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chudleycanonficfest · 3 years

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Heart-Shaped Wreckage

Day 16, Story #2 is by @adenei

Title: Heart-Shaped Wreckage

Author: adenei

Pairing: Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger

Prompt: Songfic

Rating: T

TW: implied violence and near-death experience (but nothing explicit)

A/N: This is the part two follow-up to Rewrite the Stars.

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Hermione’s hand trembles as she reaches over to her nightstand and turns on the light. She can’t sleep, which is a common occurrence as of late. Where she once relished in the quiet of her flat, now the serenity is too much to bear. She is running out of changes to make that will erase the worst, most painful decision of her life. The ultra-soft linens she purchased for her bed are anything but comforting and luxurious. They feel scratchy and cold, and the fresh and clean look of the white comforter with its floral patterns gives off more of a sterile vibe than the new slate she’d been hoping for. Instead, it serves as another stark reminder that all the vibrancy and color had evaporated from her life when she pushed Ron away.

It’s been 62 days since the disaster of the Auror gala, and 50 since Hermione’s received any form of contact from him. Ron has honored her wishes to break things off no matter how much it pained them both to do so. Part of her still wishes he’d floo into her fireplace or knock on her door, begging her to give them another chance. But she knows deep down none of that will ever happen. He is a man of respect, and he will always abide by her requests, even if she no longer wants to keep them herself.

It’s better this way. She reminds herself of the constant scrutiny they’d face if they stayed together, and the hurt and discomfort even at the mere thought indicate that her feelings haven’t changed. There is no way she could put him through that sort of subjection just so she can be selfish and happy. Their lives are too different, and they live in a world where the acceptance of all kinds of love doesn't exist.

So, in the grueling months since they ended things for a second time, Hermione has worked to make changes, some drastic, some minute, in an effort to force herself to move on. She is too proud to let anyone in her life know the pain that she feels with every conscious breath that she takes. Hermione has thrown herself into her work, staying at school late to mark papers, redecorate the classroom, or develop new lesson plans to benefit the students and create more hands-on experiences.

And once she realized that her preparation was complete through the end of next term, Hermione turned to her flat. Weekends have been spent on home projects. Painting the walls, updating the decor, and cleaning every square inch of her flat, all to help her forget.

But the problem is, her heart doesn’t want to forget. Every book she sits down to read reminds her of time spent with Ron. Her renewed efforts in the kitchen never fail to bring a smile or a chuckle to her lips as her mind traitorously wonders what Ron would think if he were here to observe the barely edible mess she’s created. Yet, Hermione is not naive enough to believe that it will change anything. She knows it won’t.

As she sits up in the enormous queen-sized bed, she reaches for the parchment that lays in tri-folds on the nightstand. The paper is worn, with visible wrinkles preventing it from lying flat and tear stains causing the corners to curl as she unfolds the delicate sheet. Hermione’s not sure why she’s opening the letter to read. She knows it won’t bring her the comfort she craves or the answers she desires.

The messy scrawl gives way to Ron’s only correspondence with her since the last time they spoke, and she latches onto it as if it’s the only life preserver on a capsizing vessel. It’s the only thing she has left. The only reminder of the life she could have had.

I’m not scared to tell the truth.

I went to hell and back and I went with you

Remind me what we were before,

When you said you are mine, and I am yours

Hermione,

There’s a lot I want to say and I’m not sure if I can fit it all in this letter, but I’m going to try. I never meant for any of this to happen, but I did mean everything I said that night. I’m not afraid to tell you how I feel. What we have, er, had, I guess, is special. I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my life, and I don’t think I ever will. And it’s not just about the case and finding comfort in each other.

When we broke things off after graduation, I felt like a part of me was missing. The Auror academy kept me busy, and sure, my life moved on, but I wasn’t really happy. Not as happy as I was when we were together. And then fate brought us back together and we decided to make another go of it, that’s when I realized that you were what was missing. You make my life so much brighter, so meaningful, and I’m sorry if I sound like a sap, but I need you to know how I feel.

I would give up everything for you. Social status means nothing to me. If the Aurors sack me because of my personal relations, then so be it. I’ll work with George, or find something else. If my family can’t be supportive, then it will be their loss. I’m not willing to live in a world that doesn’t have you in it, and I refuse to give in to the Ministry’s stance on bloody purity.

I know this is all probably ‘too little, too late’ or whatever that Muggle saying is that you like to use, and I promise you I’m going to respect your wishes. But I had to tell you. I had to let you know because...well...there’s this mission that’s come up. It’s going to be bloody dangerous and Robards asked for volunteers because he knows how risky it’s going to be. Anyone who goes isn’t guaranteed to come back and, well, I won’t go into the details, but I volunteered to go.

I know, I know, I can hear you in the back of my head telling me that it’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done and not to throw my life away because we’re not together, but Hermione, it’s been twelve days and I can’t go on day to day like this. I can’t. Working is the only thing that eases the pain and gets my mind off of everything. I’ll be as safe as I can be, I promise.

I hope you find the happiness you deserve. You’re brilliant, always remember that. Just know that I love you, and it’s because I love you that I’m going to try to let go.

Ron

Tears threaten in Hermione’s eyes once again. It’s no different than every other time she reads the letter. Nothing has changed; Ron’s gone, still on his mission six weeks later and no end in sight. Hermione is sure this is the reason she’s not sleeping. With every passing day and no news of Ron’s whereabouts, she turns to the only object that can provide her with any source of comfort: the letter.

After three weeks of constant worrying and bags under her eyes so prevalent that even her eight-year-old students noticed, Hermione caved and wrote to Harry. Even though they can’t be together, she knows deep down that she can still care about his well-being.

Harry’s response had been timely and brief. He didn’t have details of the mission but reassured Hermione that no news is good news. Hermione thanked him and asked for updates if it wasn’t too much trouble. The two had been friendly in school, growing closer as her relationship with Ron blossomed as well. She didn’t expect his alliance to stray from his best friend but still appreciated his willingness to be cordial with her after everything she’d put Ron through.

“Please come home to me,” she whispers into the darkness.

Her heart aches more as her eyes hover over the parchment once more, searching for the three words that she knows she’ll never read too many times: I love you.

For some reason, this three a.m. readthrough hits differently. She carefully folds the parchment, places it back on the nightstand and turns off the light. There are still a few more hours left to find sleep.

Hermione tosses and turns as she attempts to focus on sleep and quieting her thoughts. At some point, a flash illuminates the night sky, and that’s when the pieces begin forming more vividly in her mind. The clap of thunder follows seconds later, and with it, a realization is born. As the rain begins its slow cadence of pitter-patters on the window, the brevity of Hermione’s decision hits her with the force of the storm strengthening outside.

I don’t know much, but I know myself

And I don’t want to love anybody else

So let’s break the spell and lift the curse

Remember when we fell for each other head first

There is only one question that forms in her mind. One question that surpasses any of the other thoughts she’s managed to cope with over the last two months.

What have I done?

None of her previous attempts to move past this matter anymore, even though it’s too late, and there’s nothing she can do.

Three days later, Hermione is finishing up her night-time routine when there’s a knock on her door. She looks at the antique clock on the wall that reads 10:45. Her heart plummets to her stomach. No one calls this late at night with good news. She stands frozen in place, amazed that the glass of water in her hand hasn’t spilled to the floor as a result of her shock.

Another knock, and Hermione manages to lift her feet from the floor. She reaches over and sets the glass on the counter before pulling her dressing gown tight around her waist. The carpet feels thick and heavy, as if her feet are wading through mud and sludge as she makes the torturous trek to the door. Five steps feel like five thousand. She’s sure all of this has happened in a matter of seconds, but it feels like minutes. Maybe the caller will be gone by the time her eye reaches the peephole.

Her hope is instantly quashed when she peers through the tiny circle to see an older gentleman that she doesn’t quite recognize at first. He’s wearing an overcoat and tan bowler hat, and is looking down at a torn piece of parchment. A pair of cerulean blue eyes drift back up to the number on her flat’s door, and that’s when the familiarity hits Hermione like a muggle slamming into the brick wall that separates platforms nine and ten at King’s Cross Station.

She can feel the blood drain from her face as dizziness overcomes her. Falling forward, she clasps onto the doorknob to steady herself. The noise catches the gentleman’s attention.

“Er, Ms. Granger. Are you home? It’s very important that I speak to you. Please, I mean no harm if you’ll open up.”

Hermione struggles to find her voice to respond. Her hands are shaking so violently that she can barely latch on to the deadbolt that has been fastened for the evening.

“Oh, er, please forgive me. We haven’t formally met, but it’s Mr. Weasley out here. Ron’s father.”

Hearing Ron’s name gives Hermione the strength that she needs to click the deadbolt to the left as she manages to turn the door handle with her other hand. Pulling the door open, she slowly looks up at the elder Weasley.

“Is—is everything okay?” Her voice is raw and weak, and she’s sure the shock is the only thing preventing the tears from pooling in her eyes.

“Er, no, it’s not. May I come in?” His eyes dart around, as if he doesn’t want to discuss the matter out in the open.

Hermione opens the door wider to let him in and manages to shut it when he’s through the entryway. Her free hand fiddles with her wand that’s still inside her pocket—just in case—though she fears no imminent threat from Ron’s father.

"Ms. Granger, I’m sorry for calling so late. I wouldn’t be here at all, actually, if it wasn’t for Harry mentioning—ah, well, that’s no matter...”

Mr. Weasley is rambling, and Hermione has trouble processing his words. Her breath catches at the mention of Harry’s name, which draws Mr. Weasley’s attention to her, helping him get to the point of his late-night visit.

“Ron’s been gravely injured. He’s at St. Mungo’s now. They brought him in an hour or so ago. Molly and I met Harry and Ginny there as soon as we heard. He’s stable for now, but the Healers are unsure if it will hold.”

Hermione grasps the back of the couch to keep from collapsing to the ground. A sob bursts from her throat as the tears that threatened moments ago now spill freely down her cheeks.

“Wh-what happened?”

The words are spoken with great effort.

“We don’t have many details. The Aurors are still trying to clean up loose ends on the mission, but it sounds like the operation was successful thanks to Ron’s efforts. One of the target’s accomplices hit Ron with an unknown spell before he was caught.”

Even through Hermione’s own devastation, she can hear the tremor in Ron’s father’s voice. He’s scared, though he’s hiding it well as he continues to explain what he knows. There’s a sheen in his eyes as the moisture appears, emotions raw as he finishes bringing Hermione up to speed.

“Everyone was apprehended, and Ron appears to be the only one who got hurt. We should know more in the coming hours.”

Hermione can only offer a blank stare as she processes the information. His letter said it would be a dangerous mission. He didn’t sound as if he was hopeful that he’d come back alive. Or maybe he was hoping—no, don’t think like that. It was her fault that he’d gone in the first place. By some miracle, he was still hanging on, and the haziness of Hermione’s previous decisions about their relationship begins to give way. The fact that his father is there in her flat informing her has to mean something.

“Why are you here?”

It comes out harsher than Hermione intends, but after their less than amicable meeting at the gala, Hermione can’t be bothered with pleasantries. Even if his wife’s behavior was ruder than his own.

The older man pulls out a handkerchief and wipes beads of sweat off his brow as he sighs deeply.

“Ms. Granger—”

“Hermione.”

“Right, yes, Hermione. I am aware that we did not get off on the right foot. I’m sorry I never introduced myself on the night of the gala. We weren’t expecting Ron to have a date. I’ll admit that Molly and I were ignorant in the way we treated you that night, and for that, I am sorry. Nothing can take back our words, nor can it change the way others view you based on your blood status, but please know how wrong we were.

“Ron was devastated after you broke things off after the gala, and I suppose that was largely due to our behavior. It’s clear to us how much he loves you, and we don’t want to stand in the way of that. So, when Harry mentioned you had asked for news and wanted to come tell you, I insisted that I should be the one to see you. Please don’t let our ignorance stand in the way of your happiness.”

Hermione stands there, listening to Arthur’s apology. While she appreciates the olive branch, part of her can’t help but feel that it’s too little, too late, and a new wave of tears flood her eyes as she sees those exact words in Ron’s letter. She offers a curt nod to let him know she appreciates the gesture, even as her voice can’t find the words.

“I won’t keep you. I should be getting back, but Ron is in room 408. You are on the approved list as a family member if you decide you want to see him, and Molly’s agreed to let you stay with him if you’d like.”

Arthur gives a weak nod as he dabs his forehead once more before making his way to the door. It takes Hermione a moment to realize what’s happening, and as soon as everything processes, she’s pushing herself off the back of the sofa and calling out to Arthur.

Look at this heart shaped wreckage

What have we done?

We’ve got scars from battles nobody won

We can start over, better

Both of us know if we just let the broken pieces

Let the broken pieces go

“I’m coming! Please, er, if you don’t mind waiting. I just need to get changed—”

“Of course.”

Arthur offers a paternal smile as Hermione rushes into her bedroom and throws on the first thing she can find. She almost forgets to grab her bag as she throws on her coat and locks the door behind her.

Moments later, they’re entering St. Mungo’s, and Mr. Weasley leads the way through the main hall to the lifts. It’s only as the gate shuts that nerves begin to bubble up in her stomach. She’s been running on the adrenaline of the news, and now she can’t help but wonder how the rest of Ron’s family will react when they see her. Or, what’s worse, how Ron will react if and when he wakes up.

When. It has to be when.

As if sensing her trepidation, Mr. Weasley places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. The lift opens, and the first person she sees is Harry in the waiting room. Her feet gravitate toward him of their own accord, and when Harry sees her, he meets her halfway and wraps her in a tight hug.

“He’s going to be okay. He has to,” Harry whispers in her ear.

Hermione nods, forcing her brain to believe his words. When they let go, Ginny hugs Hermione next, which helps her feel more relaxed.

Maybe this isn’t so bad after all.

After one final squeeze, Ginny lets go so Hermione can follow Arthur down the hall to Ron’s room. He opens the door, and Hermione enters the sterile, white room. The most color she sees is his shock of red hair against the fluffy white pillow that’s cradling his head. Her heart begins beating faster as she spots his mum sitting vigil at his side.

Mrs. Weasley looks up to see the two standing there. A hard, stony look immediately sets on her face in defense before it softens slightly. She stands and walks over to Hermione. She knows that she’ll have a harder time winning over the Weasley matriarch based on this interaction, but if Ron wakes up—and will take her back—she’s willing to do anything to make it work.

“Let’s give her some privacy, Molly. The healers will call us in if he wakes up,” Arthur coaxes his wife out of the room as he gives Hermione one last reassuring smile.

When the door closes behind them, Hermione walks up to the chair Molly was perched at and takes a seat. She moves the chair closer to the bed as she observes Ron in his sleeping state. A tear slips down her face as her hand reaches out to take his. It isn’t cold, but it’s also not as warm as she’s used to.

“Please wake up. You have to wake up,” she pleads, choking back a fresh wave of tears.

I can’t find you in the dark

Will we get back to who we are?

And I can’t fix this on my own

Our love is still the best thing I’ve ever known

She’s not sure how long she sits there, watching his chest slowly rise and fall as he breathes. No matter how hard she tries, Hermione can’t look away, for fear that his breathing might stop if she does. She’s so focused on his chest, that she doesn’t see his eyes flutter open.

“Er-my-nee.”

His voice is breathy, with more rasp than she’s used to, but she’d have given all the gold in her Gringotts vault to hear her name on his lips again if she had to. He lifts the hand that she’s holding, and Hermione leans in closer to press her face into it.

“You came,” he whispers.

Unable to contain herself any longer, she lifts off the seat and leans over him, capturing his lips with hers. They’re cracked and dry, no doubt from being undercover in who knows what kind of conditions, but none of that matters. Ron’s alive, and he’s kissing her back.

Look at this heart shaped wreckage

What have we done?

We’ve got scars from battles nobody won

We can start over, better

Both of us know if we just let the broken pieces

Let the broken pieces go

“I’m so sorry.” The apology seems frail as she mutters the words against his lips.

His other hand reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear and wipe the tears from her face. “It’s okay.”

“Don’t ever do something that stupid again.”

“Only if you give me a reason not to.”

Let the broken pieces go

Just hold on to each other tonight

“I will, I promise.”

She pulls away to look into his tired, bright blue eyes that carry the hope she feels in her chest.

“Does that mean…?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t know what life is going to throw at me, Ron, but I only want to take it if you’re by my side.”

“It’s about time you came to your senses.”

The hand that’s still cupping her cheek adjusts to pull her back to him as he does his best to crash his lips into hers for a searing, though still tender, kiss. His breath is hot as he groans against her mouth, solidifying their reunification. There’s an unspoken agreement to let the broken pieces of the past go.

Tonight, they’ll start over, rewriting the stars to match their love story the way it’s meant to be.

#chudleycanonficfest2021 #HP fest #hp canon pairings #canon fest romantic #submission #tw: implied death #tw: implied violence #romione #ron weasley x hermione granger #hermione granger x ron weasley

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

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He Could Scream: Kauri

CW: Electric shock treatment, lab whump dehumanization, pet whump, referenced past dubcon/noncon, referenced drugging, abusive relationship (from abused person’s POV)

Immediately follows The Surgery

Tagging: @maybeawhumpblog, @pepperonyscience, @haro-whumps, @burtlederp, @18-toe-beans, @finder-of-rings, @whump-chains, @giggly-evil-puppy, @whimpers-and-whumpers @whump-it, @lumpofwhump, @pumpkinthefangirl

“Okay, little man,” Tyler says, a bright, pleased smile on his face. He isn’t wearing his long white coat, today, just a simple button-up shirt with a starched collar and nice dress pants. There’s a little ID card hanging on a metal clip off his shirt pocket, a tiny little rectangular photo of Tyler smiling bright and cheerful against a plain blue background.

The smile is always the same.

Kauri spent four days in the recovery room - he could track days in there, the nurse named Bobbie checked on him five times every day every few hours, and Kauri had grasped onto that much control and information and held tight - and then it was back to the same place, white walls and 162 white tiles. Irregular feedings,

Except in moments like this one, when they bring him out to test the product.

“Hey.” Fingers snap just under his nose and Kauri jumps, blinking rapidly, pulled from his thoughts. “Hey, bud, you need to pay attention.”

Kauri stares at him with red-rimmed eyes, feeling emptied out, like a cup full of water that they had poured and poured - and still they searched for one more drop. After a second, he slowly nods. “I’m, I’m paying attention, sir,” He says softly, sitting on the examination table feeling the little paper crackle underneath him as he shifts around.

“Hey, I’m not a handler, man. You can just call me Tyler.”

“Um…”

Tyler smiles at him expectantly, and Kauri still fights the urge to smile back automatically. Tyler is always smiling - sometimes bright and cheerful and proud like now, sometimes nervous and like he’s hiding fear, sometimes a smile that is blank and empty when the Director comes to see how the tests are going.

When the Director comes, she puts on those blue gloves and touches the red, irritated healing skin around the new things they’ve put into him. Sometimes she pushes hard into the stitches and nearly breaks them, and he sees Del wincing just behind her, but no one says a word to the Director.

When he cries out, she presses harder. If Kauri takes all her pressing and prodding without a flinch, she pulls back and praises him.

He is starting to hate the words good boy.

“Try it for me,” Tyler encourages him, soothingly. He puts a hand on either side of Kauri’s face and shakes his head a little, back and forth. “Come on, kiddo.”

“... Okay,” Kauri says, finally, wanting to cringe back and away but he can’t. “Um. Tyler.”

“Good, great. I know this part’s not much fun, ‘898, I get it, but you’ve done so well up until now.” Tyler ruffles his hair and Kauri’s eyes flutter closed involuntarily - it feels good, he can’t help it. He doesn’t want the touch to feel good, but it does.

Because of them. It’s because of people like Tyler - because people like Tyler used other people like me, a long time ago, to find out how to make us different people than we used to be. They took all those things they learned and put them into me, to make me like this.

Tyler’s wide bright smile, flashing teeth, his long hair pulled back in its usual bun against the nape of his neck, the way he’s rubbing his hands together - it’s all a blur of things Kauri can’t quite focus on. His shoulders keep jumping, jerking him forwards without his consent. Fingers twitch and when they try to have him hold a pen it just drops, again and again and again.

When he was trained the first time, they trained him to be scared of holding pens - his hands shook when he tried, he couldn’t get a good grip.

It’s worse now.

Kauri wonders if the shaking will ever fully stop.

“We’re going to take things nice and slow today. This is all going on record for the Director, so you really need to work hard for me. Got it?” Tyler tilts his chin up and Kauri blinks at him, nodding slowly, his eyes skimming to the camera fixed in the corner near the ceiling, the big black circle that hangs down from the ceiling tiles. Staring, staring, staring.

They will tape his screaming. People like Tyler will study it. And then they’ll do it to someone else, too - some other Box Boy - over and over and over again-

Stop thinking. Get through this and go home. Once they’re done with tests, Owen will take you home, you’ll go home.

Thinking of Owen brings new pain, different pain - a twist inside him because going home isn’t any better, is it? If he goes home, Owen will have the little button they push to hurt him. Owen, who put his hands on his neck and pushed him onto his stomach on the floor next to the couch… he’ll have a new way to hurt him when he’s angry, and he had promised to never, ever hurt him like this.

Kauri swallows back the noise he wants to make, low and broken.

“Okay.” Tyler turns back to look up at the camera, holding up one hand to count down from five. Kauri watches, feeling dull and far away from himself.

Five… four… three… two… one…

“Disciplinary implant with electrical output,” Tyler says to the camera, his voice dropping from its usual good cheer to serious, and Kauri stares at the neatly twisted bun of hair on the back of his neck. “This is subject eight to receive the implants and the first to show success afterward. Subject is number Six-Four-Five-Eight-Nine-Eight, known by owner as Kauri, spelled K-A-U-R-I.” Tyler glances back at him. “Remind me to tell your owner sometime that ‘kauri’ is actually a whole word with a pronunciation, and what he calls you ain’t it.”

Kauri doesn’t say anything - just drops his eyes down to the ground - and after a beat, Tyler shrugs and turns back to the camera.

“Guess the owner’s never spent time ‘Down Undah’,” Tyler says with a cheerful, absolutely awful accent that Kauri doesn’t recognize and can’t place. Then he pauses. “Wait. Is New Zealand still Down Under? Shit. Aren’t those two places close to each other? I feel like… Australia’s probably pretty close… oh shit, I have no fucking clue what distance is like over there. Huh. I probably should have paid more attention in, like, geography or whatever. I’m guessing watching that show with the hot mermaids doesn’t count as studying New Zealand…” His voice trails off. Then snaps back up at the camera. “Well, shit, that’s a bad take. Okay. One more time.” Tyler sighs, holds up five fingers to the camera, starts counting again.

Kauri wonders exactly how Tyler became a scientist - or if he’s really something else entirely, and they put a white coat on him and called him a scientist to hide what he really is, what he really does, in his work on Kauri and the others like him.

Five… four… three… two… one…

“Disciplinary implant with electrical output,” Tyler repeats, in the same serious, professional voice, and Kauri doesn’t move - doesn’t even swing his legs - he just stares down at the floor and waits for his little speech to finish, for the pain to start again.

“We’ve been working with this subject during post-op and currently to set the parameters of the implant as per the owner’s instructions,” Tyler says, moving back to stand right next to where Kauri sits on the examination table even as he pitches his voice for the camera in the ceiling, giving it the occasional glance with his head slightly tilted. Angled, Kauri thinks - he wants to look good on the camera.

“Main parameter is successfully set. Example #1 is prepared. 645898, please give your attention to the board on the wall.”

Kauri tenses, blue eyes flaring just a little.

He hates this test.

“Come on, little man,” Tyler says softly, encouragingly, and puts a hand on Kauri’s back, rubbing soothing circles that make his skin crawl and wish for more all at once. “You can do this for us, okay? Just be really good for me. I really need this promotion.”

I really need you to have not torn my skin open and made me watch you do it, but here we are.

The wall is crumbling inside Kauri’s mind, and he doesn’t even try to put the pieces back in any longer. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he remembers things, if he gets angry inside, if Owen notices. He’s controlled, now. Owen will make sure he can’t read, or send a message, ever… ever again.

They don’t even care enough to erase it all any longer, because they don’t have to. He can be angry all he wants - he’ll still be helpless.

Tyler’s hand slides up to the back of his neck, lays heavy there and clammy. His thumb presses into the side of Kauri’s neck and Kauri shudders and raises his eyes.

“Good boy, ‘898,” Tyler murmurs, and Kauri bites down on his lower lip until it hurts.

There’s a large white dry-erase board with black letters written on it hung on the wall opposite from the exam table Kauri is sitting on. When they’d brought him in here, Tyler and Delevigne had talked about how the computer had chosen randomized words based on Kauri’s life before.

What was my life before? Why does a computer get to know and I don’t?

Kauri’s eyes land on the whiteboard, try briefly to focus on METAPHOR in Tyler’s thick scrawl. As soon as the black marks coalesced into a word, the fire lit his nerves again.

Kauri jerked forwards, crying out helplessly - it never mattered how many times they practiced, he always cried out - and Tyler’s hand tightened on the back of his neck, pulling him back.

Kauri went rigid, tears in his eyes. “Pl-please,” He breathes, in the stammer, the shock-speech the handlers call it and laugh at him. “Please, m-make it, make it st-stop, Tyler, please-”

“Look away from the word, buddy,” Tyler says, unperturbed, watching Kauri’s face. “That’s all you have to do, is drop your eyes.”

Kauri tries but he can’t, every muscle is locked against the electricity. His whimpers become choked-off sobs as tears flood his eyes, until finally the words blur enough to be unrecognizable.

The pain stops, and Kauri can finally lower his eyes. He tries to breathe through the aftershocks, curling his hands into fists to keep them from twitching and shaking too much. Tyler’s hand never leaves his neck, presses against it like a weight.

“Subject is exposed to shock as soon as focus on words is registered,” Tyler says to the camera, and the smile is hinting at the corners of his mouth again. “Subject shows marked reluctance to engage with text even when given a direct order, as the subject is aware of the consequences if he does so. We’ll do one more, 645898.”

Kauri jerks in a breath and nods quickly, feeling his curls starting to stick to the cold sweat that’s broken out across his body, the way his thin white trainee T-shirt sticks to the sweat on his back. The recirculated air washes across his arms, his bare legs and feet, and he starts to shiver. He can hardly tell the difference between the shivers from cold and the muscle shakes from the electric shock.

The little circles - the shock implants - feel hot, like when he would sit on Owen’s balcony in the sunlight too long and the warmth of the sun turned to an uncomfortable, prickling burn. When he looks down, he can just see them, glowing slightly at the bottom of his vision. Can see the stitches, the skin around them red and irritated, that travel in a perfect line from his right shoulder to the center of his chest.

Tyler steps away from him and walks across the room. Kauri keeps his head down and watches from under his dark eyelashes as the word Tyler had written is erased with the little black eraser. Tyler checks a card he pulls from his pocket and writes something new. Kauri drops his eyes so he won’t look at the word a single second longer than he has to - aware, with a twist of disgusted fear inside of him, that that’s the response he’s supposed to have.

The headaches come and go, as memories break free or sink back under the fog in his head, but they don’t care about the memories anymore.

They don’t care what he knows.

Because they know that Kauri is controlled.

“Shit, she’s gonna be so happy,” Tyler murmurs as he goes back to Kauri’s side. “She wanted us to make sure her poor sad sack kid can do this without a memory wipe, and we’re gonna give her a fucking work of art, little man. Okay. Look up.”

They put the implants under his skin.

They record the pain he feels.

They record when he screams.

They will use it to hurt someone after him.

And Tyler will be rewarded for it.

Kauri swallows hard. Tyler slides an arm around his shoulder, leans in close, and takes him by the chin. His sweaty fingers tilt Kauri’s chin up and up and up.

“I said look up, bud,” Tyler says, more forcefully this time.

Kauri’s eyes land on HERO’S JOURNEY but don’t take in that the individual letters even form words before the burn lights him up again and he starts to shake.

His eyes locked with the pain like every other part of him, and when he sees the words all Kauri can do is wail, half-choked as his muscles are forced into rigidity, a pressure that seems like it might snap bones. He can’t stop looking, he can’t stop, and it won’t stop hurting until he stops looking.

Finally Tyler grabs him by the hair and pushes down, forces his gaze back down to the floor to break his eye contact with the letters. Kauri sobs, tears sliding down his cheeks as he shakes and shakes in Tyler’s arms. His hands won’t close, the fingers keep moving, twitching, jerking little nonsense movements he can’t control.

“Success,” Tyler says loudly, happily, for the camera. Then he pets through Kauri’s hair, holding him close. Kauri leans against him automatically, eyes blank and unfocused, sobbing hoarsely through a throat that aches from screaming. “End recording. There we go, buddy, there we go. All done for now. All done, little man, all done… there we go, just let it out, there you go… God, I am so grateful for you. You're so lucky, man, we're going to be written into those fucking brochures now, you and me… you’ve done so well and the Director is gonna give me one fuck of a bonus for this, you’ve been so, so good for me, little man, so good…”

Tyler’s fingers card through black curls, scratch just a little into his scalp, run down his neck and then back up again, and Kauri shudders against something new - not the simple I-want-this he has to every touch, but the old disgust he used to feel, used to be able to access. He doesn’t want Tyler to touch him, he doesn’t want to be his very good boy and help him design something terrible to do to someone else, he doesn’t want he doesn’t want he doesn’t want.

He keeps crying, but the tears begin to change. He can feel the sick lurch in his stomach, the way his mouth wanted to pull his lips back into a snarl. He can feel the fight he’d had, a long time ago, before it was all gone. The version of him that had said you can’t take my name from me - but they did… they took his name and they took the fight, too.

They didn’t care if he remembered, any longer. Owen didn’t care what he felt - that he might feel hurt Owen broke his promise, that he might be angry about it. Owen didn’t care.

All Owen cared about was that Kauri could be controlled.

Punished. Disciplined, for thinking for himself. For having a thought Owen wasn’t in charge of. For doing one single thing just for himself.

Why didn’t you just tie me to the bed?

Kauri sniffled, and Tyler misunderstood the reason, tightening his arms around him, shushing him in a low soft sincere voice. He thought Kauri was sad - and he was - but the tears weren’t from sadness.

The tears were from anger.

“Take your time,” Tyler whispers into his ear, petting him gently. “Take your time, ‘898. Just breathe, little guy, you’re doing great. We’re going to bring in the computer next, okay?”

Kauri shivers, clenching his eyes shut, feeling a ghost of electricity just thinking about looking at the keyboard again. And they’ll make him - make him look, make him try to type, try to read, and they’ll hurt him every time he does.

Because he can’t be allowed to read or write, or think for himself, or think at all. Because he has to be locked up, closed up in Owen’s condo, kept like the cat the neighbors owned next door. Because he has to be empty, and pretty.

Because Owen is jealous of every thought Kauri has that isn’t about him.

“I know it sucks, little dude, I totally get it,” Tyler says, and Kauri wants to spit no you don’t, you don’t understand anything about me, but all he does is miserably nod, allow himself to be held, try to ignore the way his body wants to react even now, even to this, the way it was trained to. “I know. But look - once the Director is happy with the recordings, we’ll get you back home, and your owner will be so happy to see you, right? Because you’ll be totally perfect for him, exactly how he wants you now.”

Why don’t I get to choose how I want me to be? What did I do to deserve having that choice taken away? Why won’t you let me be a person anymore?

Why can’t Owen just love me back?

Kauri cries in the arms of a scientist who will not stop hurting him and he’s so hurt, and scared, and sad, and mostly he’s so angry he could scream.

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ohblackdiamond · 4 years

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little t&a (gene/paul, nc-17) (part 27 of 29)

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13 part 14 part 15 part 16 part 17 part 18 part 19 part 20 part 21 part 22 part 23 part 24 part 25 part 26 part 27 part 28 part 29

Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: Gene and Paul draw each other, and Gene makes his confession. The sky is falling and we’re getting pretty near the end.

It felt like a shorter lunch than it really was. Paul ate all of his soup, but only half his sandwich, while Gene dove into both with as much relish as usual. In fact, he ate two sandwiches and Paul’s leftovers.

“I hope you didn’t want to do it right after we ate,” Gene said awkwardly. Paul was looking at the plates and silverware, debating cleaning things up. In the end, he just wiped off the counter and stuck all the dishes in the sink.

“Nah. Give it awhile.” He shrugged. “The only trouble is, we’ve pretty much exhausted all our entertainment options at my place.”

Gene smiled.

“Paul, are you really telling me all you have over here is a T.V., an album collection, and some self-help books?”

“I’ve also got sketchpads. And painting supplies.”

“You still paint?”

Paul shrugged again.

“It’s not great. I don’t have time to really…”

“Let me see.”

Gene was actually a pretty fair artist. He never drew cartoons of his bandmates like Paul was prone to, in a bad mood, but he liked to sketch out comic book characters. He’d never taken any classes that Paul knew of, but he was talented. Talented enough that Paul was a little wary of showing him any of his efforts.

It occurred to him how stupid that was. He was about to fuck this guy—had spent the last four nights in bed with him, even—but somehow showing him some acrylic paintings was making him nervous. Somehow what passed for his body of work was more vulnerable than his actual body.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Cool.”

“C’mon, they’re in the guest bedroom. I’m surprised you didn’t find them earlier.” He’d had aspirations of having his own studio, or at least using one of the rooms for that express purpose, before the reality of nine or ten months on the road at a time hit him. He didn’t even paint enough while he was at home to justify that kind of expense.

Gene followed him over to the guest bedroom. Paul leaned over, dress hiking up as he yanked some cardboard and canvases out from under the bed.

“Here we go.” Instead of holding the pieces up for Gene’s inspection, he just set them out on the bed. He hung back a bit, heart thumping, not quite daring to want to watch Gene look at his work. Actually showing it to Gene felt a little like hearing his own voice on the answering machine, or the echo from a microphone, all the flaws bouncing back at him, magnified a dozen times.

The pieces didn’t have too much meaning behind them, nothing really far out or deep he was trying to convey. Bright streaks of color, some of it in splatters, but most of it in strokes, with no consistent pattern. Purples and pinks tended to dominate. There were points where he’d tried to layer on the colors, fooled around with it, only he’d half-forgotten the proper technique to do it the way he wanted. Most of the art didn’t really have a focal point, except for an odd one-off where he’d tried to paint a sunset while it was still in the air. That one was on a piece of cardboard torn off a refrigerator box. It had maybe a found art, rustic quality to it or something. And the color scheme wasn’t too bad, either, the red sun spilling over a hasty backdrop of orange and pink clouds and trees instead of his neighbors’ houses.

“I like this one a lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Superman couldn’t fly with that sun.” Gene picked up the piece of cardboard carefully—too carefully, a piece of paper that had been beneath it starting to flutter towards the floor. Paul snatched it before it got there.

“What’s that one?”

“Oh, it’s only a sketch,” Paul tried to dismiss, but Gene seemed curious enough for him to hold it up for Gene to see. Part of him wanted to hide it back under the bed like a child, for all that it wasn’t particularly incriminating. Just a sketch of his own face. The hair was probably the most accurate part, hopelessly unruly; he didn’t quite think he’d gotten his own nose right, or eyes, but…

“In the makeup.” Gene’s finger touched the edge of the star on his eye.

“Well, sure. It kept me from having to shade much.”

“You look depressed there.” Gene still running his finger down the sketched-out lines of his face made Paul feel stupidly warm, like he was touching him by proxy.

“I don’t look good?”

“I didn’t say that.” A pause. Paul could always recognize when Gene was about to start a critique with him. He’d hesitate, which was kind of funny, because he never did it with anyone else, just plowed through with whatever comment he had. Paul would usually get offended anyway, but he was trying not to, at least for today. “Hey, would you do me a favor?”

Not a critique at all. Paul was vaguely surprised.

“What’re you wanting?”

“Let me try my hand at it.”

“Gene, I’m not letting you go over my drawing—”

“No, no. Let me borrow one of your sketchpads.”

“You wanna draw me right now? What for?” Paul could feel himself tense up slightly as he reached over, gathering up the paintings and stuffing them back under the bed. Despite himself, he was yanking out another pad of drawing paper from there as well. “If you wanted your album photo, all you had to do was check the newspaper.”

“I don’t want your photo. Just you.”

Paul handed the sketchpad over. There was an odd sting somewhere in his heart.

“You can’t want what you’ve already got,” he said quietly. He didn’t wait for Gene to respond, clearing his throat hastily. “I make a terrible art model.”

Gene’s expression, a little unreadable earlier, quirked a little.

“I’ll let you draw me, too.”

“I feel like you’re hard to draw.” But he’d gotten another piece of cardboard to bear down on after tearing off a page of the drawing paper for himself. Then Paul was gathering the rest of the supplies—pencils and gummy erasers—from where they lay in a coffee mug on the nightstand. It wasn’t exactly the most put-together setup. He just wasn’t around enough for any extra effort to be worth it. The guest bedroom’s only real use was as another place to stash his tour and art stuff. He could count the number of times anyone had slept there on one hand. “You don’t… really have one feature that really stands out—”

Gene stuck out his tongue.

“Oh, God, I’m not drawing that. Just your face. C’mon, sit down.” Paul gestured towards the bed, scooting up on it himself, sitting cross-legged on the pillows, dress bunched up. The cardboard and piece of paper were resting on his thighs, one of the pencils in his hand. He gave Gene the mug and sketchpad, scrutinizing Gene’s face. “Let me try first, okay?”

“Go for it.”

He’d never really studied Gene’s face before. That sounded a little stupid, given everything. Gene still wasn’t exactly attractive, though he looked a lot better now than he had when they’d first met. That hadn’t been the draw. It still wasn’t the draw.

Paul didn’t ask Gene to try for any particular expression as he started in, drawing the circle, the center line, mapping out the sections of his face in the half-remembered way he’d learned back in school and trying to adjust from there, only to, as usual, abandon the mapping about two minutes in. Gene’s eyes weren’t quite as dark as his, and his nose was bigger—you can’t hide the hook, Totie had said, back on their stint on the Mike Douglas show, and Paul remembered snickering with everyone else about it backstage. She’d had his number. Gene had struck up a friendship with her after that, excited to get to know another Jewish entertainer. Paul privately hoped he hadn’t banged her in the process.

He was distracting himself. It was hard to do the expression lines around Gene’s mouth without making him look forty-eight instead of nearly twenty-eight, so Paul abandoned all but a light insinuation before skipping over to his hair. He thought he could get that right, at least. Gene’s hair was somewhat coarse, and tended to frizz even worse than Paul’s own did, and it wasn’t as thick. All of the teasing and backcombing and tight ponytails had done a number on it. Paul pursed his lips, trying to approximate the texture with his pencil, and the sheen with his eraser.

“How’s it coming?” Gene asked, after about fifteen minutes. He’d been pretty patient, not shifting around much, even stopping himself the few times he tried to scratch his face.

“I think I did a damn good job on your eyebrows.” Paul turned the sketch around with a slight groan. “Everything else is a little…”

“You made me look really sad.”

Gene wasn’t wrong. Paul hadn’t quite figured out what to do with Gene’s lips when he’d drawn them, so he’d had them sink down a bit. The eyebrows really were pretty good, to his own estimation, and the hair was okay, and he’d at least started with the proper face shape, but—he hadn’t really caught Gene properly. Whatever his essence was, it hadn’t transferred onto the page.

“Frowns are easier to draw. Smiles, you have to get just right, and get the light in the eyes…” Paul shook his head. “Not a lot of room for error, right? And if you mess up, your drawing ends up looking like Norman Bates.”

Gene laughed, shaking his head.

“But you’ve got me looking like myself. It isn’t just the eyebrows. The chin and the mouth are right--”

“But it’s not great, either. I’ll try again later on.” Paul set the drawing down. “You can do me if you want.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“Oh, shut up.” Paul shifted, suddenly antsy. He’d only ever seen Gene draw his own fanzines and doodle on napkins. He knew Gene wasn’t going to take this as a serious art study, but… but on the same token, letting Gene draw him felt--revealing. Almost too revealing. He wasn’t as bothered by the face Gene was going to draw as what it signified. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what Gene saw when he looked at him. What stood out to him.

If he drew a pair of tits, Paul grimly promised himself he’d keep denying Gene at least until tomorrow.

“Tilt your chin up a bit,” Gene said, and Paul did so. His fingers worried unconsciously at the straps of his dress. Paul waited for more instructions, but they didn’t come. Just the scritch of the pencil against the sketch paper, and the occasional fuzzy sound of the eraser rubbing back and forth on the page. Gene kept such direct eye contact on his face that Paul was getting a bit intimidated.

“You took art in school, right?”

“Only a couple of terms. I liked it, but I wanted to get in all the electives I could.”

“Even weight training?” Paul scooted to the side.

“Your art school had weight training?”

“God, yeah. We even had a football team.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I never said we won anything.” Paul paused. “Do you want me to pose?”

“No. You’re fine like you are.”

“Should I smile?”

Gene looked like he was considering it for a second, and then he shook his head.

“Just relax.”

Paul tried to, but he kept fidgeting. Not getting any direction was making him nervous. He wasn’t gutsy enough to try to look alluring without the makeup as a shield. Gene had stopped talking as he’d gotten more into the drawing, only responding to Paul’s attempts at conversation with a few “yeahs” and “uh-huh”s. He was taking longer than Paul had, too. But he seemed pleased with himself far before he signed the bottom and held it out for Paul to see.

“Here you go.”

Paul was a little stunned.

He was nearly right there on the page. Big dark eyes greeted him. Full lips, slightly parted, revealing a little of his front teeth. High cheekbones. Gene’s portrait of him was more thorough and detailed than Paul’s attempt, stopping at the shoulders, where the dress straps drooped. More attractive than Paul knew he actually was; Gene had, oddly, been kinder about Paul’s nose and jaw than was accurate, but all the same-- he’d captured something of Paul on the page. Some facet. Tenseness or intensity or both. The sketch was clearly of a chick, sure, but-- it was him.

“Gene, this… shit, this is really good.” Part of what impressed him was the self-assured pressure and definition of most of the lines. Paul’s own tended to fade out, like he was mentally erasing them after committing them to the page, but Gene went into it with a much heavier hand overall. The contrast was interesting. “And I thought all you could draw was Batman. You’ve been holding out on me for years.”

Gene shrugged.

“I had someone cute in front of me. That makes all the difference.” He paused, moving to sit beside him, pointing at the sketch. “You’ve got pretty eyes.”

“Since just lately?”

“No. Since always.” Gene seemed to hesitate. “Paul, in a way, you don’t really look all that dif--”

“Peter told me they made me look like a beagle,” Paul stumbled out before Gene could finish. He wasn’t sure why he interrupted that way. Gene snorted, reaching over and draping an arm behind Paul’s shoulders. Paul let him.

“Maybe more like a moppet. You remember those posters.”

“Yeah. Julia had them in her room when we were kids.” But he wasn’t displeased at the comparison, somehow, reaching to put the sketches and supplies on the crowded nightstand, before leaning back against Gene’s arm and shoulder. He could feel Gene start to tense, so Paul turned his head, impulsively, pressing a kiss against his cheek. “One of them was a harlequin or something, I don’t remember.”

“Paul.”

“What?”

“You didn’t let me finish. You don’t look all that different.”

“Come off it.” Paul could feel something cold and odd trickle up his spine, something he was almost afraid of. “I’ve had tits for a week and a half, don’t try to kid me.”

“I’ve been kidding myself.”

“Gene, what’re you talking about--”

“You’re the same as you always were. You’re beautiful.”

Paul sat there stunned. The icy feeling up his spine seemed to melt and dissolve in an instant. He didn’t want it to. He wanted to hold onto it. Use it as something to protect him, something to chase away any hurt, any vulnerability. His face was going florid, and all of a sudden, he couldn’t look directly at Gene, staring instead at the hem of his dress.

“I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep. But I think… I think there might still be something there after we break the curse.” Gene’s hand found one of the shoulder straps on his dress, fixing it back up, though his gaze was still firm on Paul’s face. Completely unwavering. Paul’s heartbeat felt like it could smash straight through diamonds. “I know that’s not enough for--”

“It’s enough.”

“Paul, look--”

“It’s enough.” Paul was surprised at the slow strength starting to rise from his voice with every word, like a newborn foal wobbling to its feet. “Even before all this happened. Any time I’ve ever gotten to have with you is enough.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” He was able to look at Gene now, right in the face. The warmth he’d tried to avoid was blazing inside him. It felt funny, somehow, to feel so sure, so certain, in the face of a maybe, that things would still be all right, one way or another. It felt like the bulk of the burden, the fear, was really, truly beginning to dissolve. “Gene, I…”

He couldn’t say it. Gene was waiting on it, face so near his own he could feel his breath. He kissed him instead, reaching his arms around him half-blindly, clenching tight. Paul was panting as soon as Gene broke the kiss, pressing another and another against his cheek and chin and throat, climbing into his lap as though he belonged there, and maybe, for just a little while, he did.

Gene was so warm, so unbelievably warm. Paul could swear he could feel Gene’s own pounding heartbeat against his. His breaths were coming only a little bit better than Paul’s were, his dark eyes dilated. Gene’s mouth was back on his before Paul could think clearly, needy and wanting, and it was all Paul could do to pull back and manage one last request.

“Hey. Before we-- do you think you could take me back to o-- my bedroom?”

Gene had him gathered up in his arms in seconds. Paul held tight, pressing his face against Gene’s shirt for all of the minute it took to cross from one room to the next, taking in his scent as he finally dared to hope.

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #paul stanley #gene simmons #gene simmons x paul stanley

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petri808 · 4 years

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A Forgotten Email

@inuvember for AU Day Inukag Continuation... part 1 here

Toga Inutaisho presses his intercom link to his secretary. “Ms. Higurashi, I have the reports ready for you.” He sits back smiling, waiting for the woman to come in to pick them up, because lately the amount of reports she needed to deliver to his son had increased and he was curious to know if that was irritating her.

As the young woman walks into his office, Toga carefully notes the annoyed look on her face, slightly hidden behind the fake smile. He turns his nose to the air, picking up on the traces of heightened adrenaline running through her veins. And who could miss the slight slump forward of her shoulders or fidgeting fingers resting near her stomach. Oh yes, Kagome looked perturbed about her errand.

But he couldn’t help himself. After all, Inuyasha was his son and after the young man had come to him panicked about how badly he’s botched their first lunch date, he felt a paternal need to ratchet up the amount of contact the two had. Of course, it came after a long counseling session about Inuyasha needing to fix things between Kagome and he, because regardless of the waning chemistry, they were colleagues and needed to get along. So now, a week later, it was obvious to Toga that his son was still failing to gain back her favor.

“Is something wrong my dear?” He asks Kagome as she takes the papers from his desk. “You seems a little down.”

“Oh, no Mr. Taisho, nothings wrong,” Kagome throws on an even wider smile in an effort to allay his concerns. “Maybe I’m just a bit tired today, that’s all.”

“Come now, Ms. Higurashi. If something is bothering you, I wouldn’t be a very good boss not to show concern.” Toga leans forward in his chair and rests his arms on the desk. “Please, tell me if anything, anything at all is bothering you.”

“I...” The sigh that leaves her lips causes Toga’s eyebrow to cock upward. Kagome realizes at that point there was no way she could hide it any longer. “I’m sorry Mr. Taisho. It’s just... Well that day Inuyasha took me out to lunch didn’t go as well as I’d hoped and now it feels awkward every time I have to see him.”

‘Awkward?’ It could have been a worse choice of words as far as Toga was concerned. Kagome seemed more torn than annoyed, and that was something he could work with. He leans back in his chair. “Tell me what my son did,” placing a faux annoyance in his tone, “it probably won’t surprise me.”

She fidgets a bit, nervously glancing around before taking a tentative seat on the edge of the couch. After a deep exhale, Kagome launches into a break down of their lunch. Inuyasha had been nervous, but that wasn’t unexpected, a little grumpy, at least that’s what she felt from him, almost annoyed that he was even there. “I just couldn’t tell if he’d agreed to shut me up...” moisture pools in her eyes. “I thought he wanted to go at first, I mean why would he have said yes if he didn’t want to?” She sighs, mumbling, “I must have miss read his cues...”

“What do you mean, what cues?” Toga questions her.

It brings a light flush to Kagome’s cheeks, “t-there was a... a strange spark between us the day we meet.” Kagome waves her hand as if erasing what she’d just said. “It was just all a mistake.” She says firmly, but with eyes still lowered to the floor, “maybe I had reminded him of someone because he called me by another persons name at lunch and when I tried to clarify, he cut me off abruptly, then rushed me back to the office. Now every time I have to see him, he won’t even look at me, barely even says more than thank you as I hand him the reports.” Kagome looks at her boss with pleading eyes, “couldn’t I just deliver the reports to Miroku instead? Please, I’d rather avoid Inuyasha if he doesn’t want to see me either.”

“Oh that idiot son of mine,” Toga mumbles and runs a hand down his face in annoyance. “Yes, for now just deliver the reports through Miroku, but I will deal with my son. He needs to make things right.” Toga stands and moves around his desk to help Kagome to her feet. “Don’t fret too much about this my dear. My son’s people skills need some work, but I promise you, he feels no ill will towards you.” He prompts her towards the door, “I will take care of everything.”

Kagome tips her head a bit confused by what her boss meant by make things right. Did Toga know more than he was letting on, like who the mystery person was? But she keeps her questions to herself for now. “O-Okay, thank you Mr. Taisho.”

“You’re welcome my dear.”

Once Toga is sure that Kagome is out of ear shot, he calls Inuyasha over the phone. “Son, I told you to fix things between you and from what I just heard it sounds like you haven’t done a damn thing!”

“What the hell are you bitching me out about now old man?! I said I fix it and I will but...”

“But nothing! You even left out the part that you called Kagome by your ex-fiancés name at lunch time! I can see why the woman feels awkward around you now!”

“What?! H-how do you... wait did Kagome tell you...”

“I asked her what was bothering her son. She still has no idea who Kikyo is but you owe her an explanation of that and why you were acting so strangely with her... hell son, the woman thinks you hate her.”

“Ahh, fuck...” Inuyasha groans on the other end of the line. “I didn’t mean to, I was just so fucking nervous I just... never mind, it’s too late now.”

“It is not too late. And I don’t care how you do it, but you need to suck it up, drop that pride of yours, and fix this!”

Inuyasha’s ears pin back at the sound of his fathers phone slamming down on the other end. His dad was obviously furious, but why, why was his dad so invested in him making amends with Ms. Higurashi? He hangs up his phone and cradles his head between his hands, propping it up on the desk. Ugh! It’s not like he had set out to have a bad lunch date, Inuyasha had wanted to make a good impression! He just... ‘fucked it up like every other date I go on...’

“Miroku get in here!” Inuyasha calls his co-worker.

“Ahh, perfect timing boss,” Miroku walks in and closes the door behind him, tossing the latest reports on Inuyasha’s desk. He smirks, “had a feeling I’d get called.”

“Wipe that grin off your face!” Inuyasha swipes at the papers indignantly, but quickly grimaces when he realizes it’s the reports Kagome normally delivers straight to him. So that’s why Miroku already knows something’s up. “Fuck, she brought these to you?”

“Your dad told her to bring it to me since you make her uncomfortable.”

Inuyasha flinches. Is it really that bad? ‘I make her uncomfortable?!’ He groans. “I don’t know how to deal with this.”

“Spill it boss, I can’t help if I don’t know what exactly happened between you two.” Miroku takes a seat. “I’m all ears.”

For the next 30 minutes Inuyasha tells his friend everything with coaxing through the hardest parts. He really didn’t like baring his private life to anyone, even a close friend, but it was the best option least his dad make his life miserable.

Miroku steeples his fingers, “I agree with your dad. You’ll need to apologize to Kagome and ask to start over again. And above all, keep that grumpy side of yourself in check.”

“Ugh! I know!” Inuyasha’s ears flatten as he buries his face in hands with a groan. He wasn’t a total idiot. In fact, not wanting to look like an idiot in front of her may have fueled what ended up looking that way anyways. He had stayed quiet through much of the lunch in fear of saying the wrong thing, but it came off grumpy instead. Then in an effort to make conversation, his ex’s name slipped out. He couldn’t help it! His nerves were frayed by that point, and Kagome did look a little like her. Not to say that she was anything like Kikyo, considering Kagome was a ray of sunshine compared to his ex’s fridged demeanor.

“Look boss,” Miroku leans into the frustrated Hanyo, “Kagome seems like the type to appreciate nice gestures. Try apologizing with flowers, beg her for a second date to make it up to her. Hell, make your ears whither down like now,” he chuckles, “I bet that’ll crack her.”

“You think so?” Inuyasha perks up, along with his ears.

Miroku chuckles, “she did love the ears...”

Bright and early the following morning, Inuyasha gets to the office before anyone else. He had no idea what kind of flowers Kagome may like so he asked the shop owner who suggested purple hyacinths. So with that in tow, he picks up some fresh scones and sneaks into Kagome’s office to place them on her desk. He turns on her computer and pulls up her email page. Their first meeting started with an email, why not begin anew with one.

But as his fingers hover over the keyboard, his mind blanks out. What should he say? Inuyasha was never good with words, especially mushy stuff. After a few seconds of internal bickering, his fingers click away at the keys. “Good morning....” erase, erase. “Hi Kagome, I just wanted to say...” erase, “apologize for the luncheon. I shouldn’t have behaved...” erase, erase, erase, “I’d like to...” Inuyasha groans under his breath. “Could we please talk? I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable I’m just so nervous when it comes to...”

A light gasp tickles his hearing, and when Inuyasha looks up, he locks eyes with its purveyor. “K-Kagome?!”

“Why are you in my office?! First you make me feel weird at lunch now you’re sneaking through my computer?! What’s next, you’re gonna stalk me to my apartment?!”

Inuyasha’s ears pin down, “I’m not doing anything like that woman, just let me explain!”

“You just wait till I tell your father.” Kagome turns in a huff and starts stomping away.

Quick in two bounds, the hanyo catches up and grabs her by the arm, “hey wait a minute, it’s not what you think!”

“Let me go!” She shrieks, pulling around his grip. “You’re hurting me!”

He lets her go but instead of releasing her, physically scoops her into his arms and runs back to her office with her screaming the entire way.

“You’re mad! Put me down!”

When he gets back to her desk, Inuyasha finally places her on her feet, forcing her to face the computer screen. “Just read it wench!” He grits his teeth in a desperate attempt to calm his racing heart. “I was trying to freaking apologize!”

It was only at that last word that Kagome notices the small bouquet of flowers and little white bag. She looks at the screen, her shoulders drooping with every word she reads. He wasn’t lying. But as Kagome focuses on the message, a dejected Inuyasha quietly makes his escape, so when she looks up to respond, he was gone. Sure it was weird walking in on him in her office, but if she’d taken a second to assess the whole situation before jumping to conclusions... Now she felt like the jerk.

Kagome searches frantically for Inuyasha at work, but couldn’t find him. He wasn’t in his office, hiding in Miroku’s, not even the bathrooms as far as she could tell. So, the moment her boss arrives, she feigns illness and goes home unsure of what to do next to call Sango for help.

“Oh, thank goodness you answered,” Kagome breathes out a sigh of relief at her friends voice before launching into her morning without giving the other woman any chance to interject.

“And when I looked up he was gone.” Her emotions were all over the place. Kagome wanted to cry and scream at the same time. So far, the tears were winning.

“Just calm down, take some deep breaths, we’ll figure this out okay.”

“But I don’t know what to do! I really can’t face him now.”

“Do you want to see him again?”

Her heart said yes, but her brain was screaming no. Kagome closes her eyes. What would her mother tell her to do? Be the bigger person. “Yes...” she sighs, “I should at least apologize properly.”

“In that case, he’s with Miroku.”

“How do you know?!”

“He called just before Miroku left for work and asked him to go to Jinenji’s. They’re probably still there. If not, I’m sure you could ask my husband where to find him.”

“Oh, the cafe? I know that place, the owner’s really nice.” Kagome shifts the phone as she wipes at her face and puts her shoes back on. “Thanks Sango! Wish me luck!”

Sango laughs on the other end. “Anytime.”

The five block walk from her apartment to the cafe gave Kagome some time to figure out what she was going to say once she’d found Inuyasha. She wasn’t about to grovel at his feet because he’d had some of it coming for putting her on edge in the first place, but even her mother would have scolded her for reacting so harshly without thinking first. But why had he chosen to leave that message the way he had? Inuyasha could have left the flowers and sent the email from the safety of his own office. It made little sense to her except maybe he’d made the decision on the spur of the moment.

When she arrives at the cafe, a quick scan of the room easily spies the pair of fluffy ears from a booth towards the rear. Inuyasha’s back was facing her, but she could see Miroku. She swore that man had some kind of sixth sense for female energy, because he spotted her seconds after walking in the door and waved her over. From her vantage, Kagome could see a heated conversation and Inuyasha’s whole body tense up, but ears fold down in submission. As soon as she gets to the table, Miroku slides out and motions for her to join them.

Once Kagome slides in towards the middle of the U-shaped booth, he rejoins and sits. “I hope you don’t mind Kagome, but I think I’ll stay in case I need to play mediator.”

She looks at Inuyasha who is avoiding eye contact, then back to Miroku. In a quiet voice she responds, her eyes averting to the table. “That’s probably a good idea.”

Miroku clears his voice, “Good, then I’m just going to say one thing before I let you two hash this out.” He chuckles, “you let your emotions get the better of you, it happens, but now it’s time to move forward.”

“I’ll...” Kagome takes a deep breath. “I guess I’ll start. I’m very sorry for how I behaved Inuyasha. I shouldn’t have jumped to any conclusions without giving you an opportunity to explain what you were doing in my office.”

“No it’s my fault,” the hanyo’s ears wilt. “It was cowardly to leave that apology on your computer. I should have just talked to you like a normal person.”

“Why did you do that? Are you afraid of me?” Her eyes implore for a satisfactory reason.

“No!” He turns away. “I mean maybe a little... but not because of you! I-I’m just not good at this kind of stuff.” Inuyasha’s cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “Especially when talking to women.” He sighs, “at that luncheon I kept quiet cause I was so nervous. But I didn’t realize I came off grumpy.”

“Grumpy... Tch, I could have ignored that until you decided to call me by another woman’s name. That made me feel so awkward, and I started to wonder if you had some girlfriend or something that made our lunch taboo.”

“Huh?! N-No!” Inuyasha waves his hand frantically, “that was all a big mistake! I got flustered and the name just popped out...”

“Then who is she?” Kagome leans in closer, more curious than ever as to who the mystery person was.

Both men pick up immediately at the disdain dripping in her tone. Her interest had quickly switched from the office to this woman. Miroku gives Inuyasha a knowing look of I told you so, to which the hanyo replies with a kick to the man’s shin under the table. But his friend was right about Kagome’s vested response of another possible woman in Inuyasha’s life. She didn’t like the idea.

“Kikyo is my ex-fiancé and you look a little bit like her. I apologize that in my frazzled state I mixed up your names. But you don’t need to worry about her, she’s long out of the picture.”

“Why would I be worried,” Kagome crosses her arms to cover up the goosebumps gleaned not from cold, but maybe excitement. Of course, she cared! She shouldn’t, but she did. It had been a long time since silly teenage emotions got the best of her, and yet here she was, suffering from it once again. “It’s not like we’re dating.”

The woman sitting beside him was practically bursting with unseen energy waves and her act of nonchalance just a facade. It gave his ego a boost to know Kagome was feeling something. How bout he entrench it further. “Right, not dating, of course, but regardless, she’s of no concern. Long over with, never want to see or deal with her ever again,” he shivers at the notion, “I’d rather erase those memories from my mind and replace them with new ones.” Thanks for that line Miroku. Inuyasha straightens out and sticks his hand out towards her as a gesture. “Lets just started over, huh?”

“Deal!” She shakes his hand. “By the way,” Kagome blushes, “thank you for the flowers.”

“Was nothing,” Inuyasha mumbles in embarrassment and a blush. “The florist told me it’s for forgiveness.”

Her eyes widen a tad at the knowledge he’d gone so far not to just pick a random flower she may or may not like, but one with a meaning behind it. So, his exterior facade really did hold a caring side beneath it. Kagome smiles, and sees the tension releasing from Inuyasha’s shoulders. “Well they are beautiful and it’s safe to say we... forgive each other?”

“Yeah,” Inuyasha smiles back. He finally felt all the weight lift. Now all he had to do was not screw up again. He glances at Miroku who takes the hint and leaves. “How about we try the lunch thing again right now since we’re already here?”

Kagome watches their co-worker walk away, and now alone with Inuyasha, the nervous energy sweeps back in. Her face of a lightly heated surface blooms a darker shade of pink. “I’d really like that...”

Outside of the restaurant, Miroku watches as Kagome scoots closer to Inuyasha and breathes a sigh of relief. “Crisis averted boss,” he calls Toga on the phone. “Your operation grand babies is back on track...”

#inuvember 2019 #inuvember #inukag #inuyasha #kagome higurashi #inukag au #inukag fan fic #inukag drabble #inukag fan fiction #au story #part 2 of A Forgotten Email

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writingwitchly · 5 years

Text

James the hero

Word count: 2k

A/N: Thank you to @alrightginger @women-inthe-sequel @magic-girl-in-a-muggle-world @jamesandthedog @blitheringmcgonagall @all-perks-of-not-being-me @erase-grace @beaubcxton for supporting such a silly idea. I hope you like this at least a fraction of how much I like your writing and personality

Pairing: Jily

Summary: If I wrote a summary, I’d ruin the surprise.

***

When Mrs. potter walked in the living room of the Potter Mansion, she felt that something was wrong. Her skin prickled, and her Mom senses were alert for the first time since two weeks ago, when the Hogwarts express had left in direction of Scotland.

Her eyes scanned the place: Mimsy—their cat—didn’t seem to have broken anything for once, nor had it scratched any of her favorite pillows; the fireplace harbored no fire, so the house couldn’t be burning down—from there , at least; and her husband was lazily going through the Daily Prophet, seated on his armchair.

Really, everything seemed to be quite alright-

-until she noticed the little badly wrapped parcel on one of the glass tables.

That had no business in her living room.

“Fleamont?” she called, creasing her brow. “What is that ?”

The man raised his cheerful eyes from the newspaper, and peeped at her for a few seconds with his most innocent look. When her severe expression made it clear that he couldn’t get easily out of this one, he tried to hide his sheepish smile behind the publication.

“Something for James. I’m waiting for the owl to come back to send it over,” he muttered, hoping that she would be satisfied with this answer.

Of course, she wasn’t.

“Fleamont,” Mrs. Potter took a step toward the brown wrapping, and lifted it in the air to inspect it. “I swear to Merlin, if you get my son into detention once more -”

Mr. Potter clicked his tongue on his palate, and dropped the Daily Prophet on his lap, half-purposefully slapping the Minister of Magic’s squeamish face, “May I remind you, darling, that this was an accident. Minerva oughtn’t to punish her students because-”

“Somebody’s hair has turned into sheep fur? No, surely not,” Mrs. Potter burst, trying to decipher the letters that labelled the bottle—for it was a bottle, in the parcel—through the thick paper. “Mind you, maybe when one or two students get such a relooking, one could think of a mistake in the shampoo brewing. But when half the staff walks around the castle with a fleece on their head for an entire week, with not charm to solve it-” When she looked down from the little package, her husband had found cover once more behind an outraged Minister of Magic. “ Fleamont .”

“Fine,” Mr. Potter said, sending the newspaper flying to the other end of the room. “I might have sent James some Mutton Mixture for testing last time, but this is a completely safe product.” He stood up, and gently took the parcel from his wife’s hand. “Which I am going to send right now, with a public owl, so there will be peace again under this roof.”

Mr. Potter left a little peck on his wife’s cheek, took his hat from the coat rail, and opened the door.

“Fleamont,” Mrs. Potter called again, “What is it for?”

She just heard the words “impress” and “girl” before she was alone for good in the house.

***

James’ feet-tapping had become so irksome that Sirius couldn’t get himself to gulp down any food anymore.

“Alright. What is it, Prongs?”

For an answer, James only beamed—and Sirius very much felt like throwing him the rest of his porridge square in the face. Hadn’t it been for Remus-

“What Pads is trying to say, Prongs,” the lanky boy articulated between two mouthfuls of tart, “Is that you’re fucking annoying, beating some dumb rhythm and looking like you’ve been told that Snivellus got bitten by a Blast-ended Skrewt.”

“Has he?” Peter shrilled. His eager expression faded when Sirius muttered that no, but he wished.

Ignoring this, James leaned toward the pumpkin juice carafe, placed between their four plates.

“I have a plan,” he whispered, and his eyes immediately darted to the redheaded girl that was sitting at the far end of the bench.

Sirius dropped his head, and Remus and Peter groaned, but the three boys listened nonetheless.

***

Everything was clear in James’ head.

Ever since Lily had come back from summer vacations, she hadn’t stopped going on about this Muggle spy movie. She loved the actor, she loved the story, she loved the character, and she couldn’t stop gushing about it all.

Of course, this annoyed James very much.

It’s not like him and Lily were good friends—or were friends at all, to be honest—but they were on fairly good terms, and James was working his way to become her hero—it is a truth universally acknowledged that girls fall in love with their heroes. So the fact that a fictional bloke was standing in his way was clearly the worst of all things.

To bypass the whole my-crush-of-forever-keeps-swooning-over-a-fictional-dude-and-thus-does-not-notice-me-as-she-should situation, James had first brooded quite a lot. But as he was not too much of the emo type—it made him too similar to a certain slimehead he found absolutely repulsive—, he had tried to get Marlene and Dorcas to talk Lily out of her fangirling. Which would have worked, had he not gotten not too politely rebuked for apparently acting like a creep.

James had considered every other solution, but had come out with none that would work: dueling, arranging a date with another girl, and pranking would of course be pointless, as the guy was fictional, for Merlin’s sake; throwing a tantrum or threatening to fling himself from the astronomy tower seemed to be a bit dramatic, and he doubted that McGonagall would ever forgive him if he wrote “Hey Lily, I am here,” on any wall of the castle. She still hadn’t forgiven him for the last time he’d done it.

So, at this point, James had found himself in quite a dead end, and Lily kept talking about that cold-blooded, heart-stealing spy with flushed cheeks.

Yet, one day-

One day, James heard the name of the character, and something clicked in his head.

He had a plan.

***

“Do we tell him or-?”

Remus slapped Sirius round the head, “Come on Pads, James is our best friend. Between having a good laugh, or telling him the truth, we shouldn’t even hesitate.”

As they watched the bespectacled boy climbing the stairs to the common room, parcel at hand, the three-fourth of the Marauders grinned, loyal to their rebellious teenager natures.

“‘Course we ain’t telling him,” Peter concluded.

***

As James got out of the bathroom, an electric silence fell in the sixth year Gryffindors’ room.

“So?” he asked, wiping the mist away from his glasses with the fabric of his t-shirt.

The three other young men thanked Merlin that he couldn’t see shit without those, because it let them enough time to regain their composure.

“Mate,” Sirius said, when his best friend's hazel eyes finally put his face into focus.

He whistled, and that seemed to be enough to James. He looked at his friends with expectancy,

“Are you coming to witness my triumph?”

A little silence followed, and Remus considered throwing himself out of the window to avoid chuckling. But this would mean missing the next scene, so not thank you.

“‘Course,” Sirius said, his face professionally solemn.

“Wouldn’t want to miss that,” Remus added, skillfully turning his snort into a cough.

James sought Peter’s answer, but the boy just nodded. (Fact is, he had a part to add too, but he was chewing the inside of his cheeks really hard, and didn’t trust himself to contain his laughter otherwise.)

James beamed, and turned around, riding one of his hands in his messy hair. (That hadn’t changed.)

As the boys followed him toward the common room, Sirius let out his umpteenth groan, and Peter nearly suffocated.

***

“Oi, Evans!”

At the sound of James’ voice, Lily prepared herself to execute the most massive eye-roll in history of eye-rolls. What did he want, now? Couldn’t she study in peace on a Sunday morning? Considering the looks she spotted on her friends’ faces, their inner voices were shouting the same.

Still, when Lily turned around, a salty remark already on the tip of her tongue, all the air was knocked out of her lungs, and her jaw dropped somewhere near the floor.

For a second, she considered that the sunlight coming through the window might be playing her some wicked trick.

“James-” she whispered in shock, struggling for words that didn’t want to line up in her mind. “You’re- you’re-”

“You’re blond!” Marlene squeaked, raising a hand to her mouth, only to let it drop soon after.

To her cry, all the students in the room looked up from their books, essays, or games of exploding snaps. Some of them gasped, while the other half choked on their saliva.

“Yes,” James said, puffing his chest up with a smug smile. “Like that Muggle spy you always talk about, Evans.”

He wriggled his eyebrows at Lily, in that ridiculous way that he surely believed was charming.

Some sort of noise escaped Lily’s throat—similar to the squeaks that Peter made when somebody told him it was exams day—and said boy had to take one of the cushions from the couch to muffle his wave of giggles.

From the floor, Mary and Dorcas were still staring with open mouths, and the former braced herself, blushing for James, hoping that Lily wouldn’t be too hard on him: it was a cute thought, after all.

“What,” James asked, when the awkwardness in the room became so palpable that even he could sense it. “Have I grown a horn or-”

“See, Prongs,” Remus finally said, torn between a smile of pure amusement, or one of slight guilt. “The fact is that-”

“You look like him,” Lily cut across the lanky boy, springing from the floor. “You exactly look like James Blond.”

Sirius’ expression went from I’m-on-the-verge-of-dying-from-laughter to excuse-me-but-what-the-fuck??

“It’s-” her voice came out a bit strangled, laughter threatening to burst from her throat at the realization of his misinterpretation, but she checked herself, and swallowed.

She couldn’t entirely bite back her smile, though, but made it as gentle as she could. There was even a slight hint of red on her cheeks.

“It was kind of stupid of you, Potter-”

She was close enough to him now for his nose to face her forehead. One of her hands rose, as if to touch the pseudo-sunburned streaks of his hair, but she seemed to ditch the idea. Instead, she propped herself on the point of her toes, and left a swift kiss on his cheek.

“But it’s a nice surprise.”

When she left towards the dormitory, holding a hand to her mouth, the Marauders were so surprised that Sirius forgot to whistle.

***

It turned out that Mr. Potter had been quite mistaken about his affirmation: they dying lotion wasn’t as safe as he’d believed. Just like it had happened with the Mutton Mixture, the Blonde Brew lasted one week before starting to fade away.

Now, I could leave to you the task of imagining how these seven days went by, but something tells me that, maybe, you’d like to hear it from me.

The first to notice, apart from the Gryffindor students, was a very confused Filch. During his morning stroll, before which he had maybe drank a cup too much, it caused him a shock to see a blonde replica of James Potter—for his first thought was that it was a clone of his worst nightmare wandering around, you see. Filch ran to Mrs. Pomfrey in panic, and swore to never drink a drop of firewhiskey again, or it’d cause him a stroke, sooner or later. He instead moved on to vibringvodka.

When Professor McGonagall and a couple of other teachers came across James, in the hallways, they blinked furiously for a couple of seconds, but did not even try to understand. There was some relief in their countenance, as if they were just glad their own hair hadn’t been turned into something else, this time.

Professor Dumbledore eyed James’ mane very intently during dinners, and envied him this dazzling color for a while, while Professor Slughorn got quite distracted by the change, and blew some cauldrons during lessons.

As for the core of the Hogwarts student, anyone who even thought about telling James about his little mistake ended up jinxed, spluttering slugs instead of words. Said students never knew how it happened to them, but when they turned around to race toward the Hospital Wing, they’d always bypass a redhead, her rosy cheeks stretched in a fond smile.

Somehow, James had become something close to being Lily’s hero.

#jily #james potter #lily evans #jily fic #hpwritersnet #hp fanfiction #hpwriters #hogwartsonline #marauderseragang #hprarepairnet #hpshipsnet #marauders era #***writing #ty guys for your support!!!#for the sake of this fic lily was not yet conscious that james bond is a misogynistic shit #also. Sirius was allowed to tell james the truth after the wedding #y'all should have seen Vernon's face when james told him he was James b(l)ond

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ellanainthetardis · 6 years

Photo

I hope you enjoy this chapter because it was emotional to write! Let me know your thoughts!

[ff] or [ao3]

Chapter 25 : Make Sure It’s Buried With Me

Haymitch had never been good at goodbyes.

How many times had he stood in that corridor, sending tributes to bed knowing he would never see them again? It was odd to be back on the other side of the line.

He hugged the boy, smirking when Peeta shot back his words from the previous year… Stay alive… But he didn’t linger. He clapped the girl’s shoulder, told her he would see her the next day, and he just… slipped away while Effie hugged Katniss so tight he thought she would never let go.

His room was just like he had left it earlier.

He gathered the meager belongings he had brought with him, stuff that could fit in his pockets really, and gave a last look around. It looked less messy than usual. Probably because he hadn’t spent a single night in there.

It was odd how familiar the room looked. He had never thought about it before, never spared a thought for the four walls that sheltered him during his stays in the Capitol but now… How odd was it that it felt exactly like the house in Twelve? Not quite a home, never a home, but… Comforting in its familiarity. It had been his place for twenty-five years. He wasn’t one to get attached to walls and objects but he still couldn’t help a pang of… regret.

He waited until there was no more noise to sneak into Effie’s room.

She was sitting at her dressing table, staring at her reflection, her diamond necklace forgotten in her hand.

Her carefully painted face had melted with the tears she had shed.

He sat on the edge of the bed and, for a second, he stared into space too. It was one thing to know it was coming, it was another to reach the finish line.

He let it sink.

He let the weight of that knowledge settle on his shoulders.

Eventually, she picked up some cotton ball and a bottle and started erasing the Capitol war paint from her skin. She slowly appeared under the mask. Pale skin, rosy lips, bright blue eyes…

“We have to talk about…” he heard himself say and then stopped because he couldn’t quite get the words out. We have to talk about what happens when I’m a corpse didn’t quite sound right. “I’ve got favors to ask.”

Her movements faltered but she didn’t stop. Her hands kept moving, darting around her face, removing earrings, unpinning the golden wig… Preserving some semblance of normalcy, of routine.

“That’s yours.” He started with that because it was the easy one.

He leaned in to place a silver flask on the table near her elbow. She had gifted it to him, years back, it had been her grandfather’s and he didn’t want it to get lost or tossed away. She had made a big deal of it not having any meaning but he had known better even at the time, had been reluctant to accept it full point – particularly given the T branded on the side.

She didn’t acknowledge it, barely pushed it further down the table where it was hidden behind bottles of perfumes.

The wig was placed on the plastic mannequin head she kept in her room and she moved on to unpinning her hair. It was braided close to her skull, he realized. A Katniss braid. Another quiet rebellion he wished she would give up.

He placed his old knife on the table next, blade pointing away from her. The handle of that knife was in a pitiful shape, damaged by years of clutching it in his sweaty palm at night. He had won the first Quell with that knife, had pulled a tantrum until they had accepted to give it back to him when he had woken up in the clinic… It was Chaff who had convinced them. It had been the only thing that had made him feel safe for many years.

“Once she’s out… Give it to Katniss.” he requested. “She’ll get the message.”

Her fingers brushed against the familiar knife almost warily. He had almost accidentally stabbed her a couple of times with it during the first years, when she hadn’t yet learned how to deal with his night terrors properly, when she had still been a stupid little Capitol drone who couldn’t phantom the sort of pain he was constantly in.

“What’s the message?” she whispered.

He almost didn’t explain. Katniss would get it so there was no need to spell it.

He surrendered to the sorrowful eyes that were watching him in the mirror.

“Fight. Survive.” he shrugged. “Find a way.”

She blinked hastily and gave him a shaky nod.

The knife disappeared in the drawer of her dressing table, lost in a sea of hair ties, pins and various hair accessories.

“What else?” Her voice was purposefully detached. She ruffled her braided hair until it was loose on her shoulders, a crumpled mane of curls that made his stomach clench with want.

The picture wasn’t easy to let go of. It was the difficult part. The one that made his fingers shake.

He placed it where the knife had been.

“Make sure it’s buried with me.” he demanded.

Her golden nails caressed the faces on the yellowed paper that had never really been glossy. It had been an extravagance, that picture. A birthday gift for their mother. So worth it though. He would have forgotten her face by now, like he had forgotten Mabel’s. He would have forgotten how crooked Hayden’s smile was.

“Of course.” she answered finally.

She wouldn’t attend the actual burial, of course. They never did. They saw to it that the bodies were released and the coffins sent back but that was the extent of their involvement. Mentors remained in the city until a victor was crowned. By the time he went back to Twelve, tributes were usually long in the ground.

She would have no trouble getting something in the coffin though.

He had gone every time at first. In the first few years after his victory. He had felt he needed to, to pay his respect or… whatever. He had stood there and had watched as they had placed the bodies in the coffins, he had made sure everything was done right since the families couldn’t… He had stopped quickly enough. It was too painful. It was too much… involvement.

She could do it herself if she so wished or pay off one of the staff members. Or ask the boy. Either way, he had no doubt she would respect his wishes.

“If you can get in touch with Undersee somehow…” he hesitated. “I’d like to be with my family. Not in the victors patch. Nobody’s gonna come and check and I don’t need the glory in death kind of thing.”

She placed the picture in her jewelry box and picked up her hair brush. Her hand was shaking but she ran it in her curls all the same.

“I will do my best.” she promised in a voice that sounded too cheerful.

She was trying to keep her mask on, she was clinging to the escort persona because…

He closed his eyes and rubbed his face. “Maybe it’s easier if I go back to my room, yeah? ‘Cause…”

The hairbrush bounced back on the wall and landed on the carpet with a disappointing lack of noise.

“You are mine.” she declared. “For the rest of your life you are mine, that was the point of putting crumbs all over my room, wasn’t it? I won’t be robbed of a night just because it would be easier. It won’t be easier. Nothing about this is easy.”

Anger faded just as quickly as it had flared.

Her shoulders slouched and she swallowed hard, pushing the stool back to stand up. He looked up at her, remaining silent because he didn’t know what to say.

There were too many words to utter and not enough at the same time.

Too many things to say.

Too many things to confess.

They stared at each other for a long time and then she turned away, struggling with the fastenings of her dress. Her fingers were trembling, she was upset and she tugged too hard. She cursed when the fragile fabric tore.

Not that she would ever be wearing that dress again, he figured. It was, after all, his funerals.

He watched as she squirmed her way out of the golden fabric, his eyes caressing the naked lines of her spine.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

It took him a few seconds to realize it was him who had spoken.

She froze.

She turned around eventually, the golden dress crumpled in her fist, completely naked. He watched her, committed every part of her body to memory and it wasn’t even… It wasn’t even lust or desire. It was…

“You are not losing me.” she objected, dropping the dress on a heap on the floor. “I am.”

“I know.” he admitted. “And I’m sorry.”

Because the pain he felt at the thought of losing her…

He shook his head and stood up, shedding his jacket. “I’m gonna grab a shower.”

It would be his last one. There would be no time the next morning.

“Do you want company?” she hesitated.

“Don’t I always?” he smirked.

He wasn’t oblivious to the way she put his shirt aside when she helped him undress. He wasn’t oblivious to the fact she had regularly been snatching shirts, undershirts and tee-shirts away from him since the beginning of Training and that they were now stashed in her pink suitcase. He didn’t comment on it though.

If his smelly shirts could comfort her once he was gone, he wasn’t going to deny her.

There was no real funny business in the shower. He chose the plainest setting and they mostly hugged under the streaming water. Hands wandered but only to touch not to start anything. They clung to each other, skin flushed against skin, her lips mouthing the same relentless words against his neck again and again, as if they were about to be torn away from each other.

When she finally turned the water off, he kissed her.

For a brief moment, he was reminded of the last night of the Tour.

It wasn’t their usual brand of despair. It wasn’t the familiar urge to take.

It was…

He brushed his knuckles against her cheek, pushed her wet hair over her shoulder…

When his hands rested under her ass and she hopped and locked her legs around his waist, he didn’t pin her to the shower’s wall like he usually would have. He carried her to her bed.

They never stopped kissing.

Not when he almost tripped on her discarded shoe and not when he tugged on the bed covers so he could lie her down on silky sheets.

Not when they clumsily adjusted so she could rest with her head on the pillow, with him heavy between her legs.

Not when they started touching each other.

He couldn’t stop kissing her.

At that moment, she was oxygen.

He needed her to survive.

He stroke her slowly, without displaying any of the dirty tricks he had developed with her along the years. It was pure touch. Basic. He just wanted to feel.

She seemed to be of a similar mind.

There was no real finesse to the way her hand was slowly running up and down his dick, not enough pressure to make it a sweet torture.

When he was sure she was ready, he caught her hand and entwined their fingers. They ended on the pillow near her head. He drew back to look in her eyes when he entered her and she arched her neck, struggling not to close her eyelids in pleasure, to keep staring at him.

The next second, they were kissing again.

His thrusts were slow, almost lazy. He let pleasure build by itself.

They had spent the previous day and a good part of the night fucking to the point he had thought he had exhausted his allotted number of hard-ons for the rest of his life. This wasn’t about sex.

This was… more.

They were one.

At that moment, they were one.

And it was…

Everything.

He wanted it to last forever. He wanted to live in that moment: buried in her, her tongue in his mouth, safe in her warmth.

Their climax was shattering.

It destroyed the illusion of peace.

Eternity gone in a flash of a bliss.

They settled on their side, facing each other, her left leg trapped between his, ankles hooked, hands entwined between them, foreheads pressed together… They breathed each other’s breath, doze off only to wake up and kiss the other with a sudden terror that it would be the last time…

His rest was fretful and not just because she was clinging to his hand with despair. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand table, over her shoulder, from time to time, and the red numbers made him feel sicker and sicker.

It would ring half an hour before the stylists would show up to take the tributes away. He would have time to go back to his own room, to get dressed, to… prepare. If anything like that was possible.

The clock didn’t stop.

It never stopped.

The closer it got to the time it was supposed to ring, the more frantic his kisses became.

Effie was trying so hard not to cry.

He was trying so hard to look strong.

“I love you.” he whispered, two minutes before it was set to ring. His own personal brand of farewell, except he would be the one dying this time around. He had been thinking the words for a long time now but they had always remained stuck in his throat, heavy in their simplicity.

She rushed hers out, almost relieved to finally be allowed to say it out loud instead of mouthing it against his skin. She almost choked on them. “I love you. I love you so much…”

Her kiss was hard, demanding, and it only turned soft when the beeping of the clock echoed in the room. His face crumpled in the middle of it but he kept on kissing her, desperate to have one last second, one last…

It took a long time to talk himself into letting her go.

He briefly cupped her cheek but left her bed before he could falter, before it became impossible to do so, before he forced Peacekeepers to drag him out of her arms…

She sat up, her lips wobbling until she bit hard on her bottom one, hard enough to draw blood probably.

He searched for meaningful last words and realized they had already shared them. Anything they would say after that would feel… less.

He took a deep breath and turned away, walked out of the room.

The moment the door shut behind him he heard her burst in painful sobs.

He wasn’t surprised that their last kiss had the salty taste of tears.

AN: Soooooo how much do you hate me? What do you think of Haymitch's requests? Did you like their last night together? Did you think he would say those words as a goodbye? It was a really emotional chapter to write! I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know your thoughts!

(for those of you who read April Showers, I won't be updating Sunday because I won't be there but I will be updating on Monday instead so we don't miss a week so keep an eye out for it ;) )

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #into that good night

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regrettablewritings · 7 years

Text

All the Write Words, Pt.IV (Library AU!Vladimir Ranskahov x Reader)

Prologue Part I Part II Part III Part V

For the first two years the Ranskahov brothers had been in America, the Veles Taxi & Limousine Services had been the Prohaska Cab Garage. Old Man Prohaska himself was a stubborn old man whose spit-at-your-shoes attitude hadn’t won him many companions. It did, however, win him a bizarre and rather cruel death by a bowling ball bash to the cranium. At the time, Anatoly had been one of the better options to leave the garage with and while it was highly likely that he wasn’t even in the will to begin with, the nervous lawyer who kept staring at an oddly calm and quiet Vladimir stated otherwise. And just like that, the garage was under new ownership. No questions asked.

Not much had changed under the Ranskahov ruling: It had always employed an abundance of Russians, it usually had rap or cheesy Russian folk music blaring from an old boom box. The mini collage of centerfolds and pinups only changed by gaining a few more additions and business went on as it had before because generally, customers didn’t have a preference for taxi services by name. Just do the job, do it good, and they’d go on their merry way. The only apparent change was the transformation of the logo into Veles Taxi. That, and maybe – just maybe – the powerful presence of tall, scary Russian men had increased since the brothers had taken over.

Whether or not this was intended by the new owners was never outwardly addressed because at least they could offer that they wanted to give the less-than-cuddly-looking blokes chances at employment. At the very least, it didn’t seem to bother Anatoly nor Vladimir as what would be said in their employees’ baritone, chain-smoker’s Russian usually fell upon deaf ears and was more often than not just simple talk or a crude joke here or there. It was never anything that called for alertness and even rarer that they would ever feel the need to be on complete edge at all whenever they were in the garage. The fact that it took an assignment in the shape of a preschooler’s workbook for Vladimir to seek refuge in his office away from the rest of the big guys was therefore all the more amusing.

The office was never truly quiet. There was always clanging of Vladimir slamming a shot glass or bottle of vodka onto the wooden desk, the clicking of the thick clock on the wall, Anatoly sighing through his nose as he went through paperwork (Russian and English, of course). Today was no different, only it had gained more accompaniment: grunts of frustration, the rhythmic tapping of pencil onto paper, the occasional scribbling followed by frantic erasing, the rustle of a hand ruffling hair out of irritation, and the groan of a chair every time its occupant leaned back with almost every single desire to say “Fuck it” that the human body could possibly muster in this situation. But he couldn’t. Not when he had just barely started – it’d be laughable, a wound to his pride! Vladimir glanced down at what he’d accomplished: three out of five completed traces of the word “cat” written in dotted format. In the corner of the paper was a cartoon cat saying some gibberish that to the trained reader would have read “Meow-valous!” To Vladimir, it was only a mockery and it encouraged him to furiously erase at the eyes until they were faded.

Another groan of the chair sounded into the office as Vladimir leaned back and let out a nearly defeated sigh. This shouldn’t be so hard. Why was it hard? Was there a specific order to write certain letters? His eyes whipped to the unfinished alphabet sheet. He was supposed to rewrite the letters of the English alphabet atop the dotted examples below the more solid ones. He noticed that his Q was upside-down* and in his opinion, it didn’t matter; people would know what he meant, right? He thought back to earlier in the day during his rather eventful session with (Y/N) – had she said anything important about this?

“Wrong,” (Y/N) said. Vladimir grumbled in frustration. He’d already been “corrected” five times, mostly on how he’d been writing lowercase b’s and d’s (was it his fault they looked alike? No!)

“Here, let me . . .” (Y/N) eased up beside him and leaned over. Once again, a stifled sigh attempted to escape Vladimir but he instead settled to point a glare at her. Unfortunately for him the moment he turned to direct it at her, he found himself looking at the side profile of something he couldn’t really glare quite properly at. His attention had become so fixed that he didn’t even notice when his tutor took the pencil from his hand.

“I know this may sound a bit convoluted – pardon me, confusing, but growing up I just saw it as Little B wants to look forward to the upcoming letters. And Little D wants to show B respect, so they look right back at B.” As (Y/N) explained her method, she gave examples of the letters and their respective direction, making her chest jiggle ever so slightly. Vladimir didn’t hear a word of it. It was the confusion he dropped into when he realized what had just happened that (Y/N) mistook for misunderstanding her lesson. “Or,” she pulled back, “just remember that the lowercase letters of B and D face the same direction as their uppercases. Yeah, that’s much simpler, sorry for not saying that one sooner. Understood?”

It took Vladimir a strong few seconds of silence before he forced out a grunt meant to serve as a ‘yes.’ The response was met with a smile – one he detested but had grown to be too exasperated and used to – and he continued on with his work. He really wished the little suka would put the soiled sweatshirt back on because ever since its removal, the lessons had somehow proven to be worse. He was getting distracted more. Probably fulfilling her assumed belief that he was just a vodka-brained Russki bumpkin who didn’t know the first thing about school but everything there was to know about getting drunk and screwing. If it weren’t for the fact that (Y/N) could report him for it, Vladimir would have spat at the floor out of spite. He was going to show her. Show them all! Like hell was he going to let these idiot donkeys believe that he was not only on their level, but truly below them!

Unfortunately no sooner had he made this mental declaration did he happen to glare up to find (Y/N) bend over to sweep up some fallen coffee grains. Under better circumstances (one where he wouldn’t have been in this hellhole of a library to begin with), he would have loved to stare at the jean-clad roundness that greeted his sight. And also under better circumstances, he would’ve been a more studious person and would’ve committed (Y/N)’s words to memory instead of blotting them out in place of this new stimuli.

B looks backward to greet A . . . ? No, that couldn’t have been it. If that were the case, then (Y/N) needn’t have corrected him all those times. Q’s tail isn’t upside down, but then no other alphabet had a tail like that so why would it matter, people would know which one it was –

“черт побери!” the Russian roared. By then, he had already swept his arm about halfway across the desk, shoving much of his office supplies to the floor. The silence was broken completely, as was the man’s soul at this point. He somehow managed to miss the source of his frustration, however. The “Meow-valous” workbook smiled up at him with erased eyes, unfinished, nearly torn in multiple places through harsh erasing. Before any more damage could be done, the elder Ranskahov was in the office threshold, brows furrowed with confusion and concern.

“Volodya?” his quiet Russian soothed the rough silence bit by bit. “Is . . . What have you done?” Anatoly didn’t flinch when Vladimir’s infamous glare was aimed towards him. He was far too used to his brother’s anger to be too entirely phased by it anymore. “Nothing . . .” Vladimir huffed, “ . . . is wrong.” His nostril flared, his own jagged Russian combating his brother’s. Anatoly scoffed quietly.

“I somehow doubt that,” he muttered, entering the room. As he neared his brother’s desk, he glanced down at the surface. Maybe his brother had come upon some unfavorable paperwork – wait. Anatoly’s brows furrowed once more. Only this time, it was solely from confusion. Did . . . did he just see a pun? Did Vladimir even get English puns?

The sudden expression cued Vladimir into recognizing the situation, quickly shuffling the book under what actual paperwork remained on his desk. “What is it you want?” he demanded, trying to make himself sound quieter and calmer than what he was actually feeling. A cocktail of frustration, embarrassment, and pending horror at the very real possibility that his brother would discover just what he was being subjected to.

Anatoly wanted to keep his eyes trained on what he thought he saw, truly he did. But Maybe now just wasn’t the time to argue with one’s slightly taller, definitely bulkier and more pugnacious brother. “Nothing of great concern . . .” he said with hesitation. “We would appreciate if you would join us in garage for a little chat about how the budget has been going as far as materials. But if you are too upset with some other matter –”

“No,” Vladimir interrupted. “No. Just . . . Just wait for me down there.” The moment Anatoly left (albeit with every desire to question the situation), Vladimir rolled the work book up and shoved it into his coat pocket. He’d just have to wait until he was in the sanctity of his room to complete the damned assignment. About halfway through the threshold to leave the office, he quickly turned around and placed a half-full bottle of vodka by his coat for when he’d leave. It was highly likely that he would be needing it this evening.

#regrettablewritings #all the write words #vladimir ranskahov x reader #vladimir ranskahov imagine #vladimir ranskahov imagines #daredevil imagine #daredevil imagines

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megamindturtle · 7 years

Text

co-workers

megamind somewhat defines his relationship with roxanne. somewhat, but not really. what does he know anyway?

He doesn’t know why, but Megamind races across town to Roxanne’s apartment nearing the middle of the night.

Okay, that’s a lie. He does know why. He always knows why, but if he just tells himself that it’s only for a second. That he just needs to see with his own two eyes that she’s fine. All ten fingers and ten toes accounted for and he’ll be on his merry way.

Because—because—

Because Roxanne Ritchi just doesn’t disappear. Every vacation she’s ever taken is known well in advanced. There might be mild death threats for him to mark his calendar. After all, she complains. Loudly. And angrily about how much he is inconveniencing her. A lot.

Megamind, I have to pack. Megamind, what if I miss my plane? God. Damn. It. Megamind! What if—

(Technically, he always inconveniencing her, but that’s just semantics.)

And Roxanne just doesn’t get sick. She’s impeccably healthy. Oddly healthy. All the time. Compared to most people. Religiously and extremely hygienic.

( No, she only washes herself and makes sure she’s so clean all the time because she’s around you all the time. Of course she wants to erase your breath from the air she breathes—of course, she hates—)

Megamind just has to know she’s okay. He hates not knowing more than anything and once he’s statied his curiosity, then he’ll go home. Just—he just needs to make sure there was no break in or kidnapping or fatal flu or—

Yeah, he just needs to make sure she’s okay. It’s been a little bit over two weeks since he’s kidnapped her and she hasn’t been on the air at all either. Or going to work at the news station.

Or—

Well, he just needs to stop thinking. So hard. Just needs to think of this objectively and ignore that train of thought that he had a second ago about break ins and kidnappings that aren’t done by him and—

Megamind slows the hoverbike to land silently on Roxanne’s balcony. He dismounts the bike easily, his cape swishing slightly behind him. All the lights are off, he notices, but her bedroom curtains are drawn too, so maybe she’s just sleeping.

God, he’s absolutely creepy. In that well, I better check to make sure she’s okay even if she’s sleeping kind of way. His feet feel like lead at the thought as he makes himself to the door.

Totally fucking creepy. He’s actually doing this. He’s—this isn’t even a kidnapping this is—

Without further berating himself, because honestly he could stand outside her apartment all night telling himself he’s awful, he doesn’t. Megamind sucks in a deep breath, steeling himself as he tests her balcony glass door. He’s surprised it’s open and his heart stills against his ribs and slowly falls into his stomach.

It slides easily, the metal smooth along the track. Wordlessly, he takes a step inside and from the moonlight, is pleased to see that everything looks relatively normal in her living room and kitchen at her first glance.

Nothing really too out of place. In that looks like there’s been a burglary/kidnapping kind of way. No chairs flipped over. Nothing torn or shredded. No destruction of any kind. Just a few cups litter her coffee table, some clothes tossed over her large red couch.

Really, he thinks if he lingers on it, it’s more strange that it looks like she hasn’t even left her apartment since the last kidnapping.. Taking another step inside, he finds papers scattered in piles everywhere. A chaos of some sort in every direction, a movable white board by her dining table, her laptop’s bubbly screensaver emitting a soft glow tucked in the corner.

He treads lightly inside, finding himself winding towards the the nearest stack, having to know what’s going on with all the paperwork. He crouches down quickly enough, his gloved hand barely brushing the first page. A compilation of date of some sort, so many numbers and—

“What are you doing?”

Megamind shrieks and falls back on his ass, his palms awkwardly catching him. His wrists sting from the strange angle and blood rushes to the back of his skull when the weight of it makes him tip backwards, looking upside at one Miss Roxanne Ritchi as she peers over her loft railing.

“I—well—you see,” he stammers. “You’re alive!” he rushes instead.

It’s dark and though his eyesight is better in the dark than humans, Roxanne still looks a bit shadowy. He doesn’t need light to see her raising a questioning brow at him though.

“Am I not supposed to be? Is that—is that part of some evil plan of yours?”

She sounds like she’s kinda joking, but Megamind isn’t really sure and—

“No!” he shouts, jumping to his feet. He sways a bit as his head rushes from the jarring movement. “No,” he says more seriously. “That’s never part of any plan.”

Roxanne doesn’t say anything, just quietly making her way down the stairs. She squints as she flicks on the light, clutching her comfy jacket close to her. “Are you okay?”

But Megamind isn’t really sure what she’s asking about because he’s focusing completely on her cheeks, the slope of her nose, the area under her eyes.

They’re—

“—red,” he whispers.

She winces at that, turning from him. But it only gives him a more prolific view of her inflamed skin, of the bumps and red that sprawl along her usually clear face. It’s—

She laughs hollowly before muttering to herself. “Wow, no fucking tact.”

Megamind swallows, uncomfortable as he also looks away. “Sorry.”

Roxanne groans and runs a hand through her hair. She sighs heavily and walks towards her kitchen. “Tea?” she asks, not looking at him.

Megamind blinks, unmoving for his place across the room. “Uh, wh-what?”

This time Roxanne snaps her attention back to him, red skin and all without looking away. “Tea. Would you like some tea, Megamind?”

He blinks again and instinctively gravitates towards her. “Uh, yes. Tea. Would be nice. Yes, please.”

She nods once then turns to fetch something out of a cabinet. There are boxes after boxes stacked haphazardly as she reaches up. Mint tea, green tea, earl gray, sleepytime, spiced apple, blueberry, orange, etc, etc. Finally, she settles on some a simple black tea variety. She seems tired, the way she moves, and—

“I can feel you burning holes in the back of my head, you know.”

Megamind scoots to sit in one of her barstools, breaking his gaze from her form. “Sorry!”

Without turning around, she laughs and this time it doesn’t sound so bitter. “Stop apologizing,” she says. As an afterthought, she asks. “You’re not planning on kidnapping me, are you? I really don’t want to be on camera right now.” She makes a grand sweeping motion pointing to her face.

“Why would I kidnap you?” he asks.

She looks over her shoulder, her eyes only slightly amused. “You kinda broke into my apartment? Like most kidnappers? And well, you usually kidnap me.”

It clicks then, the lightbulb flicking on as Megamind abruptly stands from his chair. Without a second thought, he stalks back towards the balcony door, ignoring Roxanne as she calls out to him. He opens the door quickly and shuts it just as fast, making eye contact with her through the glass.

From behind her island, she’s gesturing for him to come back inside, waving him over, but Megamind shakes his head. Instead, he takes a deep breath and wears the most serious expression he can muster and—

Knocks on her door. Loudly.

“Miss Ritchi!” he practically yells. “Are you home? I’m not here to kidnap you! Just want to see if you’re okay and—”

Roxanne races from the kitchen, utterly terrified and slams the door open and tugs Megamind inside faster than he can blink. She shoves him to the side as she closes the curtains before whirling on him.

(He can still feel the pressure of her hand wrapped around his wrist. The strength, the action, the grip makes his heart race a little fast.)

“What on this god green earth is wrong with you?” she grits. “What the actual fuck, Megamind, are you trying to wake up my neighbors?”

He clears his throat awkwardly and grabs his arm defensively, “Well, you know” he coughs “— I thought it would be better if you know—” he mutters.

Frustrated, she puts her hands on her hips The red in her face looks more intense as she glares at him. “What? What could you possibly be thinking?”

“Ah, well,” he sputters. “You know, it’s not a kidnapping. So. Well, better make sure I’m actually invited inside. And, you might. Well, you might actually be the one waking up your neighbors if you keep yelling at me.”

Roxanne blinks up owlishly at him, her shoulders automatically going slack, her fighting spirit gone. Silence stretches between them for a moment, blue eyes examining green before she breaks down in laughter.

She’s wheezing, doubled over too. “So you bang on my door!”

Megamind feels himself blushing. “Well— I had to make sure you understood!”

Roxanne grins at him, her laughter in her smile. “You could have just told me that in the first place rather than wake the dead!”

He huffs, a smile of his own quirking at his lips. “Would you have believed me?”

She hums, calming down. Averting her eyes, she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, most likely not.” Peering up through her lashes, she bites her lower lip for a second before giving a soft smile. “I do now though.”

Warmth spirals from Megamind’s heart, brushing sweetly against his ribs and he wants to soak in this moment. Burn this to memory because maybe he’s dreaming. He—

The kettle screams and Roxanne jumps. “I should go get that. For the tea.”

His mouth suddenly feels dry. Licking his lips, he agrees. “Yes, the tea.”

“Mmhmm.”

Roxanne busies herself in the kitchen and Megamind slips back onto the barstool at her counter. He’s staring. He knows that he’s staring. He knows that she knows that he knows that he’s staring. He catches the corner of her eye for a brief moment, but for now, he’s trying to not it bother him, his line of sight focused on her skin.

“Is it a allergic reaction or…?”

“Rosacea actually. I had a flare up. It happens.”

About what , he wants to ask, but he doesn't.

“Ah. Is it always this bad? It looks like it hurts.”

And it does. Looks like it hurts. Her skin is dry and flaky and red and—

She laughs. “It’s not always this bad.”

He bounces his leg on the stool foot rest. “But why? You seemed fine last time I saw you.”

Roxanne sighs and plays with the string of the one of the tea bag as it’s steeping. “Lavender.”

“Lavender?”

She drums the counter and awkwardly looks at him. “Look, so I’m not blaming you per say, but—” she pauses, attempting to make eye contact. “You scented the knock out spray with lavender.”

Megamind his heart drops and the words already rushing out to apologize. Again. Because that’s all he’s been doing for the last ten or fifteen minutes or so is apologizing. God, he should even be here. He should just—

Roxanne raises her hand and he stops. She looks at him gently and motions him to sit down. So he does.

“Like I said,” she starts. “I’m not blaming you. In retrospect, the lavender is a nice touch. I do like the smell of lavender! It’s just,” she points at her face. “Fragrance and my skin don’t get along much. As you can see.”

She lets go of the tea bag, a bit dribbling over the edge of the mug. Roxanne sends him another friendly smile and it’s so— strange. Really, she should be angry, but she’s not and—

“Usually, I can still wear makeup, but yeah. I’m not leaving the house until it settles down,” she says it matter-of-factly.

“What about work?”

“Just working on my longer pieces at home. Writing some scripts for the station. You know. The desk work usual.”

He snorts. “I don’t think I do.”

She settles a mug in front of him. It matches hers: blue with a white handle. That makes his heart heart melt somewhat. The idea that they have something matching, if only for a moment.

She gives him a wry smile. “No, maybe you don’t.”

“Either way,” he says, his fingers tapping against the mug. “I promise to not kidnap you until after you go back to work. Like on the camera. It’s the least I can do.”

“...thank you...that’s...well, that’s rather sweet of you, Megamind,” she says.

Things are fall quiet between them as she pushes her sugar container his way. She doesn’t say anything either as he puts heaps of sugar in his tea.

“I mean, well, I could most likely make you a balm or a pill or something?” he says after the fourth scoop. “Maybe try to find some way to help ease it better than what you’re taking now?” His brows furrow together as he starts to think. “Really, it shouldn’t be too hard— I think I could do it,” he trails.

“If you do that, I’ll love you forever. Just saying,” Roxanne says offhandedly, chuckling to herself.

Megamind snaps his attention to her, feeling fluttery, all thoughts ceasing. “Um.”

Um, as in what, as in how as in why as in why not? Well, he knows the answer to why not but still, all he is left with is um.

She quirks a brow, “What?”

She looks amused, her head tilting to the head as she waits for him to find his words. If he can even find words because— because— Roxanne Ritchi has literally said the one sentence in regards to him he never thought she’d say.

Ever.

So.

Um.

“Wh-what you just said,” Megamind stammers because at this point, he is no longer an evil overlord. He has to be dead. In a weird afterlife where he drinks tea in Roxanne’s apartment and she smiles at him and almost hints that maybe, one day, she could possibly—

“What did I say?” she asks, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hand.

There’s a beauty mark near the corner of her mouth and Megamind’s heart has grown so much he can’t even breathe right. His chest has expanded so much he feels like he’s going to pop.

His voice is higher than usual, disbelieving because what she said could not be true. “That you’d love me? Forever?”

She blinks, her face completely blank and then she—well, if had to describe it, he’d say it’s like she explodes.

“Oh. Oh god!” her eyes are wild, her hand twisting this way and that way. “It’s, um, an expression? People say?” she rushes. “Because love is like— lots of things and there are tons of layers to love and I’d be so— I’d be super grateful. I’d be happy. I’d be doing backflips over ten cows!”

(He tries not to be....sorely disappointed. He can’t be. Because Roxanne Ritchi would never actually love him. Not romantically, not romantically. But— she said there were layers to love and he is going to tuck that phrase away, maybe to soothe his heart and his mind on bleak, bleak days.)

Instead, he focuses on more pressing things, things that don’t require layers, but logic.

“Ten cows?! Why ten? That wouldn’t be right realistically, if you’re going to exaggerate, Miss Ritchi.”

“I don’t know, Megamind!” she says, throwing her hands up in the air. “It seemed like a good number!”

He presses his lips together, shaking his head. “Six seems like a more doable number though? Still impressive, more than five, but not too impossible. Especially if you were to possibly launch yourself off something— like a gymnast!”

“I mean, I don’t normally vault over cows to begin with. Frontwards or backwards for the matter,” Roxanne says. “ I just— yeah, thank you. If you were to help me, I’d be really thankful.”

She pats the top of his hand finally, sealing her thanks and Megamind does everything to not stare down at his gloves. And replay the moment over and over and over and over again.

“An-anytime, Miss Ritchi. You’re—”

the woman of my dreams, he wants to say. “— co-worker?”

Wow. Talk about a non sequitur.

“Co-worker?” she asks, nonplussed and curious, being very nosy reporter like.

“Yes,” he adds with a nod because if there is one thing Megamind has learned is that the best lies are the ones that you believe yourself and he’s going to stick with this instead of, you know, confessing everything. “ With Metro Man. You’re my co-worker.”

Roxanne nods slowly, as if she’s absorbing his words. Tentatively, she sips her now cooling tea. “I, uh, never thought about it that way, but that’s one way to put it.”

“A bit unorthodox, yes. But we’re colleagues in the grand scheme of things.

Because of destiny , rests on his tongue because the last thing he needs to do is begin a destiny rant to Roxanne after lamely, all of this. Whatever this is, but it’s bizarre. In the same vein his head is bizarre, but he’s unable to look away or stop himself from wanting more.

“Well, thank you. From one co-worker to another.”

She yawns.

He’s watched enough movies to know when it’s his cue. And it’s getting rather late, crawling towards one in the morning to be exact. “I think I better leave. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’ll see if I can do something for your skin. Give me a little bit, okay?”

She nods and smiles again, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she holds back another yawn. “Thanks for coming over for tea, I guess? It was— nice.”

Roxanne says nice in the way that people don’t mean things are actually nice. But she’s smiling at him and his mind and heart and everything are getting read wrong which is wrong because usually megamind is right. About things. Not people, but things and— he needs to stop thinking.

“Well, after you’re back to work,” he says standing and moving backwards towards the door, “be prepared for some devious plots,” he juts a finger in her direction. “Super awful. Beyond evil. Horrifying bad,” he emphasis every other word with another jab. : I’ll let you off the hook for now, but once you’re better, remember who’s in charge.”

She quirks a brow and leans against her archway across the room. “I thought you said we’re co-workers.”

“I’m more like your supervisor,” he shrugs, his heel tapping the glass door before he turns around. Looking over his shoulder, he smirked. “An evil supervisor.”

“Uh-huh,” Roxanne pushes off the wall and moves towards him. Megamind steps back as she stands beside him, opening up the door for him to exit. “Pretty sure I already have one of those back at the station and they’re miles load more evil than you in that department.

She’s so close, he thinks, it makes him feel a little breathless.

“Have they— “ he starts, but stops when she pats him on the back, the cold air hitting his face.

“Thanks for coming by, Megamind,” she says softly. “I mean it. I guess I was a little lonely.”

“Of course,” he sputters. “That’s what—”

“—co-workers are for, right?”

He nods once, swallowing and finally takes his first step outside. “I’ll be back to kidnap you. When you’re feeling better, that is.”

Roxanne rests on the glass door, hugging her arms across her chest. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to say I’d be looking forward to it.”

To that, he laughs, “Well, you’ve never been a standard damsel.”

“No, I suppose not,” she grins. “But you’re not a standard villain either.”

He doesn’t know what she means by that, but he thinks it’s a compliment. “Of course not, I’m a supervillain after all.”

She hums. “Of course,” she agrees. “Anyway, good night, Megamind. See you at the next kidnapping.”

Megamind stares, his lips parting when she holds back a laugh. “This is the part when you say goodbye and get on your hoverbike.”

“Oh,” he says. “Right, goodbye?”

“Goodbye.”

He nods and inches closer to his bike. “Good night as well.”

She snorts. “Good night.”

“Good—”

“Megamind!”

He sheepishly grins as he throws a leg over it, starting the engine. He waves one last time, mouthing a quick sorry for good measure.

Roxanne does laugh as she walks inside, waving to him before she closes the curtain. “Get home safe,” her lips read through the glass before the fabric falls way.

And just unlike when he raced over to her apartment, Megamind takes the long way home, enjoying not knowing why everything happened, but basking in it anyway.

#megamind #drabble #megarox #honestly this is just really freaking fluffy #and there is much talking #help #they're kinda like friends in this one?#nothing serious between them #its cute #lmao

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