had ever referred to anything you'd ever done as a 'gift'. Annoyance? sure. A symptom of ADHD? All the time. But 'gift'? That made it sound useful.

#stephen strange x reader #doctor strange #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange #doctor stephen strange #what if #what if marvel #doctor strange supreme

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1engele · 3 years

Text

daybreak | sal fisher x fem!reader - 6. high

Previous | Next

[warnings: SMUT (it's female receiving oral), weed]

"i think of you in colors that don't exist." — Watching Sal shift repeatedly in his seat and squirm uncomfortably the entire way home is almost comical. You watch him shorten the distance between his thighs and then spread them over and over again as he drives, smiling to yourself.

"Doing okay over there?" You ask, a giggly lilt to your voice as you sit still in your spot.

The feeling between your legs is still buzzing and the engine rumbling your seat beneath you is a bit.. overstimulating.. but you're decent.

"Hmm," he hums in response, squinting your way. "Stop baiting at me," he teases.

When you pull into the parking lot at Addison's Apartments, the both of you remain seated for a silent moment, after Sal pulls the keys from the ignition. The high from moments ago has dulled down, and you're left to soak in what exactly had happened.

Except you don't. You don't even think about what had happened—you barely meet Sal's eyes, nervously grin and reach for the passenger door handle. "Alright, see you tomorrow, let me know what your dad says, text me, goodnight!"

Before the blue-haired boy even has a chance, you've opened the car door, hopped out, and gently shut it behind you. You weren't looking for him to catch up to you, either—so you ran like mad into the apartment complex and took the stairwell instead of waiting for the junky elevator.

When you'd gotten home, you were light on your feet and tiptoed through the living room towards your bedroom. You'd took note of Sal's earlier tactic (taking his shoes off before he entered the apartment) and mirrored it.

When you'd finally gotten to your room, you collapsed onto your bed, comforter beneath your back, and stared up at the ceiling.

Your mind was blank. You couldn't even mentally conjure the words to describe what had just happened.

As you ran the earlier events through your subconscious, you remembered the feeling of his teeth and mouth on the flesh of your neck—and how he'd sucked on it until it hurt. You jumped from your bed, ran (lightly) to your bathroom, turned the light on, and peered into the mirror.

You pushed your hair from your neck—which was stuck to your skin from sweat—and gasped in horror at what you saw.

Sure, they weren't fully formed and hadn't reached their full potential, but those were hickeys. Blood red, slightly purple, forming hickeys. And, from what you remember.. you'd attacked his neck worse than he had to you.

The boy was practically translucently pale. You burned with shame at yourself because of the purgatory you'd subjected him to. He'd have to hide them for a week.

You closed your mouth after hanging your jaw open for 30 minutes and breathed out slowly. Despite the nightmare they'd be to hide.. it was almost nice to see on you. Something of him was left behind. At least you had something to remind you that what had played out tonight occurred and hadn't been a dream, or something.

You pressed your fingers on the marks and winced. They were sore.

After a shower—a cold, icy shower—you retreated into bed. You were so exhausted, you didn't dream.

What felt like moments later—you knew better to say it was, though, because there was early morning light shining through your blinds—you were jostled awake by a cold hand on your shoulder. You groaned, turning to the person and squinting.

"Mom?" You slurred tiredly, taking in Michelle's dim silhouette looming over you. You almost couldn't tell who she was at first before you'd rationalized that the only person who'd be shaking you awake in this ungodly hour would be your mother. Also, you could tell by the work uniform she wore. "Wha'?"

And although you were half-awake, your mind was rational enough to remind you to pull the covers up and conceal the bruises on your neck, which you knew had probably worsened.

"The school called," her words are like a bite. You expected this, but hearing her confrontation is sort of scary. "Not only did you receive detention yesterday, but you skipped it. You're lucky you weren't suspended—I had to lie and blame family emergency for your disappearance."

You didn't say anything, staring up at her and into her eyes.

"I can't believe you. You'll still be attending detention—they've rescheduled it for today. If you pull a stunt like this again, you'll pay the price, got it?"

You couldn't remember the last time she'd scolded you. It's not like you did much to warrant it. You never had someone before recently to play hooky with—or to cheat answers off of in class. You never had friends before.

"Okay," you reply, breaking away from her eyes and looking anywhere else. Eventually, her dark gaze rips from your face and she leaves the room.

You watch your bedroom door that she'd closed behind her—listen to the muffled shuffling and jangling of keys in the living room, and when she finally shuts the front door, you breathe out a sigh of relief and roll over onto your back.

And you smile. Because it's funny. Because she has no idea what you did with a boy last night.

You reach beneath the covers and fish for your flip phone (which you'd started sleeping on, a habit spawned from paranoia) and open it. You know it's early, but you slept before receiving any texts, so maybe...

There's nothing. He hadn't messaged you.

Eventually, you roll back over and give yourself another hour or two of sleep. It's too early to start getting ready.

When you woke up again, you got ready—threw on a black halter top, along with an a-lined, purpley-blue plaid skirt. Slid your feet into over-the-knee black socks and rolled them up your legs and to just below your thighs. Topped it off with a chunky black shoe.

After that, you spent a moderate amount of time on your hair and a little on your face.

You made it a point to wear flavored lip gloss. For no particular reason.

The hickeys were still a bit visible, so you topped off your outfit with an oversized denim jacket. You didn't think that much about it. Whether or not that was a mistake would be decided later. There wasn't much you could do—you didn't own all of the makeup necessary to cover them.

You meet with Sal in the lobby first. You approach him before he's noticed that you're even there—standing with his eyes on his feet, kicking the ground and toeing at nothing.

"Hi," you breathed, unsure of yourself.

His head raises. When he meets your eyes, the light fixture over you flickers. "I can see them," Sal says, stepping closer to you and inclining his head to examine your jawline and below.

The actual is a bit abrupt—you're momentarily started. That is until you've processed what he'd said.

"Yeah," you agree, shrugging. He looks back up at your eyes, his gaze widening. "I can't do anything about it."

He laces a hand through his hair and genuinely looks panicked. That's when you decide to examine him—and his neck.

"Holy shit, Sal," you breathe, a laugh of pure disbelief slipping off of your tongue. "You look like someone choked you."

Sal groans. "Yeah, pretty sure you used teeth."

"What're you going to do about that?" You choose to disregard his prior statement.

"I have an easy way out. I'll claim Travis did it yesterday. Super suspicious because I wasn't bruised this way at the time.. but-"

You meet his eyes with a deadpanned expression. Internally, though—it's almost humorous.. the fact that neither of you are even questioning what you'd done together. But you knew that would bite you in the ass. You'd only done what you'd done once—maybe it shouldn't happen again.

"I don't know, Sal." You press your lips together, smooth the gloss around. You taste artificial cherry flavoring on your tongue. "They look like hickeys."

"No one is going to believe I've been given hickeys, Y/N."

"They'll believe it whenever they see we've got a matching set!" You exclaim, meeting his gaze warily. You struggle a bit. Before, it felt so easy to make eye contact with him—but now you could barely lock eyes without looking away.

"Matching set?"

You jerk, breaking your staring contest with the floor and sliding your eyes upward. Larry was a few feet away, speedily approaching as his long legs closed the distance. Quickly, you split your hair in the back—separating it into two sections and placing one on either side of your face.

You watched Sal mess with his in the corner of your eye.

Nervousness made your heart drop what felt like ten stories when Sal spoke in reply. "Hey, Larry," he says. "Is Ashley driving again?"

"Uh, yeah," He replied, running lanky fingers through his lengthy brown hair. "'Was thinking we could all do something after school."

You hold your breath.

"Oh," Sal takes a moment to swallow thickly. "Y/N and I are doing detention—so we can't."

Larry's dark brows draw downward, casting a shadow over his deep eyes. He glances over at you, examines your face, and then locks eyes with Sal like he had been moments before. "Again? Didn't you guys do that yesterday?"

You decide to give your response this time. "Must've been a misunderstanding. We did go to it yesterday—we just, um.. have to do it again. Today."

Before he can further question the situation, you all hear the beeping of a car horn outside of the complex. It sounds familiar—it's Ashley's car. You all step outside.

Looking at the pale silver Ford Fiesta leaves you with mixed feelings. It's nice to look at—but now it just reminds you of the fact Larry tried to get into an altercation with Sal inside of it.

This time, Todd is in the back seat by himself. It's almost comical. You raise an eyebrow and look towards Ashley in the driver's seat. She rolls her window down and acknowledges you with striking green eyes.

"Shotgun?"

You almost feel bad for leaving Sal in the backseat, knowing he's probably on edge with those marks on his neck. But you can't help yourself as you run around to the other side of the vehicle and climb into the passenger seat beside Ashley.

"It smells great in here, Ash. I forgot to tell you that last time," you smile as you breathe in the familiar strawberry scent.

"Thank you!" She grins. "Yeah, I really like these car fresheners."

The guys get into the back seat—Sal's in the middle, having climbed in first, to Todd's left, and Larry entering last.

Once the doors are shut and all hands and feet are inside of the car, Ashley shifts gears and gets going. She looks to you, then throws a look over her shoulder toward Sal. "How was detention, troublemakers?"

Your eyebrows furrow, about of stupidity washing over you. Even having discussed this with Larry and Sal only moments ago, you've completely forgotten that they thought you'd attended detention.

"Huh-"

"It was great," Sal cuts in. "We sat for hours and did nothing. A lot of fun."

You come to realization quickly, and look up to meet Sal's eyes in the rearview mirror. He's shaking his head in lighthearted disappointment—a glint of amusement in his blue gaze.

"Yeah," your laugh trails off. "Sal couldn't sit still. It was funny."

You smirk deviously. That was an obvious reference to last night, on the way back to the apartments.

He meets your eyes once again in the mirror in front of you. "Don't bait at me," he warns, but you hear his grin. That's what he'd said when you'd laughed at him last night.

You smirked, shifting in your seat. You smelled cigarette smoke and guessed Larry was smoking again. It doesn't smell regular, though—smells a bit grassy.

"You're fogging up the car, Larry! It'll be your fault if we crash!" Ashley confirms your suspicions as she yells over the sound of rushing wind. He's rolled down the window—it fails to eliminate the smell but clears your line of sight.

"Sorry," he grins around a cigarette. It was nice to see him in a better mood.

"Have any of you decided on the plans for after school?" Todd speaks up for the first time day, absentmindedly fiddling with his flip phone. It's not any of your business, but you wonder who he's texting. Every time you see him, he's playing with his phone.

Larry laughs, pulling the cigarette away from his lips. "No. Thought Sal or Y/N would have some ideas, but they can't even go. They've got detention again."

Ashley looks toward you, awaiting your confirmation.

"We always had detention again. It was a miscommunication.." you trailed off, telling a lie. They didn't know that, though.

You watch Sal fiddle with his rings in the rearview mirror. "It's my fault, really."

You're not sure exactly what he means. He could be talking about the reason you'd even been given detention (attempting to share quiz answers) or maybe he was talking about the fact you'd even ditched detention—because he'd proposed it.

You disliked how easy he was to blame himself. You'd agreed to it.

And it wasn't something you found yourself regretting—not only had you received the pleasure of grinding Sal into oblivion in the driver's seat, but you'd came while you were at it.

Something you did regret, though... was doing that while you were so unsure of yourself—and what exactly it was that he wanted from you.

Not only that, but what did you want from him?

What was this?

"No, not really," you replied, after momentarily zoning out. "I agreed to it—to you... um- giving me those answers, Sal."

You hear his rings clack, keeping your eyes on the road, and on the broken white lines in the middle of the asphalt that pass beneath the car. You assume he's pressed his hands together harshly. "Yeah, well, it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't proposed it."

This conversation wasn't really about test answers, was it?

You hear the crackle of a cigarette. No one else seems to assume anything about the conversation—just two people who refuse to blame the other person.

"The only thing I care about is the fact that you have to deal with the repercussions, Sal. I wouldn't care if it was just me having to do detention."

That shuts him up. He doesn't say anything after that.

"It's okay." You say, one last time.

After that (thank god) Ashley reaches towards the radio and turns to a channel. Heavy metal plays through the speakers—not too loud, though—and although it's a bit unsettling considering your mood, the distraction is welcome.

As soon as you've stepped out of the car in the school's parking lot, you regret the fact you hadn't worn a heavier jacket. The denim jacket is oversized, yes—but it's lightweight and breathable and you can feel the autumn wind fluttering against your skin.

Goosebumps rise on your arms. You involuntarily shiver.

You, Todd, Larry, Sal, and Ashley begin the walk inside of the school. You still smell smoke, and a glance to your left confirms that Larry is still smoking that cigarette.

"A teacher will see," you warn lightly.

"Eh, it'll be alright." He looks at you inquisitively and raises it toward you. When you meet his eyes, they're bloodshot. Your lips part in surprise.

"Are you... high?" Your gaze flickers to the cigarette again. Turns out, it's a joint. Larry is smoking weed. Figures.

He doesn't answer the question. It's not like he has to. Instead, he raises it toward you again, quirking an eyebrow questioningly.

You swallow the thick saliva that had begun to pool in your mouth and look toward the rest of the gang as they continue on.

"Why are you looking over there?" Larry calls you back from your reverie. You look up to meet his blown pupils again. "You don't need anyone's permission. If you want to smoke it, smoke it."

You bit your lip, raising a hand. Your digits twitched as you reached to pluck it from him. As you took the blunt away from his grip, and your fingers brushed, his eyebrows twitched upward.

Nervously, you inhale like you'd done with the cigarette. You don't feel it enter your lungs until you've ripped it away from your lips. You don't want this to go like the first time you'd ever smoked, so you hold it in. Those few moments feel like forever—but eventually, you cough, and allow yourself that relief.

You don't feel high, per se. You've only just smoked it, but it was a big draw, and you're already feeling the effects of lightheadedness.

Your head spins as you absentmindedly drag from it again. You don't realize how long you've been inhaling until lanky fingers have grabbed the blunt from you and pulled it away.

You blink slowly, looking up to Larry in confusion.

"Holy shit," his red eyes widen, before laughing comically. You find yourself giggling as well, experiencing a high that wasn't from weed—but from the rush of trying something forbidden and new.

"You're going to be so fucking high," he laughs again, passing a hand through his hair and looking down to the blunt. "It's... gone."

You can't even remember how long you'd been smoking that shit. How long had you been walking? How far back had Ashley parked?

Conveniently, as he examines the used-up joint, you pass by a green trash bin. He opens the lid and throws the useless blunt inside of it.

A few moments pass as you step onto the concrete leading up to the school. You vaguely feel Larry's large hand gripping your shoulder to steady you. Even though you felt a bit woozy, you remember to keep your hair in place, covering the hickeys Sal had left on your skin.

When you've stepped into the halls, the amount of people walking all around and bumping into you feels a bit overstimulating.

You hoist your bag tighter over your shoulder and follow after your friends. You feel Larry's arm bump into yours every so often, reminding you of his presence.

When you reach your locker, you put your books away, arranging them accordingly, etc. Once you've shut the locker door, hard enough for the cage to rattle—you sort of.. just- stand there. It feels like your consciousness is somewhere completely different, and yet all of this noise feels like too much.

Your heart is beating way too fast and it hurt to stand up straight.

It didn't feel bad—but you'd certainly rather snort salt and pepper than have to function an entire school day like this. You felt way too floaty, like everything was swaying—you honestly couldn't deter up from down.

You don't know where the rest of the gang is, and you're too high to care. You wander down the hall, and continue like that, even when the bell rings and everyone steadily begins to file off and into their respective classes.

Desperate to be alone, and sitting down somewhere, you find a door. It looks like the door handle is growing dust, and there are no signs or labeling on the wood. So you turn the handle and try your luck.

Of course, it's locked. Why else would a school keep an unused room unlocked?

You dig into the denim compartments of your large denim jacket, blinking away the blear in your eyes as you search between the seams at the pit of your pockets. Eventually, you find a stray bobby-pin. Breathing out a sigh of relief, you stick it into the keyhole and wiggle and force it accordingly.

There were multiple reasons you knew how to do this. Your mother used to accidentally lock you out of your previous flats. It wasn't a hobby you'd picked up—it was something you were required to learn. At least, so you wouldn't have to sleep in the hallway at night.

The door eventually gives. When you've entered, you find yourself in a storage room. It makes sense. All of the junk was stored here.

Still high as shit, and becoming a bit nauseous, you close the door behind you. That shuts out any light, and you feel a chill roll over your skin. You couldn't see shit.

You make haste as you reach into your pocket again and rip your flip phone out. You pop it open, and soon enough, your eyebrows raise in surprise. The messages are a bit unclear, but they're visible once you focus.

Sal :) Missed Call (2)

Sal :) where r you?

Sal :) i'm looking for you. class is about to start

Sal :) larry's gone too. you're with him?

Before you type out a reply, you use the phone's light to search the room for a light source of some kind. Eventually, you find a shaded lamp. You feel around for a cord, and once you've found it, you pull a bit. Thankfully, it's already plugged in.. somewhere.

You return your fingers to the lamp itself and turn it on. Soft yellow light fills the dusty room, and you sigh in relief.

You try to disregard the floating dust particles, and sink to the ground, pressing your back against a wide, wooden desk. As you adjust on the floor, the cold tile momentarily presses against your bare thighs. You breathe in sharply, allowing yourself a moment before going to reply to Sal.

You are you in class?

Sal :) No

Sal :) where are you?

You i'm not with Larry. m alone. DK where he is

Sal :) sure he's skipped to smoke. where are you

You allowed yourself to look around the dimly lit room before replying. You swore you felt the dust sticking to your skin, and the skirt hugging your lower half felt too tight.

You shakily breathed in, and then breathed out. You repeated this process, shaky fingers gripping the phone tightly.

You bobby-pinned my way into some storage room i'm sitting on the floor so high rn lol

Sal :) i know where that is. coming rn . it's at the end of a hall, right?

Sal :) what did you smoke?

You blinked slowly, wiggling your thighs back and forth.

You you're correct.

You smoked weed

Before you could comprehend what was even happening, the door directly in front of you had opened. You blinked as white light constricted your pupils before they returned to their expanded state as the silhouette closed the door. While he did that, you reached up to the desk, slid a drawer open, and placed your phone inside of it.

You could've just put it in your pocket. You didn't know why you didn't.

He sunk to the floor in front of you, sitting criss-cross applesauce. His shoes were a breath from yours as you hugged your bare knees tightly. Your lazy eyes followed his movements as he clasped his hands around his ankles. He seemed to be watching your eyes—because when you looked up to make eye contact, he'd already been looking.

"Can barely tell what your eye color is," Sal says nervously. "Your pupils are blown."

"Is' just the dark," you chide softly. "I'm fine. My heart's just beating really fast."

"How much did you smoke?" He asks, his blue eyes—ever vibrant, even in this dingy lighting—searching your face. "Larry gave it to you, right? Jesus.."

You genuinely think about it. It seems you think about it too hard because the room began to rotate.

Maybe that wasn't just the high. You'd fallen onto your side. Luckily, you'd been sitting already—so it was a gentle collide with the cold tile. It felt nice against your cheek. You closed your eyes and watched the floating colors and shapes that look like nerves flash across the backs of your eyelids.

You fully press your side against the floor snuggling into it like it's the softest blanket you've ever slept with.

"Hot," you breathe. "Get this jacket off."

Soon enough, you feel purposeful hands sliding the denim off of your arms. It takes effort to get it off of the arm beneath you, but Sal manages. He balls the jacket up and slides it beneath your head. When your cheek meets the cool denim, you feel at total peace.

"Better," you open your eyes. He's watching your face. You can tell he's concerned, but there's something in his gaze—a look that tells you that he knows he's got this handled. He was confident in himself to take care of you.

He's probably experienced this before.

You roll onto your back, holding your eyes open to look up at the ceiling. Your eyelashes ghost your eyebrows as your imagination forms clouds in the shapes of the floating things you see.

Your skirt rides up your thighs a bit. You don't pay attention to it until you feel Sal's ring-clad fingers gently fixing it for you. You look at his face and smile.

"We need to do it again," you mumble. You don't feel the sickness of the high anymore—only complete clarity.

"Do what?" He asks, curiosity lilting his words.

"What we did in the car."

After those words roll off of your tongue, all that meets you is the intaking of breath. It's so quiet in this storage room that you can hear him licking his lips. You hear shuffling, the clacking of rings, and your breath—and for a moment, you believe he won't say anything back to you.

"I," he starts, swallowing hard. "You.. when do you.."

"How about now?"

You grin, meeting his eyes. He blinks a few times.

"Y/N, I-" he cuts himself off with a breathy laugh. You don't know if he feels nervous—or he just genuinely cannot believe this is happening. You wouldn't blame him, because you can't process it, either.

It's the weed boosting your confidence like this.

Then and again, you'd been confident with him during your first sexual encounter. Maybe the high just amplified that.

"As much as I'd like to," he starts, voice tight, "I don't know how well walking around the rest of the day having... uh— would go. I know it'll happen. We've got detention to sit in, too."

You pouted sadly but accepted it. He didn't want to, and that was fine.

"But, I, um.." his eyes flickered across your face. "I could go down on you."

The words surprised you so much you jerked upward and into an upright position. Your shock had also made you a dumbass, it seemed, as well—because you smacked your head straight into the wooden drawer you'd left open, which you'd put your phone in not even a few minutes ago.

"Ow," you winced, hand reaching up to rub the sore spot.

"Holy shit," Sal says, now closer to you. He closed the drawer (something you should have done way earlier) and blinked down at you. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," you breathed, meeting his gaze. "You'd.."

His eyes shifted to the left momentarily. "Yeah. If you don't want me to, that's fine. Your decision. I mean, I have no experience, besides things I've heard before."

You felt a bit giggly all of sudden. Your forehead was pulsing but it was fine. "I can always teach you. I mean, I've never had someone go down on me but I know what feels good."

Sal's demeanor seems a bit nervous as he glances around the storage room. "You want this to happen in here?"

You let out an abrupt laugh, holding your upper body weight on your elbows and arms. "Yes."

He chuckles along with you. "Alright."

Once again, you thank whatever intuition it is you have for swaying you into choosing to wear a skirt again today. You feel Sal's eyes burning holes into your skin as you grip the hem of your skirt and pull the material of your skirt higher on your thighs until it's bunched up at your hips.

His eyes—which, moments ago, were so blue and clear—had now grown a bit darker and looked as though a shadow had been cast over their pretty sheen.

"Did you lock the door when you came in?" You breathed, the ache between your thighs painful as he stares you down.

"I don't think it locks from the inside. We'll have to make it quick."

You're heart's never beat this fast before. And it keeps crashing against your ribs when he slides his fingers up your legs. He pulls your knees away from each other, and shifts so he's a bit farther between your legs.

You watch him slide every silver ring off of his digits, collecting them in a palm and sliding them onto the wooden surface of the desk beside him.

Your blood pumps in your ears so loud you feel like your brain is going to explode. That is, until you feel the pressure of the pads of his fingers right between your thighs, over the fabric that separated his fingertips from the burning heat there. Every other sense diminishes as your entire body focuses on what you'd just felt.

You instinctively gasped, never having been touched so intimately before.

You can tell he's shocked, barely having to glance at his face. You know he's nervous, but you don't believe he has reason to be.

"You're.."

"Wet?" You finish the sentence for him shyly, feeling completely dirty about insinuating something like that out loud. "The fabric is thin, but.."

"I haven't even done anything," he murmurs.

"Yes, you have," you reply, giggling quietly through your chest. "You're torturing me. Get on with it."

His hands shake as he reaches his hands behind his head and unclasps the buckles that hold the prosthetic onto his face. Before you can even take him in, he's turned the lamp above you off.

It's completely dark in the room.

"Can I.."

You know what he means when his hands brush the sides of your thighs. "Yes," you reply, instantly.

Sal hesitates. "Are you sure?"

You smile to yourself. "I am. Are you?"

"Absolutely," he mumbles, hooking his thumbs around the lace of your underwear and pulling it down your legs. You can't hear your heart anymore, thank god—you can only feel it. It beats unmercifully against your ribs as he daintily finishes sliding the fabric off of your body.

Sal barely moves after that. You guess he's put your panties in his pocket.

Before you know it, he's flattened the tip of his middle finger on the place between your legs. You shakily sigh as he barely dips a finger into the place your dampness had collected. He then slides his digit upward, spreading the wetness up and through your slit.

You know what he's doing—preparing you for what's to come—but you can't help it when his touch ghosts your clit. It takes a lot of self-control not to clamp your thighs around his hand—so you hold yourself back with a whine.

Sal stops when you make the sound, but his touch remains. "There?" He asks lowly—like now you're more at risk at being caught. There's no way, though. When you'd picked the lock, the doorknob seemed like it hadn't been used in forever.

"Yes," you whisper, barely lifting your hips to press into his hand. He uses more fingers this time—passing them through your wetness again. Eventually, he makes it back to that bundle of nerves, and gently circles it. You feel your gut tumble as he presses on it just eight.

"God, please," you sigh, settling on your back and raising a hand to grip at your hair. "Sal, I want-"

"Okay," he murmurs. You hear shuffling, feel him move. You know he's lower when his hair tickles the flesh between your thighs.

His breath fans over the apex of your thighs. You'd expect breath of this proximity to be hot—but it's cold and feels minty. It makes sense. That's how he smells—and whenever you'd kissed him last night, that's how he'd tasted.

What broke you from your musing was the feeling of his warm tongue flat on your sex. You throw your head back, dropping your jaw. You'd been waiting this whole time for that feeling—and now you'd gotten it.

Your skull feels like it's rattling (you had just thrown your head back and into the hard flooring) but you disregard that and focus on everything else.

"F-fuck," you stutter, as he rolls his tongue up and over your clit. You knew his memory was basically photographic—but you didn't realize he'd be able to find that spot every time.

He flicks his tongue over your clit in a way he hadn't been like he was experimenting. And it worked because you'd cried out and reached between your thighs to grip his blue hair.

He pulls away from your sex, exhales cool air onto the junction of your thighs and pants. "Gonna need to be quiet," he reminds you, his voice thick.

"I'm sorry," you swallow, before feeling him duck back down.

You shiver in anticipation as his mouth closes over the slope of your inner thigh, sucking onto your skin. You whine as he nibbles your flesh, barely closing his teeth over it before pulling away and returning to what he'd left.

Your spine arches off of the painfully hard floor as he closes his lips over your cunt again, flattening his tongue again and rolls it upward and back into his mouth.

It's not like he has a technique—he's just reacting to your reactions.

Your eyes are watery and fill with tears as you close them too tightly. Your fingers interlace with his hair, gripping close to his scalp and pulling just a bit. He hums in acknowledgment against your clit, and you feel that coil that had been steadily tightening in your gut began to tighten excruciatingly.

"Close," you breathe. "Please. Gonna cum."

Surely enough, he smiles into you, passes his tongue through your slit one last time before flicking it over your clit, and with purpose. He feels your legs spasm against his shoulders, so he flattens his tongue over the bundle of nerves.

That's when that coil in the deepest pit of your stomach unraveled.

"I'm coming," you whined. The feeling stuttered, you felt like you were teetering off of a cliff before it finally crashed over your body and through you harder than anything you've ever felt before.

He rode you through your orgasm—and it was hard not to clamp your thighs around his head.

"Fuck," your legs twitched as you came down, sighing as he pulled away from your sex. He panted, taking in the air quickly, before reaching up and turning the lamp on.

You met his eyes, pressing your thighs together as they shook.

"Oh my god," you exhaled, allowing yourself to soak in your shock. You watched him lick his lips before passing the back of his hand over them.

Sal seemed a bit lost for words himself. "Was that- um.."

You sat up—hiking your skirt back down with one hand while catching him by the nape of the neck with the other. You captured his mouth with yours, kissing him with fervor and want and appreciation. It took less than a second for him to reciprocate.

You didn't care if you could taste yourself on his tongue—it didn't matter much. It wasn't even bad, thank god.

After passing your tongue over his lip, you pulled away, eyes wide with shock. "I should.."

"I know what you're going to say," he cut you off, reaching into his back pocket with a smile. He hands you his underwear, and you close it in your fist. "And I'm alright. We've spent way too much time in here, anyway."

Your knee accidentally nudges between his thighs. Of course, he's hard. He was a teenage boy and he'd just made a girl come in a dingy old classroom at school during class. You felt bad.

"Another time." It's not a question. You're promising it to him.

"I.. okay." He murmurs, nervous in a way he hadn't been when he'd been eating you out moments before.

You watch him slide his rings back on, buckle his prosthetic back onto his face—and pretend not to notice how he adjusts himself as he stands up. You slide your denim jacket back on, slide your panties up your legs, and move to stand. You nearly fall back down when your legs spasm.

"Are you okay?" He asks, concern dripping off of his low voice.

"Fine. A little shaky," you breathe, gripping his arms and rising to your feet. You let go of him a few beats later and move toward the door. You forget your phone, but Sal grabs it for you and slides it into your pocket.

And as the both of you go to leave, you think about how the rest of the day will play out.

#sally face #sally face x reader #sal fisher x reader

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writeblrfantasy · 3 years

Text

here it is!

my pride and joy, the piece that has completely hijacked my brain and my life for the past 24 hours. this is the prologue, some might say, to TDOSA, featuring the vibes of an endless, sunny summer, the sense of floating through time and space, and a lot of lesbian yearning and projection, i present: the summer of seret ashling.

cw implied sex, blood

word count around 6300

one time tags of interest @ashen-crest @ettawritesnstudies

tdosa taglist (lmk to be added/removed) magic-is-something-we-create @hysteriwah @imjustalonesomewriteblr @a-forgotten-dusk @bronwennjames @metanoiamorii

Lysandra Fleming’s summer begins like this: a lonely night in Briar Bar, sipping a warm mug of cherry syrup. Not because she is cold—the heat in Vashiri Valley does not begin with summer, nor does it end there. Cherry syrup is vile and bitter and sweet at the same time, made worse warm, but the smooth way it goes down reminds her of childhood, the strange days when she actually liked this stuff.

Not home. She has not had a home since she was a child, when the supposed charm of the palace still worked on her. What were once silky ribbons in her hair became the invisible chains and rules of her parents, tying her down.

Lysandra, you can’t do this, it will reflect badly on us, or Lysandra, you can’t speak to that person, can’t smile at them, can’t see them, don’t you know what they did ten years ago? Don’t you know who their parents are? Vashiri Valley is struggling for power enough without you mucking it up.

Lysandra stopped smiling altogether.

Now, she comes to Briar Bar to be left alone with her cherry syrup, to melt into the crowd, to be normal, for once. Instead, others smile at her the way her parents always encouraged she smile, fake, polite enough, with an ulterior gleam in their eye. So many eyes watch her in want, but she does not feel seen at all by any of them.

The room’s quiet conversation dims and dissolves into whispers, prompting Lysandra to glance over at the reason. The reason is facing away from Lysandra, wearing a tall black hat and a black suit that nearly blends into the darkness of the walls, if not for the white shirt the woman is wearing underneath.

Lysandra didn’t see her come in, and all eyes turn to the tall, dark stranger, wondering the same thing. Her companions across the room point her in Lysandra’s direction, who braces for another meaningless smile, another delighted to meet you, Highness.

The woman turns, and Lysandra sees brown skin, black hair falling in long, loose curls, a subtle, close mouthed smile that draws her attention instantly. Brown eyes meet Lysandra’s green.

“Seret Ashling, my princess.” Seret Ashling leans down, never breaking eye contact, and kisses the top of Lysandra’s hand, holding her fingers delicately, but not like she’s glass. She treats Lysandra like she knows, instantly, her boundaries, how far she can safely push, what Lysandra can take—which is a lot more than most people guess.

Already, Lysandra likes her.

Lysandra is not her princess. She knows the name of every person in this valley, and she knows she’s never even seen Seret before. Even the name is foreign to her. Seh-reht.

That makes it all the better.

She moves her stool a little farther from the empty one beside her, raising an eyebrow in an invitation Seret accepts, removing her hat and tucking it under her arm to smoothly mount the stool. Seret sits with a straight back but ankles curled around the legs of the stool, adding enough humanity to her presence to make Lysandra smile.

She does not prop her elbow on the table, she does not order anything, but she does stare at Lysandra like she’s the most interesting person in the room. Lysandra can tell, somehow, that this gaze is genuine, not hastily crafted and practiced to impress her.

She offers to buy Lysandra another mug of cherry syrup, and Lysandra lets her.

***

Everywhere Lysandra goes, Seret seems to find her. She’s the talk of the valley, enrapturing them with her tall, dark, handsome aura, her small smile, the way the sun shines off her hair.

Finally Seret takes the leap and asks her out to places in Vashiri City Lysandra has been a thousand times, but somehow Seret’s presence paints color to her world again instead of the dull greens and golds the valley has become.

Their connection is instant, from Briar Bar to the lane of potion shops to the muffled awe in Seret’s face when she sees the Academy. At some point, Seret takes Lysandra’s hand, and they stroll through the town like they are not a princess and the new obsession of Vashiri Valley.

Everyone has been asking Seret about herself, where she’s from, what family she has, but she slips out of answering like a snake from a trap. Her smile is quite persuasive. Lysandra doesn’t even try to pry the answer out of her, though she might be the one person to succeed. Seret still looks at her every time like she’s the sun and the moon and the stars.

Lysandra’s heart thrums with nerves every hour before their dates, afraid of messing things up and driving Seret away, but the moment Seret enters the room, her heart calms. Seret gives her a warm hug that envelopes her whole soul, tells her she missed her dearly, and Lysandra wonders why she was ever worried. Seret seems impossible to offend.

“I am going to buy you a gift,” Seret announces on one of their dates in town, in a tone which makes it clear this is non-negotiable. Lysandra only nods. Seret pauses between two shops, one being the most popular jewelry store in the city with a line out the door, the one across the street being an adorable but little known competitor.

Lysandra waits for Seret to get in line for the popular jewelry store, but instead the woman lingers in front of the door of the other shop before opening it. “Don’t peek,” she says with a little smile, shutting the door and triggering the little bell. Lysandra stands there gawking like a fool until Seret emerges ten minutes later holding a little square box.

When Lysandra opens it with trembling hands, she finds a little heart shaped necklace, gold with a silver center on a golden chain. The gold probably isn’t real, probably just paint, but the pink paper wrapping the necklace and the little thank you card inside the box make her smile when the shop across the street wouldn’t.

The plain red and blue shelves in the windows of the other shop, where her family’s jeweler gets his jewels, have nothing on the soft pinks, greens, and browns of the cheap shop owned by twins. They keep flowers in their windows, pink carnations, and prices written in loopy court script.

“Do you like it?” Seret asks nervously, and Lysandra realizes she hasn’t said a word.

“I love it. Thank you.” She offers it up to Seret to clasp around her neck. Seret’s warm fingertips brush the back of her neck, and shivers run down Lysandra’s spine. This is special, her heart keeps telling her, like she doesn’t already know. This is different.

“How did you know?” Lysandra asks.

“Know what?”

“That I’d like this better than the shop across the street.”

“You’re a princess, you’re used to expensive jewelry, and you’ve publicly and loudly denounced royal life. Also, I’d rather give my money to them, seems like they actually need it. Don’t you agree?”

Lysandra has to take a deep breath to keep from blurting out something stupid. “Yes. I agree.”

Their first kiss a day later is a ray of light and a shadow of darkness, colliding and exploding in a glorious show of white and black, settling as ashes and debris into serene, calm gray. They are not the sun and moon. Lysandra is too sharp to be the sun, Seret too dim to be the moon.

It is the death of something. The birth. Lysandra can’t define what.

***

When Lysandra asks, Seret says she came to Vashiri Valley to visit and experience its delights, after which she meets Lysandra’s eyes and kisses her hands.

Lysandra hangs around the city apartment Seret rents. It’s close to Wynn’s cabin where she sleeps. She hasn’t slept in the palace in months. The layers of security and scrutiny she has to pass to enter are not worth the temporary comfort of a soft bed and her favorite meals.

She’s sleeping beside Seret before long, unable to bear being apart from her for that long, wondering how she behaves during such a precious time. Seret’s arms are even warmer around her under cool sheets, and in the morning, Seret brings her coffee before disappearing behind a white door.

She reappears in a cloud of steam, smelling like sweet flowers and honeysuckle. Lysandra gets to kiss her good morning and wonder how she got so lucky.

They’re invited to plays, the nights at the bars for amateur bards, the travelling witches who perform at the amphitheater. Lysandra has been to every event in this valley at least once, usually at the request of her family, but Seret loves going. Like the city and the shops and the Academy, experiencing Seret’s joy secondhand is intoxicating.

Everywhere they go, every table they sit at, whether it’s the theater or the bar or a café for a simple breakfast, people are fawning over Seret. The entire valley is enamored with Lysandra’s new lover.

Seret seems to find it amusing, the way they pat her arm and show a comical amount of interest in everything she has to say, just waiting for an opportunity to ask questions that they must know will go unanswered.

Lysandra sits quietly, burning from the way Seret entertains them, smiles at them in her private way. She wants Seret all to herself. She’s used to sharing things with the public, she’s had to share herself her whole life, but Seret is different. Lysandra doesn’t care if it’s selfish, Seret is hers.

When everyone finally seems like they’ve gotten their fill of Vashiri’s new inhabitant, Lysandra takes her to the edge of the forest and the dead tall grass fields beside it. She gets to watch the exact moment Seret falls in love.

Seret has never grinned, never raised her voice louder than a murmur, but her hitch of breath and the way she reaches for Lysandra’s hand is all she needs. Pride blooms in Lysandra’s chest at the realization she’s learned Seret’s little tells like that.

“It’s just a field,” she laughs. She’s laughing more, now, thanks to Seret. Stoic, cynical, unpleasant Princess Lysandra, laughing. This is why she hasn’t let Arlin near Seret yet, she’d never hear the end of it.

“No, it’s not,” Seret breathes, radiating darkness and mystery in a way that is curious, enticing, instead of harmful. Lysandra just wants to follow her into the shadows where no others can see them, hurt them, touch them. “Can’t you see?”

Lysandra strains her neck, but it’s not the fact that Seret is taller than her that’s the problem. “No.”

Seret pulls her along and begins running instead of answering. Lysandra yelps in surprise and stumbles along, staring enviously at Seret’s long legs—long legs, long arms, long face, long fingers, everything about Seret is long. She sweeps Lysandra up in her arms and spins her around, feet in the air, Seret’s strong arms keeping her up.

Seret is grinning for the first time, showing perfect white teeth, her joy the only reason Lysandra doesn’t scream in shock. She trusts Seret utterly, she realizes in a paralyzing moment of clarity, the sun warming her back, the wind blowing through her hair. Seret has never given her a reason not to.

“What’s the matter with you?” Lysandra asks, though she can’t keep the joy out of her own voice. Seret is infectious. Anything she feels reflects on Lysandra.

“We had fields exactly like this in the city where I grew up. I can’t believe I haven’t seen these yet.” She finally sets Lysandra down and immediately kisses her, as has become a habit the last week. Lysandra gives in, gives over entirely.

She has twisted and forced a key into the lock of her heart, but now, she hands the broken key to Seret and wishes her lucky trying to fit it in the rusty, damaged old lock. Lysandra knows she’ll unlock it fast, her eyebrows pinched and frowning in concentration, long fingers working quickly.

She doesn’t tell her that, of course.

Even then, Lysandra knew.

***

They find a cabin at the edge of the fields and the forest which they quickly move into, abandoning Arlin and the boys and Lysandra's family and Vashiri Valley for themselves. Lysandra has no remorse.

Seret shows her how to live in darkness, in quiet, in peace. They prepare coffee in the mornings before the sun floods the fields with light, arms brushing and using only using their sleepy voices when they need to, not wanting to disturb the holy peace of the morning.

They bathe in the evenings indoors where the fading sun doesn’t reach, sitting close in a tub of river water that Lysandra heats.

They spend all day laying on their backs in the fields, one of them lying on the other while someone’s hair is stroked and someone speaks over the wind.

When the afternoon heat turns the sunlight from pleasantly warm to scorching, they move to the shade of the big oak tree near their cabin to eat.

The shadows are their friends in this haven, where no one and nothing else exists but them. Seret trusts them like they trust each other, content to close her eyes and lay her head back against the trunk when she’s done eating.

Lysandra loves the warmth of the sun, but she hates the harsh white spotlight of her family, the prickly rules tying her down, the sense that she can’t ever escape their restraining eyes. She can hide in the darkness from Seret. They’ll never catch her.

Lysandra has never been so invincible, light enough to be picked up on a cloud every time the wind blows. Seret is the only magical thing she’s met that doesn’t have a drop of magic within her.

Seret is ineffable. Unknowable. Larger than life. Lysandra can never hope to understand her fully, but she can try, she can watch and observe, attempt to learn the inner workings of Seret’s mind.

“Seret?” Lysandra asks one afternoon just like every other, where the peace and warmth of their retreat cannot be broken. “Where are you from?”

It is the first time she has asked. She holds her breath, waiting for Seret’s answer, which takes a long time to come. Seret chews on her lip, her expression as guarded as always, until she finally smiles. “Wherever you want me to be from. North, south, east, west, I’ve visited them all. Pick one and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Lysandra’s chest opens to swallow an ache of emptiness. “Maybe later.” It’s not what she wanted, and they both know it. Lysandra inches mere breaths away from Seret’s side, but it won’t go unnoticed. She thought Seret might actually tell her. She rubs the small gold heart between her fingers and sighs.

“Hey,” Seret says, turning Lysandra’s chin towards her. “It’s not because I don’t trust you, because I do. I trust you more than I’ve trusted anyone, more than you know.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?” Need, embarrassing and whiny, sneaks into Lysandra’s voice, but she ignores it. She’s entitled to this answer, at least.

“I don’t want to shatter your world.” Seret sighs and shifts to take Lysandra’s hands in both of hers. “I am from the south. I ran away from home at a young age to travel because my upbringing was hell, and I’ve never stopped since.”

Lysandra breathes out.

“None of that changes how I feel about you,” Seret continues, pleading, the most passionate Lysandra has ever heard her. “I have never met anyone like you, even with everywhere I’ve been. I do not want anyone but you.”

No one has ever said anything like that to Lysandra, and hearing it now gives her pause. The way Seret’s eyes burn on her skin with their dark intensity is exquisite. Lysandra will never get used to it. She does not want to.

“I would not want this with anyone else.” It does not mean the same thing, but Seret smiles, close mouthed, anyway. At times like this, Seret’s secretive nature makes Lysandra’s blood boil, unvoiced screams rise in her throat. She has given so much of herself already, why can Lysandra not know of her past, her family, her ugliest emotions?

She never wants Seret to treat her like glass. The first day they met, Seret got it right. Lysandra can’t bear the thought that Seret is any less perfect than she thinks, that would shatter her, not knowledge of the world beyond the valley.

Lysandra has gotten all she will today. She is content to sigh deeply and lay her head on Seret’s arm. Seret will stroke Lysandra’s hair, and the wind will ruffle her own, and Lysandra’s urge to push it back will fight the warmth settling into her bones. They are fine. They will be fine. Nothing more.

***

On lucky occasions, Seret shares stories of her travels from who knows when, who knows where. She has been everywhere, she said, and Lysandra believes her. She asks about the north, the far east, the west, and Seret’s homeland, the south.

The south could mean any number of things. Lysandra has never been out of Vashiri Valley, and her family have always been vague about what lies beyond their mountains, but Seret describes an actual ocean, the cold water wrapping around her ankles, the hot sand burning her feet.

She takes Lysandra to a desert in her mind, great, sprawling cities, icy lakes and snowy mountains to the north. To the east, she says, more ocean with great brown ships. Lysandra doesn’t care if she’s lying.

She lays in the grass on her side and lets the wind blow her skirts while she travels the world in her mind. Seret closes her eyes and traces mountains, rivers, canyons on her spine, unconsciously pointing in those directions. Lysandra’s breath catches in her throat.

Seret opens her eyes briefly to ask, “Am I boring you?”

Never. You couldn’t if you tried.

Lysandra shakes her head. Seret’s slow, easy smile returns, and the warm fingers on the skin revealed by her backless dress whisk her away to a thousand new worlds so big she can’t even imagine them.

***

“Does it ever bother you that I’m a princess?”

Seret smiles. “That isn’t something that would bother most people in my position.”

“I’d disagree. As the lover of a princess, you have no privacy, there’s expectations, rules you have to follow, harassment…I suppose a better word would be faze. You met and introduced yourself and spoke to me as if I were normal.”

“I called you my princess. the day we met.”

At Lysandra’s withering look, Seret chuckles. “Who said you aren’t normal? You didn’t have any control over what family you were born into. I would still feel the same if you hadn’t rejected your family and your role, if you were princess first and person second. It would be a bit harder to get to you, though, in that stronghold. To me, in that bar, you were just the prettiest girl in the nicest dress with the most captivating eyes. They told me you were a princess—so what? I love you anyway.”

Lysandra’s cheeks burn hot, and she chokes on saliva. The wind picks up, and she feels like she’s falling. How can Seret just say things like that and expect Lysandra not to explode and melt into the sun? “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Seret smiles again. “I’m not looking to get anywhere. I’m not like those people at the bar when we met. I’m not trying to be like anyone. I’m not not trying to be like anyone. I’m not looking to impress you, honestly. I’m just being honest.”

Lysandra’s breath catches in her throat like a branch stuck in a river, unfazed by the powerful oncoming waves.

Seret is clearly not looking to hear it back, but Lysandra gathers all her courage and quietly says, “I love you, too. I--”

She shies away from Seret’s intense gaze, burning on the back of her neck. “I’m not good at, uh. Saying things like this. Like you. But I want you to know that you’ve changed my life. I don’t know how to thank you for all that you’ve done for me, given me. This place is nothing short of perfect. Every minute we’ve spent together has been nothing short of perfect. I’m sorry I haven’t given you anything back.”

“My dear, you are quite mistaken. You’ve given me the ultimate gift: yourself. The opportunity to know your heart, your mind. You’ve let me in when I can tell you have trouble doing so.”

She kisses the back of Lysandra’s hand, looking up at her through her eyelashes, as she often does. It still makes Lysandra’s entire being heat like the sun itself came down to lay its rays gently onto her, powerful but careful with her.

“You are my entire world,” says Seret, the sun. “The most precious creature in all the places I’ve visited, all the creatures in this valley alone.”

Lysandra smiles. “You haven’t met Wynn Scylla’s dragonlings.”

Deflect. Defend. Dismiss. Seret sees through it.

Lysandra lays their lips together, hoping to convey without the painful process of words said aloud just how much Seret makes her hurt. Seret makes her burn and ache in the best of ways, like a satisfying stretch after waking up from a stiff nap.

Seret challenges her to face things she loves shying away from, things like the swelling of her heart which she hasn’t felt in years. Seret is terrifying, all consuming, but Lysandra can’t imagine a world without her. Much of her allure comes from her mystery, however infuriating her secrecy is.

Hours later, when they’re full and sated from dinner, after they wash the dishes side by side at the river and after they’ve bathed in the tub in the house, Lysandra hears a faint hum, high and low, continuous, lulling and soft. She turns her head and discovers it’s Seret, humming to herself as she drapes the wet towels out to dry. “What’s that you’re humming?”

Seret pauses her sweet melody. “Hm? Oh, just some music from the east. If I had the proper instruments, I would play the tune.”

Lysandra chokes on air. “You can play music, too?”

Seret smiles. “I can do many things.”

“Oh?” Lysandra doesn’t know where her sudden burst of courage comes from. Perhaps she’s the one looking to get somewhere. She raises an eyebrow and crooks a finger, hoping a low tone will convey her point. “Come here and show me.”

Seret is quiet, face blank. Lysandra wonders, belatedly, if she does in fact have unknown boundaries.

When Seret desperately searches her eyes for consent, Lysandra realizes it was shock and not disgust that rendered her speechless. “You mean—” Seret asks, hoarse, never breaking eye contact. Lysandra shivers. She had that effect on her?

“Yes.”

They stare at each other for a long, silent moment, Seret’s hungry gaze fixed on Lysandra’s pale shoulders, the towel wrapped around her middle. Then they’re both moving at once, mouths moving in the same pattern of Seret’s melody, a symphony of hearts beating in time.

If Lysandra is Seret’s world, Seret is the center of Lysandra’s.

***

At long last, Lysandra’s family gets wind of Seret. Lysandra doesn’t want to know how. Maybe Wynn and Petrus spread it around by accident—she loves those boys, but they couldn’t keep a secret if they tried. Maybe it was Arlin, who Lysandra finally let meet Seret.

All she does know is that her family is demanding to meet their middle princess’s lover, which means they’ll clarify if they’re allowed to be together or not.

“I’m sorry,” Lysandra whimpers, on the edge of tears in Seret’s arms. “I don’t want them to touch us with a ten foot stick, but if we don’t go, they’ll send someone out here to find us and disrupt our world. I’m so sorry.” Something about her family interfering in her and Seret’s affairs makes Lysandra boil like nothing else.

“It’s okay, my princess,” Seret murmurs into her hair, cupping the back of her head, rocking them back and forth. “We’ll go, I’ll tell them what they want to know, we’ll come right back here. It will only be a few hours. Their opinion won’t change how I feel about you, but I’ll do whatever you feel is best.” The sorrow in Seret’s tone implies too much.

Lysandra pulls back. “Don’t you ever think I’d leave you for my family. Right now, I’m thinking much the opposite.”

Seret purses her lips. “What objection would they have to me? The whole valley seems to like me, why wouldn’t they?”

“You’re not a noble, you don’t have a title, you have nothing to offer them, you won’t even tell anyone where you’re from, and you’re the lover of their middle child.”

Her voice is bitter, matching her heart. Seret’s arms tighten protectively around her. Lysandra switches from bitterness to anger to guilt in a second. How dare her family do this to them? What makes them think they have this right?

They control Vashiri Valley, but Lysandra can’t remember the last time they appeared in public, and their power is distant at best.

They control Vashiri Valley, but they can’t control her.

“No matter what they say,” Lysandra says into Seret’s chest, “I am never leaving you. You’ll have to pry me away. Whatever polite, diplomatic accusations or insults they throw at you, ignore them. You don’t have to tell anyone, especially them, about yourself. You’re with me because I love you, and that’s all we care about. Okay?”

“I’m not sure I’m the one who needs reassuring, Lysandra.”

“Shut up. I’ll be fine.” She pulls back from warmth to wipe her eyes, hot shame from crying coating her face, but Seret pulls her back in.

“There’s no shame here,” she whispers, kissing Lysandra’s temple. “Comforting you is my pleasure, though I wish you didn’t have a reason to cry. Everything’s going to be okay, my princess.”

Lysandra breathes.

She wears the gown she wore when she and Seret met, soft pink with a low neckline, tiered ruffles reaching down to her ankles, frilly short sleeves. Maybe familiarity will give her some comfort, whether that’s Seret’s hand on her thigh or this dress pinching her arm.

Seret wears the same black slacks, white shirt, and black jacket she always wears, thoroughly combs her hair, but leaves the hat at home.

At the dinner, she is perfect. she speaks only when spoken to, sits with that straight, enviable posture, praises the food like it’s the substance of heaven itself, the best she’s ever had.

She’s gracious, thankful, answers every question they ask. If she had a title, Lysandra knows her family would be simply begging them to marry.

Things start out pleasant, her family treating Seret with the polite, arm’s length attitude Lysandra expected. Finally, the dreaded question comes.

“So, Seret,” Lysandra’s mother asks, folding her hands, “where are you from?”

Lysandra clutches her necklace, the one Seret gave her, and prays. Please don’t let them be the first ones you tell. They don’t deserve that.

Seret smiles. “This soup is delicious, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, thank you, you’ve said so already.” Her mother is reaching the end of her patience—Lysandra has been on the other end of that short patience dozens of times. Her blue feathered hat and perfect red lips cover up a much nastier woman. “Please tell us about where you live.”

“Well, Lysandra and I have been living next to the forest all summer. The fields there are positively peaceful, you should visit them sometime.” She pauses to let horror sink into the hearts of luxury groomed royals. Lysandra bites down on a smile. “But I am technically still renting an apartment in the city.”

“Where you came from,” Lysandra’s father adds, sharp, on the end of his patience as well. Lysandra wonders how much Seret prepared for this. Seret is smart, she must’ve known she couldn’t wiggle her way out of the question with her usual tricks. “Maybe who your parents are.”

Seret appears to consider the question. “I’d rather not say,” she says, stirring her drink with her spoon. Silence falls onto the room. Lysandra holds her breath.

Her mother nods her head tightly. “Very well. In that case, we’re going to have to insist you stop seeing our daughter.”

Seret bows her head in humble acceptance, but Lysandra stands up, every fiber of her being filling with inexplicable rage. She told herself she wouldn’t display a reaction, she would just accept the denial and then ignore it, like Seret will, but hearing it so frankly from her mother’s lips is different from imagining it.

“You don’t have the right to tell me who I can and can’t see just because you feel like it,” she spits. “I’m an adult. I haven’t lived here full time or done the duties you ask of me for years. You should disown me. Save yourselves the trouble of dealing with me any longer.”

Seret’s hand lands firmly on her knee as if to say no, don’t. Lysandra captures her hand and holds it above the table for the whole family to see.

“You’re the one who chose to come here,” Lysandra’s mother says.

“Yes, because I knew you’d hound us if we didn’t.” Lysandra can feel her chest being ripped open from the top down. Seret’s fingers squeezing hers is the only thing tethering her to herself. She pulls tightly on Seret’s fingers, who takes the hint and stands. They walk out without another word, without a glance back.

When they get back to the cabin, Lysandra sinks onto the couch in their living room face first, and immediately begins to cry. The seconds it takes for the door to click and Seret’s boots to march across the wood are far too long, until warm arms wrap around Lysandra’s back and Seret buries her nose in the back of her hair. “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, which only makes Lysandra sob harder.

“I don’t know why it still matters. I knew this was exactly what they’d say. I didn’t want it to affect me. I want to move on from them.”

Seret stays quiet, just letting Lysandra exist and holding her through it. They don’t speak about it again.

Things are different after that. The fields and the cabin have been tainted with mere mention of the royal family’s presence. The spell has been broken.

The wind comes less, the sun seems to burn in a way it didn’t before. Lysandra doesn’t treasure dawn and dusk the way she used to, and baths are just baths. The only thing that hasn’t lost its magic is Seret, as kind and loving as always.

A week later, Seret begins taking trips into the city to gather everything from her apartment and bring it to the cabin, everything of Lysandra’s from Wynn’s cottage.

No matter how many times Lysandra offers to help, Seret insists she’s fine, she doesn’t want Lysandra to come into the city and get hounded and harassed by the usual people dying to meet the princess.

Arlin and the others come to visit a few times to keep her company while Seret’s gone, to speak about the upcoming Academy year, their last year, to learn the place Lysandra disappeared to the entire summer.

She’s happy to see them, happy for the company, but her heart never stops aching for Seret, wondering what she’s doing. Arlin and the boys stay for dinner well after Seret’s back, so she’s never given a moment alone to think.

This continues for a month.

Arlin and the boys become as intimately familiar with the cabin, the fields, the river, and the forest as Lysandra was with Wynn’s cottage on the forest’s other side.

Lysandra flies toward the end of summer in a haze, perpetually afraid to break the peace, shatter the dream, feel the cold seep into her bones once more. She has grown so used to the wind in her hair, the sun on her skin, the safety of Seret’s arms and her soothing voice.

Seret is never too loud, never jarring. Seret seems to float on the wind; sometimes her mind is lost to Lysandra as she stares into the sky at nothing.

Seret is—

Seret is many things. Nothing at all. Everything all at once.

Ineffable.

On what Seret says will be her last day of moving, she kisses Lysandra’s cheek and says, “I’ll be back,” like always. Lysandra thinks that’s rather silly—of course she’ll be back, that’s a given—but it’s sweet.

Arlin and the boys won’t be over since they have to collect their books for school in two weeks and otherwise prepare. Lysandra spends the day in the river, letting the water suck all the thoughts from her head.

By the evening, as Lysandra waits on the porch with dinner ready, Seret is still not back.

She probably got held up with the loading carts she’s been using, Lysandra tells herself as she gathers her shawl, puts on a dress fit for the town’s eyes, and begins the long walk there. She stopped to have dinner, or something. Maybe she met Wynn’s dragonlings at last.

Seret would’ve run back here herself to tell Lysandra she wouldn’t be back until later because of the dragonlings, or she would’ve sent a magical letter, or something. Seret has told her over and over how much she hates to see Lysandra in pain, and how she’ll never, ever be the cause of even the slightest worry.

Dread sits heavily in Lysandra’s chest.

The area near the school is in chaos, looking for her. No one she meets will tell her what’s going on, why they refuse to meet her eyes, why they offer faint smiles in place of explanations.

When Lysandra is shown the rooms in the Academy Seret broke into, the bizarre circles drawn on the floor in chalk, the thick books lying open, the blood splattered all over the floor, and finally, Seret’s body lying on the floor with her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes closed, Lysandra falls to her knees and doesn’t get up.

Her entire being is shattered with a force she didn’t know existed, with waves of invisible pain too strong for this realm. Everything feels empty and quiet, but not quiet in the serene way of Seret’s.

She screams, and it rips her open. It rips every part of good out of her and replaces her with numb, muffled, faint feeling. Later the waves of pain will come back, the longing for Seret’s warm arms to wrap around her and make everything all better, but now, she’s able to look at the body with only thin trails of tears streaming down her face.

Seret’s white shirt is soaked through with a circle of bright red blood. The whole scene is almost unreal. If not for the blood and the cold feel of her hand, Lysandra’s Seret Ashling looks the same. Her hair is neatly arranged, her face free of the splattered blood.

Death is too simple a word for what happens to Seret.

She is gone, says a voice, Seret’s voice, her smiling face haunting Lysandra behind her closed eyes. The ghost of Seret’s fingers cup her jaw, stroke her cheekbones, brush soft lips over her forehead, push her spectacles up.

I love you, my princess, Lysandra hears when she touches her ear to the floor, soaking the front of her dress with her blood, such a cruel reminder of Seret’s humanity. She was brutally, unfortunately, unbelievably human. She may have reached beyond this realm to grab a fist of love for Lysandra, a greater capacity than any human could hold, but that couldn’t save her from her own humanity.

I’ll be back. Seret’s last words to her.

She wasn’t just going into town to move.

Lysandra clutches the necklace Seret gave her and squeezes until it hurts. It fits easily in her palm, hangs right over her heart. The death of Seret Ashling is going to hit Vashiri Valley like the rare storms, unforgiving and violent, bringing destruction that takes years to recover from.

Lysandra squeezes the necklace, closes her eyes, and breathes slowly, steadily. The storm will wipe her out faster and harder than anyone else, but she’s the one who has to control it singlehandedly, and that will be about as easy as trying to capture an actual storm from the ground.

She won’t survive this, but she’s known for months that if anything ever happened to Seret, she never would. She can only submit to the darkness—the bad kind, this time—awaiting her, return to reality behind this door.

#writing #writeblr #my wip #my writing #fantasy writing #fantasy writeblr #fantasy #lila's wips: dosa #bean's excerpts #lila's short stories

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dameronology · 3 years

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a world on fire {poe dameron}

summary: passion is good, fire is good - but breathing is more important (based loosely on just a lover by hayley williams, naturally)

warnings: mentions of infidelity, language

i just love angst. i really love angst. i like to hurt. enjoy :)

- jazz xx

Poe Dameron was a paradox.

On one hand, he was a complete bad-ass. The best pilot in the Resistance and righthand man to the General. He was a leader in the making and everybody looked up to him, even when he was chaotic as fuck. The way he went into battle with his common sense both simultaneously present and no-where to be found would go down in the history books. His parents’ spirit and good-natured lived on through his selflessness. He was untouchable, in a way; a man made of titanium with a never-ending wit and a will of steel. A hero.

On the other hand, he was...Poe. Your Poe. The man whose eyes lit up when he spoke about his late mother; the man who turned up at your door at 5AM in floods of tears because he’d just finished a book and had to tell you about it. Poe with the warm brown eyes and lopsided smile, whose brows creased together whenever he got a little confused about something. Poe, who left you little notes around the base when he knew you were sad, and brought you random gifts back from his trips to other planets just because. Completely complex and yet entirely understandable, but one of the most beautiful people you’d ever seen, inside and out.

Especially now. At 5am, under the thick canopies of the Ajan Kloss jungle; the air around you was stuffy and fresh in equal measures, casting a cold chill over your bare arms and legs. It was raining, but not really. The sort of dumb rain where you smell it in the air and see it hit the ground, but never quite feel it on your skin. Poe had called it soft rain. Still, you would have taken it over a storm, because you only wearing a baggy old shirt and some pyjama shorts.

Poe was stood opposite you in a similar attire - except instead of opting for boots, he was still wearing his Ewok slippers (albeit, slightly soggy Ewoks). You were perched on a log with the pilot stood a few feet away; he’d been ranting for the better part of fifteen minutes, but you’d zoned out long ago. His dark curls were sticking to his forehead thanks to the rain, and he had that spark in his eyes that they held whenever he was talking about something he loved. It was an easy sight to get lost in.

‘Anyways, so I know you took dances classes a kid and I was thinking you could help me-’

‘- woah, when did we get to that?’ You blinked in surprise.

Poe rolled his eyes. ‘You zoned out again, didn’t you?’

‘I’m sorry!’ You groaned. ‘It’s late - or early, I can’t tell.’

‘You’re a nightmare.’ He shook his head with a laugh and stuck his hand out to you. ‘C’mon. You can make it up to me by teaching me to dance.’

‘I don’t dance, Dameron-’

You let out a squeak when he took your hands in his, wrenching you up and off the bench. Stumbling for a moment, your chests collided, an easy balance settling over you as steadied you with an arm to the waist. You were in his eyeline now, the perfect position to hold his gaze in yours and just...stare. It wasn’t something you did often, but right now, it was impossible not to. He was smiling ear to ear, honey eyes creased at the side as he dragged you away from your little safe spot and into a dirt clearing, mid-Jungle.

He held you flush against his body, intertwining your fingers. What the fuck were you supposed to do? You didn’t dance. Hadn’t for years, and you were beginning to regret showing Poe those pictures of you in ballet class. It was comical that he thought you knew how to ballroom dance, or at least know enough to teach him enough for his first dance. You felt your throat dry up at that thought, quickly pushing it to the back of your throat.

‘There’s no music, Poe.’ You tried to pull away, but his grip on your hands only grew tighter.

‘When have we ever needed music?’ Poe softly smiled. He pulled you closer, trying to fight back a laugh as he comically swayed from side to side.

Your eyes fell to the floor, and you forced a smile. ‘You gotta keep your back straighter.’

‘Got it. Posture is key.’ He adjusted his stance. ‘Anything else I oughta know?’

‘You should lead.’ You continued. ‘Because you’re taller.’

‘And how do I do that, chief?’

‘Just...go in whatever direction feels right. No harsh turns, just kinda make it flow, y’know?’

‘Like this?’

He moved his hand to the small of your back, pulling you in the other direction. You almost tripped as he did, burying your head in his shoulder to suppress a laugh. His body shook with a chuckle, mirroring yours.

‘There’s this song my mum used to sing to me at bedtime.’ He softly said. ‘I don’t remember the words, but I know the tune.’

‘Are you implying that I’m about to get a live performance?’ You lifted your head up to look at him.

‘You did say that we needed music.’

You stayed like that for a moment, bodies mere inches apart, swaying side to side. Poe murmured a soft tune; it was familiar, like a sweet and distant childhood memory, softly filling the air around you. You kept your arms circled around his waist, shirt balled up in your fists and head planted firmly in his shoulders. He didn’t know it, but it was a moment of pure desperation, wanting to cling onto him for dear fucking life. This might be the last time you were this close; the last time you could ever have him hold you in this way. You would have given anything, not just in the galaxy, but far beyond that, to stay like this a little longer. Just you and him, closer than you’d ever been, under the golden glow of the Ajan Kloss moonlight and the soft sprinkle of the rain.

‘Do you think I’ve got it?’ He asked quietly.

‘Yeah.’ You murmured. ‘You do.’

‘I appreciate you, sweetheart.’ He smiled. ‘Can’t be making a fool of myself at my own wedding, right?’

His wedding. Not your wedding. Just his, and a girl you’d barely made the effort to get to know.

That was your own fault - a mixture of jealousy and guilt, probably. Jealousy, because she was getting to marry the man you’d loved for as long as you could remember, and guilt, because you’d fallen into bed with that man several times since he’d put the ring on her finger. You could barely look her in the eye, knowing what you’d done - but it had never stopped you. Every time was supposed to be the last time, but then it became a past time.

Sneaking about behind her back, promising it would never happen again, only to fall between the sheets mere weeks later. It was never about love, or cementing anything long term. It wasn’t because Poe wanted to be with you instead or because he was trying to sabotage his engagement. It was just...it was one of things that could never quite be explained. You loved one another more than life itself, in an all consuming, debilitating way, but it never worked out when you tried. You didn’t want to be together, but you didn’t want to be with anyone else. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense.

Then there were moments like this; just you and him, against the backdrop of a vast galaxy but unable to think about anything else or look at anyone else. The whole world could have been up in flames and neither of you would have noticed. It didn’t matter where you were, or what you were doing. As long as you had Poe, you had everything.

But that was about to change. He was marrying someone else, and this whole thing would have to stop. Not just the sneaking about and the stolen kisses - in reality, that never have started in the first place - but everything. Because even if Poe completely dedicated himself to his wife-to-be, and demoted you to just a friend, you could never manage it. You were like two ends of a magnet, completely unable to stay away from one another. You’d already crossed too many lines.

‘Poe.’ You softly murmured. Your hands dropped back to your sides, letting go of your grip on his shirt. ‘This has to stop now.’

His smile softened. ‘Is my dancing that bad?’

‘Not your dancing, dumbass.’ Your pained tone didn’t quite match your words. ‘Us.’

‘Right. That.’ Poe sniffed. He let go of you, backing over to where you’d been sat on the log a few moments prior.

A small sigh escaped your lips, and you trudged across the muddy ground, taking a seat beside him. The atmosphere had quickly changed from something sweet to something bitter. It made you wish you’d savoured that soft moment with Poe for a little longer, because now you’d brought up the subject, there was no going back. This was it now. You had to rip it off like a band-aid.

‘I like us.’ Poe murmured quietly.

‘There is no us, Poe.’ You reminded him. ‘We tried, remember? And it never worked.’

‘What’s the last few months been then?’

‘It’s been us living in a bubble. Pretending that if we ignore the outside world, that we can be together.’ You said. ‘But reality is gonna catch up with us, and we have to get on top of it before it does.’

‘Maker.’ Poe sniffed. ‘I always said I’d never be that guy.’

‘I shouldn’t have made you that guy.’ You reached across and took his hand in yours. Giving it a squeeze, you brushed your thumb over it and let go.

‘Time to face the music, huh?’ Poe’s eyes followed you as you stood up.

‘’fraid so, Dameron.’

You wanted to say it, to blurt it out: I love you.

In reality, what you had was just infatuation. It wasn’t love, not in the long term. It was passionate and intense, as though the world around you were on fire. It burnt bright and true, lighting up everything around you and keeping you warm inside. Ultimately, though, it was susceptible to burning out. And once it had, what would be left? Ashes. Burn scars, and strangled cries for what you’d lost.

Like fire, the entire thing was suffocating. Depriving you of oxygen and swallowing you whole; making you feel like you had the weight of the world of the chest. It was okay, though, because when you were with Poe, breathing didn’t matter all that much.

You had to step away; fan the fire out and let your lungs fill with air, so that you could scream. Scream for him, scream for the fact you would only ever be a lover, and an affair that would pass in time.

When the flames were gone, when you’d let out a cry of war and grief, you could take a step back, and maybe, just maybe, breathe him in again.

tags: @marvelinsanity @poestardust @princessxkenobi @nomanchesnoncreator

#my story telling skills are mortifying #wow #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x you #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron angst #poe x reader #poe x you #poe imagine #poe angst #star wars x reader #star wars imagine #star wars angst #star wars imagines

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cyclicalaberration · 3 years

Text

Naught But A Fool In The Body Of A God

(Gore + existentialism warning) A foolish gamers... character study? I think?

Totems were funny things. Made of gold and emerald, looking both very much and not at all like their creator. You could go your entire life never seeing one of them. It is a rare person who needs to to face a powerful and dangerous raid, or to track down a mansion, all of which are filled to the brim with Illagers, just to get lucky and catch an Evoker off guard.

Totems are particular about who they save, seeming to despise their own holders. Evokers almost always held one, but they couldn’t seem to use them.

They seem almost heretical, as though Death herself is only tolerating their presence. She does not seem the type to let a method of escape slide. Though, she is simply a collector, and totems can only be used once. Perhaps she created them, to give some sense of hope as she waited at the finish line, merely extending the bridge into the void.

That is not the case, however. The creator was a young god then, full of spite and bloodlust. He carved them in his image, gave them to those who followed him through lava and storms, across oceans and land. He was not a god of death but a god of dying, a conglomerate of souls of those slaughtered in his name. He is of much the same stock as gods of war and blood, power growing from violence and destruction.

He was older, though. Older than the concept of war. War implies thought behind destruction, implies plans. Dying is a natural aspect of life. Everyone is dying, ever so slowly. He was an intermediary, an active force on the field of Death, who, for all those who fear her, is quite passive.

You, most likely, do not fear death. You cannot, for you do not know what awaits you in her loving embrace. You fear dying. Your last breath leaving your body, laying still, moving for the very last time, thinking your very last thought. You fear the unknown and the end, the change. You do not know what comes after death and that strikes fear into your heart. You do not know what it is like to take your last breath, and that haunts you.

This young god, so new and so primordial, hunted. If he stopped moving, stopped hunting, stopped killing, he’d fade away and die. He sent his followers to hunt, to pillage, his need for souls insatiable. They hunted, and they warped, skin greying and eyes darkening. They began to shift from human to something else, something other. Infused with his power, they hunted, leading groups to hunt down more sacrifices to their god.

He grew in power, grew in strength. Death herself watched, for he was just like his creations. He was a totem, serving a greater power. He was sculpted from gold, inlaid with emerald eyes, given the wings of all her favored creatures, and he engraved himself with stories of his past, his triumphs, his losses, things he wanted to hold close to him forever.

Blood runs through the canals of those engravings, a trident plunging into the chest of the next breathing mortal, and the god, whose name has been long since lost, laughs. Another one came for him, not learning the lesson of its companion, and a sword is driven through their heart, buried up to the hilt, freed moments later by the golden flames eating at its nervous system, reduced to ash in seconds. He brushes them away as one would brush away eraser shavings.

Bodies lay strewn across the field when he’s finished, a one-sided war, headed by a mortal he’s already forgotten, over some sin he no longer cares to remember.

A chuckle rings out from behind him, and he whirls, sword drawn. “That’s quite the display.”

They were half-buried in a fog, extremities concealed in the mist that he knows for a fact wasn’t there. Their eyes glow with hunger, with spite, with a thousand emotions he couldn’t even begin to untangle. It hurts to look them in the eyes too long.

“A lot of flair for some bodies nobody will even see. Nobody but me, of course.”

“What can I say, I’m an artist.”

“Or a zealot.”

“What’s the difference? You won’t have the breath to tell anyone.” He swings his sword, runes glowing. Whoever they are, they will soon be ash, soaked by their own fog, as fire eats them from the inside out.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. My father wouldn’t be happy, he’s not nearly as forgiving as me.” He whirls again, seeing white eyes and a ruffled shirt, mere feet from his face, leaning back against nothing. He gets the feeling that they’re looking at him, truly looking at him, and he chokes, breaking his gaze away from swirling, dancing white, blank but never empty.

“How-”

“Foolish, that’s what you are. A fool.” The mortal- No, they are not mortal. No mortal stares a god in the eyes and calls him a fool. “Why do you fight?”

His companion smirks at him. He grins right back, rows of teeth glinting in the light of the enchanted blades. Centuries of fighting together made them a well practiced dance, a machine of blood and souls. Three arrows pierce the hearts of the guards, falling wordlessly from their towers. That’s all the warning they get. Before the night is out, blood flows so thick it sits for years, soaking the wood and drowning the now-ashen grass.

His companion’s footsteps wither and rot the wood on which they stand, warping it beyond recognition. They work their way to the center of the fortress, people charging to their deaths, impaled, sometimes, by naught but the thorny whips of their enchanted armor.

The stone crumbles beneath their feet, and the god would feel the effects, if he were not himself a statue, life breathed into him by the very goddess who steals it, made of pure gold, which doesn’t tarnish, doesn’t decay. Tapestries crumble to dust as his companion runs their hand along them. The god tosses a mortal to the side, its body lying crumpled, its soul buzzing as he adds it to his own. Another voice layered over his own, another voice to buzz with every angry word.

His companion grips a guard by their chin and laughs as it crumbles to dust beneath their hands.

The general of the army falls, and they dance in the blood of their enemies, spin in the blood of their victims. The hem of the smaller god’s dress sprays droplets of blood as they twirl, the god of dying laughing as his friend grabs his hands, dancing in victory, in elation, in completion. They propel themself into the air and spin him. They move as a unit, as they did in the heat of battle.

Later, the god will sit, stare at his companion, and say “You once asked me why I fight.” That day is not today. Today they will both fight, dance in the blood of their enemies, and move on, the fortress a shell of its former self, growing over with vines, breaking apart.

Two gods, a god of dying and a god of withering and ash, rest in a small village on the bank of a river. The withering god rests against a tree, long ago struck with lightning, telling a story to the village children, as the god of dying laughs, interrupting them with his own commentary on just how comically wrong they’re telling it.

It has been decades since they drew first blood, traveling for weeks at a time, collecting, remembering, rather than destroying. Fights found them, of course, mobs never learn, but fewer mortals have fallen to their stained hands in the past century than in their best year previous.

They still delight in the occasional bloodbath, if the chance arises, but as the world shifts towards calm, they drift away from senseless slaughter and towards traveling.

They pass by cities, or the ruins of what once were, and they ask themselves, “Was that our doing?” and they do not know, hundreds of civilizations having fallen to their blades, their arrows, and their fire.

But they sit, ancient, immortal warriors, telling stories to children, their hands still caked in more blood than these children will ever see.

Later, the god of dying will say to his companion: “I fight because destruction is control. Nothing exists that I cannot destroy, nothing exists that I cannot control,” but that day is not today. Today they laugh at incorrect accounts of tales they experienced, true histories lost, new memories formed. Today the god of withering and ash closes their eyes, and the god of dying makes the skies dance with light for the descendants of people they long-ago killed.

Later they will reflect. Today they will reminisce.

Two gods part ways, on a mission from Death. They will meet again, but it will not be the same. The god of dying, of storms, and of the ocean and all that that entails smiles down on his old friend, their white eyes glowing with hundreds of memories.

“I’ll see you soon, Old Pal.”

“See you soon.” They turn down different roads, one a path of explosions, of wars, of power-grabs and monarchies, and one down a path of self-reflection.

Their paths take them to the same destination: Redemption. Neither take the same road there, and neither path is straight, but it never is. And redemption is a place not easily found, but easily lost, easy to slip back into old ways for moments at a time, on a godly timescale.

The god of dying takes the name Foolish, a reminder of his past. He arrives in a strange land, full of holes and trauma and death. The place reeks of hubris. It makes him sick. It makes him hungry. The hunger curls in his stomach and the stench gives him a sickening headache, so he runs. Runs far away, and he builds.

Builds for control, builds for stability. Builds are his one constant, gigantic pyramids and sculptures and he can’t stop. His temple expands. A man, a man he has seen, a man who feels like too much and too little, too much in one body, a vacuum and a black hole, asks him for a kingdom. Simple enough. A child approaches him, telling him to build a mansion, a mansion larger than a country, for him, his husband and their son. He will be paid. He is not paid nearly enough.

A demon, a cat, and a not-quite-human man encroach on his summer home. They reek of vines and death, and Foolish loses his composure. They doubt his power. They threaten his home and he smiles with too many teeth and grows, grows to his full size. His eyes glow. They taunt him, threaten him.

“I’m a peaceful man, Ponk. But if I must defend myself, I can.”

“Defend yourself against this, then, Foolish.” Ponk hurls a trident at him, glancing off him, a mortal not strong enough to pierce his skin. He’s a fool, more a fool than the man who took it as his name. That is his weapon, carved of prismarine and ivory, more his domain than any other. For a moment, the god tastes blood.

“I may be a totem of undying, but in the past, I have been a totem of death.” He calls power to his fingertips, lightning in his eyes. “It’s not just one thing, Ponk. It's never just one thing. Have you ever tasted lightning? Smelt the ozone in the air, seen it dance across your skin before you black out from the pain?”

“Do you see where we are, Foolish?” In Ponk’s mind, the name is fitting. He has never seen a storm called from nothing before. Never seen a storm called at all, only harnessed. He disbelieves.

“It does not matter. A sunny day does not matter.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Let me show you.” He smiles, rows of teeth bloodied with the lives of thousands, millions of mortal souls. His voice layers, thousands of voices, screaming to be heard. The crack of lighting lands mere feet from the three. “Now begone from this place, and I don’t ever want to see you here again, am I clear?”

The vines must be resolved. The egg continues to hunger, but he has hope, hope that there is a piece of mortal soul left in them, a piece of morality that wishes to be free. He does not give up hope.

The gods’ paths cross again in a city, the totem and the king. A city drowning in red, twisting, oozing vines, calling out for blood. They spend hours weeding, burning red vines and laughing. His friend no longer flies, his friend hides their once-beautiful eyes, but they’re the same. They do not remember him, but they are the same.

“Foolish, have I ever shown you my eyes?” Of course they have, and he says as much. “I’m going to show you again, just in case.” Their eyes dance, with confusion and worries, and a deep-seated fear of rejection.

“Yeah, that’s the Eret I’m thinking of! The one with white eyes, the one with the netherite armor!” Foolish looks concerned, but this is nothing that they can’t fix. They’ve fought armies together, a few missing memories aren’t going to make him give up on them.

They attend a banquet. They dance for the first time in centuries, spinning in circles to the music played by that infernal catmaid. They attend a banquet and it goes south, hard, as all parties attended by gods do. It goes south and he makes use of his totem nature, wrapping around their heart, taking their place. They will not die to the monstrous egg before they get to dance together, and reminisce.

Soon, the god will say to his old friend, that he builds to replace. He builds to counteract the destruction he caused, and it will not replace the lives lost, but it adds something new, something beautiful to this harsh reality, but that is not the truth. The truth is, he creates for the same reason he destroyed.

Soon a mortal man in a cardboard mask will tell him that he let him die. Soon, he will be taunted by a mortal man, full of hubris, who says that his builds mean nothing, are nothing, bring nothing to the world, and a part of him will think the mortal man is right. A part of him whispers that he is selfish. That his ways are wrong. That he must pick up the sword once again, bleed mortals for their souls.

He will shove that part deep inside, and he will remind the man that no good comes of blood. He will tell the man that he too once believed that death was the answer, death would give control, but he will tell the man that he was wrong, and that he will be too.

You either die a monster, vengeful and wicked, or you grow. You adapt, you create, you reconcile. Some may never forgive, but many will. Mortals only get one lifetime, he must make the most of it.

He will not say that though. He will sit up against the side of his sphynx and sew hundreds of thousands of tiny dolls, breathing life into each one, giving each one a small hard hat and a job, so he will never be alone. He will build, children safe in the ender cradle, and he will give himself time to think. He will stop moving, for one moment, and he will not die. He may be the god of the seas, but he is not a shark. He keeps moving, a perpetual motion machine, purely out of fear of what his own thoughts bring, and he truly lives up to the name given to him so long ago. Foolish. For he is naught but a fool in the body of a god.

#Foolish Gamers #Foolish G #dsmp foolish #dream smp #dream smp fic #Foolish gamers fic #dsmp #dsmp eret #eret #Eternal duo #ponk #dsmp ponk #Anyway I'd love it if you could reblog? It'd make me really happy #and I love seeing y'all's comments #mic writes #< keep forgetting to use that tag f

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storiesforallfandoms · 4 years

Text

bad reputation ~ g eazy

word count: 1765

request?: yes!

“Diferent Geazy fan. Can I request an imagine like from enemies to lovers where reader is a bit taken aback because of gerald reputation? But in anin cliche way”

description: in which she hears he’s a bad boy and forms an opinion before meeting him, but is taken back when she finds the rumors are untrue

pairing: g eazy x female!reader

warnings: swearing

masterlist

Although I knew it was wrong, I had formed an opinion on Gerald before we had even met.

I saw his name through tabloid magazines and websites in scandalous headlines more than I could count. Countless tales of him being a partyaholic who loved to drink, smoke weed, and fuck anything that walked, numerous cheating allegations that Ashley had even confirmed to me when I met her on the red carpet, and overall just nothing good to be sad about Gerald ever.

He wasn’t the type of person I wanted to surround myself with, which was why I tried my hardest to stay away from him. That is, until my record label decided they wanted me to do a collab with him on my next album.

“There’s so many rapper I could collaborate with, why him?” I asked my manager over the phone as I drove to the studio.

“That’s just who the label wants. He’s one of the biggest modern rappers right now, they think it’ll be a huge hit for you.”

“He’s an asshole!”

“You’ve never met him, (Y/N).”

“I don’t need to meet him to know he’s an asshole. I’ve never seen one good article written about him.”

“You of all people should know that tabloid media is not the best thing to go off of in regards to someone’s character.”

I threw my head back and groaned, earning me a strange look from the cab driver taking me to the studio.

“Fine, I’ll try to work with him, but warn the studio that if he is as much of an asshole as he seems to be that I’m not doing it. I don’t care how big of a hit it would be, I’m not working with a certified dickwad.”

My manager chuckled. “Alright, I will. Good luck, hun.”

I rolled my eyes and hung up. I rested my head against the window, dreading the moment I would pull up to the studio.

That moment came quicker than I would have liked and, before I knew it, I was paying my cab driver and looking at the entrance to the studio. I would’ve done anything to turn around and go home, or at least to go to a different studio and record on my own. But I knew the label wanted this, and I couldn’t go against the label. Not without any concrete evidence that I actually couldn’t work with Gerald.

So, I had no choice but to suck it up and walk into the studio. I felt my dread growing as I neared the studio I knew we were working in, and the moment I walked in I was hit with an overwhelming stench of weed smoke.

Gerald was sat on the couch, a pad of paper balanced on his lap as he held a pen in one hand and a joint in the other. He took a hit from the joint and exhaled the smoke into the room. I wasn’t someone who was against weed, far from it actually, I found it helped with my writing process. But something about watching Gerald take puffs from his joint and exhale them into the windowless room just made my blood boil.

“Could you put that out?” I asked him. “It’s making the room feel claustrophobic.”

He looked up suddenly before smiling. “Oh hey! Sorry, didn’t hear you come in.’ He rose from the couch and extended a hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I glanced at the joint in his other hand before reluctantly shaking his outstretched one. “It’s nice to meet you, too. Could you put that out?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I find having a joint helps with my creative juices.”

He stubbed the blunt out in a nearby ashtray, one I assumed he had brought with him or taken from somewhere. The studio didn’t allow smoking under any circumstances. I wondered if we’d get in trouble for that.

I sat on the other side of the room as far away from Gerald as possible. I folded myself in the usual manor that I did when writing and rested my notebook against my legs.

Across the room, I heard Gerald chuckle. I glared at him over my notebook. “What?”

“That doesn’t look comfortable,” he noted, nodding to how I was sitting.

“It’s how I write,” I snapped. “It’s comfortable to me.”

“Okay, okay!” he said, putting his hands up. “Sorry, just making a note. I figured the couch here with be more comfortable.”

“I’ll just sit about the same way,” I told him. “I like it over here.”

Gerald rested his head against his hand, looking at me. “You don’t like me.”

“What gave you that idea?”

He chuckled at my response. “I’m just wondering what I did to offend you so bad. We’ve only just met.”

I sighed and placed my pen and paper aside. It was obvious that I wasn’t about to do any actual writing any time soon. “You are a bonafide bad boy, and I don’t like bad boys. Especially not the ones that are so stereotypically bad that it’s almost comical.”

A small smirk tugged on Gerald’s lips. “Who told you I was a bad boy?”

“Believe it or not, you’re very well written about. I’ve seen basically every story - ”

“Every tabloid story?” he cut me off. “I feel like, if anyone should know how bullshit those are, it should be you. I’m sure you’ve had a good few written about you.”

“Of course I have,” I said with a shrug. “But there’s a difference between tabloids writing and people confirming. I mean, two of your past girlfriends have admitted you cheated on them, there’s numerous videos of you out partying till the brink of dawn basically every night, and when I walked in you were smoking a joint in a studio that very clearly has a sign stating no smoking.”

He looked amused by my answer, and that pissed me off a little. “Okay then, tell me all those stories are wrong.”

“They’re not wrong, but they don’t automatically made me an asshole.”

I raised an eye at him, silently encouraging him to go on. Gerald sighed and placed his notebook aside as well, sitting forward and looking at me.

“I did cheat on Lana and Ash, I’ll admit that. Fuck, I’ve admitted it so many times I can say the words in my sleep. It was a mistake, both times were mistakes. I was in unhappy relationships and didn’t know how to get out, so I just moved on to the next girl. The girl I was with after Ash, when things started going downhill I left her. End of story, that was it. I’m not proud of what I did, and I’ll never be able to make it up to Lana or Ash for what I did, and I don’t deserve that, but it’s in the past and I’m working to fix that.”

I felt myself soften with every word he said. I was shocked at how mature he sounded. Part of me thought he would just deny the cheating allegations despite them being confirmed by Lana and Ashley themselves. To hear him own up to them, and to say he was trying his best to not be that person anymore, shocked me. I wasn’t sure what to say.

Gerald used my speechlessness to keep talking. “And yeah, of course I like to party. I’m fucking 31! I’ve been doing this shit since I was in my twenties, sometimes I need an escape from the bullshit of being famous, and drinking, smoking, and partying does just that. And, to ease your worried mind, I asked the woman at the desk if it was okay to smoke a little before we started recording. She said it was fine, we won’t get in trouble.”

I sighed as he finished talking. I ran my hand through my hair and slumped back in my chair. “I’m a total dick.”

Gerald smiled and chuckled a little. “I wouldn’t say total. Only partial.”

I smiled back at him, my first genuine smile. When I did, I watched his face brighten even more.

“I’m sorry I judged you before I even really got to meet you,” I told him. “That was beyond stupid of me, I shouldn’t have just assumed you’d be a bad boy because of your image.”

“At least you’re admitting it,” he joked. “I’m fine to move past that. It’s over now, we’ve gotten it all out there.”

I agreed and, being the dorks we were, Gerald and I decided to shake on it.

The writing process went very smoothly after that. We ended up writing two songs as both of us kept coming up with so many lines that we realized they couldn’t possibly fit in the one song. By the time our studio time was up, we had figured out the two songs and the partial beats for both.

Gerald offered to drive me back to my place, which I graciously accepted. The car ride was silent, but it was a comfortable silence. I didn’t feel as tense or angry as I had on my way to the studio. I was glad Gerald and I managed to get along, and I was grateful for the new music partner I had made in the short time we were together.

“This is me,” I said as we pulled up in front of my house. “We’ll have to scheduled another studio day sometime soon. The label is gonna want these songs as soon as possible.”

“Maybe we could figure out a time and a date over dinner tomorrow night?” Gerald suggested.

I looked at him, confused, for a moment, like the naive fool I was. “If we’re both free for dinner, why don’t we just go to the studio then?”

Gerald laughed and rolled his eyes. “I’m trying to ask you out on a date, dummy.”

My mouth opened in mock offense. “Rude! I don’t think I’ll accept your dinner offer now!”

“Fine by me, we have to meet up in the studio anyways. I’ll just ask again.”

He smiled and I felt my heart racing seeing the way he looked at me. I smiled back at him before opening the door to his car. Before closing it, I leaned down to look at him one last time before saying, “Pick me up at 6:00 sharp, if you’re even a minute later I’ll lock my doors and go to bed.”

He laughed and nodded. “It’s a date then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, G.”

#g eazy #g eazy imagine #g eazy x reader #gerald gillum #gerald gillum imagine #gerald gillum x reader #imagine #one shot #request

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leviackermanscleaningbuddy · 4 years

Text

BTS DRABBLE-One-Shot

Request: Poly!BTS Mafia AU

Tags: BTS, Bangtan, Bangtan Boys, Bangtan Seonyendan, Bulletproof Boyscouts, Beyond the Scene, BTS Drabble, Request, my asks, my requests, BTS fluff, Poly!BTS, Mafia AU, BTS x you, BTS x reader, Kim seokjin, min yoongi, jung hoseok, kim namjoon, park jimin, kim taehyung, jeon jungkook

Genre: Fluff

Title: Improbable, Not Impossible

The mafia is a dangerous place.

And this party, thrown by just the man you’re hoping to see, is a close second.

You lift your glass of rose to your lips, and careful not to smear your deliberately applied lipstick, you take a sip, discerning eyes scanning the sea of sharply dressed men and their overly primped wives.

It’s no secret that getting a meeting with the boss is a hard trick to pull.

But that’s exactly what you’re here to do tonight.

It’s all a matter of getting close to the boss’s inner circle, and you have never found that particularly hard to do.

A smirk creases your lips, hidden behind the dewy glass of your wine flute.

“You know,” A man slides into the seat at the bar next to you, and motions for the bartender to pour him a glass. “You really shouldn’t bring weapons to these sort of things, sweetheart.”

Speak of the devil.

You take another long sip of your drink, and glance at him out of the corner of your eye-dressed tonight in a cream suit that shows off his tan skin perfectly, dark brown hair pushed off his brow, accented by the glasses he wears delicately across his nose.

Kim Seokjin. UnderBoss.

Though he doesn’t look at you, his hand slides down in between your two seats, and his fingers trace up the skin of your calf, revealed through the high slit of your evening gown, his movements stopping just dangerously short of your thigh. He plucks out the concealed dagger, and raises a brow at you, a slightly twisted smirk crossing his full pink lips. “You promised me you’d show a little extra decorum this time around.”

You reach out, plucking the lit cigarette from between his lips before he can protest, and snuffing it out in the nearby ash tray, you shrug, offering him a smirk in return, as you settle back into your chair once more, crossing your legs delicately at the ankles. “And you promised me you’d quit smoking. Yet here we are.”

Seokjin laughs, a charming, deep sound within his chest, and reaches out for his drink, eyeing you over the rim as you reach out to straighten his crimson tie. “Enjoying the party then?”

You shrug again, carefully passing your eyes over the room once more, before you refocus on the right hand man at your side. “I’d much rather have this meeting done and over with so I can go home.” You quip back honestly, knowing Seokjin will find your starkness refreshing.

He chuckles again, setting his glass down, before he leans toward you, and boldly sweeping his fingers across your cheekbone, he holds your gaze momentarily, as he says quietly beneath the music, “That’s what I’ve always liked about you. You never bullshit anyone, sweetheart.”

His fingertips, making contact with your skin for just one moment longer, leave the place they were resting tingling as he finally pulls back from you, and holding aloft his glass toward you, he offers you a handsome grin, as he declares, “A toast then. That you’ll get your meeting sooner rather than later.”

You laugh lightly, and clink your glass with his.

He downs the rest of his bourbon, and standing up with a sigh, he leans over to brush a kiss softly across the back of your knuckles, and with a look of acute disappointment, he complains, “Well, duty calls. Enjoy the party, sweetheart.”

And with that, Seokjin winks at you and with one last glance back in your direction, he disappears back into the sea of party goers once more.

Leaving the bar behind you after you finish your drink, you scan the room, wondering what to do next, when a familiar blank face catches your attention from the corner of your eye, and with a hidden smile to yourself, you weave through the raucous crowd of mafia, finally reaching the quiet corner of the hall where he stands.

“Are you as bored as you appear?” You ask coyly, leaning against the wall beside the man, not looking at him, as you follow his gaze across the sea of merriment.

Min Yoongi. Enforcer.

“Hah.” Yoongi lets out an unamused bark of laughter at your question, his eyes never leaving the dance floor, as his hand absentmindedly fingers the gun, snug in its holster, at his belt, just barely hidden beneath the sweeping tail of his suit coat. “You’re one to talk.” He glances at you briefly, for not more than a second, eyebrows raised and lips pulled into a thin line. “Don’t you get bored of wining and dining the many men you cater to?”

“Hmmm.” You hum under your breath, a hint of a smirk crossing your lips. “I suppose I do.”

You turn toward him, one shoulder still pressed into the wall, and reaching out, cover his long fingers with your own, as you push aside his hand and adjust the holster on his hip, before reaching up to straighten the lapels of his suit, the jacket patterned with gold print against the black, as you say with soft amusement, “Seokjin found my knife. He lectured me about my lack of decorum and bringing weapons to a party such as this.”

Yoongi stares down at you, as you move your hands to his tie now, straightening the red fabric just like you had done with Seokjin’s, and then he clears his throat, replying under his breath, “He’s right you know. What do you think I’m here for?”

“To look pretty?” You ask innocently, as you pause in your movements and glance up at him through your eyelashes.

“Bullshit.” Yoongi brushes your hands off of him, refocusing on the dance floor, his fingers once again falling to the weapon at his side, and when he speaks again, it is hurried words beneath his breath that you barely catch. “Besides, you’re the pretty one here.”

“What?” You ask, leaning toward him, teasingly motioning to your ear, as you say loudly over the music, “What did you say, Yoongi?”

“I said you’re the shitty one here.” Yoongi retorts, a slight red hue lighting the caramel skin of his cheeks, as he swallows and looks anywhere but at you. “Now leave me alone and let me do my job.”

You laugh, but do as he asks, leaving him alone with one more knowing glance over your shoulder, as you once more make your way into the crowds.

Making your way back to the bar for another glass of wine, you notice as you approach that there is a group of women gathered around someone, fanning themselves, lips pulled back into overly friendly smiles, as they listen to whatever the person on the inner circle is saying with complete and utter rapture on their faces.

And when you catch sight of who they’re giving all their attention to, you instantly understand why.

“Look, I can get you anything. Rubies, diamonds, emeralds, pearls.” The man in the gray suit is saying, wildly gesturing with his hands, his bow tie flopping with his animations, his dark eyes wide and bright. “Melda, you want another golden hairpin?” He motions to one of the younger ladies, and she blushes as his gaze is directed to her, and he grins, flashing sunshine from between the gaps in his perfectly white teeth, and you swear, half the ladies sigh audibly. “I’ll get you twenty.”

You lean on the counter beside the group, and taking a sip of your fresh glass, without looking over at the man, you interrupt, saying casually, “Wow. That’s a hefty promise.”

The women turn to stare at you as one, mouths open, some of them whispering behind their fans when they catch sight of you, but paying them no mind, you straighten, and finally meeting the gaze of the man, you offer him half a smile over the rim of your glass. “Your true worth, however, is not how well you buy things, but how well you sell them.”

Jung Hoseok. Fence.

Hoseok grins at you, and pushing through the women without another glance, he comes to your side, leaning against the bar, inches from your face, as he replies quietly, “Come on, baby. You know how well I sell.”

Your gaze drifts down to his lips as he talks, so close you can almost smell the mint chap stick that he always liberally wears, and without skipping a beat you quip back, “And I also know you’re quite the ladies man, Hoseok. So that trick won’t work on me.”

“Trick?” He pulls back slightly, eyes widened comically, as his lips part and he lets out a sigh. “Come on, baby. I wouldn’t trick you.”

“Enjoying the party?” You ask, pulling your gaze away from his, as you once again catch more than one woman looking in your direction, and at the tall, lanky, handsome man who stands beside you, dark hair falling over his high brow as he continues to stare at you.

“Much more so now that you’re here.” Hoseok grins that sunny, heart shaped smile once more, and then reaches into the inner pocket of his suit coat, fingers fumbling for something, as he says with sudden excitement, “Speaking of which, I managed to procure you a little something.”

“Really?” You ask with amusement, turning to him, brow raised, as he finally succeeds in finding what he is looking for and pulls it out.

In his outstretched palm is a necklace-golden and gleaming in the light, the centerpiece a large teardrop ruby, the rest of the twisting chain accentuated with smaller diamonds and sapphires, glimmering against the precious metal and the bronze of his skin.

“Reminded me of you.” Hoseok states simply, whirling you around so that your back is to him, as he lifts the necklace up around your neck and begins to carefully fashion the delicate clasp with nimble fingers, warm against your skin.

You reach up, letting your fingertips trail over the rivets of the necklace, where it lies, cool and comfortable, against the revealed, bare skin of your chest. “It’s beautiful.”

“Like you.” Hoseok smiles against your ear, his fingers finished now, his breath balmy on your cheek, before you feel him press a feather light kiss at the base of the back of your neck. “Stay out of trouble, baby.”

And then he is gone, off to procure more treasures and women from the night ahead.

You aren’t at the bar alone long though.

“Whiskey and rye, please.”

You fiddle with the stem of your wine glass, letting your eyes drift over, nonchalantly, to the tall, broad man who now stands beside you at the bar, fingers drumming on the marble, as he reaches up to tiredly rake a hand through bleached blonde hair.

You note, almost immediately, the checkered pattern that wraps around the very expensive, and perfectly fitting, suit he is wearing.

“I almost didn’t recognize you without your police uniform.”

The man, taking a sip from his freshly delivered drink, glances at you with dark walnut eyes over the rim of his shot glass, before he lowers the glass from his mouth and offers you half a smile. “Hopefully this is a better look.”

Kim Namjoon. Dirty Cop.

“Oh, very.” You lean on the bar, looking him up and down openly. “You clean up rather well.

He chuckles, cheeks darkening a little at your outright compliment, and takes another gulp of his drink before saying, glancing out at the crowded room, “Big crowd tonight.”

You sigh, stepping in front of him, catching him by surprise, as you reach up to straighten the collar of his suit coat, replying softly, and with a touch of annoyance, “Boss Klein loves to make an entrance.”

Namjoon watches you for a moment, staring down at you, and then he reaches up, the silver ring on his pointer finger glinting, and covers your hands with his own, stopping your movements, waiting for your gaze to meet his, before he murmurs to you, “Not as much as you.”

You cock your head, corners of your lips pulling up in the hint of a smile as you regard him, before you lean up on your toes, and brushing a kiss airily across the ridge of his sharp cheekbone, you breathe back, “I do love an entrance.”

Namjoon remains frozen, as you pull away from him, but not before you brush down the collar of his shirt one last time, before you wiggle your fingers at him and offer him a cheeky grin, as you turn to go, calling over your shoulder, “Come find me later.” You wink at him, enjoying the way his cheeks are reddening as you walk away. “After the party, we may be able to find a use for those handcuffs of yours.”

You’re still smiling smugly to yourself, when you exit the warmth and busy bustle of the ballroom in favor of the much cooler and quieter veranda that lies just through the double doors, overlooking the estate’s large and rolling garden.

Taking in a deep breath of the cold night air, you lean on the railing of the balcony, admiring the way the stars and moon reflect perfectly in the clear, gently lapping water of the huge fountain that dominates the courtyard below.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

If you were anyone else, you would have jumped at the sudden voice sounding in your ear, but instead, you simply sigh, and taking one more lungful of the outdoor air, you reply, “It’s a beautiful night.”

“I was talking about you.”

You glance over at the man who is leaning on the railing beside you, white suit perfectly pressed, black shirt stark against his copper skin, ebony bangs falling into his eyes as he tilts his head and holds your gaze, something serious and passionate and dangerous swirling just beneath the layer of gold that lines his pupils.

Park Jimin. Recruiter.

“I bet you say that to every woman, especially the ones with influential husbands.” You retort sardonically, though there is a hint of a smile tugging at your lips as you regard him.

“Please.” He waves his hand, gold rings on every finger glinting in the dim starlight, as he shoots you an expression of dramatic hurt and shock, the look a glaring contrast to his beautiful, almost ethereal features. “You know I only have eyes for you, baby girl.”

“Hmmm.” You hum in agreement under your breath, glancing once more out at the wide, quiet expanse of garden before you.

“And if you don’t believe me,” Jimin has closed the distant between you in the blink of an eye, his hands resting on the railing on either side of your waist, effectively boxing you in, as you turn to face him with brow raised. His full, plump lips quirk into a cocky smirk, as his eyes, pupils widening and darkening, dart down to your lips with open hunger. “I can show you.”

“I’m sure you can.” You murmur under your breath, your own gaze drifting down to the way the rosiness of his lips contrasts perfectly with his skin tone. Reaching up, you carefully run the pad of your forefinger across the swollen, velvet skin of his mouth. “However, as much as I’d like to take you up on the offer, we both have other places to be.”

Jimin stares at you for one more long, molten moment, and then he rolls his eyes. “Dammit. You’re right.”

You pat the hardened muscle of his chest through the thin, black material of his dress shirt with just a hint of regret, before you duck under his arm and walk backwards toward the doors that lead to the ballroom, calling out over the now loud music back at Jimin, “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

He winks at you, lips pulling back up into a knowing smirk, as he gives you a little wave. “Stay out of trouble, baby girl.”

Walking back into the ballroom, mind still slightly occupied with the man you had left standing alone on the balcony, you almost run into someone, but thankfully, that someone has strong, muscular arms that grab around your waist and stop you from ungracefully falling on your face in front of everyone.

You glance up, slightly breathless, and brushing loose hair from your eyes, a grin draws across your lips, as you recognize the face hovering closely above your own.

“Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” You imply teasingly, as the man straightens you back on your feet, although one of his hands remain firmly on your waist, fingers warm through the thin material of your gown, as he leads you out of the crowd and toward a less occupied corner of the room.

He returns your grin with one of his own, boxy expression showing off white teeth that gleam in contrast to his olive skin and jet black hair, swept back carefully off his forehead. “You know me, sweet cheeks. Probably both.”

Kim Taehyung. Informant.

“Thanks for the save back there.” You say, leaning against the wall when you reach the secluded corner, noting smugly, as you do so, that Taehyung has still not removed his hand from your waist.

“Eh.” He shrugs casually, sloping his shoulder into yours as he bumps you playfully, and glances down at you, the remnants of a grin still on his lips. “Any chance to get a hand on you.”

You laugh, and turning to face him, you reach up, pinching his chin between your fingers, as you turn his head from side to side, secretly admiring the way the light bounces off his sharp, high cheekbones and perfectly shaped nose and brow, as you say, “You look thin. Was being on the inside last week really that bad?”

Taehyung shrugs once more, and you admit, you admire his carefree attitude and the way things roll of him easily, when he replies easily, “Nah. Prison food isn’t as awful as they say. Besides.” He leans his shoulder into the wall, bringing the two of you closer together, as he suddenly grows serious, looking down at you carefully. “If the boss calls, I jump.”

“I know.” You release your hold on his chin, fingers hovering gently over the base of his throat, before you let out a sigh and settle on straightening his tie instead. “I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t go getting sentimental on me now, sweet cheeks.” Taehyung’s grin appears again, and you can’t help but return the smile, as he leans closer to you, before boldly reaching out for your hand, and pressing a lingering kiss into the creases of your palm. “I like you because you’re tough.”

“I know.” You repeat, as he pulls away, finally removing his hand from your waist as he does so, a noticeable absence of warmth following the movement.

“See you later, sweet cheeks.” Taehyung winks at you, and spinning on his heel, he waves to someone out of your sight, before he disappears around the corner of the room.

You sigh, leaning back against the wall behind you and taking this rare opportunity of quiet to close your eyes.

After a brief pause, you glance down at the watch that encircles your wrist, and let out a curse beneath your breath.

Shit. When was this guy gonna be ready for you?

As if on cue, as if someone had been able to read your harried and clearly frustrated thoughts, a hand taps your shoulder, and you glance beside you to see a younger looking man, dressed in a black inconspicuous suit, waiting expectantly for your acknowledgement.

When you turn to face him, he straightens his shoulders, and clearing his throat, he states immediately, “They’re ready for you.”

“About damn time.” You growl under your breath, pushing away from the wall, ready to stalk into the meeting with some fair words for whoever was involved, but before you can so much as take a step, fingers loop around your wrist, and you look over in surprise at the young man standing now much closer to you.

Jeon Jungkook. BodyGuard.

“Noona.” Jungkook hesitates, brown, doe eyes, seeming much too innocent to belong to someone in his line of work, watching you carefully, his fingers still encircling your wrist. “Don’t be rash.”

You take in a deep breath through your nose, releasing it slowly, as you consider his words, before you finally nod your head, once, jerkily, in acknowledgment of his statement. “Fine. I’ll ignore the fact that he’s kept me waiting this long. I’ll be civil.” You tug at his fingers snagged around your wrist and look at him pointedly. “I promise, Jungkook.”

Jungkook watches you for another long moment, and then releases his grip on you, before he nods, lips pressed into a thin line, as you start to walk in the direction of the study, just off the main hall, heels loud on the tiled floor, even though the atmosphere is filled with music and laughter and all together too much noise.

He follows behind you silently, always a step away, and when you push in through the door of the study to the scene beyond, you feel Jungkook alert and ever present at your back, eyes scanning the room defensively for any signs of danger.

“Good. You’re all here.” You say immediately upon entering the room, crossing the lush carpet, footsteps padded, to the desk that dominates the space and the chair behind it.

Jungkook moves behind the chair to join the other six men who stand silently, waiting-dark, well dressed figures against the moonlight from the window and the warm glow of the lamp sitting on the nearby table.

Seokjin. Yoongi. Hoseok. Namjoon. Jimin. Taehyung. Jungkook. All members of ‘The Scenes’.

The man and his bodyguards, who had stood upon your entry, bumble their way through a series of respectful bows in your direction, stumbling over themselves, before the main man, once again ducking his head in your direction, manages to choke out, “Boss (L/N)! We’re so sorry for the late hour. We didn’t even know if we’d be able to secure a meeting with you.”

You smirk, twirling a pen between your fingers, as you regard the simpering man standing before you.

Like you said- getting a meeting with the boss was improbable, but not impossible.

“Well, gentlemen.” You set down the pen, linking your fingers in front of you as you regard the obviously cowed and worried men before you with a smug smile. “Let’s talk business, shall we?”

(Y/N)(L/N). Boss.

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shotsbyshae · 4 years

Text

The Wolf

Warnings: Language

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Fem!Reader

Words: 3.4k

Summary: A blast from Ransom’s past blows into town, but there’s more to you than meets the eye.

Song: The Wolf by The Spencer Lee Band

Tag list is open

*Spoiler free: no movie connections whatsoever.

I watch you burn this place to ashes Move that ass and raise a glass To how you love to misbehave, baby

Many Years Ago

Being sent to live with an estranged great aunt is every young girl’s dream – not.

You never knew your mother, but your father – that loss is still fresh.

Not that you’ll go around talking about it.

It didn’t take long for you to be labeled the freak at school. You’ve gotten really good at acting like it doesn’t bother you – it does. Maybe for starters, you shouldn’t have raised your hand in class when the teacher asked if anyone thought ghosts were real.

You hear a twig snap behind you and quickly turn to find no one there. It’s a long walk to your aunt’s house on the main road, but it hadn’t taken you long to find this short cut through the woods. As long as the sun is still out, you should be fine – right? After a few more steps, you can sense the presence of someone – or thing – behind you.

It happens so fast, he doesn’t have time to think as you swing around with your backpack, using it like a weapon to hit him square in the chest. You grab his arm, sweeping his legs out from under him with your foot and he’s on his back in the dirt and leaves staring up at you wide-eyed.

“Not the face!” the blue-eyed twelve-year-old kid with dirty blonde hair exclaims, his free hand covering his face haphazardly. “Shit.”

You recognize the boy from your class, and you release his arm slowly, “Why are you following me?”

He takes a deep breath before he responds, “In class today, you said you think ghosts are real.” You fold your arms across your chest, waiting for the onslaught of cruel jokes, but the boy’s brow furrows slightly. “I think so too – not that I’d admit it to the entire class – obviously.” He smirks as you roll your eyes.

“That’s why you followed me?” you glare at him in annoyance.

“No,” he says, propping up on his elbows, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I know of the perfect house. Whaddya say – ghost hunt?”

You contemplate saying no, but if something happened to this kid while he ventured into some ramshackle old house, you’d feel partially responsible. It won’t be until later when you find out the perfect house is actually his grandfather’s old mansion. Surprise – it’s not haunted. Just creaky old floorboards.

“Fine,” you remark, offering your hand to him as you give him your name while pulling him to his feet.

He grins brightly, “I’m Ransom.”

Now

“Who’s that?” Ransom questions the man standing next to him, as he watches you casually lean across the pool table, lining up your shot.

“You don’t remember her,” Howie comments, glancing from you to Drysdale who cocks a curious eyebrow. “Middle school.” He adds, trying to jog Ransom’s memory.

The realization flashes across his face, “No – shit – really?” He does remember you – the two of you were friends.

Best friends actually.

Then you left.

Howie nods, “Showed up in town today.” Ransom finishes the bourbon in his glass before he places it on the bar. “What are you doing?” The look on Howie’s face is comical as Drysdale runs his fingers through his hair.

“I’m going to say hi,” he comments.

“She’s been giving Greyson ‘fuck me’ eyes all night,” Howie remarks as Ransom turns to walk toward you. “Good luck.”

Ransom knows he doesn’t need luck.

He’s Ransom fucking Drysdale and he knows you better than Greyson Moore.

Or at least he thinks he does.

He approaches the table slowly, taking in the sight of you. Time had been more than generous to you and it wasn’t a surprise that Moore was hovering over you. A new face like yours – fresh meat – always brings the wolves out.

Ransom stops just shy of the table, waiting for you to make your next shot. Once you sink the next ball, he comments, “It’s been a long time Trix.”

You cut your eyes over at the man as you stand up straight, “Ransom.”

“Trix?” Greyson says the name in confusion. “I thought you said your name was –”

“Oh,” Ransom interrupts, casting a devilish grin in Moore’s direction. “It’s just an old nickname my grandfather gave her.” He glances back to you as you line up another shot. “We go way back – don’t we?”

You miss the shot.

Sighing as you lean against the pool table you look at the man in annoyance, “What do you want Ransom?”

He looks at you innocently, “To catch up with an old friend.”

You laugh dryly, “We stopped being friends a long time ago – or did you forget?” You wait a moment to see if he remembers the night, but it’s obvious he doesn’t, and you shake your head. “Of course you don’t.”

Ransom watches you curiously, “What did I forget?”

“Nothing – look,” you glare at him. “I’m trying to enjoy my evening here with my new friend.” You point toward Greyson who doesn’t hide the smug smile on his face. “So, if you’ll excuse us.”

Ransom clenches his jaw, irritated by how quickly you shut him down. Aside from who he is, the two of you had spent two summers as children running around his granddad’s estate. Before cell phones and computers took everyone’s attention, when the two of you relied on your own imaginations or books as sources of entertainment.

“Yea – fine,” he responds coldly before he turns away from the pool table.

He downs his second glass of bourbon after another hour passes by, having watched you with Greyson the whole time, ignoring anyone who approached him. He was too busy doing a deep dive into his memories, trying to figure out what you were implying that he’d forgotten about.

Greyson’s hand is at your waist, as if it’s supposed to be there, and he’s whispering something into your ear as you take a sip from the beer bottle in your hand. You smile at whatever he’s saying before your eyes flick up to meet Ransom’s gaze.

He’s done.

Why the hell he’s let himself sit here this long is beyond him. He doesn’t know you – not anymore. Greyson can fucking have you for all he cares. He places his glass on the bar and grabs his coat from the stool before heading for the backdoor.

Once outside he digs in his pocket for his keys, as he unlocks the driver’s door, he hears an unfamiliar voice behind him.

“Hey, aren’t you Hugh Drysdale?”

“I’m not in the mood pal,” he begins as, he turns to face a man roughly his size holding a pistol level with his forehead. “Whoa.”

“Hugh Drysdale,” the man reiterates, a far-off look in his eye.

“Look – you want the car,” Ransom begins to offer him the keys. “It’s yours. You want cash – I have cash.”

The sound of metal clangs loudly from behind the man and Ransom jerks, watching as the man crumples to the ground. His eyes fly back up to see you standing there with what appears to be a piece of metal pipe. You don’t look fazed by the situation, neither scared or nervous, as you drop the pipe casually.

“What the fuck?” Ransom exclaims.

“We need to go,” you say calmly before moving to the passenger side of his car.

“No – psycho,” he shakes his head. “You just whacked a guy with a lead pipe, what the hell is going on?”

You lean across the roof the small silver car, eyes narrowing slightly, “I just saved your life – get in the fucking car.”

Ransom hesitantly slides into the driver’s seat next to you, noticing as you pull a phone from your pocket. He turns the key, bringing the car to life before throwing it into drive and pulling out onto the dark roadway.

“Okay,” he comments, once he’s on the highway. “Care to explain why an hour ago you were giving me the cold shoulder, yet here you are.”

You hold your phone up, showing him the screen. The blue-eyed man does a double take in confusion at the sight of his face on the screen, along with following:

$50,000 Reward.

“What the hell is that?” he asks incredulously.

“Came across this morning,” you respond, dropping the device back in your lap. “Someone wants you dead.” Turning toward him slightly in the seat, you watch his reaction in the glow of the dashboard. “So, who did you piss off?”

He contemplates for a moment, brows furrowing as he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, “I mean, that list is long, but no one that would try and kill me over it.”

“Well,” you begin to respond, but stop as you reach for the phone that vibrates against your leg. You look at the screen. “Someone is and they just upped the bounty.” You turn the phone showing the increased number of $75,000.

“Fuck,” Ransom says under his breath. “When I get home –”

“You can’t go home,” you interrupt. “That’s the first place they’ll be looking. We need to get you out of town until we can find out who’s behind this.” Punching in an address on your phone you start the navigation on it before handing it over to Ransom. “Here, I have a place we can crash for the night. It’s off the grid so to speak.” He takes the device as he nods his understanding.

“Why are you helping me?” he questions quietly after a moment.

“Being an asshole shouldn’t be a death sentence,” you respond sincerely. “But sooner or later Ransom, your demons catch up to you.”

Past

“Don’t you dare,” your tone is stern as you point your finger at the boy with the water pistol. Your hair is loosely pulled back into a ponytail and you’re in denim shorts with a red tank top – appropriate for a Fourth of July cook out.

“Nothing’s going to save you now,” there’s a malicious grin on Ransom’s young face.

“Trixie dear, will you fetch the lemonade,” Harlan comments causing you to instantly stick your tongue out at your friend before bolting inside the large house.

“Why does he call her that?” Richard remarks in annoyance to his wife. “That’s not her name.”

“That book series maybe,” Linda responds. “The girl detective.”

“What does it matter?” Harlan interrupts them shooting an icy glare in Richard’s direction.

“I’m just saying,” his son-in-law begins, obviously one too many gin and tonics in to stop at this point. “You treat that girl better than you do some of your own grandkids.” Richard glares at Harlan in contempt. “And don’t think they haven’t noticed.”

The older man doesn’t falter as he responds, “Maybe they should consider she is the better child. A friend of mine once told me family doesn’t end with blood, she’s as much a granddaughter to me as Ransom is my grandson.” Harlan’s eyes narrow slightly at Richard. “And if that bothers you – or anyone else – you’re free to go.”

Now

You open the door to the small cabin as you say, “Well, someone wants you dead, so what did you do?”

“I have no idea,” Ransom responds following you inside as you flip a light switch, illuminating the small interior of the living area.

“Do you owe someone money?” you close the door behind him, locking the deadbolt as he shakes his head, moving instinctively towards the refrigerator across the room. “Did you sleep with someone’s wife?”

He turns to look at you, contemplating that question a moment before he shrugs his shoulders innocently, “Maybe.”

“My God,” you roll your eyes. “You really are the worst – aren’t you?”

“Oh,” he places his hands on his hips. “And you’re a saint?”

“At least no one’s trying to kill me,” you remark coldly.

Ransom watches you for a moment, the silence in the room deafening.

“What happened?” he finally asks. “What am I missing? We were friends.”

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly before glancing over to him, “Winter formal – the night you ditched me because you decided you were too good to be friends with me anymore.”

His mind races quickly through the events of that night, knowing he’d never thought that, much less said it, “Who told you that?”

“Carla Santoni.”

A laugh escapes him as he remembers the gossip queen, “And you believed her? I never ditched you, I was stuck in Mr. Elkins office for punching Ron Willis in the face.”

“What – why?” you narrow your eyes at him, the new information surprising you.

Ransom’s gaze shifts to the floor, “He was being dick.”

“Ron was always a dick,” you remark, tilting your head as you fold your arms across your chest. “Try again.”

He takes a deep breath as his gaze flicks back up to you, “He was being a dick about you – okay? He called you freak. So – I hit him.” The surprise on your face is evident, but you try to conceal it as he shakes his head slightly. “God Trix, you – you were my best friend. My only friend – you thought –” His voice trails off and you can see a tinge of sadness in his features. “I’m sorry.”

You clench your jaw as you catch a glimpse of that thirteen-year-old boy you used to know in those deep blue eyes. Glancing away from him, you remember how hard the two years you’d spent here had been. Surprisingly enough Ransom was the only thing that made this place tolerable – him and Harlan.

Now, One Week Earlier

You inhale deeply before you climb from your car, taking in the familiarity of the estate as the front door opens. The older man greets you with a warm smile as you make your way up the steps. He’s the grandfather you never had and part of you had envied Ransom when you were children for being so lucky.

“Oh – my Trixie,” he says as you smile at him before accepting his embrace. “I have missed you.” Harlan steps back, taking a better look at you. “How have you been?”

“I’m good,” you sigh with a warm smile. The two of you have managed to stay in touch throughout the years, mostly on Harlan’s behalf, for which you’re grateful. “So, tell me – what’s going on?” Watching the old man carefully as you question him gently. “Why did you send for me?”

“It’s Ransom,” his demeanor falls slightly, taking your hand in his. “I’m worried about him – I think he’s messing with the wrong kind of people. He needs someone to talk to him.”

You laugh slightly, “And you think he’ll listen to me?”

Harlan’s features soften again as his hand moves to touch your cheek gently, “My dear – he’s only ever listened to you.”

Now

Ransom watches as you warm up the canned Chef Boyardee on the stove. It was one of the few things in the pantry that wasn’t expired.

“Does Granddad know you’re in town?” he finally asks, and you glance over your shoulder at him, giving him the look, he remembers it all too well, making him feel like a kid again. “Nevermind – of course he does.” Ransom sits on a stool at the small kitchen island, tapping his finger idly on the white tile countertop. “Next question.” You continue to stir the ravioli, keeping it from sticking to the bottom of the pan as he says. “Are you some kind of assassin now?”

You turn to him slowly, a puzzled look on your face, “What?”

“The messages about me on your phone,” he responds. “How else would you get them?”

“Right,” you nod, before you turn to turn the knob on the stove off. “I have a friend, he’s in that line of work.”

“He,” Ransom says it with a tone.

“He knew I was in the area,” you continue, scooping some of the ravioli into one of the blue bowls you found in the cabinet. “Ketch sent it to me, checking to see if I might know you.” You walk across placing the bowl with a spoon on the counter in front of Ransom. “And I did.”

“So – your boyfriend’s an assassin,” he remarks before taking a bite of the ravioli.

“No,” you turn and walk back to the stove.

“No – he’s not – or you don’t have a boyfriend,” Ransom mutters with his mouthful.

Rubbing your hand across the back of your neck in frustration, you turn back around to face him, “Is that information even relevant?”

Ransom visibly contemplates the question for a moment, eyes darting to his left before focusing back on you, eyebrows high on his forehead, “Given my reputation – nope.”

Past

“I can’t go to boarding school,” your aunt had broken the news last week and you look across the desk at Harlan. “What am I going do? It’s obvious she found out what really happened to Dad.”

Harlan is the only person you’ve told the truth to about your father – afraid to even tell Ransom. Not that it matters, he’s moved on to more popular friends anyway.

“I’ve spoken with her,” he responds. “I have a friend – he specializes in this sort of thing. He has two boys that stay with him often and he’s agreed for you to come out. Said he even met your father once.”

Harlan watches your eyes brighten up almost immediately at the words and there’s hope in your voice, “Really?” He nods as you climb from the chair you’re in, and rush around the edge of the large desk, throwing your arms around his neck. “Thank you – thank you.”

You feel bad for leaving without saying anything to Ransom.

Being a kid is tough.

Suffering your first heartbreak is tougher.

Now

“This is better than I remember,” Ransom comments, indicating the ravioli with his spoon. You’re standing beside where he’s sitting at the kitchen island, but you don’t respond to his comment only smile slightly. “Well, aside from who’s trying to kill me, how have you been?”

You glance over at him finally, “It’s been good – you?”

“I’ve been alright,” he responds with a nod of his head. “It makes sense now. Why you left without saying good-bye.”

“I was just a kid Ransom,” you say quietly. “I was hurt.”

A dry laugh escapes him, “That moment – that misunderstanding.” His eyes stare up at you, and you can tell there’s so much he’s hiding – from you – from everyone. “It fucking broke us Trix. We weren’t kids anymore after that.”

You have to look away from the intensity of the stare, but you nod your agreement. Ransom shoves his spoon back into the bowl of ravioli as he says, “Well, you live and learn I guess.”

You feel as if you’ll get whiplash from the extent of how quickly his mood seems to change and you’re thankful when your phone buzzes. You pull it from the back pocket of your jeans, and you look at the screen. You have to stare at it for a moment, trying to calm yourself down. Ransom may get whiplash if you don’t.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you exclaim turning your glare towards the man beside you.

“What?” he questions in confusion.

“Where’s the ring?” you ask, and Ransom raises his eyebrows waiting for you elaborate. “It would be silver looking – gaudy.”

Realization strikes him, “Oh – it’s at my house. Why?”

“Where did you get it?” you ask, irritation written all over your face.

“Poker game,” Ransom responds, unsure why you’re so angry with him all of the sudden. “I won it in a poker game. It’s hideous, but it’s all the guy had left.”

“What did he look like?”

“Shady, blonde hair,” he begins as you slide your phone across to him, a photo on the screen.

“So – not this guy?” you question him, and Ransom looks at the picture on your phone.

“No, not him. Who’s he?”

“That’s the guy who the ring belongs to,” you respond. “It’s called the Haxon ring. He thinks you stole it.”

“Well, let’s go get it,” he says quickly. “Give it back – explain what happened.”

“It’s not that simple,” you respond.

Harlan was right, Ransom was messing around with the wrong kind of people.

“What do you mean,” Ransom watches you curiously.

“You didn’t just piss off anyone,” you remark taking a deep breath. “That guy is Crowley.”

Ransom glances back at the dark-haired man in the photo before looking back up to you. Shaking your head as you place your hands on your hips, you can’t help but laugh.

“Way to go Ransom, you pissed off the King of Hell.”

#ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale fanfiction #ransom drysdale fanfic #knives out #knives out fanfiction #knives out fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #crossover #supernatural #supernatural crossover #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic

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zontiky · 3 years

Text

okay so i tried to save this ask as a draft and it got deleted because tumblr is just such a functional website like that <3 but the prompt was “the hargreeves as ghosts in the apocalypse with five” or something like that i’m going to scream

this is SUPER long so i’m putting it under the cut hfkjsd

pre-five: the hargreeves siblings are dead. wait i feel a drabble coming on ooh

The Hargreeves siblings are dead.

Ben isn’t very aware of this at first. He’s been dead since 2006 -- he’s quite used to it, by now. What he is aware of, first, is light. Blinding white light. And Vanya, in the middle of it. He doesn’t close his eyes because he can’t feel pain, but if he could he thinks she would have made him blind. There’s light, and heat, and power, and then he closes his eyes anyway because the ceiling is collapsing around him and it’s instinctual.

When he opens them again he sees ash. Ash -- and Klaus.

He’s gotten used to Klaus, too. Klaus has a memorable sort of face; even if he didn’t, Ben has seen it every single day for almost twenty years. He doesn’t know if it’s actually been twenty years, for him. He doesn’t know how time moves for ghosts. Klaus has assured him it moves the same as it does for the living. Ben isn’t sure Klaus, stoned out of his mind, bleeding sluggishly from his arm, knew what he was talking about.

Anyway.

Klaus.

He’s wearing the coat he’s been flaunting around for the past week. His shirt is see-through, with little stars on it, like a pale imitation of the sky. Ben remembers his pants had laces on them, he’s sure they did not a minute ago, before the brightness that threatened to wipe out his very soul -- his soul is all he has left, really. His gaze drifts down anyway, to check.

Yes. Klaus’ pants have laces up the sides.

“No,” Ben says. Klaus is laying in a heap on the ground, his fingers curled like his tendons have been cut.

His lips feel numb because they always feel numb. Because Ben can’t feel at all. He takes a step. “No,” he says again, louder, surer. “No!”

Klaus looks up at him. His makeup is smudged, like it tends to be. His lips are bitten raw, like they tend to be. His hair is a mess, like it tends to be, and like it will be, always, because Klaus isn’t breathing.

Klaus is lying in a heap on the ground. Klaus is standing above his own body. Klaus is reaching for Ben like he’s hoping to touch him for the first time in years. Just when Klaus’ cold, dead, fingers brush his face, a voice from behind says, so quietly, dripping with disbelief: “Ben?”

Ben shuts his eyes and wishes desperately he could cry.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, for the first time in so, so long, but he also doesn’t feel it at all. He feels-but-doesn’t-feel someone turn him around, until they are saying, “Ben? Ben!” and he has no choice but to open his eyes and face the music.

Diego is gripping his shoulders like he is a dying man and Ben is the answer. Behind him, Luther and Allison watch them, stunned silent. Allison’s hands are pressed to her mouth. She looks like she wants to cry.

And Vanya. Little Vanya, painted white. Her head is hung as her shoulders shake with the weight of the destruction she has so inevitably caused. (Ben would say he always knew she was destined for great things -- but he can’t, because he didn’t.) (Nobody ever said great things had to be good.)

The Hargreeves siblings are dead. Their bodies are strewn across what is left of their childhood home, smouldering and burning, and Ben is very aware of that fact.

righto anyway. so they have an emotional reunion but its also kind of bitter? id have to actually write this for it to make sense so lets skip it for now lol

five shows up

he cannot see them obviously bc theyre all ghosts

god if i did write this it would be such a monster of a fic and would take me like 2 years to finish i already know fhkjdsk

somehow ?? they manage to influence the world around them maybe? idk maybe now that klaus is dead hes sober

or maybe hes high for all eternity?

for the purposes of this au lets say he died sober or in the late stages of withdrawal, and bc ghosts cant feel pain in action hes sober

so EVENTUALLY they figure out how to corporealize bc klaus is like blam wham ghost powers

asdlfk that sounds so stupid im sorry

he would say that tho imho,,, it sounds like something hed say,,,

if i DID write this it would be alternating povs also,,,

ok so out of all of them klaus and ben have the most experience homeless

and while being stuck in an apocalypse is not at all the same thing as being homeless it does help to have some knowledge

five doesnt eat the twinkie!! good for him

dammit okay. theres 2 options we can take here. in the comics five couldnt get back bc he fucked up his math and spent 15 years doing the wrong thing, but if u apply that here, with 6 other ppl checking his work this could be avoided and they end up skipping the whole assassin shtick and just hopping straight back to 2019, ready to prevent the apocalypse

OR five still gets hired for the commission but the sibs are tagging along

i think bc five isnt completely alone in this au unfortunately dolores doesnt exist :((

for each other the 2 paths tho theres also options?? bc they (ghosts) can go back in time and inhabit their past selves bodies? OR they could just,,, cease to exist

IM JUST NOW REALIZING HOW MANY PATHS THIS COULD TAKE,, AAH FUCK

okay gonna split this into parts. this is gonna be so long brace yourselves.

1) they go back in time because math checking and the ghosts swap out for their past selves

after multiple years of being stuck in an apocalypse together i think they would learn to get along with each other. like at least a little bit

which would make it easier for them to prevent the apocalypse

bc theyd:

trust each other more

already know abt the apocalypse and not have to wait for five to grace them all with his knowledge

are working as a team from the very beginning

have open lines of communication

yeah uh. so there

vanya is also already aware of her powers so the whole harold goading her into turning against her family and snapping to wipe out all life on earth thing? yeah that doesnt happen

oh and harold wouldn’t know how to do that in the first place because klaus wouldn’t throw out reggie’s journal! this solves so many problems wtf

there’s still commission issues bc they (and by they i mean five) are on the commission’s radar

so there’s still dope fight scenes sdlkfd pinky promise

okay idk. they stop the apocalypse and everything is okay the end hfkjd

2) they fix the math but only five can go back and the ghosts cease to exist

this is just sad! it would be sad okay! im sad! lets move on

subset of the past one: ben CAN go back with five because he was already dead and time travel affects them differently or something idk

aaaaaa

five & ben dynamic duo would be dope as shit BUT five would not be able to see him... so they use klaus as a middleman fjsdsfd

is there 2 bens? is one ben deleted in favor of the time-traveling ben? i dont know! i dont know my brain is melting

either way shit is happening yall!! obviously klaus is clued in, directly or indirectly it doesnt matter but he is on board the ‘don’t let the entire world end in flames’ train

3) they join the commission and then when five goes back in time they all go back

this is fun because now five is a highly trained assassin who is also lowkey a complete marshmallow for his siblings and once again TEAMWORK WOO

basically the first path but now five has a gun fhsdjk

4) they join the commission but five has to leave them behind and they cease to exist

five with a gun but hes sad now

i didnt go into how much losing his siblings would suck in the prev path but like. it would suck so much. he’s already lost them once if you think about it when he time traveled the first time and yeah he found the adult ghost versions but,, its different

and now suddenly hes stuck with these strange adult versions of the people he knows and he KNOWS them but also he doesnt? at all? they dont have all the years of shared experiences together? and theyre all grown up from the first ‘set’ of siblings he had which for five was like 40+ years ago??

SCREAMS

i have losing my mind disease (self-diagnosed)

subset: five has to leave them behind but they still exist because the commission is out-of-time kind of? idk but they’re still floating around somewhere and come back to impact the plot later or something

yeah idk. literally just wrote them down bc i didnt want them to die^2 hfkjwehd

subset: they still exist but instead of being just Somewhere they’re specifically at the assassination of JFK onwards because thats where five left them and they either go on ghosting and make an appearance in s2 OR they cease because them-wise they havent died yet but that doesnt make sense because ghosts can time travel so nevermind

i dont have the brain energy left to explore this one aaaa

okay jesus christ i think that’s all

I DON’T KNOW. i don’t know. i might write some more of this because honestly it is a very fine flavor of angst + hurt/comfort <3

#didnt proofread this at all 💀 fhsdfks #tua #the umbrella academy #pls dont let this flop i spent like an hour on it hfjksd #aus #team zero #ben hargreeves #wip #I GUESS #misc #ghosting au

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percyinpanties · 3 years

Note

hey I'm the pipeyna anon and that's ok!!! can u do pipeyna with piper pining after hot jock Reyna which hopefully ends happy (smutty)

just a quick warm-up, i say, i won’t spend too much time on this. i really had to resist just going on and on and on with this. i miss writing this ship, damn.

anyway - this fits really well with an enemy to lovers prompt i have for jercy, so thats what im hinting at too here.

Read on Ao3

for context : i always write college aus from a UK uni perspective bc that’s all i know and i don’t care to adapt to how it might or might not work in the u.s. (sorry)

rating: teen+ (no smut in this one, but let me tell you, this TEMPTED me)

words: 2.2k

___

“An actual goddess” Piper says wistfully from where she’s leaning against the wall next to Percy, taking back the cigarette she’d just bummed of him. Her eyes are glued on the field, and more precisely on Reyna, smile on her face and water bottle in her hand as she jogs over to Jason standing at the side of the field. They greet each other with a hug, even as Reyna wrinkles her face, seemingly complaining about her own sweatiness.

It’s coincidence that the end of Reyna’s soccer practice collides conveniently with Piper’s and Percy’s late seminar on Mondays. It isn’t coincidence that Percy and her have taken to sharing a cigarette on the side of the building that looks out toward the field during their break, however.

Percy makes a non-committal noise and his eyes follow Piper’s gaze while she takes a drag of the cigarette and wrinkles her nose. She needs to quit smoking for good, she thinks, and flicks the ash to the ground. There was a brief moment in first year when Piper thought that Percy might be interested in Reyna, or she in him, but luckily, nothing ever came of that.

“You think they’re dating?” Percy asks, arms crossed over his chest now, making no move to take the cigarette back again. He’s not even pretending not to be staring, his eyes intense where they flit between Reyna and Jason. Piper on the other hand has the common decency to at least cast her eyes away every now and again before she’s caught looking for a little too long.

At the edge of the field, Reyna and Jason are standing close together now, chatting about god knows what, smiling and laughing. They’re certainly comfortable with each other, but Piper can’t say that’s much of an indication given how she’s around Percy.

“I hope not.” Piper mutters and Percy laughs at that, even though she knows he agrees. Percy wouldn’t admit it in a million years, but Piper would bet real money that he has a thing for Jason, too, as much as he claims to hate the guy. She’d have to be deaf and blind not to notice the tension between them.

It would make sense, though, in a way. Jason is captain of the men’s rugby team, Reyna of the women’s soccer team. Some of their practices collide and the two clubs do most of their weekly socials together, and Piper’s seen the two of them hanging out aside from that plenty as well. Reyna and her haven’t talked much about Jason, maybe because Piper hasn’t actually exchanged more than five words with him and never had much of an urge to change that, but she knows that Reyna and Jason have known each other before university.

Around Jason, Reyna seems to let her guard down, something Piper has only managed to achieve a handful of times since they met during their first year.

Jason laughs at something Reyna says, eyes bright and head thrown back and Piper can’t deny that he’s handsome, at the very least. He’s fairly decent, too, as far as guys go, and really, Piper knows she shouldn’t be hoping that there is nothing between Reyna and him if that is what would make Reyna happy.

“Invite her to the party.” Percy suggests then, drawing Piper’s attention back from the tangent her brain was so insistent to start on. When Piper turns her face to look at him, he’s already looking back at her, one eyebrow arched. “I was going to, anyway, but it’s different coming from you yourself.”

He’s not teasing her, it’s an honest suggestion, and technically not even a bad one. It’s Percy’s birthday this weekend, and if nothing else, it would be a good excuse to hang out again. Percy knows a ton of people, but he usually doesn’t invite too many to his party, so with any luck, it won’t be too crowded to actually spend some time with Reyna.

More than that, though, it’s another opportunity for Piper to finally get a move on. Percy, Piper knows, thinks that Piper’s pining had reached a point where it’s almost comical halfway through last year, but even so, Piper has yet to manage to actually act on her feelings.

A party is casual enough that she can always play it off as nothing serious when it ends up blowing up in her face. Piper might finally get over herself and just ask Reyna out already – although she’s tried that a few times before only to find herself tongue tied and staring at Reyna like she hung the moon in the sky. She’s been head over heels for Reyna since maybe three weeks after they met in first year, and now that they’re starting their third and final year, Piper needs to get a move on or it’ll simply be too late. Granted, she’s scared shitless at the prospect of being turned down, but at this point, even that would be better than pining forever and never finding out if she’d even stand a chance.

“Yeah… maybe.” Piper says finally, and manages a small smile towards Percy who bumps his shoulder against hers playfully. They should be heading back inside, so Piper sneaks a last glance toward Reyna and this time, finds her looking back.

They don’t share any classes this year, and Piper doesn’t usually run into Reyna on campus, so on Wednesday morning, she ends up texting Reyna on her way to class. She fumbles with her phone, almost tripping over her own two feet trying to type the words out as fast as possible, and ends up having to sidestep off the path to actually send the texts.

Hey you.

we’re having a party on Saturday, it’s Percy’s birthday.

Piper wants to add more, but instead, she bites her lip and stuffs her phone back into the pocket of her jeans. It’s almost an open invitation like this already anyway, and Piper wants to gauge Reyna’s first reaction before deciding exactly how she’s going about asking. Technically, it would be so easy to just as Reyna to go with her, specifically, to the party, but the intention might be lost over text and anyway, wouldn’t it be simpler to just invite her generally?

Piper frets throughout the entirety of her first lecture, and most of the second one, for nothing. Reyna doesn’t answer, even though the messenger app shows Piper that she’s read both texts already, and Piper tries not to be disappointed about it. She doesn’t know what Reyna’s schedule is like today, the girl might just be busy and planned on replying later. It makes sense, much more than Piper’s second thought that Reyna is not answering because Piper is annoying and Reyna doesn’t actually want to spend any time with her. She knows that thought is stupid, knowing that however does nothing to ease the anxious knot in Piper’s stomach.

Piper finds herself checking her phone more often than not. It would be funny if it wasn’t so ridiculous, and if the lecturer wasn’t so clearly catching on that Piper isn’t paying as much attention to the class as she is to her phone. She texts Percy as well, but she knows he’s in that seminar he shares with Jason, so chances are that she won’t be getting a reply on that end anytime soon either. In the end, she has to force herself to put her phone away and actually focus on the lecture up front, even though by that point, she is already lost as to what they’re even talking about in the first place. It’s no good, and Piper can’t deny being relieved when the lecturer eventually dismisses the class.

She doesn’t allow herself to check her messages until she’s across campus in the coffee shop, queuing for some much needed caffeine and fishing out her phone so she doesn’t have to make small talk with anyone while she waits in line. Reyna still hasn’t replied, but at least Percy has messaged her after his seminar.

I’m gonna strangle him, Piper. You’ll have to bust me out of prison because they are going to arrest me for goddamn murder.

All she’d asked was if his classes were as boring as hers today, and while she had expected Percy to go off about Jason in reply, this isn’t exactly what she’d thought to be reading today. She smiles at her phone, types out a quick reply and moves up in the queue.

That bad? What’s he done now?

The way Percy talks about Jason makes Piper think of a Cartoon Network villain, always plotting, provoking and scheming. The few times she’s spoken to Jason, the guy wasn’t half bad, and if Piper is honest, she doesn’t quite get the vendetta these two have with each other. She suspects though that it has something to do with how ‘infuriatingly attractive, like fucking superman or something’ Percy described Jason after their first class together.

It’s like he thinks I’m stupid or something. Got a dumb fucking project to do together and he honestly told me that he ‘needs to pass this class so iif I’m not planning to put in the work, we might as well ask for new partners right away’

Like, excuse me, bitch? My grades are better than yours, for one thing

And for another, it’s not like good-old Dodds is gonna let us switch anyway

Piper huffs audibly while she reads the texts. It’s clear Percy’s actually upset by this, and she figures it will only get worse if they actually have to do the work together in the coming weeks. Before she can shoot Percy a reply though, she’s next in line.

Piper orders her coffee, steps aside to wait once she’s paid, and rereads Percy’s texts before she types her reply to Percy.

Sounds like a dick move.

Piper’s almost inclined to defend Jason for a moment, since Percy mostly doesn’t pay much attention in class, especially in Mrs. Dodds seminars – so how is Jason meant to know how much effort Percy puts in outside of it? On the other hand, though, Piper knows how Percy is, and how personally he’s clearly taken Jason’s comment already, so trying to convince him otherwise would simply be fruitless.

Once Piper’s coffee is done, she heads back outside, finding an empty bench to enjoy the break before her next class. If nothing else, at least Percy’s ranting is distracting her from Reyna, and the party, and asking the other girl out – and in between the rapid texts Percy and her are sending back and forth Piper almost forgets about it entirely. Until she has to head back to her last class, that is, and sees that Reyna has, so far, still left her on read.

Piper hesitates for a moment, clicking on the text field without typing anything just yet. Is she going to come off as desperate if she texts again, or should she just clarify now before it gets too late and Reyna already makes different plans for the weekend?

Piper types out a few words, deletes them again and pockets her phone only to get it back out a few seconds later to try again. She shouldn’t be walking and texting, especially given that she should be going faster to actually make it to her lecture in time, but Piper knows that if she doesn’t send this text now, she’ll spend another lecture agonising over what to say.

So yeah, I wanted to invite you too ofc :)

Piper cringes at her wording, but figuring it won’t get much better, she sends the text anyway and finally tucks her phone back into her pocket to actually hurry to class.

By the time Reyna replies, it’s late and Piper is sitting on the beat-up couch in her shared flat’s living room, watching something trashy on TV without really paying much attention at all. Percy is clanking around in the kitchen, making something that smells good enough to remind Piper that she should probably be getting herself some food, too. She’s about to get up and rummage through her fridge compartment in search of something edible when her lock screen lights up with a message from Reyna, and that derails any thoughts of food immediately. Piper isn’t subtle in the way she practically lunges for her phone, but luckily, Percy can’t see and judge her from his position in the kitchen.

Sorry, long day, reads the first text, following a few seconds later by another one.

Promised Jason to hang out but I’d love to :(

Piper bites her lip, knowing before typing out the words that Percy won’t like what she’s doing in the slightest.

You could bring him? Percy won’t mind.

Except that Percy most certainly will mind, Piper thinks, and grimaces. If she hadn’t come off as desperate before, she most certainly does now – texting back within less than a minute after having been left on read all day, only to offer that Reyna can bring her friend (boyfriend?) along as well if that means she’ll be there.

There’ll be other opportunities, Piper tells herself, and scrubs a hand over her face. She needs to chill, and maybe she needs to grab a cigarette and step outside and calm down before she embarrasses herself even further.

Piper stares at the screen. How on earth is she meant to interpret this? At this rate, she won’t make it until Saturday, dying of one crisis or another before then.

if you’re sure? I’ll ask him.

haven’t seen you in a while, would be nice to hang out again ;)

I’m sure.

#will i continue this? maybe #i do kinda wanna write the party part and have it ending ~spicy~#pipeyna #piper mclean #reyna ramirez avila arellano #my stuff #my fic #prompts #teen+#pjo #Anonymous #jercy #in the bg

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tobiosmilktea · 4 years

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Hello! I really love your writing and I just saw your requests are open yay 👏🏻 So my idea is that the reader (female or neutral, as you prefer it) is a third year who takes art lessons as an extracurricular subject or something and the teacher ask their students to draw posters of the sport teams, and the reader got the volleyball team. The thing is the reader knows the third years but they're not really close, so they talk just a bit. (Part 1)

paint the clouds — tendou satori

4.7k words | genre/s: fluff | warning/s: possible ooc on everyone tbh | pairing: tendou x f!reader

↪︎ in which you painted a muse who always wanted you too

a/n: definitely not my best work and im super sorry for that, but i hope you still enjoy it 👉🏻👈🏻

a warm spring breeze blew strands of your hair in front of your face, laying against your rosy cheeks as you watched the horizon. the bright yellow sun teased the sky with hues of pink and orange, bound to mix into the darkness of the sunset. school had ended a few hours ago and now you were sitting in your art club waiting for your teacher to dismiss you. she was in a middle of a spiel explaining your next art project, but your brain struggled to follow.

your hand ached from drawing for hours, your wrist tender from constant pressure, and now you could’ve sworn you were going to get carpal tunnel sooner or later. it was worth it, anyway, you were doing what you liked doing as you honestly felt being an artist was your only talent. it was merely the only thing you focused on besides your academics. dating was certainly out of the question.

instead, you watched the birds fly past the open classroom window as your teacher explained the assignment something along the lines doing sports teams posters.

“i will be walking around the classroom with a box filled with names of sports clubs,” the teacher starts, pulling you out of your train of thought as your attention was finally set on her. “you will pick a random piece of paper from the box and that will be the sports team you will be making a club poster for.”

whispers erupted in the room as others verbalized which team they wished to get.

“i hope i get the volleyball team, they’re literally iconic.” you heard one girl say.

another voice exclaimed, “drawing the equestrian team sounds super fun too!”

the murmurs continued to the buzz even after the majority of the class had already picked out their sports team from the box. you were the last one to choose as you opted to sit in the back of the class.

“and last but not least,” said your teacher as she serpentine through the desks towards your sitting figure.

your hand dug into the small cardboard box only to feel one last piece of paper. you wanted to scoff slightly, but you stopped yourself the moment you grabbed the last slip of paper and read the messy handwriting. it took you a good second to even understand what it said as it was complete chicken scratch (no offense to the teacher).

“(y/n), what did you get?” your friend who sat in front of you turned with a smile on her face.

"i got the volleyball club,” you answered, eyes widening when your friend gasped.

“that’s literally the best one to get! i’m so jealous,” she sighed as if she just inhaled a rose scented breeze.

perhaps you were lucky to get such a sought after sports team as your main focus for the assignment, but you couldn’t help but feel an overbearing weight suddenly falling upon your shoulders. shiratorizawa’s volleyball team was the epitome of the academy. they were the ones who brought a significant name to the school with only the smartest of intellects but one with the best athletes. depending on how well you created this poster could potentially make or break your reputation. it was a visual representation of the team, anything less than iconic would dig a deeper hole for you.

it certainly doesn’t help the fact that you actually had to talk to the volleyball team now that you were in charge of their school poster. you internally groaned. you barely interacted with the third years, let alone being completely enamored over a familiar red-head.

your after school activities had ended in the midst of your running train of thoughts as you absentmindedly gathered your things and walked out of the classroom. you gripped the handle of your bag as you strolled through the near-empty hallways of the academy, your mind in a complete spiral as you had already tried visualizing what the end product might look like.

it was common knowledge to everyone who had known about you was well aware how amazing you were at art. no matter what medium you were given, you were known to be the girl who had magical hands that could create even the most beautiful things out of ash and smoke. you had this some innate, almost magical ability to have others stop in their tracks just to admire your works.

perhaps that you were too caught up in your own thoughts and the hypnotic tapping rhythm of your loafers clicking against the school floors that you hadn’t even notice your arrival towards the gym.

even the loud shouts of volleyball players from the ongoing practice wasn’t enough to pull your gaze away from the ground and towards the flying volleyball hurdling towards you.

“(y/l/n), watch out!” you heard a familiar voice shout out, immediately pulling you out of your own jungle-like psyche and into the real world.

everything had happened so quickly, all you knew was a blur fly past you to retrieve the ball before it knocked out of conscious. semi eita quickly turned to you, his figure greatly towering over you as he gave you a reassuring smile. “are you okay, (y/l/n)?”

you gulped, nodding almost too quickly. “yeah, i’m okay.”

“good,” he mutters as his brows slightly furrow in confusion. there was a thin blanket of awkwardness hovering above both of your heads as you both stood there in silence for a good five seconds—five seconds too long that is. “so what brings you here?” he finally breaks it, scratching the back of his head in the mean time.

right, you had almost forgotten why you were here in the first place.

“it’s about the art club, we’re doing sports team posters and i was wondering if i could talk to the third years for ideas.” you asked gently.

semi’s eyes immediately widened, the already prevalent smile on his face only increased at the statement. “that’s cool! come with me, i’ll show you to them.” he quickly motioned you to come inside the gym, feeling the brisk air difference of the air conditioned gymnasium to the warm spring breeze outside.

a shiver flowed down your back. not from the sudden influx of cold air surrounding your body, but the fact that towering volleyball players and their ever-so-intimidating nature causing nervous habits to take over you. soekawa jin, the vice captain of the team quickly flickered a look towards you before tapping ushijima’s arm for his attention. turning to see what his teammate wanted, soekawa swiftly pointed at you and semi approaching.

“it’s a surprise seeing you here, (y/l/n).” ushijima greets you in his deep, guttural voice. it caused you to gulp nervously, struggling to even put on the tiniest of smiles as you meekly muttered a ‘hi’ to the rest of the third years. however, it seemed as if the one you were most familiar with was not in sight. it did seem a tad bit quiet in the gym now that the practice game was on a time out.

“um,” one of the wing spikers approached you, ohira reon was it? “sorry for almost hitting you, by the way.”

you swiftly shook your head, “no, it’s okay. i was the one who wasn’t playing attention, so that’s on me.”

“so, you’re here for the poster?” ushijima cut into it like a sharp knife, bold and straight to the point.

“yeah, um, i just stopped by to ask if you guys had anything ideal you want to see on your club poster.” your voice was softer than you hoped it would be when you spoke.

eyebrows furrowing, ushijima glances among his teammates as provocation for an option saturated his hums of curiosity.

semi then clears his throat, “we’re not really sure if we have any input for you, (y/n). besides, i think your poster will be amazing nevertheless.”

“that’s still a lot of pressure,” you mutter, “considering i would be mauled to death if this poster isn’t amazing.” sarcasm drenched your words like saccharine, hoping that the tall athletes would at least get your banter and share a laugh with you.

but they didn’t. instead, they stared with wide eyes at you in a mere worrying glance. perhaps the joke didn’t exactly translate well.

god, this is so awkward.

however, it wasn’t like you were exactly lying. as the face of shiratorizawa academy, you were aware that they needed to look good and if it were any less than that, you might never see the light of day ever again. not to mention you always liked adding twists to your artwork, which was technically the only reason why you were so infamously known to have such amazing works. but in the past half hour, you’ve came to the conclusion that it possibly isn’t the best option in this case.

“i’m kidding, by the way,” you let out a light huff.

“well, if it helps you in any way, you could always focus on ushijima as he is our ace.” soekawa cuts in, patting the captain’s back the moment he braided his arms over each other.

any form of leftover conversation (or lack thereof) was sliced—cut off from the sudden opening of the gymnasium doors and the (quite obnoxiously) loud middle blocker. tendou satori entered the giant gym with a bright beaming face of glimmering lights and cherries. tendou was perhaps one of the first people to talk to you the moment you entered this academy, eyes glazed in a honey-like optimism with every bright ‘hello.’ you always tended to be the quiet and secluded one in your classes with him despite being known to be infamously sardonic, you seemed to be the only one to which his overly comic ways of banter didn’t annoy you like it did with others. he, himself, was a sunray, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to expose that thought as your eyes fall onto the approaching boy.

out of all the third year volleyball players, you and tendou had talked the most, yet considering you two as more than just mere acquaintances was a bit of a reach.

“yo!” the redhead’s loud voice thundered throughout the gym and you could already feel it echo within your heart.

“you’re back,” mused ohira with his hands on his hips. “are you okay?”

“yeah,” tendou says, fixing the loosened athlete’s tape over his fingers. “but the school nurse was already gone by the time i got there, so i had to fix myself up—oh hey, (y/n)!” he had cut himself off the moment his eyes fell upon yours.

your breath had hitched the moment he greeted you. it was as if your heart had immediately jumped into your throat and prevented you from even muttering a word as you can already feel your palms getting clammy. “hey,” you mutter almost in a whisper.

“so what are you doing here?” questioned tendou as his eyes suddenly widen the moment the words came out of his mouth, “uh-that sounded really rude, um—i actually meant that in the nicest way possible, by the way.”

you couldn’t help but chuckle at his sudden burst of scattered thoughts, noticing a faint flush of pink upon his cheeks.

“she’s here for the club poster,” ushijima answers in your place as you seemed to not answer even after a beat had passed.

“oh nice! i’m sure it’ll look really cool!” the middle blocker grinned at you to which a sudden wave of monarch butterflies attacked your gut. you could even feel the heat coursing through your cheeks and all the way to the tips of your ears until they were as red as tendou’s hair.

“hopefully,” you modestly commented, eyes then falling upon tendou’s wrapped wrist and couldn’t help but be filled with curiosity. “what happened to you?”

the middle blocker shook his head dismissively. “i tried blocking one of ushijima’s spikes again, but as you know, it is a bit impossible and i ended up hurting myself. it’s no biggie, though.” he shrugs.

“t-that’s amazing.” you breathed out before you could catch yourself. and you swore, you saw the light pink hues of blush upon tendou’s face had darkened.

how cool, you thought with the stars in your eyes. the thought was a bit controversial, but you couldn’t but find tendou satori cooler than ushijima at that very moment. the fact that he knew very well how difficult and painful it was to block his spikes, tendou still attempted it to the point at the cusp of being injured. you began fiddling with your fingers for far too long as you’ve come to realize how long you were standing there for no more reason. you mentally face palmed as you cleared your throat, “anyway, if you guys do have any preferred ideas let me know before friday.”

before the boys could even say a proper goodbye, your legs were already carrying you towards the exits of the gymnasium as if it was running on autopilot. she did hear their shouts of good lucks from across the room as your long strides pushed you to quickly leave.

why was i so awkward for?

in retrospect, perhaps you were more nervous than you thought. it had been an entire week since you had received the assignment to create a club poster for the volleyball team and there hadn’t been a night filled with peaceful sleep. instead, they were brimming with 2am moments of inspired antics. working on the large poster filled you with nothing but utter confidence even after it was finished, but now that you were actually at school with the rolled up poster of the incredible volleyball team, you couldn’t help but feel waves of reluctance and insecurity.

it was always like this with you. where everything was fine and your confidence within your works were expected, but the moment you did have to present such things, you couldn’t help but think of what you should’ve done differently. you assumed that you could’ve improved your mixed media skills by a little bit as there wasn’t much you could’ve done either way in that murky little head of yours that obviously lacked sleep.

the hallways of shiratorizawa were still pretty empty as it was still quite early in the morning. most of the students were outside anyway, so you quickly took this chance to unroll the large poster. taking some push-pins from the side pocket of your school bag, you hung the poster up in it’s place.

you breathed out one last sigh of ichor before picking up your bag and walking away from the masterpiece.

throughout the entire day, you had come across dozens of stares of others as you walked through the hallways, bringing your endless sea of nerves to heighten until you were dragged upon its tides. there were whispers everywhere. they were probably talking about your poster for the volleyball club and immediately you felt drowned in sorrow.

within a snap, had already thought of the worse possible outcomes that others were talking about how terrible of a job you did. perhaps that leap of faith, that tiny step out of the box when creating your poster was too much of a risk that you ended up falling to your own demise.

“(y/n)!” a voice called from behind you.

turning over your shoulder, you saw a familiar redhead making his way towards you in a bright amble. you immediately felt your heart drop as you whip your head back around and started to walk away.

shit, shit shit. you thought, tendou was definitely not the first person you wanted to talk to you when the possibilities of what he had to say to you was tangling in your psyche. as if they were tangled vines yearning to be untangled for his closure and yet, you refused.

your shoes clicked rapidly against the floors of the school when suddenly your wrist was pulled back, turning towards his familiar tall figure.

your direct gaze was on his chest, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look up upon his eyes. you couldn’t, at least. as if you were, your face would resemble something similar to a tomato.

“listen, tendou.” you muttered, still not attempting to meet his gaze. “i’m kind of late for class, but if you want talk later then we can—”

“no, i want to talk now,” he stated seriously, almost too seriously as it caused you to look up to him in surprise.

your mouth gaped to say something, yet nothing seemed to come out.

“i just wanted to say thanks for the poster.” tendou says as his breath almost hitched from the mere sight of you. he could recall the rushing feeling of blood coursing towards his cheeks and ears the moment he stepped upon school grounds and saw your poster. there his painted figure was, stood more prominently than the rest of his team. it was as if he needed the taste of sweet-tongued cough syrup just to ease his aching cheeks from smiling so hard.

the feeling was amazing. that from the smallest little action of you focusing on him rather than what he thought was going to be ushijima (like always) it was you who chose him. the loud middle blocker over the incredible ace of shiratorizawa. he knew validation wasn’t everything, and yet, his immense feeling of being at the top of the world certainly didn't help the fact that he had always been in love with you. you and tendou had the same class each and every year, that each first day of school, he would always sit giddily at his desk just so he could watch your angelic figure walk in.

in spite of it all, from his loud and upfront nature, he could never bring himself to even talk to you everyday besides an occasional ‘good morning’ whenever you would walk in. perhaps seeing this poster of himself was a little push into the deep end—to finally grow the guts to spill his unspoken epiphanies of built up feelings for once.

“usually, it’s ushijima who’s the face of the shiratorizawa team, but it’s nice seeing a change.” continued the middle blocker on the cusp of rambling, “i really didn’t expect you to focus it on me though, so that was a surprise... which by the way,” he hesitates as if he was do embarrassed to even ask. “why did you choose me?”

you pursed your lips the moment your breath was snatched from your lungs. “um,” you sighed, your mind speedily trying to come up with a plausible answer—something other than perhaps inevitably revealing you feelings for him, “i just think you’re really cool.” was all you could come up with and quite honestly, you wanted to face palm yourself for how stupid it probably sounded.

but to tendou, it was an absolute godsend. his heart thumped rapidly against his rib cage as his cheeks reddened into crimson wine. he didn’t know what else to say afterwards as that was his final push. it was then the idea popped inside his mind. a cheeky smile melted upon his lips as he patted your head gently.

“you’re an amazing artist, (y/n).” he complimented, amused by the fact he was the one who caused your reddening face before turning his heel and waving, “see you tomorrow!”

“u-uh, see you?” you stammered over his sudden departure, briefly waving before hold your hand to your chest. you felt as if your heart was to inevitably combust at the sudden overflow of ardor and vehemence of tendou satori’s actions.

a sigh left your peachy lips, why am i feeling like this?

tendou could’ve sworn he had enough time to make it back to practice before stirring up any suspicions from his team, but the unfortunate tides have come across and drenched him in ill-fate—all gross and sticky.

ever since seeing your poster of him the day before, the thought of you had been on the middle blocker’s mind enough that even ushijima noticed his change in demeanor.

“what’s up with him?” the captain asked semi as they watched the redhead stumble into the gym.

“i think it’s about (y/l/n),” he answers in a hushed voice in case the disorganized tendou somehow heard. “he’s been in love with her since first year and seeing the poster of him is finally forcing him to make a move.”

ushijima refrained from chuckling, “so all it took was a poster with him as the center instead of me?”

“yeah, pretty much.” says semi.

tendou had been non-stop running back and forth between his classroom, the gym, and the art room after that burst of serendipitous ideas clouded his brain until it was all he could focus on. he had already missed the beginning of practice just so he could do something special for you for when he does muster up the courage to confess.

it was something along the lines of returning the favor of what you did to him, but he was well aware of the fact that he was a volleyball player for a reason and not an artist. honestly, most of the work was done with the help of you friend from the art club to which she basically did the drawing and tendou just colored it in. however he liked to think that it was the thought that counted, either way.

“sorry i’m late,” the missing middle blocker finally appeared. he was trying to catch his breathe as he rested his arms upon his bent knees. perhaps he quite disliked how gigantic the shiratorizawa campus was when it came to this. “i had to take care of something.”

ushijima gave semi an amused look before hardening his gaze on tendou, he tried not to laugh as he cleared his throat to hide that fact. “what’s more important than volleyball practice?” perhaps in the ace’s rarity, he was in the mood to tease the guy. “a girl?”

and immediately, the look on tendou’s face—of complete and utter fear that his captain would potentially punish him with extra conditioning was going to be the death of him—was instead replaced with chuckles him ushijima and semi.

“i’ll leave you off the hook as this was your first time missing a practice, not to mention you missed it for a girl you’ve liked for three years now.” said ushijima surprisingly out of character, than even he found himself shocked by saying it. “but if you miss another practice for (y/l/n), you’ll have extra conditioning everyday before and after school.”

tendou nods rapidly, “yessir!”

the rest of the day was filled with the sound of firm volleyballs being hit and slapped across the gym before falling to the floors with a coupled thud.

and despite trying his very hardest to focus his mind upon the practice game, he couldn’t help but let his thoughts wander to you in your bright enormity. his mind was on you, and yet he was playing the game harder than ever with each and every block he endured. perhaps it was the nerves, the aching adrenaline that flowed through his veins at the mere thought of confessing to you by the time practice ended fueled his fire.

even if this was just a practice game against his own teammates, he was going to win for you and leave the gym with a confident aura enough to give him the guts to walk up to you.

the thing is, the game had already ended before he knew it. his side of the court had won and reached 25 points before he could even blink with the fact that he was in a ready stance even after the whistle had been blown.

“tendou,” ushijima called out to the redhead. “good luck.”

with that, the middle blocker’s head had cleared as he gave a smile to the setter. he walked over his bag, snatching it up and over his shoulder as he grabbed the rolled up poster within his clammy hands.

god, i’m was nervous. he thought to himself as he walked out of that gym.

the loud, boisterous guffaws from the rest of his teammates faded and echoed into oblivion as he walked the opposite way from everyone else. as the rest were going home, it was him who was on his was to your classroom. he had heard from your friend that you had cleaning duties today after school and it was the perfect time to just swallow his pride and just say.

but his actions were definitely faster than his thoughts as he had impulsively slammed the classroom door open without thinking.

you had thrown a shocked glance at the redhead at the sudden harsh action as he had thrown an embarrassed smile at you. chuckling at that adorable look on his face, you quickly set you mop aside. “tendou? what are you doing here? is your practice over already?”

the redhead nods, “yeah, just a couple minutes ago—um, i-uh just wanted to uh—”

he sighed frustratingly. this was the first time that the tendou satori—the third year infamously known for his innate way of speaking to others in such bright confidence for once, had his tongue tied. the reason why was obvious. it was because of you and your beaming eyes and that godforsaken smile of yours that made him go utterly crazy.

he was still trying to find the right words to say when your gaze fell upon the rolled up poster within his shaking hands. “what’s this?” you asked innocently as your hand reached for the poster and took it out of his hands without much force.

“w-wait! that’s—!”

you unrolled the poster, honey glazed your irises as your mouth gaped slightly.

it was you. a painting of you sitting under one of the large trees on one of the campus’s courtyards, sketching who knows what along with tendou’s large handwriting sprayed at the top:

WILL YOU GO OUT WITH ME, (Y/N)?

you breath was snatched out of your throat as you flickered your widened eyes up to him. red and pink hues adored tendou’s cheeks and ears, scratching the back of his head as his chestnut eyes refused to meet yours. if he were to look at you then and there, he would immediately melt into a puddle of blossoming cherries.

“did you make this for me?” you asked gently, still absolutely moonstruck at the poster. it was a simple painting that was definitely not drawn entirely by tendou as you could tell your friend had something to do with it, but you couldn’t help but be absolutely astonished that he even went out his way for this. “i love it,” you whispered, capturing tendou’s attention.

“y-you do?” the redhead huffs in disbelief.

tendou was closer to you, more than you were comfortable with, but you didn’t fight it off. you didn’t bother giving a little space between you two. “i was serious when i always thought you were cool. you were the only one out of that group of popular kids to talk to me and was actually nice about it.” you suddenly professed. your consciousness mentally slapped you over and over again from the embarrassment of saying such a thing. and yet, the signal in her mind didn’t releasse itself until the moment you felt your eyes fall upon tendou’s chamomile lips. and to your peachy ones, did tendou even dare to think of the impossible, of the serenity that filled them under your blushing cheeks,

“i really like you, (y/n)... and i have for a while now.” he muttered.

you bit your lip at the sudden downpour of feelings that you didn’t even notice yourself clutching and perhaps accidentally crumpling the poster he made. “me too,” you said in a mere whisper, your gaze flickering back down to the floor. “and to answer your question... yes, i will go out with you, tendou.”

the redhead felt his breath hitch in his throat, pausing with his eyes almost wide and doe-like when he looked at you underneath the last rays of the setting sun. he let’s out a bright chuckle, “cool.” he attempted to act casually only to break the moment he found your embrace.

you gently laughed as it muffled within his chest, “cool.” you repeated.

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu oneshots #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader #tendou satori #tendou x reader #tendou fluff #tendou imagine #tendou oneshot

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