#please put your fingers through the bars of her enclosure please please please please please | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tteokdoroki · 1 year

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*ੈ🌩️‧₊˚— happy home day + eijirou kirishima.

૮˶ᵕ ༝ᵕ˶ა synopsis — exactly one a year after adopting from the pound, kirishima plans a special surprise for you, his special little puppy hybrid, on their birthday.

⭑ warnings — please read + mdni ! characters aged up, smut, fluff, hybrids, lingerie, collars, creampies, dumbification, possessiveness, pet-names, body-worship, orgasm-denial, dom-sub, unprotected sex, praise!kink, daddy!kink, breeding!kink, afab!reader, puppy hybrid!reader, pro hero + owner!kirishima.

⭑ words — 4.3K.

⭑ notes — hi !!! i wanted to post something so had you guys vote on what you wanted to see next. the winner ended up being kirishima <3! this was a birthday fic commissioned by my baby @eijirhoe ( who has given me permission to post ) and was beta read by the lovely @vagabondings!! i hope you enjoy !! kiss kiss - m.list ✩

“for fucks sake, kirishima, that is not a fuckin’ guard dog.”

only katsuki bakugou could be this miserable in an adoption centre for adorable hybrids— kittens, bunnies, mice and puppies alike. the redhead gives the employee standing nearby an apologetic mix between a smile and a grimace, the poor thing shaking in their boots at the proximity of the dynamight.

“katsuki, don’t yell. you’ll scare the ‘lil thing,” he pouts, sticking his fingers through the wire bars on the cage— coaxing the little hybrid inside closer. “and i thought you said german shepherds made great guards!” kirishima wiggles his digits again, pursing his lips to make those kissy sounds that are usually used to call to cats and crouches down to the height of the enclosure.

bakugou smacks him upside the head but takes a stance beside his rioting hero friend before signing dejectedly. “wrong sound idiot, you’re meant to whistle,” the two strong, and surely intimidating men spare a glance at the cowering hybrid as katsuki whistles in an attempt to gain some trust. “and they usually do, but this one looks like they might shit themselves if someone looks at them funny. not a guard dog.”

“but bakugou—“

“i hate to interrupt, mister riot. mister dynamight.” the employee from earlier steps in, steeling her nerves as she gestures to the cage the puppy hybrid is in. “but if this one doesn’t get adopted soon, i’m afraid they’re going to be put down. we don’t have the space for slightly quieter and apprehensive hybrids like them, no one really wants them if they’re not overly friendly or energetic and…if they do it’s usually for the like…”

“hybrid farms,” bakugou finishes for the kid, his voice thick with disgust. “just shut one of those down the other day. awful fuckin’ places.”

kirishima pouts again, peering into your cage— noting the gloss in your big pretty eyes and how you shrink in on yourself, tail pinned to the ground without the happy swish to it that other puppy hybrids in the centre have. “so…” he can’t imagine what you’ve been through, what you’ve seen to have ended up here. “if they don’t get adopted today, they’ll be put down? isn’t there any other way? that hardly seems fair.”

“to us it’s a little more humane than ending up at a hybrid farm or those indecent love hotels exclusively for sex with hybrids…” the employee trails off again, nervously fidgeting with their fingers. in the distance, a bell chimes with the notification of more customers— a mother and her child, probably looking to adopt one of the younger, nosier hybrids for their family. “if you’ll excuse me…”

“i’ll take ‘em!” red riot blurts without even thinking, the employee not having taken two steps away from him and his angry blonde friend who looks at him like he’s gone bat-shit crazy. “this is their only chance, right? i have to do something, they don’t deserve to go out like this.” the blonde closes his mouth, holding his protests thoughtfully.

he’s right. kirishima is right, his kind soul always is. “ai’ght, fine. but don’t expect me to train that thing, they ain’t nowhere near close t’bein’ a guard dog.” bakugou grunts, folding his arms across his broad chest with a faux look of dismay— not admitting how impressed he is with eijirou.

eijirou kirishima has a heart of gold, he’s always been like that— putting others before himself because he believes in them. he takes in strays, builds up their strength and their confidence, letting them know that he’ll always be the sturdy figure they can fall back on in times of need. katsuki was one of those strays, an unwanted dog just like you. he’d bared his fangs to the sweet redhead in fear of letting in someone that would hurt him, but as it turns out, becoming friends with someone as selfless as kirishima was just what katsuki needed.

the employee sighs, shoulders sagging with relief as they glance between the two pro heroes. “should i be getting the adoption papers then?”

with an enthusiastic nod, red riot peers back at you with affectionate eyes and a smile you can trust— one that only widens when you bump your head against his fingers over the bars of your pen and let the tips of them just brush your lush puppy dog ears. “yes please,” he says warmly, his gaze never leaving you. “don’t you worry about a thing little one, it’s you and me now, got it?”

and for the first time in forever, your tail wags happily, and you don’t feel worried at all.

being adopted by eijirou kirishima most probably saved your life.

he’d been eager to get you out of that shelter, with the promise of a better life written against his lips and lost under his tongue as he babbled about your new home and how excited he was to have a puppy hybrid of his own. a timid, sweet faced and jumpy german-shepherd hybrid nothing like their breed— with big eyes, a set of pointed and twitchy puppy dog ears and a tail that stays pinned to the ground with nervousness. there’s a lot for him to undo, a lot of trust to build up.

kirishima was patient when introducing you to his home that only big time pro hero money could buy— he let you sniff out the place, scenting areas that made you feel safe even having his comforting, large presence right beside you was enough to make your ears perk up and heightened senses go wild. he let you pick out the biggest spare room in the house and had even felt sad for you when you stated that you’d never had your own before.

“with me, i’ll make sure you have everything you want ‘n more, kay pup? things will never go back to the way they were for you.” the red head swore to you, crossing his heart — that was the first time you’d ever felt love like that.

the two of you quickly fall into an easy routine; kirishima would leave for work in the mornings after making sure he’d set out the perfect meal a growing pup, like you, would need— using all sorts of kibble that his explosive friend katsuki had recommended. occasionally he’d spoil you with pieces of turkey bacon that he knew you weren’t allowed to have, but what was the harm in spoiling someone who hadn’t experienced luxury before? plus he liked the way your German shepherd tail would wag and your pupils would dilate at the sight of the meaty meal.

eijirou made sure you had all the toys possible to play with while he was away for work— you didn’t like sitters and nearly chewed out the last one katsuki had recommended for a nervous puppy such as yourself. you didn’t like her scent and how it had gotten all over your owner. you preferred to be alone, surrounded by the pinewood and musky husk the redhead would leave behind. and, by the time he came home from being red riot, you’d be sitting right by the door with big bambi eyes to welcome him home, the little bell on your store-bought collar jingling as you rush to meet kirishima at eight pm sharp each day.

though you’re pampered with treats and pretty things and ear scratches 24/7– kirishima does have you trained by that awful bakugou. you’re by no means a guard dog, despite what your hybrid breed might indicate— but you’re disciplined with house rules and how to sit and act properly. bakugou is mean and he snarls at you from time to time, but the praise and kisses you get from your darling and sweet red haired owner make the training completely worth it.

nowadays, katsuki doesn’t even question when you scamper onto the couch or perch yourself on eijirou’s lap whenever they have their boys nights to watch the hero rankings live. “pampered fuckin’ pooch,” is all he grunts from over his can of beer.

“hey,” eijirou will huff, his hands on the fat of your waist or twirling through your fluffy brown and black tail. “don’t be mean, katsuki. they don’t know any better.”

even with all that house training— you still sneak into his bed when being on your own gets too much. his warmth calms you, and eijirou doesn’t seem to mind the brush of your thick and soft tail against his thighs in the morning. “pup, you’re not s’pposed to be on the bed,” he’d tried to scold you the first time it happened, he really did, but your ears lay flat against your skull and you gave him those eyes and kirishima was quick to dive in next to you— asking you what was wrong. “nightmares huh? of the pound? well, those can’t be very nice. maybe you should share a bed with me tonight. one night won’t hurt, will it?”

except one night, becomes every single night.

repeatedly, each night, eijirou scoops you up into his flexing, toned arms and carries you to his room instead of your own— tucks you under his weighted duvets not yours, and swamps you with his body heat. he runs like a furnace during the later hours, not that you mind, it’s nice to be close to him. to feel adored like that.

yourself and kirishima are touchier than most hybrid-owner pairs, you’ve noticed. bakugou thinks it’s because you have a clingy-attachment style, the red head because you’ve been deprived of the affection that most pups deserve. he goes beyond headpats and chin scratches, and the ones that itch right behind your floppy fluffy ears. kirishima keeps a hand on the slope of your waist when he takes you for walks on sunny days, he holds your hand instead of your leash most of the time and his lips linger against your forehead a little longer than normal for a hybrid that’s just a housepet.

you think it’s normal at least, you’ve never been cared for like this and having eijirou’s attention some, if not all, of the time feels like a dream come true. you know that he loves you when actions of endearment become more passionate— when innocent cheek kisses become sloppier lip-locks and when hugs turn into desperate attempts to grab at your flesh, also when your heat cycles become less about finding a mate and more about begging kirishima to ravage you against the nearest surface, soothing the instinctual ache in your bones and lower tummy.

he loved you, and you loved him— and you knew that you owed it all to kirishima for the better life he gave you. taking a chance on a shy little puppy hybrid at risk of being put down.

taking a chance on you.

“angel, ‘m home!”

the rustling of brown paper bags, heavy foot-steps and keys jingling in the front door make your puppy dog ears twitch and you perk up from your place deeper in the house at the sound of kirishima coming home from a long day’s work. you scramble up to meet him half-way into the kitchen, tail swishing a mile a minute behind you, nose wriggling in anticipation. “e-eji!” you breathe, fingers itching to reach out and touch him. “you’re back!”

you’re so cute, so loyal that it warms the pro hero right down to his core. kirishima nods once, giving you the go ahead to latch onto him since you’d waited so patiently and lets out a small chuckle as you tuck yourself into his side. “i always come back, don’t i?” setting the bags on the marble island, he frees up a hand to brush over your head softly, using a knuckle to rub behind your ear. “have you been good, baby?” moving to cup your cheeks next, he presses a gentle smooch to the tip of your nose. “‘course you have, you’re always good f’me…but, i gotta know— did ya miss me?”

“i always miss you,” you say a little too quickly, nuzzling into the palm of red riot’s large hand, tail wagging even faster. “can i…can i have a kiss, eiji? please.”

for a moment, a primal look flashes through the hero’s eyes before being replaced with something softer, something that mirrors the smile he gives you. “only ‘cause you asked so nicely, baby,” he says playfully, sliding his hands from your face down to your waist and tugging you nice and close, your hips flush against one another. “c’mere puppy, gimme some sugar, hm?” your body can’t help but bristle, keening into kirishima’s touch as he subtly lowers his voice and guides you into following his command.

you stand on your tiptoes without even realising it, tilting your head upwards as kirishima coaxes your mouth open with his mellow moving tongue—sighing sweetly against your lips until he’s captured them properly in a slow kiss, not giving you too much but pouring enough words into it to let you know how much he cares for you. he pulls away so things don’t too heated, but still keeps his hands on you before you can whine in protest.

“what’s that?” you ask softly, cocking your head to the side when you notice the bags behind him.

“oh those? well,” kirishima swoops down to your height, nipping your nose with pointed teeth— only serving to make it scrunch up adorably. “i heard it was a certain pup’s birthday today…and it also happens to be the one year anniversary of their adoption. so i got ‘em a lil’ somethin’ to celebrate.”

he lives for the way you smile, almost dies at how your eyes sparkle. “c-can i open it eji?��

“not all of it, pumpkin,” eijirou briefly lets you go and you really do whimper this time, knowing better than to claw at him to stay when you know he’ll be right back. the burly redhead turns to grab a perfectly wrapped package from within the brown paper bag and passes it to you with an eager grin. “go put this on f’me, will you baby? then meet me in the living room once you’re done, for the rest of your present, kay?”

“okay! i’ll be quick!” you practically squeal, vibrating in your place.

“good pup, i’ll be waitin’,” he turns you around with a grip that's barely there, handling you as if you’ll break with too much force and patting you on the bum softly as you go.

by the time you return to the living room, it’s been completely transformed.

the lighting is dimmed, a ruby glow filtering through and the soft hum of your favourite song reverberates against the walls and high ceilings. kirishima seems to be fixing a box on the coffee table by the couch before he notices you, a slick and sexy grin tugging at the corners of his lips as you approach him. “there’s my pretty puppy,” he rasps lowly, sending a shiver from the tips of your ears right down to your toes. “god, i think i made the right choice pickin’ that cute lil’ number out for ya, looks so good on you, hun.”

heat pulses under your skin like buzzing kinetic energy, making you tuck the swell of your cheek into your shoulder bashfully, fluffy ears flattening against your skull. “you think so?” said number is a darling little babydoll dress, made of black silk and red lace lace accents that tickle the backs of your thighs with hearts embroidered at the chest.

“it looks perfect on you baby, you’re breathtakin’,” kirishima tells you earnestly, holding his hand out for you to hold— which you take shyly. “c’mere, twirl f’me? wanna see all of you. show off for me, cutie.” every single one of his compliments has your tail swaying from side to side and blood rushing to your brain, making you dizzier than the cute little spins you do for him while the pro hero sinks into the couch to watch you.

he leans back, thighs spreading wide— and you have to fight the urge to drop your gaze between them. “that’s it pretty thing, my puppy’s such a fuckin’ stunner.” kirishima swallows thickly, ruby glossed eyes darkening with desire. “come t’daddy pup, wanna give you your other gift.”

you quickly shift to stand between his spread legs, quivering like you’re cold has large and rough hands swallow your waist and bunch your night dress up at your hips. he presses sloppy kisses to the softness of your tummy over the material.

“sit.” he commands simply, tugging on your hips to pull you down with him

“yes daddy,” your breathing is ragged as you sink into kirishima’s lap, thighs apart so that you can straddle him properly. you wonder if he can hear your heart racing from its place in your chest— your heightened hybrid senses can already pick up on his, kirishima’s pulse sky-rocketing now that you’re on top of him. “c-can i have my gift now?”

his calloused hand pushes the black silk up and over the curve of your ass, red riot digging into the fat of it to rock you back and forth over is hardening girth. “r’member your manners, puppy. yer s’pposed to ask daddy nicely.” nonetheless, he relents and snatches up the box on the coffee table— handing it to you to unravel. “open it up, baby.”

excitedly, you tear through the daintily wrapped package, revealing a red patent leather collar—decorated with red and black bows, and a heart shaped tag with the letters ‘EK’ inscribed into it. collaring was a big deal in the hybrid community, it meant a permanent mark, belonging to someone, being in love.

“let me put it on you,” eijirou simpers, readily slipping the leather around your neck and sliding two fingers underneath it to tug your lips up to his. “i love you, pup.” he confesses, licking into your mouth hungrily and grinding up into your dripping heat.

it’s embarrassing how wet you’ve gotten and so fast, dumbly following him to the forest fire of lust, sucking on his tongue like a parched puppy lapping at the first drink it can get. hybrids slick up faster when aroused and kirishima turns you on like no other— somehow finding your panty covered clit between your salacious bump and grind.

slumping against his beefy chest, your nails dig deep into his shoulders and whistle tone dog squeaks bubble up on the swell of your lips each time eijirou swipes the pad of his thumb over your swelling pleasures nub, encouraging your juices to gush over his hard on—glueing you both together by strings your arousal.

“i love you too…p-please e-eiji!” the air in the room feels heavier, tainted with the lust that clouds your logical thought. in fact, you can’t even think right with the way your owner toys with you. he drools against your puppy tongue, curses into your heated mouth all while you’re riding his fingers like your life depends on it, kirishima pinching at your sticky clit just to hear more of your needy whines. “p-please daddy,”

the hand that once sat lightly against your neck now trails over each dip and curve of your body, barely brushing over your nipples or digging into the meat of your ass and thighs. “you look so fuckin’ good in the things i buy you, hun, drive me fuckin’ insane,” kirishima fights back a moan, cock twitching against your ass, desperate to be inside of you. “so beautiful in that lil’ dress, with my name around your neck. fuck… ‘m so lucky. my pup, daddy’s sexy fuckin’ puppy.” he rambles and praises you all at once, giving you whiplash, making you clench and ooze sweetly around nothing.

you’re sure that the redhead is almost as brainless and as fucked out as you are just from dry humping his darling little pup… but through his own grunts and groans, hips wildly bucking up to meet yours— kirishima still manages to dominate you, make you feel like you don’t even have to think around him. “you want me, pup, is that it? want me to fuck you?” he hums huskily against the shell of your ear, pinging your collar against your neck when you nod your head yes wordlessly. “gotta—fuck— gotta use your words f’daddy, c’mon now, you know that.”

“y-yes daddy, want you. badly.” you slur, and suddenly, your world tilts on its axis. your back hits the sofa with a bounce and you're pinned against it by the weight of your owner above you, your knees being pushed into your shoulders.

“a-always such a good…obedient lil thing f’me,” eijirou groans at the sight of you beneath him. “so perfect, ‘m so lucky t’have such a beautiful puppy all to myself, shit!” your silk baby doll gathers at your hips, soaked panties tucked to the side and your glistening, pulsing mound on display like an attraction made just for him. he wastes no time in yanking down his sweats and boxers in one go— revealing his bright red and angry dick, covered in a thick layer of gooey white precum. all for you. kirishima slaps the length of himself against your slit once, twice before his forehead falls against yours.

“p-put it in eiji, c-can’t wait daddy…”

even though your cute little sex makes him a wreck, eijirou still manages to hold control over you— teasing you as he forces his fat tip past your tiny, creamy entrance. “so impatient, cutie, i should make you say please… but fuck, i need you so bad right now. might not last long…”

the pair of you let out strained moans as kirishima pushes in and he reaches the hilt—your sweaty bodies flush against one another, both of you covered in layers of each other’s arousal. your pussy flutters at being filled up so fast, clinging onto the pretty blue veins that spiral around his chubby, swollen cock— a low whine rumbles in your chest as the redhead sets a rough stream to his thrusts, milky cockhead brushing against each pulse point on your sensitive walls.

it’s almost like you’re being knotted, squelching as kirishima tries to pull out of your snug sex that grips him selfishly. all the while, he pounds you to hell and back. you're so full, you’re a slobbering mess already teetering on the edge of insanity. red riot leans over you, washboard abs pressed against the backs of your thighs to force you down into the creaky couch— each time he withdraws from your messy and wet walls, your ears fall back and your tail thumps hard against the cushions, coated in your viscous nectar.

“fuck, this puppycunt sounds so dirty, gorgeous…feels like fuckin’ heaven,” he whispers to you, words damp on your cupid’s bow. “my perfect puppy, a dumb lil’doggy on my cock…s’such a fuckin’ dream.” your brain empties, becomes a void that’s filled with only eijirou kirishima and the way he fucks you deep, hits every spot, touches your body like a man worshipping a higher power. “‘m so lucky baby, really am.”

your collar jingles, the pendant with his name on it bouncing every time kirishima’s cock bullies its way into your gooey insides until they give into him. you’re the lucky one, you think— lucky to be loved like this, to have been rescued from the pound and pinned down on a dick that aches to be inside you, wrapping around his pulsing length to the point where you’re practically milking him already.

“d-daddy!” you hiccup, big fat tears clumping in your lashes, your face a beautiful mess to the man above you. “i can’t…”

the pro hero reaches down between your bodies, close to cumming just from listening to you howl over the sounds of skin slapping on skin, and tugs at your soft slick tail—stroking it until your pussy quivers and gushes around him, painting your babydoll dress and his half rolled down sweats with a fresh wave of your essence. every time he pets the fluffy appendage, you get wetter and wetter, tighter and tighter and your moans loud enough to wake the neighbours.

heavy hips rock into you, even heavier balls clap creamily against your fleshy ass and kirishima lets his head drop to your neck—biting and sucking possessively at exposed skin just above where your collar lies. “yes you fuckin’ can, your daddy’s good pup right?” he slurs hungrily, writing his claim against your throat. “when you get close, hold it f’daddy, be obedient ‘n you’ll get your reward.”

you feel like everything’s on fire, every nerve ending in your body buzzing with anticipation— the knot in your stomach seconds away from unwinding. “b-but daddy—!”

“hold it.” eijirou warns sternly, though his breath stutters— every instinct that he has threatening to breed you up full with a load of his hot cum. “h-hold it, hon,” you sob at the pain and pleasure of holding off, thighs twitching, tail hitting the couch hard and puppy ears flopping over your face. you’re so adorable like this, jolting up the piece of furniture as the redhead languidly canters into you. he finally breaks when you let out a weak cry of his name, his first spurts of cum pouring into you. “f-fuck, let go for me puppy, make a mess on daddy’s cock—shit, thats it. so good, all over me, wanna see you cummin’ with me…”

white hot ropes of seed paint your insides just as your eyes roll back into your skull. he feels so warm, coating your insides with a layer of his cum as if to claim you from the inside out. there’s so much of it that oozes out of your entrance thickly, like a running tap of honey that ruins your pussy lips with opaque white—triggering your own orgasm. kirishima holds you close, whispers sweet nothings into your ear as your release crashes over you, rocking your world while your juices splatter out against his pelvis and all over your cute little gown in clear streams.

“happy birthday, beautiful,” the redhead mumbles to you sweetly, kissing his initials on your pendant and right up to your lips. “i love you.”

“t-thank you eiji,” you whisper back— a sleepy, full and content puppy. “i love you too.”

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thekidsfromyestergay · 2 years

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You may admire her but please do not put your fingers through the bars of her enclosure she will bite

#mcr #my chemical romance #gerard way

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astudyincontrasts · 2 years

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A Kiss With A Fist Chapter 11

Silco x Fem!Reader (SFW)

Synopsis: Lore faithful, reader insert as OC, set in the time skip between act 1&2 of the show. Now fully plotted but started as pwp, no ragerts, Reader is a sex worker wearing out her welcome when Babette sends her to Silco as a gift.

Author’s Note: This chapter dedicated both to @abitohoney and @sherwood-forests , the two sweetest beans who have kept on loving this story and being kind, supportive friends even though my attention strayed from it for so long. And thank you for the patience of all the readers while I focused on other projects. It’s still going to be slow going here but I’m determined to see this one through.

TW: Abduction, angst, torture, forced drug use, eye horror

"It's ...a key."

"As ever, your powers of observation are impeccable."

Silco did not look up from the book he had open, underlining a passage of note and marking a page. He read a lot you'd come to realize. Books constantly littering his desk and office in piles of disarray. He had no respect for the things, but that wasn't unusual. Actually quite in keeping with so much of what you'd learned of his mannerisms.

Sat there, perched on the edge of his desk, waiting to give him the usual injection, instead of pulling open his desk drawer and setting the brass injection device in your hand instead he’d surprised you with a little red lacquered box, the stylized violent slashes of his own eye design upon its lid in gleaming gold.

Some bauble you'd assumed, pleased that he'd want to gift you some little decoration of jewelry. Something to wear with as much delight as you took in the marks he left on you. Instead within lay a little brass key. Not even a chain attached to indicate it some manner of symbolic gesture.

His sarcasm earned him a cool stare from you over the lid of the box, and the kind of weighted silence he hated. Had him finish his research and flip the book closed with one fine finger to look up at you, expression almost businesslike as he laced hands loosely, elbows upon the desk.

"I'm afraid if we'd like to carry on, our situation needs to change."

That didn't sound great, opened a cold and yawning pit in your stomach as you set the box back upon his desk. Mismatched eyes tracked your relinquishment of the gift. Lingered on the little box as he continued.

"I cannot keep being seen at Babette's. It speaks of favoritism and makes things… vulnerable. It's also not terribly safe for you."

Gaze flicked up to catch your own and hold. Forcing you to swallow a half formed retort already at the back of your tongue. Fine fingers plucked the little box back up and set it in your hands once more, and of all things, he offered you the slow curl of a half-tilt smile, as if he were amused with himself at his offer.

"I believe it's called keeping a mistress. Though I'm not sure how that term applies to the unmarried." He said quietly. Seemed to ebb in his delight as your silence stretched too long.

Your life had been a gilded cage since you’d met him, many fine things once out of reach now entirely possible. Yet you hadn’t strained toward them or sought them out, simply accepted what came with the territory and treated yourself to a wardrobe befitting someone whose company he paid to enjoy. A wardrobe you knew he’d appreciate, nothing else.

You’d committed to being, as he’d put it so many months ago, his creature. And accepted the golden bars surrounding you; the bodyguard escort, the mark it left on you, the way it had separated you from your peers at Babette’s or downstairs in the Drop. The way your time belonged to him and not yourself, to all of it. Accepted it gladly and delved in deeper. But the door to that cage had always been open, or so it felt.

Now it was like you’d stepped on a spring trigger and the grate of the cage had come crashing down. Paradise flipped in an instant to a suffocating enclosure. His mistress? His kept thing. Irrational panic closed the walls of your throat tight and the future flashed like photographic negatives across your mind’s eye.

Locked away in some apartment alone waiting on him. Days of domestic boredom stretching into months, years? No freedom, no privacy, no ability to just pack up and go with no one to answer to. Well, the ever present guard at your door had seen to the start of the end of that freedom anyhow, hadn’t it?

And what would happen when he was bored of you at last, as all men became? What then, when he had no more to take and you had nothing new left to give, or he found a new plaything, someone fresher to bend and break for his hand? Out on the street, with youth used up and his mark still on you, no one willing to touch his leftovers with a ten foot pole, lest they risk his anger… or worse perhaps, simply left there, alone, in empty, silent, cold comfort to succumb to your own bitterness and loss. To be left behind like an abandoned pet in an empty home.

Pet.

His derogatory little nickname chafed at the edges of your mind. Just a little pet, kept in a little golden cage somewhere high and safe until the novelty wore off.

Your hands were shaking visibly as you stared down at them, and not even closing fingers tightly on the little box stopped the tremor. Lungs refused to draw even a quarter capacity the air you knew they could, head starting a slow, hot spin even as you shook it slowly.

“No.”

It was barely a whisper of a word but you watched it stiffen every line of him in your periphery.

“What?” Silco’s tone soured to sharp, though he attempted to keep the blade of it safe behind the fisted velvet glove of his voice.

Eyes turned up slowly from your shaking hands to him and you could feel the blood draining from your face as you stared back at him.

“I said no.”

It would strike you later that it was not a word you’d used with him before, not like this. But now, in this instant, rational thought and detached observation were distant memories. You were living heartbeat to hard thudding heartbeat as it drummed behind the burn of your brain and the wide of your eyes.

“I don’t… I don’t want to be kept. Like some, some princess locked in a little tower all safe from the world. I don’t even want your stupid meathead guards, you think I want to be squirreled away in some place somewhere all alone? No. No!”

Like a dam breaking, the words started at a trickle and soon increased to a rushing flood, a tidal pouring drench that you couldn’t stop even as you heard your insulting tone and cringed, the agony of your own rude sharpness only making you more angry, more vicious, like there was nothing for it but to descend into the mire the second one foot got caught in its sucking pull.

Sat back in his chair, Silco looked for a moment like you’d struck him before that dark thundercloud descended upon his expression, a livid and barely leashed rage rocking him forward as he planted a hand on the arm of his chair in a white knuckle grip, the other balled to a taut fist upon one knee.

“This was a gift -”

Not even the harshness of his snarl through the clench of gritted chipped teeth was enough to stop your spiral or plug the terrible rush of all the horrifying words that came spilling out of you as you jumped from your seat on the desk, your own fists balled tight, the edges of that little box biting into the grip of one palm.

“A gift?! Only you could keep taking and taking and call it a gift! I don’t want your ivory tower, I don’t want your illusions of safety, I don’t want your leash or your chains, I don’t want your money and pretty things. I don’t want to be told what to do and where to go and when to speak and sit and sleep and eat and what to think. I belong to me! To myself! ”

Your hand stung with how hard you slapped the box back on his desk.

He glowered up at you.

“No one has ever said otherwise.” Tone like a high tensile wire ready to snap under the strain, to cut free and whip violently in any and every direction at once. “If that’s how you feel then leave .”

“Gladly.” You spat back, and rounded the desk, your heart a hard stone caught in the sinking mud clogging your chest, a dull angry ache radiating outward so every hard pounding of it felt like a deep, stabbing pain. Heat pricked at your eyes and all of it made you blind with bitter anger; the only familiar outlet to all these uncomfortable, unfamiliar and awful feelings. You slammed the door as hard as you were physically capable of doing and stormed out of the Drop.

Fuck whatever idiot guard had to try to keep pace.

Back in your room at Babettes you stood there, shaking, recalling the last fit of anger that had caused you to do violence to your own things. That had been his fault as well. It took everything in you right now not to start smashing furniture into matchsticks.

I believe it's called keeping a mistress.

You turned and put your fist straight into the wall.

Your knuckles were still screaming later when you pulled open the door to Babette’s inner sanctum.

The elderly yordle, though to be fair they all looked ancient no matter what their inestimable age, sat behind her desk wreathed in the smoke of the near finished cigarette dangling from the end of her silly long filter holder. Two of your fellow workers sat lounging and drinking, enjoying the end of their shifts on both of her tufted velvet couches, so similar to the one in Silco’s office, if a bit more ostentatious and luridly red.

Babette took one look at your face and plunked two little bags of coins on her desk, tipping out her waiting girls.

“Give us the room, darlings.” She took a breathlessly long drag on the last of her cigarette, watching you intently.

Both girls climbed to their feet, grabbed their shares and hustled out past you as you rocked a shoulder back to allow them by before shutting the door behind yourself. Babette gestured to the seat before her desk and lit a fresh cigarette. Not for the first time you wondered how many years off an impossible lifespan chain smoking could skim away. The yordle regarded you with weary, rheumy eyes under all that garishly thick blue eyeshadow and summoned a puckered smile.

“What did you need, my dear?”

“My contract is over.”

Babette choked on her inhalation of more of that putridly thick smoke. Not spiced and scented and fine tobacco like those cigars Silco preferred, but gutterweed tobacco, cheap and harsh and cloying in thick layers to every surface of her office in a nicotine yellowing haze. She coughed, eyes watering as she gogged at you.

“Wh- what?”

“My contract. It's done. I’ll go back on the line tomorrow night.”

She stared at you like you’d sprouted a second head and a few extra limbs to boot, blinking slowly as she hacked out the last of her coughing fit.

“I don’t understand. We had everything ready to help you move out-”

That angry pounding in your brain doubled in tempo as you leaned forward in a sudden, sharp lurch.

“Are you… are you telling me you knew Silco was going to ask me to leave ? And you were just… fine with that? What did he do, come here and ask your blessing like you’re my parents? How could you… And you just agreed??”

You thought you were angry before. Now you were seeing red, breath coming in hard, uneven, fast little jags, nails cutting into your palms and the knuckles you’d put through drywall oozing blood between clenched digits. Head felt fit to explode, a wordless shard of a scream stuck cutting the inside of your throat.

The fact that everyone but you seemed to be conspiring to move you about like a little pawn on a chessboard or trade you like a slab of inanimate meat at market had you reeling in your rage. Babette stared down your obvious fury, unflustered, those large eyes of hers narrowing slightly.

“Of course I agreed. Don’t take this the wrong way, my dear, but did you leave your brains in the nightstand again?”

You bared teeth at her, feeling ready to split from all the fury squeezing you in ever shrinking tight bands.

“ What ?”

“Yes Silco let me know he intended to ask you to leave. You’re my employee. Are you telling me you spent all this time around him and didn’t pick up an ounce of knowledge about good business practice?” She huffed a rasping, coughing little laugh and cast you an up and down appraisal in derision. Utterly unimpressed with the cauldron of murderous anger you were currently simmering in.

“And I’m assuming instead of taking the best opportunity you’ll ever get to leave this life behind you threw his generosity back in his face? I wish I could say I was disappointed in you, but that would mean I had expectations to begin with.”

Her words stung like a slap come across your mouth knuckles first.

“You always were your own worst enemy, kid.” She sighed, dropping her gaze and attention back to her ledgers, giving you a little wave of her tiny lacquered nailed fingers in dismissal. “You want to go back to selling yourself to whoever comes through the door? Fine. But our last conversation still stands: One foot out of place, one single hair harmed on any customer that didn’t explicitly ask for such a service and you’re out.”

She glanced up toward the ceiling, considering for a moment, before she leveled that tired gaze at you once more and smiled unhappily.

“Perhaps you should go ahead and pack the boxes we got for you anyhow. We both know you’ll never be able to keep that promise.”

Stomach tied in hot knots and mind a livid blank, you rose and kicked the chair you sat in against the near wall before stomping out, Babette’s dry, mirthless little hacking laugh following you out the door.

No guard awaited you at your door when you returned, come to think of it none had been stood out there when you’d left to speak with Babette, either, but you were in too much of a snit at the time to notice. Miraculous that in the ten fold grip of a full on tantrum you were able to register it now. Well, good. Fine. You’d kicked the golden bars of your cage open and good riddance.

The longing to take your unfocused rage out on something, anything was coming in hot waves. But if you were going to start working again tomorrow as you’d told Babette, you couldn’t afford to trash the place you’d need to do it in. The salon had seen better days anyhow. You’d let it slide into a comfortable, relaxed abode instead of the sultry parlor it should have been kept as. Let it become your little private apartment where none of the frou-frou trappings of all the pretty fantasy rooms needed to matter.

Well, you’d fix that up tomorrow. It felt a good enough use of the surplus of funds Silco had lined your pockets with. You’d give yourself your own posh little bower and fuck whomever you liked in it, thank you. You practically ripped the lovely outfit off you’d put on for him tonight and crawled into bed, suffering your anger in silence only to find the pillow smelled like him. The sharp, unbidden urge to grab it and pull it close had you chucking it across the room as well as kicking the sheets and covers to the foot of the bed.

Finding no irony at all in laying there cold and uncomfortable, you chased sleep that refused to come as each argument that evening replayed itself over and over again in worse and worse spirals.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

It left you exhausted and cranky the next morning, with a crick in your neck and a bitter stomach, but laying there being miserable wasn’t going to get you anywhere. You climbed up and into clothes, grabbed your bag and as much coin as it felt safe to carry in one trip, along with your little knife. In the bathroom you scowled at the little remnants of him left behind that confronted you. His toothbrush, toiletries, straight razor. You ought to have tossed them all into the trash, instead you yanked open a drawer and scooped them within, slammed the drawer shut hard. You could toss all his stuff later, you told yourself. Along with clothes he’d left there and anything else of his.

Back out in your bedroom you paused to grab your small knife off the nightstand and stopped. Jinx’s little get well card that you’d framed sat there, staring up at you with its lurid colored little face and scribbled bright blue hair.

Memory came back as unwelcome as a ghost.

Sevika watching over you, having carried you home, and then never mentioning it again or looking for even so much as a thank you.

Silco’s warm weight denting the bed, curled protectively around your broken body, blood on his hands. For you.

The little card, evidence he’d been so enraged and concerned even his kid knew something bad had happened to you. And he’d brought it here, set it by your bed.

Made love to you like your face hadn’t been ruined with a black eye and swollen, split lip. Like you mattered more than your pretty.

No. No, fuck it. It was going in the trash with everything else when you got back.

But you’d never had a get well card before.

Never had anyone who cared if you lived or died or survived the day.

Well, you’d never had it before so you’d get by just fine without it again.

You slapped the framed card face down, laced up boots and left for the markets.

A thick, dark coffee and a pastry at one of the food stalls made a world of difference for your disposition, though didn’t do much for the persistent dull headache that stretched back across your scalp, the slow throb of it mirror to the ache you were steadfastly ignoring within your core. An empty, hollow feeling to the pit of your stomach that you were determined to pay no mind to.

Instead you filled the void with shopping; picking out new trinkets and toys, new drapes to soften the ceilings and walls of your salon and multicolored crystal lamps to hang that would create a soft, seductive illumination and throw shards of color wherever the light pierced them. Fresh sheets and a multitude of pillows to create an inviting nest of the bed. Silken rope for restraints, because why not? Lovely incense and an entire crate of candles, all ordered, packed and carted back to Babette’s by a few of the vendors’ helpful lackeys.

A new perfume was just what you needed next, and then perhaps some different outfits or lingerie.

The perfumer’s shop was tucked just on the edge of a crossway alley corner and the main strip of marketplace, ostentatious yet peeling yellow paint coating its facade, large glass windows decorated around their outset with frosted etching and leaded panes that curled and twined into various flowers evocative of the scents held within all the gorgeous little stoppered blown glass bottles within that lined the shelves like little jewels in an array of glittering colors, sizes and shapes.

The wizened old man at the counter ignored your presence save for a bored and sedate little nod of his head upon your entrance, though you felt the weight of his rheumy gaze track your unhurried progress around the room periodically as you sniffed the occasional bottle stopper curiously.

He waited until you were running out of options and clearly torn between two fragrances, neither of which you terribly preferred, to point toward the hallway past his counter.

“More choices in the back.” He croaked. “If you don’t like the blends there’s simple essence ones back there as well.”

Considering the two bottles in your hands and deciding neither suited you, you set both down and ducked through the sheer silk curtain dividing the front rooms from the further ones down the hall.

You made it just through the doorway of the first room to open up to your right when a hand clapped over the lower half of your face and one strong arm barred itself around your middle, pinning arms in tightly.

The shock of it had you inhale sharply, nearly sucking into your mouth the soft cloth that hand was mashing to your face.

The skin around your nostrils and mouth burned, and eyes watered. Sweetness flooded your senses, a pungent sweetness like fresh cut grass or greens. The world swam as you kicked legs to stay afloat, everything heavy, so heavy. Each limb and both eyelids weighted leaden, head rolling fit to snap on a neck that suddenly felt far too fine and brittle for its weight.

Then nothing.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

The cold woke you like a slap.

Gasping, dripping, blinking blearing drops of water from your eyes as you sputtered and sucked air. Drowning? No. Firm floor under your feet. Hard chair under your bottom.

Sensation and rational thought both came back slow, trying to build on shifting sands and sort out reality and the still humming, heavy buzz of that dreamless black void you’d just been yanked from.

Seated, yes. Arms ached and the attempt to move them proved that pain due to being tied down, quite tightly, with little to no concern for circulation. Fingers prickling at their tips as you worked them to get blood flow. Another rope tight around the base of your throat and one across your forehead. Another coiled round your midsection, stopping you filling lungs to full capacity. And all the ropes curiously padded from full contact against your skin, lined with cloth or towels to prevent them biting into flesh or leaving more than faint bruises.

Water you’d been so rudely awakened with dripped off your nose and chin and eyelashes, down your throat and soaked the neckline of your shirt, making it cling uncomfortably to damp skin prickling with the chill.

It was dark and the air was dank, even for the undercity standards, like a sub-basement with no circulation.

Blinking in the dim light, a group of men came into focus; a semi-circle of perhaps ten or more before you, clustered randomly about the central point of one particular man sat comfortably in finery that could only belong to one of the Barons. He was an older man, with a neatly kept goatee and thinly connected mustache gone white, opulently outfitted with a brilliantly yellow coat draped over his shoulders, with dark, cresting shoulder padding that added substantial bulk to his lithe frame, its studded black lapels disinviting the notion of touch. Thinning, snow white hair was swept back in a severe ponytail that ran long down his back, and he watched you from the deeply crinkled, hooded amusement of dark, elongated, narrow eyes set over the warm copper cheekbones of his aging face.

His demeanor was far more relaxed than those around him, particularly the youngest man who stood beside him. A boy still clearly in his teens with chill pale eyes that glared at you unblinking, both hands curled into fists at his sides, something vaguely familiar clenched half hidden in the grasp of one of his hands. He grinned coldly as he watched your attention fall on the thing he held.

“So. You’re Silco’s plaything.” The older man began, the dry observation for some reason earning a tittering of unpleasant laughter from the gathered lot. Fuck.

“No…” You repressed that natural inclination toward sass, but barely. Hard not to let a certain irritation show at being unceremoniously abducted, knocked out, and tied up. Still that ‘no’ drew out a bit patronizingly and the old man cocked a thinning brow.

“No? You are a well known piece of decor in his office. And while I would not put it past Silco to only keep such living art around as a hobby or an offering to his guests… I highly doubt he’d then make regular visits to that same glorified footstool at the brothel where she lives. Or provide her a near constant escort.”

Well, he had you there. Almost.

Mouth tightened in a hateful little grin back at him.

“Did you see my escort today?”

It didn’t even give him a moment’s pause. He merely shrugged shoulders under the swallowing drape of that imposing, brilliant jacket.

“No. A very fortunate stroke of luck for us.”

“Not all that fortunate. I don’t know what you want, but I can make some guesses. If the first name out of your mouth is Silco’s, and you think I’m ransomable or that hurting me will get to him, you’re wrong. You didn’t see an escort because I’m not employed by him anymore. Sorry.”

The young man stepped forward sharply and cracked his hand in an opened palm slap across your face that should have wrenched your head to the side, were you not affixed to the chair as you were.

Apparently that had been a little too much sass creeping into your belittling tone.

The old man sucked his teeth and shot an unappreciative glance up at the boy as he returned to his side. Cursing under his breath in a language you did not speak that heavily accented both their voices, the young man spat vitriol at you and the old man chided him in return.

“I said no damage that might show, did I not, Finn?” The old man asked hotly, staccato of his tone sharpening.

“Yes, grandfather.”

The old man sighed and turned back to you with an ironically apologetic lift and drop of his brows. Kids, huh? Whatcha gonna do.

You glared back, unimpressed, cheek and the corner of your mouth stinging harshly.

“You left his employment? Or he dismissed you from it?” He asked, slowly, carefully, in a way that suggested that there was a right way and a very wrong way to answer those questions. “Margot seemed quite convinced he’d never let you go, but I’d rather hear the truth of it from your own mouth.”

The exhalation of breath left you slow as you set your jaw stubbornly. This was stupid. They were stupid. Only the profoundly stupid would attempt to use a working girl to get to someone like Silco, for whatever their ends might be. And fucking Margot. Of course she’d happily give you up as a little pawn to be played. Bitch. You were done with this. You weren’t his creature any more and they could like it or lump it, same as him.

The old man looked more tired at your digging your heels in and stoic silence than he had at his grandson’s outburst.

“I take it you’ve seen one of these before?” He held open a palm lazily and Finn placed the object he’d been holding into it. A very familiar brass object, with its little trigger and long guard to the open end. It was slightly rougher looking than Silco’s injector, perhaps an early prototype or an unskilled reproduction.

The swallow you made worked against the rope that ran across your throat.

The old man smiled grimly and toyed with the brass contraption, turning it over in careful fingers.

“You look quite healthy, if you don’t mind me saying so.” He observed. “I don’t imagine you’ve ever joined your, ah, boss? In his addiction? How ironic that so many of your fellow professionals have quite a taste for it and he’d pick one who didn’t partake in his stock and trade. Not that I’d stoop to accusing Silco of getting high off his own supply, mind you.”

He handed the injector back to Finn and you watched the boy’s fingers curl tightly around the barrel of the thing as his pale glare stayed fixed on you.

“Did Silco ever give you a tour of one of his factories? Show you his labs? Was he ever kind enough to give you a post-coital lesson in the varieties of that lovely purple drug that’s put him on the top of the heap down here?”

You had it in you to continue to refuse to answer, but it felt a bit pointless, especially with the way that kid was eyeing you. And so you shook your head, insomuch as the ropes allowed. No.

“Ah. Well. What he takes isn’t exactly what he ships out across the trenches. There’s quite a few subtle varieties, all good for different things. The least refined make excellent monsters out of good men. A touch more refinement and a bit of clever proprietary mixing makes a wonderfully heady drug, and so on into medical research, healing properties or analgesics. His good doctor really is quite a genius. Terribly dangerous, as most men with a dream are”.

Said with the exhausted gravitas of a man toiling within the machinations of his own dreams.

“Suffice it to say the manner of product Silco enjoys is difficult to get ahold of at best. You’ll have to forgive that we were unable to acquire it. What’s in that little device will have to suffice instead. At least for our purposes.”

He gave Finn a little nod and the boy grinned sickly as he stalked toward you again. The chair you were lashed to was solid, heavy, and immune to your struggles against it. His thumb dug into your upper eyelid, peeling it up and back as he settled the cage of that brass device over your eye. Bile rose in your throat as the inherent urge to struggle waged war against the knowledge that if you were moving when the plunger of the needle came down you well could be blinded.

You barely caught the tightening of his fingers upon the trigger before the searing heat pierced your eye down to its core. Half of vision cut out in a blinding purple shock as the shimmer burst through the gelatinous membrane and flooded fine veins that fed straight to brain matter. The world dialed down to a pinprick before it exploded violently. Every emotion a rage, every muscle a rictus of agony, the noise of the world a deafening, unceasing, clashing roar.

It lasted perhaps thirty seconds, but felt like a week.

The chokehold grip of the drug released suddenly, like being dropped unceremoniously back into the puddle of your own pathetic existence, leaving you wrung out, weak and shaking uncontrollably.

“Hmn. Perhaps a bit harsher than we were led to believe.” The old man observed as you struggled to fit the bits of yourself back together again, terrified to open your eyes, terrified that you’d find the vision in the one injected permanently gone.

He waited for you to come around, waited until you worked up the nerve to blink eyes open and adjust to the fact that yes, you still had full vision, even if it felt like the injected eye had been salted, set on fire, and was now full of wasps. He smiled mock kindness at you and rested his chin upon folded hands.

“Now then. Which was it? You left, or you were dismissed?”

Which was it? He had dismissed you but it had been your choice, hadn’t it? So hard to think, to set pieces straight, hard enough to know what lines went where with Silco anyhow. No, no. It had been your choice. This, or rather, that had been your doing.

“Left.” You croaked. Throat felt like you’d walked several hundred miles through a desert wasteland.

“Oh good.” The old man replied, almost gleefully, if such a term could be used with his staid and respectable demeanor. “In which case, tomorrow, when you are recovered, you will return to his employment. By whatever means necessary. Do I make myself understood?”

Another self-important man telling you what to do.

Teeth grit as you glared across at him, hawked back whatever little precious moisture still clung in your throat and spat. It sailed in a neat little arc that landed well short of his feet.

Finn was already stepping toward you again and the panic that welled up played second fiddle to all the hot rage that boiled within. You had a temper, yes, but this was something animalistic, something primal and insatiable and dangerous.

He came within reach and you kicked out. The bastards hadn’t tied your legs down.

You got him, right in the balls, and hard. He crumpled like a house of cards with a sickly wheezing sound that gave you no end of hateful joy.

Out you kicked again and that little brass injector went flying. All around you the other men were in a state of chaos, some scrambling for the injector others unsure what to do.

One more kick, this one a rounding arc, and you’d leveled the young fucker. He lay on his side at your feet gasping, hands clenched between his thighs upon the crotch you’d punted straight up into his pelvis. It should have been enough, but you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop that eruption of blinding violence that had nowhere to go but out. Down to the only limbs that were free.

His jaw made a sickening crunch with the very first hard stomp of your boot heel.

The boy himself made a noise caught halfway between a broken steam whistle and a strangled cat.

They’d managed to get him out from under your feet by the third stomp, two men dragging him off and away until the noises he made vanished into the surrounding dark. The old man was glaring at you, all semblance of cordial warmth washed clean off that wizened face. He nodded and two of the others, careful to approach from the side, closed in on you.

Again, and again, and again. That little plunger of the needle came down.

Not in your eye this time, thank fuck, but that only spared the horror of fear. It did nothing for the pain, the sickness, the disgusting inhuman sensation of the fleeting high or the overwhelming nausea welling in the pit of your twisting stomach.

They took their time about it. Waiting for each wave to pass before subjecting you to it again. Found new, fresh skin to inject each round. Leaving nothing behind but a miniscule little pinprick that would be invisible the second the small beading of blood dried and flaked away.

No marks, no evidence.

You were reeling by the time the old man held his hand up. Weak and retching, tears streaming cold down your face and as plentiful as the glass of water they’d tossed on you earlier. Your fingers and toes felt broken in the intensity of their uncontrollable constriction, air a harsh gasping fire in the unwelcoming vacuum of lungs.

A small, quiet part of your brain wondered if they’d kill you now. Hoped for it. Surely the nothing of being dead was better than this agony.

“Can you speak?” The old man asked, patience returning to the timbre of his voice.

You gaped like a fish at him, mouth working to no effect.

“Ah well. But you can listen. And if you do not want to remain here… or find yourself back here again like this, you will listen.” He watched you writhe in your misery, eyes rolled up toward the ceiling as you shivered from the marrow of bones and quick of teeth on out to the burning surface of skin caught cold fire. “Nod.”

You nodded frantically against the ropes, swiveling gaze back on him.

“I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings here. And while we have regrettably gotten off on a bad foot- “ He paused to smirk at his own turn of phrase, gaze drifting to the very boot that had pulped his grandson’s pretty face, “I’d like our partnership to be an amicable one.”

You huffed a breath he took for laughter and he smiled generously at your pathetic gogging.

“I bear no ill will toward your employer. Far from it. I think he’s doing an admirable job organizing the undercity. But. He is consolidating an alarming amount of power. Such a thing is never good under just one man. Inevitably something happens to them, control is as much a drug as that purple poison running through your veins right now and just as corrupting. Silco plays his cards far too close to his chest for my liking. And while every hand he’s dealt to myself and the other Barons have been terribly generous, there may come a time when that well runs dry.”

He glanced down, examining the cleanliness of his nails, picking at a spot lodged beneath one as he continued and you struggled to keep a grip on his meandering train of thought and your own slipshod sanity.

“All I want is information. You are in a unique enough position to provide that, along with whatever other little insights you might glean. You have access to him, his paperwork, his office, his conversations and meetings, and of course whatever he might let slip while in the pleasure of your…” Dark eyes glanced up, cast you up and down disparagingly, “charms.”

He rose, resettled the jacket on his shoulders with a finicky little shrug.

“Do this, and live. Do it well and I’ll pay you handsomely. If you do not, then I can hardly see the value in keeping you around. It would be better if you tell me now if you plan to reneg on this agreement. I will make the end quick.”

He caught your eye once more and all that easy cheer evaporated like a fine mist.

“It will not be quick if you lie to me or choose to reneg later. Do you understand?”

Slowly, you forced the muscles cramping in your neck to work a single nod. Exhausting.

“Good. Then, we have a deal?”

Another excruciating nod.

“A pleasure doing business with you, Miss.” He dipped his own head in a deferential little nod back and turned to go, pausing only to address the pair of men still standing, waiting at either side of your chair.

“Knock her out. Leave her somewhere she’s less likely to be accosted. She can figure out how to make her own way home after what she did to my grandson.”

The stifling sweet burn on the rag held over mouth and nose was a welcome balm as the dark nothing slipped in over the agony, drowning it in lapping, deep, black waves.

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#silco #silco x reader #silcoxreader #silco fic #arcane fic #AKWAF

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bubblesgoboink · 3 years

Text

everybody loves you

paring: movie-star!ransom x actress!fem-reader

word count: 1.5k+

summary: she doesn't like that anyone would die to feel his touch because she wants to be his gold rush.

WARNINGS: drinking, fluff-ish

The sound of champagne flutes clinking paired with indiscernible conversations and laughter floated around the room while she mingled. While discussions with castmates, crew workers, writers, and reputable directors flowed, her feet were getting achier, and a mild tension headache was building from her temples. Taking a deep breath, she excused herself from an animated conversation about the latest Hollywood affair and its politics alongside the movie release starring the couple. On a good day, she would have entertained the conversation while politely attempting to steer it in a different direction, but today wasn't one of those days, the champagne was too sweet, borderline frat party punch, and the air was too stuffy. Placing her fourth empty glass on a server's tray, she slinked out of the room to the nearest balcony.

Cool night air caressed her bare shoulders and combed through her loose hair as her eyes swept the yellow-hued illuminated city. In the serene moment, she felt the adrenaline of many months of shooting seep out of her and trickle back into the party, where it belonged. This wasn't her scene; it wasn't anyone's scene. Despite the excitement radiating from every person's hand that she shook in that room, she felt the exhaustion of the castmates from early shoots, the crew workers from setting up and cleaning up after hours every day, the writers from putting their hearts in their hand and their pens to paper, and the directors who made sure every word of the script was done justice on the big screen.

A flurry of camera shutter sounds and eager photographers shouting brought her out of her trance. She peered over the edge of the balcony and observed the scene unfolding at the entrance. One look at the sleek black BMW, and she knew who the chauffeur would reveal when he opened the door. Glancing back at the party, she sighed knowing the level of schmoozing in the joint was going to increase once the man in the car stepped in rapidly. Stubbornly she refused to step back in and be a part of the atmosphere that would exponentially boost his ego. The chatter swelled from below the balcony, and against her better judgment, she glanced over.

Even at over an hour late, photographers looked at Hugh Ransom Drysdale like he was the answer to all their editorial wishes. Fitted in a deep maroon Dolce and Gabbana tux with material that looked like mohair and leather dress shoes embossed with the double Gucci G's on the sides, he faced the left, favoring the right side of his face and aimed a smirk at the largest camera of the bunch.

Taking a few steps down the red carpet, he ran a hand through his perfectly quaffed hair, leaving a single strand to linger over his temple while the rest fell right back into place. How he managed to look sleek and expensive while maintaining a grounded "I just woke up like this" vibe was beyond her, but she would never say that to his Adonis-like face.

A chorus of, "Thank you, Ransom", rang across the rope line as he reached the end of the carpet. With a quick eyebrow flicker and a cocky half-grin, he acknowledged the crowd and headed inside. She scoffed and ran a hand through her hair, huffing irritably as the front strands fell awkwardly into her face and not elegantly like Ransom's. A drink sounded good right about now, but if she went in, she'd have to face the music that was Ransom's siren song, ignoring the possible repercussions she made her decision.

Slipping back into the room, she walked the perimeter of the room, hoping to avoid getting sucked into a conversation on her way to the open bar.

"Can I get a to-go cup full of the Pinot Noir?" The bartender raised his eyebrows in mild concern at the strange order but moved to grab the wine and a paper cup.

"Would you like ice in this?" He snarkily quipped as if to imply that someone who was unsophisticated enough to order wine in a to-go cup wouldn't know that ice diluted the full-bodied notes of the wine.

"Is that the Belle Glos Pinot Noir from the Russian River Valley because in that case, I would-"

"No, she won't have ice in that. Pour it into a glass for me, will you? And you, what are you doing ordering red wine in a to-go cup like some kind of broke alcoholic college student?" Ransom smiled smugly at her like he just saved her from a career-ending scandal. She glared up at him, accidentally making direct eye contact with his stupidly pretty ocean eyes. She let her eyes trace his clean-shaven jaw down to his disgustingly broad shoulders. How the hell could someone look so broad in a blazer? He chuckled knowingly as she "discreetly" checked him out.

"Are you done yet?" She wanted so badly to wipe that smug look off his face. Ransom Drysdale not looking smug was nearly impossible. She remembers the time he took one too many steps back and fell into the pool, shirt, jeans, shoes, and all, and didn't look the least bit embarrassed, whereas she fled the scene out of second-hand embarrassment.

Looking him dead in the eye, "Put the wine back in the cup, with ice, please." Narrowing her eyes, she shoved a finger against his chest, "My wine, my choice." She could tell from the way his jaw clenched he was getting irritated with her bit.

"Darling, you don't know-"

"Ah, there you are, Ransom. Have I introduced you to my wife Mrs. Edwards?" The older lady grasped Ransom's hand that he'd robotically stuck out as he's been conditioned to greet people at such large gatherings with both of her hands and tugged him towards her, placing obnoxiously loud air kisses on either side of his face.

From her angle perched on the barstool, she could spy the grimace on Ransom’s face as the lady gushed in a thick British accent about his latest film and how captivated she was by the chemistry he had with his costar.

“You didn’t tell me your wife was so charming. I might have to steal her after this”, Ransom stage-whispered to the director. Mrs. Edwards let out a raucous laugh and placed her hand on Ransom’s bicep while he joined in her laughter with deep chuckles of his own.

“Ransom was an absolute pleasure to work with on this film and so was his costar-” As if on cue, there was an audible sound of someone chewing ice behind them. The director and his wife turned around at the sound to find, said costar sheepishly grinning at them while holding a styrofoam cup in her hand. She placed the cup on the bar, stood up, and straightened her dress to appear somewhat professional and held out a hand to Mrs. Edwards.

But before she could introduce herself, Mrs. Edwards cut in, “Is that wine in a take-out cup? That reminds me of my college days, such good times. Especially because I met this one.” Mrs. Edwards giggled and gently bumped her husband’s shoulder. “You’re absolutely adorable, sweetie.” She politely smiled at the director’s wife and started a conversation with her about behind the scenes on set and all the little quirks her husband had while he was directing. While Mrs. Edwards was speaking about a trip she’d taken to Australia with her husband where he nearly lost a limb near the dingo enclosure, she felt a warm hand placed on the small of her back. She side-eyed Ransom only to find that he had been inconspicuously tugging her into his side during the conversation, she was practically standing with her back pressed against his chest.

Mr. Edwards checked his watch before wrapping an arm around his wife’s waist. “We should go now. We only planned on dropping by for a couple minutes but then I saw my boy Ransom and just had to stop by and say hi. Also, we have a dinner in a week to discuss the possibility of a sequel.”

“Oh look at them. They’re practically cuddling.” Mrs. Edwards pointed out to her husband.

“I simply can’t help not being close to her. It’s like muscle memory from our days on set.” Ransom smoothly responded as he ran his hand up and down her back in soothing motions. Mrs. Edwards smiled knowingly and reached over to interlace her fingers with her husbands. Another round of air kisses and the Edwards left the premise.

She turned on Ransom as soon as they left, furious. “I’m not a prop for you to earn some brownie points with.”

He poked her chest lightly with his index finger and leaned down, brushing her nose with his. “It’s good press for the movie, sweetheart. Don’t get ahead of yourself. See you at the dinner.” He tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, finger softly caressing the side of her cheek. Her eyes reflexively fluttered shut as she leaned into his exuding warmth.

The air suddenly turned cold and when she opened her eyes, he was already being whisked off to another conversation leaving her with nothing but a styrofoam cup in one hand and the dizzying scent of his woodsy cologne dancing around her.

a/n: this is probably gonna be a three part series bc that's how i planned it but since when do i adhere to my plans. hope you enjoyed! :)

#ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drydale x you #ransom drysdale fic #ransom drysdale au #ransom drysdale #knives out #chris evans #ransom drysdale oneshot #movie star!ransom #bubblyborky babbles

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random-imagines-blog · 4 years

Text

All I Need {Colossus x Reader One Shot}

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 2494 Summary: After Piotr helps you get out of a humiliating situation, your best friend Beast advises you to come clean with your feelings.

‘You have got to be kidding me’, you thought to yourself. Enclosed in small spaces was uncomfortable under the best circumstances, but being in a cage that was made for a cat? You just hoped that someone back at the school was able to track you despite your animal frame. You walked in a circle, your four black paws balancing carefully on the metal bars that made up all sides of the enclosure. You weren’t the only one in the back of the van - there were a couple of dogs, other cats ... and what smelled like a ferret. The humane society was on a roll today. Normally you would applaud them for getting animals off the streets and trying to find them good homes - but they picked up the wrong cat today. You sniffed at the metal, picking up the scents of all the other scared and alone animals that had been in this cage - and then sat down to accept your fate. Having the power to turn from your normal human self to any animal that you wanted, as long as you had touched it, was amazing. The unfortunate downside was that you always had to turn back into a human before you could shift again.

Hence why you were stuck in this damn cage instead of turning yourself into a mouse or a bird and escaping.

When the van got to the shelter, a large man took hold of your crate gently and brought you inside. You smelt faint traces of honeysuckle on his hands. A gardener, perhaps, in his spare time. That was kind of cute. As a cat, you did have a good sense of smell, not as much as a dog but less overwhelming than one. You played the part, licking at the man’s fingers and he praised you for being such a ‘pretty kitty’. “I’d adopt you myself if I didn’t already have four of ya,” He sighed. At least you found a friendly animal-catcher, and not a brute like in the movies.

You were transferred over to a woman who started up water in a small bathtub. This was going to be your chance. They were going to let you out for a bath. You leaned forward, shaking your little behind and your tail when -

When she held onto you and didn’t give you a chance to change because you might hurt her. And you would definitely break the tub. So as grumpy as you were, you had to endure getting washed and scrubbed down by a younger woman. And then was the check for mites, for ticks, for fleas, for anything that might be on your body. But you were clean, thank God. You had caught fleas before, and they tried to stick on you, even when you were human again.

And then back into the crate you were, all shiny and ready for people to come looking at you. You paced back and forth, waiting for Hank or for Charles or for anyone really to come looking for you. You would even have put up with Logan if it got you out of here. But an hour later, it turned out so much better than that.

The footsteps were familiar, for you listened for them every dinner at time. They were heavy, in their boots, unmistakable. You ran immediately for the front of the cage, sticking your paws out, trying to get his attention. You waved them in a way that the animal shelter woman found adorable, and cooed over, and recommended you to him. Colossus - otherwise known as Piotr Rasputin; and the man that you had a huge crush on and turned into a wreck around - stopped and crouched down in front of you. You did your best to look into his eyes and scream ‘it’s me, it’s me!’ You even purred, but that wasn’t entirely voluntary.

“Yes, I will take this one,” He said with a nod. The worker was very pleased, and once more, you thought that you were about to get your chance of freedom but she put you into a little carrier bag for Piotr to carry with his shoulder, like a purse. This one was even smaller than the cage, but at least you were able to lay down on the fluffy blanket inside.

Everything was bright when you were brought back out into the sunshine, and then dark as you were put into another van. The backseat this time. Piotr unzipped the bag and you walked out of it, settled on the seat, then turned back into your human self. Usually this meant that you were naked, but thanks to the special suits that Hank had made, it was able to work with your mutation so you were dressed in it as you stretched out to your human form. You stretched out your legs and then your arms.

“We should petition them to make their cages more comfortable. I think Charles would fund it, what do you think?” You asked to Storm, who was driving one of the school vans.

“I think we ought to microchip you,” She said, only somewhat amused. “Like a real pet. How did you end up at an animal shelter again?”

“I thought I was being clever and chasing down a lead,” You mumbled. “I knew I should have turned into a squirrel instead. Or even a cute little chipmunk, it’s the right season.”

“But you went with the cutest black kitty-cat that was going to get all of the attention?” Piotr questioned.

“When you say it like that, it does sound stupid...” You sighed, looking out the window. “You thought I was cute though?”

“All cats are cute,” Piotrr said with a smile. Well, wasn’t that just enough to make your heart melt, and imagine a cat being the flower-girl for your wedding. Oh what a union it would be.

“Next time, don’t get caught. I had lend Piotr a hundred dollars to adopt you,” Storm said, making you look at her in surprise.

“I’m worth a hundred dollars, that’s sweet,” You said with a smile. It was a nice thought, knowing that you were worth some cash. She gave you a look in the rearview mirror that told you she didn’t think that was all that cute. “Alright, I’ll pay you back Ororo, thanks.”

“I hear you go caught by the humane society,” Hank said as you entered his lab. You took a seat in one of his chairs, extra large to fit his big, furry frame, and started to spin.

“Yeah, but that’s not the best part,” You said, biting down on your lower lip.

“I don’t know, I’d say that’s pretty funny,” He said, chuckling, pushing his glasses back up onto his face. He was doing something with a microscope. Blood samples, probably. Your blood fascinated him in particular, because when it was taken while you were an animal, it would show as animal blood. Everything, down to your very inner cells, changed.

“Okay, it was a bit hilarious. Though very claustrophobic. We should do some protests about that by the way. It is not fun to be in one of those cages.”

“They weren’t built with human comfort in mind. But go on, please,” He twirled his finger at you, as he peered down at some slides.

“I was a cat, and they didn’t even give me a damn toy. I feel clean though. Anyways - the best part was that our dear Colossus-”

“Your dear Colossus,” Hank corrected but you continued on.

“- said that I was the cutest kitty-cat. I wonder if he meant that. I mean, I know I make a damn cute cat but I didn’t really think that he was a cat person.”

“Wow. Something you don’t know about him. Shocking,” Hank said, sounding completely sarcastic. You stopped your chair from spinning by putting your foot on the ground, then used it to kick him.

“Don’t make me turn into a bee and sting you. I know you’ve got sensitive skin under all that hair,” You threatened. Hank sighed, looked away from his microscope, and took off his glasses, tossing them on the desk.

“You’ve been like this for over a year now, y/n. Why not just talk to him? What’s the worse that could happen?” He questioned. You tapped your finger against your chin, your mind going through the possibilities.

“Rejection is a pretty bad thing. Oh, and laughter. If he laughs at me, I’m just going to be a penguin in the arctic. It’s going to take a lot of ice to get rid of that burn.”

“Look, you’re torturing yourself. You’re torturing me. I even started to dream of him,” Hank grumbled which made you start to laugh. He didn’t mind that. He was just glad you were able to smile after thinking about rejection. “So just ... go tell him how you feel? And if you chicken out, just turn into the cute cat he likes so much.”

You flew back and forth in front of Piotr’s room, turning into a hummingbird because of how fast, yet quiet, it was. You didn’t want him to hear any pacing footsteps as you thought of what you were going to say.

‘Okay, what about ... I thought I’d quit Stalin? No, that’s ridiculous. And probably offensive,’ you thought, flitting back and forth. A couple of other mutants walked past you, looked at the floating bird, then continued on their business. There was enough madness around here without them having to stick their nose in more. ‘Do I just go Russian in? No, no, that’s probably racist.’

Hank walked by, looking at some papers and not paying much attention to where he was going. Not until you flitted by his ear, anyway. He looked around, noticed where he was, then saw you and sighed. “You’re welcome,” He muttered, knocking on Piotr’s door, then rushed away, leaving you awestruck. You had just enough time to turn into your human self before the door opened, and Piotr stood there with only his track pants on, and no shirt. Hubba hubba.

“Hello, y/n,” He said with a smile that reached all the way up to his eyes. It might have something to do with just being a small bird, but you somehow felt very heavy as you stood there.

“H-Hi,” You said, smiling in return. “Do you think that we could maybe talk for a minute? I want to tell you something.”

“Yes, yes, come in,” He said, moving to the side. You took a couple of steps into his room and looked around. You never actually went in it before, though you’ve had the chance to turn into an insect and go through the ducts. He at least deserved his privacy. It smelled like him, you noticed. A bit like a gym. A tinge of sweat, of metal. “What do you need to say?”

You met his eye nervously. His eyebrows were lifted, anticipating whatever news you had for him. You put your hands behind your back, clasping them, trying to hide how sweaty your palms were getting.

“I just wanted to say...” You started, looking away from him. The pressure was mounting. You could feel your heart beating from your stomach. “Uhh.. thanks for picking me up from the animal shelter! Those cages sure were itty bitty.”

“You’re welcome,” Piotr said with a smile. He always made you feel so welcomed - which was why you were kicking yourself for actually saying the words ‘itty bitty’. “Is that all?”

“No, no, there’s something else. Something that I guess I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while.” You bounced on the balls of your feet, and shook out your palms, trying to get the sweat off. You looked up at the ceiling as if trying to find the answer to a difficult test. You really couldn’t look at Piotr. “Okay, so... I think you’re really hot.”

“Hot?” Piotr asked. You could imagine his face, that adorable little confused expression. No, don’t look damnit, that’ll get you even more tongue-tied.

“Oh yeah. You’re definitely a babe. And I might have had a thing for you for a while. And I wasn’t going to tell you about it but Hank told me that I should. I should have known better than to take his advice, I guess. For a scientist, he can be real dumb sometimes. And now we’re never going to work together because you know that. So good afternoon, good evening, goodnight and good life.”

“Wait, wait wait,” Piotr said, blocking the doorway before you could make a motion to move. He put his arm out, making an actual block, with it turning metal so you couldn’t bend it away. “You have a thing for me? A good thing?”

“I mean, I think it feels like a good thing but that doesn’t necessarily mean...” You rambled on. “Can you just let me go? I’m already a prisoner of embarrassment, don’t need to be one of you too.”

“You are not prisoner here, you are always welcome,” Piotr said, standing right in front of you so that you could not avoid looking at him. “I have a thing too.”

“Well, yeah, have you noticed that a lot of us mutants are really attractive? Like Ororo is stunning, and Kitty, and then you got-”

“You talk too much,” He said with a smirk. “I have a thing for you. When you’re you and when you’re cute little kitty-cat.”

“Hmmm,” You said, attempting to play it cool, but you knew your mouth wasn’t going to go along with that plan. “Does that mean you want to go out sometime with me? Not to the animal shelter because if you need cuddles, I’m your kitty-cat.”

Piotr let out a large laugh at that, his hand going to his stomach to hold himself together. “My kitty-cat, huh?”

“I can be an elephant too, we can see how strong you are if I step on you.”

“You wouldn’t do that, you like me too much,” He said, putting his metal arm around you. It wasn’t as heavy as you thought that it would be. He probably wasn’t putting much weight on you. You were a shifter, not a super-strengther. “Is it almost dinner time?”

“Not even close, but I could make us a late lunch?”

“We’ll make a date of it.” Piotr grinned. And there went your heart again, flipping and flopping as if it were shoes on a beach.

#Colossus #Colossus x reader #Colossus oneshot #XMen #XMen oneshot #Marvel #Marvel oneshot #request #oneshot #one shot #piotrr

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lost-in-labradorite-halls · 3 years

Text

Moving Day

Some pet whump concepts I wanted to explore. CW: Pet Whump, sick, enclosure, slavery, creepy whumper, comfort from a whumper, dehumanization Vard was taken to his new home. Or at least that was what his master said before shoving him into a small enclosure. Every now and then his master’s hand would through an opening to stroke his black and brown hair. Vard could barely keep calm. The enclosure, or crate forced him into a kneeling, balled up position. It was nearly identical to the box he had arrived in. He was so cramped that he could barely breathe. And it was hot in the crate. The only cool air he felt was when his master’s hand pressed in. Vard lost track of how long he was in there. But there was movement. His master and his servants had him placed into a vehicle. Vard hated the vehicles, every movement had him desperately shutting his eyes. However it did little to stop the nausea that flooded him with every bump or turn. He just wanted out. He would do whatever his master pleased. “Just let me out”. He would beg. He didn’t mean to. He knew better than to complain. But it was hard to after a rough turn had him gagging up bile into his small crate. Then being trapped with the mess and the smell. His master had decided to not let him eat before travelling, in hopes that it would reduce the likeliness of sick. “Oh my poor dear,” his master said as Vard shivered uncontrollably. But his master was kind as he opened more of the crate to brush over him a towel, to clean up the mess, at least of what his master could reach. His master settled his hand into Vard’s hair. “I’m sorry, my dear,” Master said. “I just couldn’t find your harness before the trip. I could have let you out and sit with me, I just didn’t want to risk you getting hurt. Vard whimpered, but leaned into his hand. Such a gentle touch of comfort. At some point Vard fell asleep to his master’s gentle snores. Something about that sound had always been relaxing to him and Vard managed to sleep. He had no idea how long he slept for before his crate was being jostled around again. There was a small slot on the side that opened to a grate that let him breathe in fresh air. He smelled grass and opened his eyes. Beyond his crate was a yard, with a bright sun. “Master?” Vard ventured with his voice. He couldn’t quite see what was happening, but the grunts of servants moving more large boxes seemed to be going on behind him. “I am not far, little one,” his Master called back, allowing Vard to stay in his cramped position, allowing him a moment to breathe in cool fresh grass. His master did not leave him there long. The bright sun was quick to make the crate unbearably hot. But by then his Master had Vard moved into a building. Vard could barely see through the little opening. He gritted his teeth as he was moved down steps into a cooler area, a basement. Stairs could be scary. Finally he came to a stop in a second unfinished basement area. And he was left there. At least he wasn't in the vehicle, at least he wasn’t in the hot sun. BUt he was thirsty, tired and hungry and he was desperate to relieve himself. More time passed before his master returned to him. And finally, finally he was let out of the crate. Master held him as he shoved himself onto his Master’s lap. He shivered slightly in the chilled basement and cold tiled floor. “Welcome to your new home,” his master told him. Vard looked up at his master, who smiled gently. Vard didn’t know what that could mean. He had liked his old home well enough. Where his master and his brothers had lived. And the other pets there. Already he missed Nel, his big sister and Wayne. Wayne was like a father to Vard. It was hard leaving them. Vard remembered being put into his crate, his master said, “Say goodbye.” And Nel looked back at Vard. Vard’s finger’s tearing at a small opening, trying to reach her. “Goodbye,” Nel said, watching sadly as Vard and his crate were taken away. But Vard’s master had been very busy for a very long time. Often Vard had to say with Master’s brothers and they were good Sirs, but Vard had missed Master the most. “Alright my dear, let's have a quick look around.” His master stood up, forcing Vard to do the same. On wobbly feet his master showed him the bathroom, shower and sink. As well as a small food cabinet, where his allotted protein bars were. He was also given a cup and permission to drink as much water from the sink as he wished. Master gave Vard a kiss on the top of his head before leaving. Locking the door behind him as he went. Vard padded barefooted on the cold tile to look at allotted protein bars. He counted only six. This was different. At Master’s brother’s house he was allowed to access as much food as he wished and if he was hungry he could always ask and one of the brothers would give him any food, night or day. This was six protein bars for the whole day. Vard closed the cabinet and decided not to have anything yet. The basement was small and fairly cramped, but he was pleased to find several areas connected behind cabinets. They were meant for storage, but were large enough for him to fit through. He crammed himself inside of them, it felt like a safe secret place to hide, at least, until his master came back.

#whump #pet whump #whump ideas #original characters #Vard

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glimmerglanger · 4 years

Text

Quiet Evenings

Written for Day #5 of @codywanweek: Fluff. Established relationship, somewhere during the Clone Wars. I don’t usually do fluff but oooooh, went teeth-rotting on this one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t know, General, I have a hard time believing Grievous came through here,” Cody said, drawing to a stop as they reached an… intersection in the strange recreation area they’d come upon.

Obi-Wan sighed, gazing out across the crowds. He wasn’t entirely sure of the function of the event they were attending. It appeared to be some kind of festival, perhaps for the harvest. Most of the residents of the local towns had come out to wander through hastily set up tents and booths.

People were selling sweet foods and alcoholic beverages. There were… games of chance and skill, here and there. And there were mechanical contraptions that Obi-Wan did not understand. They seemed designed to either go very quickly or fling people up into the air.

The locals all seemed intent to ride them, though they looked like death traps to Obi-Wan and brought back memories of Anakin’s flying.

Still, none of these locals - of a very primitive sort - looked as though they’d just seen a monstrosity like General Grievous. He would have been… wildly out of place. “I think you’re right,” Obi-Wan said, feeling a headache build in the back of his skull. He’d been so sure they’d managed to track Grievous. Running into another dead end was--

“But look,” Cody said, and Obi-Wan had a moment of rising hope along with a surge of adrenaline. He waited for screams, looking for Grievous, and Cody continued, gesturing, “it’s some kind of shooting game.”

He gestured at one of the game stalls lining the road. A very tall, very purple man was gesturing people forward, attempting to convince someone to take up the little toy gun lying on the counter. There were an array of targets within the stall.

Obi-Wan arched an eyebrow. “A shooting game,” he said, dry, and Cody looked over, straight-faced.

“We should take every opportunity to practice,” he said, mouth only just quirking, revealing the amusement Obi-Wan felt from him through the Force, that Obi-Wan had grown used to picking up through just his expressions, as they grew closer and closer.

“Oh, well, in that case,” Obi-Wan said, gesturing at the game stall, daring just a bit of flirting, since the threat of immediate danger seemed past. “You must sharper your skills. Grievous isn’t here anyway.”

The stall owner was happy enough to take a few credits, rattling off instructions as Cody looked over the weapon, making a few adjustments to it as he went. Obi-Wan scanned the crowd once more and then turned his attention to Cody, lifting the gun to sight down the barrel. He looked intent and calm, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help a smile, suddenly glad they hadn’t found Grievous.

It would be nice to just… spend five clicks watching Cody play this foolish game. They barely got any time just to themselves.

The stall owner was saying, “And don’t feel bad if you don’t hit anything on the first go, it’s very--” when Cody pulled the trigger for the first time. One of the targets tinged and fell over. The stall owner’s mouth fell open. Cody radiated pleased satisfaction, shifting his aim carefully, moving through targets with easy skill.

The last one he hit square on, but for a moment it only wobbled, snagging Obi-Wan’s attention. It was… weighted somehow. Oddly. Obi-Wan arched an eyebrow at such blatant cheating, leaned a hip against the stall, and pushed out with the Force, just a little.

Cody made a little sound in the back of his throat, pleased, setting down his weapon, and Obi-Wan turned his face to the side to hide a smile. “Excellent job,” he said, nodding at the still gaping stall owner. “Do you think we should--”

“Excuse me,” the stall owner said, as they made to step away. Obi-Wan looked back, wondering if there was going to be a protest about his… slight usage of the Force. It appeared not. The shop keeper had only collected himself. He gestured up at the large stuffed toys hanging around his stall and said, “You get to pick whatever you want, for winning.”

“Oh?” Cody asked, looking from the stall owner to the toys to Obi-Wan, a question in his expression. Obi-Wan shrugged, and watched Cody take a step forward, leaning against the counter and looking over his options.

He settled, finally, on something that appeared to be a very large loth-cat. He tucked his prize under one arm and his emotions shifted, moving to something like joy and pleasure, emotions he got to experience so rarely that it brought Obi-Wan up short. He watched Cody glance around the fair, could almost feel the movement of his thoughts and the slow consideration when he glanced back and said, “You know, maybe we should look for Grievous a little more. Possible over by the food.”

Obi-Wan snorted, a grin curving the corners of his mouth. He gestured Cody forward, finding he did not mind the idea of spending more time wandering around, not with Cody at his side, and said, “By all means, lead the way.”

They ate fruit covered in some kind of hard candy coating. They had some type of spun sugar that looked like clouds and melted on the tongue. They shared a plate of some type of vegetable cut into strips and fried, so hot that it burned the tips of Obi-Wan’s fingers.

Somewhere in their sojourn through the food stalls, Cody put a hand on Obi-Wan’s back. It was startling, for a moment. They were forced to maintain their distance so often. Obi-Wan sometimes thought there were two versions of each of them. The General and the Commander could not walk down the halls of the Negotiator so close to one another. Touching.

But Obi-Wan and Cody could touch. And did. It was simply that they usually kept it behind closed doors.

Still. Grievous was not at this fair. Obi-Wan doubted, truly, that he’d ever been on this world. There was no immediate danger. He was not acting in his role as General or even Jedi, he was just…

Just eating food so sweet that it dissolved on his tongue, leaning his weight back against Cody’s hand, just a little. Cody tugged him a little closer, in response, and said, leaning his mouth close to Obi-Wan’s ear, “Should we go see what’s down that way?”

Obi-Wan grinned, swallowed the last of the food and reaching up, folding his fingers into the front of Cody’s armor and tugging him forward. “In a moment,” he said, quietly, just for Cody, and pressed the briefest of kisses to his mouth.

The second kiss was nowhere near so brief, but, then, it didn’t seem that the fair was going anywhere.

There were more games down the way Cody suggested. They played a few, spending their credits as they saw fit. One involved some type of unbalanced rope ladder, stretched from the ground to the top of a nearby wall.

Obi-Wan watched people attempt to scale it, striving to hit a bell at the top. All of them ended up tumbled down onto the mats below, many of them less than halfway to the summit. That was all fine, except that the gentleman running the stall seemed incapable of keeping his mouth shut, ribbing everyone who fell.

Obi-Wan drew to a stop in front of it, frowning, and Cody nudged his shoulder. “Well, show them,” he said.

Obi-Wan snorted and would have moved on, had not a child slipped and the proprietor laughed. Cody snorted at the look on Obi-Wan’s face and stepped forward, exchanging payment with the proprietor as Obi-Wan walked to the base of the ladder, shrugged, and put his hands behind his back.

Using the Force would be, he thought, cheating. So he didn’t. He didn’t need it. Decades of katas and lightsaber practice and fighting for his life had given him balance and strength to spare. He walked up the ladder, rang the bell with one foot, turned, and walked back down.

The proprietor stared at him the entire way. Obi-Wan smiled at him, selected the largest, shiniest prize on offer for the winners, and gave it to the child who had last fallen off of the ladder. She gazed up at him with four wide eyes, her mouth partially agape, and Obi-Wan winked.

“Very nicely done,” Cody said, curling an arm around him, leaning close enough to brush a kiss against his cheek.

“Yes, well,” Obi-Wan said, with a shrug that aimed to seem unconcerned. “Let’s go see what all the delighted screaming coming from over there is all about.”

The delighted screaming, as it turned out, was from some crude mechanical structures. People were in lines to board them, typically climbing into little carts or enclosures. They were then, alternatively, flung up into the air or hurled around a track at some measure of speed.

Cody looked up at them, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Want to try?”

“They certainly don’t look very structurally sound,” Obi-Wan said, thinking of far too many flights with Anakin that ended in spirals and loops. Maybe Anakin had actually designed some of these machines, though, if he had, Obi-Wan felt certain they’d look safer.

Anakin might not have been able to fly in a straight line, but at least he knew how to construct things. These machines all had a slapped together look. He swore some of the braces were wobbling. Cody glanced over and said, “We could just do one.”

Obi-Wan listened to a cart of screaming people go by, and shrugged. “What would one hurt?” he said.

They ended up riding every one of the machines down the path, ending up, somehow, on one shaped like a giant ring standing upright. They were in a cart all of their own, open to the stars and sky above, with only a metal bar over their laps to keep them from leaping out.

The ring turned slowly, lifting them into the sky, with none of the spinning or jerking or flinging of the other rides. They just… rose above the entirety of the strange festival, until they were able to look out and view all the places they’d been before.

The ring stopped for a long moment when they reached the top. Their cart swung gently back and forth. The night had grown cool around him, and Obi-Wan, feeling strangely at peace, the way he usually felt after meditating, leaned sideways against Cody, who made a small, pleased sound and took his hand.

“This was nice,” Obi-Wan said, leaning his head to the side, until it rested against Cody’s, looking out across the people, the games, the food stalls. It was hard to imagine such a place existing, with the war raging so close by, but these people - this place - seemed almost untouched.

“Yes,” Cody said, turned to brush a kiss to Obi-Wan’s temple. He radiated contentment out into the Force, easy and open with it, and Obi-Wan closed his eyes. The breeze blew across them. The stars shown overhead. Cody’s fingers fitted so perfectly between his.

“We should come back here,” he said, quietly, not wanting to disturb the moment. “Someday. When… everything is done.”

“Mm,” Cody hummed, touching Obi-Wan’s cheek with his other hand, shifting and causing their little cart to wobble. Obi-Wan barely noticed, not with the soft slide of his mouth and the glow of Cody’s joy all around them.

They kissed there, under the stars. Obi-Wan barely noticed when the ring started turning again.

#codywanweek #codywanweek2020 #codywan #established relationship #my fic #FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF #SO MUCH FLUFF

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lyssismagical · 4 years

Text

When the sky is losing light, I swear my head fills up with memories

Febuwhump Days 25-28 - Presumed Dead, Freeze to Death, Glass, Post-Tragedy

Read on AO3

{TW: Minor Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence}

His breaths puff out of him, visible in the frigid air.

Kidnapped again.

He’d only been kidnapped a handful of times before, but being both Tony’s Intern and Spider-Man had some pretty obvious downsides. It always ended fine, a grand rescue mission ending with Tony coddling Peter in Medical.

It never took longer than mere hours for him to be found, always covered in trackable devices or taken by people who underestimate Tony’s genius.

But this was different already, Peter could tell.

The man speaking to him from the other side of the glass-walled enclosure Peter’s in, isn’t interested in using Peter for ransom like most others are. He doesn’t even seem interested in hurting Peter, doesn’t step inside the enclosure at all.

And worse, Peter recognized the man pacing. He was one of the police officers constantly chasing after Spider-Man, believing he was failing the city, all of the bullshit that the Daily Bugle puts out. He’d tried to arrest Peter a few times before and had even started shooting at Peter as he swung through Queens.

No matter how much good Peter did, police officers like him would always believe he was a menace.

“Did you know,” the man starts, dress shoes clicking against the ground as he paces. “that over thirty percent of the criminals you web up end up free to roam the streets within days of arrest? Did you know that we still have to present the criminals to the judge and jury nearly evidence-less, and they’re proclaimed innocent until proven guilty? Did you know that the majority of the criminals set free after you play pretend police with them, end up doing more crime and hurting more people?”

Peter does know that. He watches the news as often as he can, he’s got access to files and information through Tony and FRIDAY even if he’s not technically supposed to see it.

He knows it and he hates it. He keeps tabs on all the criminals and he gives them the benefit of the doubt, hoping the close run-in with the cops will get them to turn good, but it rarely works out that way.

Peter keeps his mouth shut, testing the chains that hold him to one of the four glass walls, metal freezing cold on his wrists, but they’re too strong.

“There’s an obvious solution here, spider,” the man says condescendingly. He taps at one of the two guns that sit against his hips. “Bullet right in the forehead. Get the job done for real.”

Frowning, the young hero shakes his head. “That’s not right-”

“If you don’t, you’re letting these criminals walk free.” The man, shakes his head, leaning up against the glass. The name tag on his shirt reads David Walker.

“That doesn’t mean I can start killing people just because they did something wrong.”

David scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Let’s start with a man you webbed up three months ago, alright? His name was Scott Paterson. Scott’s a drug dealer, he’s got a few counts of assault under his belt, even had a charge of arson. You caught him three months ago in a drug deal gone wrong. Scott was webbed up and we collected him. He was out on the streets again within two days.”

Peter doesn’t remember Scott. He believes David, but it’s hard to remember specific names or crimes that he stops on the daily.

“Two weeks ago, we found Scott in his apartment,” David continues. “He had been in the process of moving out of state to avoid being caught because he’d killed two guys who were witnesses to Scott’s crimes.”

Guilt rushes through Peter, settling amongst all the other buckets of guilt he’s stored deep within his conscience. He knows this kind of thing happens, he does, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

David leans against the glass, hands splayed out. “Those two deaths are on your hands, Spider. Two women are now widows, three children are fatherless, thanks to you.”

“I didn’t want-”

“It doesn’t matter what you want, Spider,” David tsks. “If you had killed Scott instead of leaving him for us to deal with, those families wouldn’t have lost those men, and Scott would’ve gotten what he had coming. Isn’t that the better outcome? Just think of how many deaths are on your hands if over thirty percent of the criminals you webbed up are still commiting crimes.”

Peter flinches, not wanting to think about blood on his hands, reminding him of Ben and all the citizens he couldn’t save no matter how hard he tried.

But David won’t stop now. “Wouldn’t it be better if the precious hero stopped failing? Wouldn’t it be better for you to rid the streets of all criminals, not just the ones that us cops can put behind bars for a couple of years? Wouldn’t it be better if you protected your civilians and your city, Spider-Man?”

“I can’t just kill every person who’s done something wrong! I can’t just start pulling the trigger every time somebody steps out of line! Wouldn’t that make me just as bad as them?”

“You’re already a menace, Spider-Man, do you really want to be a failure too? If you don’t kill them, they’ll just hurt more people and then it’s on you.”

Tears are welling in Peter’s eyes against his will because this isn’t right. Tony’s always said that Peter’s morals rival those of Captain America. That Peter was always good, simply put. And Peter believed it. He was a hero, after all.

David’s face softens a fraction, a frown tugging at his mouth. “Alright, let’s make this easier for you, okay?”

He turns down the hallway, they seem to be in some cliché abandoned warehouse, only the glass blocking Peter away from David, but Peter doesn’t have to try to know the glass isn’t normal glass, and the handcuffs holding him down aren’t regular handcuffs.

Peter takes the second of solitude to check himself over. He’s wearing the t-shirt and jeans he had on when he was walking to school, he guesses only a few hours earlier. His phone, watch, and backpack all missing. Even his shoes were gone. He doesn’t feel hurt at all, other than the headache from being knocked out.

David’s a police officer. There’s no way of knowing how many others are working with him, if he could’ve wiped any security tapes, if he could’ve taken them somewhere non-disclosed where even Tony couldn’t find them.

The cuffs must be vibranium, refusing to break no matter how hard Peter tugs at them. It’s January too. The abandoned warehouse isn’t about to have heating, so the frigid air makes sense. Peter shivers just thinking about the cold seeping into him.

“Alright, Spider.” David’s voice returns. He emerges back into Peter’s view, but this time, he’s dragging a body along with him.

David shoves the door to the glass enclosure open and tosses the body to the floor by Peter’s feet.

“Meet Scott Paterson, Spider-Man,” David says, a grin stretching across his face.

Scott’s face is enough to trigger the memory of him. There was shouting behind a bar when Peter was on his way home, so Peter went and webbed both Scott and another guy up. He left them with the drugs as evidence along with the knife Scott had pulled out.

His face is a little beaten up, blood dripping from his split lip onto the ground but his eyes are wild with confusion and fear, hands shaking in the plain handcuffs holding his wrists behind his back.

“We’re going to play a little game, alright?” David pulls one of the guns out of his pocket along with a roll of duct tape.

Peter’s shivering steadily and his head is pounding, vibranium holding his wrists in front of him, so there’s not much he can do as David tapes the gun to Peter’s hand, covering his hands and fingers in the silvery tape, index finger on the trigger.

“You’ve got one bullet in there,” David explains, taking a step back to admire his handiwork.

He pulls Scott to his knees, draws the second gun and holds the barrel to Scott’s temple.

“Wait a second-” Scott gasps, biceps straining as he tries to get away, out of the handcuffs, out of the grip on his collar.

“Now, here’s the game, Spider.” The click of the safety. “Put your bullet in his forehead.”

Peter tugs at his restraints harder, shaking his head as tears rush into his eyes. “I can’t- I can’t just kill him!”

“The blood is already on your hands, Spider. If you don’t kill him, I will, and it’ll be your fault. Or you kill him.”

Scott’s wild eyes lock onto Peter’s. “Please, man, I’m not- I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I got caught up with this awful dude who was threatening my daughter, and I did what he told me to do to keep her safe. You gotta- Please, man, I can’t die. Don’t- Don’t let me die.”

Peter’s heart clenches, hands shaking as he lifts the gun, a tear already tracing its way down his frozen cheeks. He turns the gun towards David.

“Do it, coward,” David says, lifting his eyebrows. “You’re just a coward, Spider. If you kill me, my death will be on you, but you’d save Scott. If you don’t, I’ll kill Scott and it’ll be your fault. Either way, somebody dies and the blame is put on you.”

Shaking his head again, Peter can’t convince himself to speak around the lump in his throat, worried that if he opened his mouth, a sob would escape.

David shoves the gun harder against Scott’s temple, glaring at Peter. “Your choice, kid. Me or him.”

“Please, man, you’ve gotta believe me,” Scott pleads, tears streaking down his flushed cheeks. “I know I did bad things, but I’m not a bad guy. My daughter’s dance recital is tomorrow and I- I promised I’d go for her. Please.”

Peter’s hands are trembling as he points the gun up at David, chains pulling taut. “You don’t have to do this. You could put down the gun and we could all walk out of here.”

But there’s no sympathy in David’s face, no care, just the same nonchalance. “You’ve got three seconds or I’m killing Scott.”

Three.

There’s no way out. There’s no way to change the outcomes of this. Somebody’s going to die. Either Peter kills somebody, or Peter lets somebody kill someone. Either way, it’s on Peter. Either way, Peter will leave here a murderer. No better than David or Scott. No better than the people he puts in prison every day. No better than the man who killed Ben that night all those years ago, the one that Peter spent months obsessively tracking. No better than the worst of the worst.

Two.

Either way, Peter’s a killer.

One.

* Peter startles awake when he feels hands on his shoulders, shaking him hard. He gasps, cold and sweating and crying, not shivering because he’s long since stopped shivering in this stupid fucking glass prison, but trembling from the anxiety that still thrums through his veins, the adrenaline crashing.

“Oh fuck, kid, I thought- You weren’t moving and I- I thought-”

“Tony?” His voice breaks on a sob, tears frozen against his cheeks, and the gun is still taped to his hand, still warm against his palm. “Get it off, get it- get it off, please, I can’t-”

Tony’s quick to grab a knife handed to him from somewhere behind Peter, probably Natasha, and cutting the weapon away from Peter’s palm.

There’s blood and glass everywhere. Peter peeks over Tony’s shoulder, barely able to contain the hoarse sob that escapes him when he sees the unconscious figures.

“Are they-”

“One of them was,” Tony responds shortly. “The other one passed out from shock, he’ll be fine.”

But that’s not better.

Peter pulled the trigger.

He was the one that put a bullet in another man’s head.

He was the one who took the life from a human being.

Peter hides his face against Tony’s shoulder, stomach twisting at the flashes of blood and shattering glass and feeling the recoiling gun.

His head gets stuck in a loop of percentages, of statistics. Thirty percent of criminals. He wonders how many police are like David, how many of them would push Peter to murder. He wonders what the statistics are for people he’s saved versus those the police have saved. If Peter’s really making a difference of not. He wonders, in another universe where he never became Spider-Man, if Queens would be better off.

It doesn’t matter though, alternate universes and statistics, because Peter killed a man. Because there’s a dead body only feet away from him and the gun is only inches away from his fingertips, glass shards littering the floor and digging into his knees and shins.

“C’mon, let’s get you to the car and back to Bruce, okay?” Tony says, voice soft and low. His hands are much too careful against Peter’s shoulders and thumbs running over his cheekbones and fingertips brushing back his hair.

Peter doesn’t answer, doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to, throat clogged up with grief and crushing guilt.

He doesn’t deserve any of it. He doesn’t deserve Tony and his soft words and softer touches, doesn’t deserve the luxury of seeing a doctor and getting patched up, doesn’t deserve safety and warmth. He deserves to be behind bars for this. He killed a man.

Tony leads him up to his feet, careful to position himself between Peter and David’s body, it doesn’t matter because the image is already scarred into Peter’s memory.

The world is too bright, sun bouncing off the snow and into Peter’s eyes before Tony slips a pair of sunglasses on him. The world goes dim and dark, and Peter lets Tony lead him forward and maneuver his pliant limbs into the car.

He hears Happy say something to him, but he sounds distant. Underwater.

Tony’s fingertips are on his face, pushing his curls back and smoothing his thumbs over Peter’s temples. “Sleep, kid. It’ll be okay.”

Peter doesn’t believe it’ll be okay, doesn’t know how Tony could, but he rests his head against the window anyways and spends the drive trying his best not to think about the glass against his head and in his skin.

Peter doesn’t answer many of Bruce’s questions, but thankfully, the doctor is kind and limits his questions to yes or no answers where he can.

Tony sits at his side while Bruce takes the glass out of him and stitches up the deeper wounds, putting butterfly bandages over the rest.

And then Peter’s led back up to the penthouse where May arrives, bundling him up in a tight hug before getting a sandwich in front of him.

He eats even though his food tastes like nothing and it’s hard to swallow around the lump in his throat that doesn’t seem to leave. He can’t get the image of Scott’s crying face and David’s body dropping to the floor, gun going off and hitting one of the glass walls, effectively shattering it.

“Hey, kiddo,” Tony murmurs sitting down across from Peter and pushing a cup of water towards him.

Peter doesn’t know if Tony did it intentionally, but the cup is a colorful plastic one, not glass.

“Thanks,” Peter says, coughing to cover up the effort it takes to stop himself from bursting into tears again.

“I know this is a bad time and I shouldn’t be asking you anything this soon, but the man’s at the hospital with Nat and Steve, and they’re wondering what they should do with him,” Tony says. “He says it’s your decision whether or not you want him in prison.”

Scott’s giving Peter the decision. Another decision. Maybe that means Peter did a good job the first time Scott’s life was put in his hands.

Either way, he doesn’t want to make the decision. He doesn’t know if he’s psychologically capable of making another big decision like this one.

“Send him home,” Peter says, voice robotic and not quite his own. “Wasn’t his fault.”

Tony lifts an eyebrow. He’s always been overly-curious. Someone incapable of holding in the questions he wants answers to, so it’s not surprising when he says, “It wasn’t his fault that there’s a dead police officer on our hands now?”

It’s not his fault. He probably assumed the gun on the ground meant that Scott shot David, not Peter who shot him. He probably saw the gun taped to Peter’s hand and automatically assumed it couldn’t have been him.

“No,” Peter says shortly, taking a sip of the water and trying his best not to draw attention to his violently trembling hands. Water sloshes over the edge of his cup onto the table. “Scott’s not a bad guy.”

He doesn’t say that he doesn’t think David was the bad guy either. He doesn’t say that he thinks Peter’s the bad guy.

“Okay, I’ll let them know,” Tony says, looking at Peter like he’s going to ask another hundred questions to get to the bottom of this.

“I’m going to my room.” Peter stands up abruptly, arm jerking like it expects to be held down by the chains from earlier. He almost forgets to put down his cup and when he does, he forgets to reign in his strength and the cup breaks, spilling water over the table.

Instead of dealing with any of his obviously unusual actions, he just nods at the mess he’s made like he did it on purpose and walks to his bedroom.

He doesn’t want to deal with any of it. His skin is crawling and his lungs feel like they’ve collapsed. And he knows what that feels like.

He wishes he could talk to Ben.

Ben would know what to do, what to say. He always did. May’s good and Peter loves her, he does, but she always used to let Ben deal with the emotional side of things. After Mary and Richard died, Ben would be the one to comfort him after nightmares and he was the one who would drag out old photo albums and hold Peter while he cried. May was the one to put the funeral together and she did his laundry and cooked them food and offered any support she could.

But Ben’s not there anymore. He isn’t there to be the elaborate story-teller he used to be, making up voices and gesticulating wildly until he got Peter to fall into a giggle fit. He isn’t there to tuck Peter into a warm blanket, make Ben’s Special Hot Chocolate, and do jigsaw puzzles with him in the middle of the night. Ben’s not there.

“Yorke Construction, how can I help you?”

Peter jerks, fingers clutching the phone against his ear. He hadn’t realized he’d called.

“Um, sorry- I shouldn’t have-”

The lady’s voice softens. “Are you okay?”

It’s not the same person who used to pick up the phones at Ben’s work when he did work there.

“I shouldn’t have called, I just-”

“Are you okay?” she repeats gently. “Are you trying to reach someone?”

Peter resolve crumples and he tries to hide the obvious tears in his voice. “My uncle used to work there, he doesn’t anymore. I shouldn’t have called, I’m sorry, it was an accident.”

“No worries at all.”

Peter hangs up before he can say anything else, and he lets his phone fall to his bed, curling up in his blankets as he cries.

* Ben used to want to be a police officer, Peter remembers. He got accepted into the academy, but he never ended up going. He didn’t have the money and he hated how much Mary and May worried about him, even if he hadn’t become a police officer yet. Instead, he went into construction.

He always talked about one day building May a house in the countryside. He liked building things, was super smart. Peter thinks that’s where he got his desire to build.

He wonders if things would be different if Ben were a police officer like David was. Ben would’ve been hundreds of times better than David.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Hey, kiddo,” Tony murmurs, walking in. He winces, probably noticing the tearstains or maybe the blood he’s drawn from biting his lip. “How’re you holding up?”

He sits at the end of Peter’s bed, gently rubbing his shins where his wounds have all healed from the broken glass. Peter turns his eyes to the ceiling.

“It wasn’t Scott,” Peter says.

“I know.” Tony’s voice doesn’t hold any anger, any hurt, any betrayal. He’s been the one saying Peter’s the most morally sound person he’s ever met, he should be angry that Peter’s killed a man.

“It was me.”

Tony nods. “I know.”

Ben would’ve been angry. He was always better. The best. Peter imagines himself holding the gun at Ben, not a bystander like he was that night. He thinks of murder and blood and glass shattering. Of Ben’s body dropping the same way David’s did.

“I’m- I’m a murderer, Tony.”

“Scott said that you saved his life,” Tony offers. He shifts back on the bed to rest his back against the wall, propping Peter’s feet up in his lap.

Peter swallows thickly. “He wouldn’t have been there in the first place if it weren’t for me. If I hadn’t webbed him up three months ago, he wouldn’t have ended up on the police’s radar at all.”

“You wanna tell me what happened in there?”

From his tone, Tony’s not expecting a story. But Peter wants Tony to yell at him, to hate him for what he’s done. Peter thinks Tony will understand if he hears the statistics, if he hears how Peter failed again and again, how dozens of people are dead because of him, and how David’s blood is on his hands.

In his strange state of mind, confused and focused on all the wrong things, Peter forgets to leave out the details like he normally does. How he always does. He leaves in the gory details by accident because he can’t think straight, and he’s pretty sure some of the details he tells are of Ben’s death and not David’s, but he isn’t sure.

“You didn’t have a choice, Peter,” Tony says, voice somehow still staying soft and low, thumb still rubbing his ankle, expression still full of care. “He didn’t give you a choice.”

“I held a gun and I shot somebody, Mister Stark. How is that not my fault?”

Tony sighs, long and tired like he isn’t sure how much he wants to fight this fight. “Listen, kid, I know you have a guilt complex the size of America, so I don’t know how I can ever convince you that this wasn’t your fault, but nobody’s mad at you regardless.”

“I’m a killer!” Peter exclaims angrily, sitting up in bed and glaring at Tony through his tears. “How the fuck can you argue that I did anything right today?”

“Because I know you, kid, and I know you didn’t have a choice. And let’s say you did, okay? Let’s say, you had a choice and you chose to kill him. You know what? I still love you. Nothing could make me not love you, kid. Nothing could make me hate you.”

Peter presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. “But I’m a killer.”

“I’ve had people die because of me,” Tony says. “Lots of people that I tried to save and couldn’t. Lots of people that died because I made mistakes on the job. And I know you don’t believe I would’ve, but I nearly killed that fucker last year that hurt you. If it weren’t for Rhodey that night, I would’ve killed him.”

“You were protecting me.” Peter doesn’t know how to wrap his head around any of it. “That makes it different. You’re not a killer, Mister Stark.”

Tony shrugs, sending him a sad smile. “You were protecting Scott and yourself. Plus, you weren’t given a choice, bud. You had that gun taped to your hand. That’s not a choice.”

“That doesn’t make it okay. I still- I still killed him. I still shot the gun. I still watched-” Peter cuts himself off, brain stuck in a loop of David dropping to the floor and Ben’s hands coming up to cover the wound as he sunk to the ground and glass shattering.

“Maybe not,” Tony shrugs again. “Even if we were in that hypothetical that you killed somebody in cold blood. And I’ll repeat, hypothetical. I think you’ve saved enough people to make up for it. What the NYPD and the legal system do with the criminals, what the criminals do if they get back on the streets, that doesn’t fall on your shoulders.”

Peter sniffles, too tired to keep arguing it. His guilt has settled enough to think a little bit straighter, but he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to make it go entirely away.

“Plus,” Tony continues, patting his kid’s ankle. “You should know, Scott spent this morning at his daughter’s dance recital. Her name’s Anne, I learned, and she’s very happy her favourite superhero saved her dad.”

Later, Anne and Scott will send letters with their thanks for allowing them to stay together. For choosing both Scott’s survival and for not sending him to prison.

For now, Peter pulls his feet away from Tony to instead curl up against his side, tucking his face against his father-figure’s shoulder, hiding away his tears.

“You know,” Tony says eventually, arms tight around Peter. “When we found you, you were so cold, so pale… There was so much blood.”

“Hm?” Peter responds, too tired to try for a real conversation.

Tony sniffs. “I thought you were dead for a second. We got there and there was only one heat signature and it was Scott, and the blood made me think you were dead too. I thought- I thought I had lost you.”

Peter hums in response, nuzzling closer to Tony.

“If David wasn’t already dead, I would’ve killed him.”

It’s a strange thing to bring comfort to Peter, but he trusts Tony, he believes Tony. And he lets Tony burden some of the guilt that’s stored in him. He lets go of some of it, believing that Tony will always catch him when he falls.

* Peter visits Ben’s grave that evening.

He figures it’s only fair. He’s got a lot of guilt to work through, but he knows Tony’s going to be there every step of the way, and May’s going to continue being there for him too.

He doesn’t say anything, scared that his words would never be enough to mean anything, to amount to what he thinks and feels. He doesn’t know how to articulate any of his thoughts into anything real.

Instead, he lays the blueprints down on the dirt. He dug through storage until he found them. For the house Ben was going to build May one day. It’s a silent promise, that if he can do anything for Ben, he can do this.

He’ll try to keep the streets safe, he’ll try to be a superhero, he’ll try to be the person Ben always wanted him to be.

But he will build the house for May. He will let Tony take care of him the way Ben would’ve wanted him to. He will learn to forgive himself how he knows Ben has.

{I’ll be starting a taglist officially the next fic I post, so if you wanna be added let me know}

#lyss writes #febuwhump #irondad #Irondad and Spiderson #irondad fanfiction #peter parker fic #peter parker #tony stark #i know it's literally april but i finally finished febuwhump wow

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

Note

Soft Yandere, Momo pAmpering the ever loving shit out of her winged darling please? With lots of kisses and cuddles and petting her darlings wings

Wings are such a universal desire, everyone seems to want them. I can’t blame you people, either. They’d be so useful, for the symbolism alone.

TW: Physical Abuse, Implied Kidnapping and Threats of Physical Harm.

She kept you in a cage.

Momo would deny it until her lungs gave out, but she’d never been good at lying, especially not when she was lying to you. It would’ve taken a blind man not to see the bars on your windows, the furniture hanging too high off the ground for anyone but you to reach, the ceiling too high and the room to narrow to resemble something besides an enclosure for the animal she swore she didn’t see you as. Everything was silver or porcelain or shining, decorated with the luxury Momo had always tried to repress, before. She wouldn’t tell you how much anything cost, but chains so strong couldn’t have come cheap.

Even now, as you sat in front of her, you doubted she cared for anything but the wings on your back. It’d become a daily ritual, between the two of you. Whenever Momo returned home, she’d come into your prison and call you away from whatever you were doing, insistent on caring for your more bird-like aspects. The process was meticulous, calculated, each brushstroke and pulled feather taking more thought than it should’ve. She was always like that, so constantly careful with you. Not that Momo’s caution had ever stopped her from grabbing at your skin until it bruised.

Momo’s voice was soft, when she spoke, bordering on inaudible. Like speaking too loudly could hurt you. “Patrols were so stressful, today, I hardly got back to my agency on time,” She explained, letting her hands run over the arches of your outstretched wings. It still took considerable concentration to not lash out, to keep them from flapping or lifting you off the ground or rejecting Momo’s contact. They were weapons, to you, allies you could trust and did trust. But, now, you dug your nails into your palms and held them still.

Things never ended prettily when you tried to get away from her.

“You get it, right? I knew there would be petty thieves and criminals, but god, there’s just too many to handle, some days.” You could see her in your mind, shaking her head with that light frown pulling at her lips, but you didn’t dare answer. Momo didn’t seem to care, leaning forward as she continued, a hand resting on your shoulder from behind and urging you towards her, allowing Momo to kiss the leading edges of your closest wing between words. “I’m always so happy to come home to my little angel. You know that, don’t you? I’m not sure what I would do without you.”

You forced a grin, if only out of habit, dropping it as soon as you realized she wouldn’t notice. Still, you let your wings flutter in the way you knew she loved, the smile soon pushing against your feathers giving you enough confidence to shift around. Momo chuckled as you curled your wing around your side, wrapping it over yourself like a shawl, her calmness coming as more of a relief than it should’ve been. Still, you didn’t let yourself do the same, remaining as rigid as you’d ever been. “Yaoyorozu-”

Her smile faltered. Your other wing pressed into your opposite side, defensively. Reflexively.

“Sweetheart,” You corrected, pausing to let out a nervous chuckle. “I… I was wondering if we could go for a walk? I’ve been stuck in my room for days, and I just want to go outside for a few minutes, if that’s alright. I won’t even try to do anything, you can use the weights, if you want to!” Letting your excitement get ahead of you, your wings retracted, tucking into your back as you reached for Momo’s hand. “Please? I need some fresh air, it feels like I’m losing my mind-”

Before you could finish, she was standing, towering above you and looking so much bigger than she had, moments ago. Automatically, you moved to get up or take off or do something, but her heel was embedded in your midriff before you had the chance, knocking you onto your side and slamming you into the floor, a harsh crash echoing from somewhere in your ribcage. She knew you were frail, compared to any normal person, that a strong gust of wind could overpower you, but Momo didn’t seem to be in a gentle mood. The whimper came out before you could choke it down, your self-pity only growing more justified as you tried to curl into yourself, your efforts proving pointless with another grind of Momo’s foot, another oh-so collected glare.

“I’m sorry!” The apology was as instinctive as breathing or blinking, flowing as swiftly from your lips as the tears did from your eyes. “I won’t ask again, I’m sorry-”

“Bullshit.” There was no trace of sympathy, no kindness or love or affection, only Momo’s coldness and your terror. Even then, at the peak of her rage, she made a show of inhaling, clenching her fists before letting the tension slowly dissolve from her body. She put on a neutral expression, but it was forced, cracking at the slightest hint of resistance. You wondered if she was going to kill you, for a moment, but Momo had never been that merciful. “If I let you go… out there, you’ll run. You’ll run and fly and you’ll take away my angel. I can’t let you do that. You understand, don’t you? I won’t be able to keep going, without you.”

You didn’t answer, keeping your eyes closed and biting your cheek, the taste of blood soon washing over your tongue. Momo nearly growled, the next kick landing on the small of your back, knocking you onto your chest as she stepped closer. “Do you understand, (Y/n)?”

“Yes!” You nodded furiously, disregarding the chill of the tile floor against your cheek, the twitch of your wings as they fought to stay still. “I understand, I don’t want to go outside!”

Instantly, her demeanor changed, the loveliest smile she’d ever worn spreading over her lips as she kneeled. You thought she would cup your cheek, for a moment, run her fingers through your hair or do anything you might’ve been able to write off as ‘comforting’, but her hand went straight to your wings, petting over the smooth surface as if it was the most delicate thing in the world. “Still, I don’t think we can take that risk. You know how much it hurts me to hurt you, but…”

Without thinking, she tugged at the edge of a primary feather, grinning a little wider at the resulting whimper.

“I think it’s time to make sure you can’t fly away from me.”

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bush-viper-cutie · 4 years

Text

“Happy Thirteenth Birthday” || YEAR 3 – Ch.1 (HP au)

Chapter List

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Day posted: 7/10/2020

Word count: 3,409

Relationship: EVENTUAL severus X oc (slow burn)

Rating: E for everyone

Warnings: none

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A/N: This is my first fan fic I’m writing mainly as a way to practice. This is a retelling of the hp books with an inserted character. Although most every character will be written about, this is mostly for the pro snape fandom. Please do not fear, although this is a severus x oc story, it is an incredibly slow burn as I do not intend for them to get together at all until after the final book events. Chapters will be posted twice a week.

This derivative work follows the events of the Harry Potter books by Jk Rowling and is intended as a fun way to practice my writing. Thank you for reading :D

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It was blazing hot inside and outside the house, under every tree and bush, and sometimes even the cold tap water came out warm. There was no escaping the summer heat and the best Heather could do to cool off, was shower with one of Dudley’s old shirts – the stupid ones with the sleeves torn off – and sit in the empty tub waiting for the water to evaporate off her body.

Her arm and head hung off the tub’s rim as she waited a bit longer to dry off. Her wand sat on the counter next to the sink, and her old toothbrush a few feet away on Aunt Petunia’s nice lime green bath rug. Heather extended her arm and curled her fingers, willing the toothbrush over to her.

She used the same techniques as she would moving a spider from one place to another without touching it. She thought and thought and imagined the toothbrush sliding over to her. There was a jiggle, but that was all.

She wasn’t sure if she plainly couldn’t do it or if she was just too afraid to. Moving spiders was one thing, after all she had been moving spider without touching them since first year, and she suspected that when she was younger and saw them crawling above her head, they did not actually jump to Harry’s side on their own.

She dried off and put the toothbrush under the sink, in the only area her and Harry were allowed to keep their things. She walked into her shared room and fell onto the mattress on the floor, listening to Harry groan and complain about their history of magic homework.

“This is taking forever and it’s so boring,” he poked his head over the edge, “Let me read yours.”

She flicked his ear, “Do. Your. Work.”

He rubbed his ear and went back to reading, “You know the longer I take on my homework, the higher the chance they’ll catch us with our books.”

Heather sat up, “Then do your work faster.”

She was afraid Harry was developing a nasty habit of having Hermione do his work for him. They had picked the locks and gotten their books within the first week of being back, which by now would have been plenty of time to finish most essays, but Harry had only managed to finish their potions one and only out of pure fear.

It was late now, passed late dinners for most normal families, and they prepared for their nightly inspection before sleep. Heather helped Harry pop a floorboard out and stuffed all their magical everything inside it before patting it shut. It was the only place they could hide their things without the Dursleys snooping around – especially Dudley who loved getting them into trouble.

They stood up and leaned against the wall as Uncle Vernon’s heavy footsteps came up the stairs, thunderous and slow. Without knocking – as if trying to catch them by surprise – he swung the door open and gave them disappointed looks when he saw they were already in their places. He stepped in, looked around the room for anything out of place and ‘odd’, eyed them carefully, and stepped back out, locking them in for the night.

They groaned and sat back down on the bed hearing the Durley’s nightly routine of saying goodnight to Dudley. Uncle Vernon always gave him the usual one-time goodnight, while Aunt Petunia kept coming back to say goodnight every time she crossed his bedroom door. Heather wasn’t sure how Dudley could stand constantly being interrupted by her as he tried to get settled into bed.

Her footsteps sounded closer as she approached their bedroom door, banging on it hard with the palm of her hand, “BREAKFAST NEEDS TO BE DONE BY EIGHT TOMORROW,” and walked back, giving Dudley her final goodnight and shut her bedroom door closed.

That was their cue to let Hedwig out of her cage for the night. There weren’t any bars on their bedroom window this time and they had promised not to do any magic in the house – not that they’d be willing to risk getting expelled – so for five weeks now, things were only slightly better than their last summer.

“I’m calling her,” Harry got off the bed and took out his parchment and quill again from the floorboard.

“Do you want them punishing us AGAIN for calling wizards? I like our window just fine without bars up and – ” Heather tapped her foot, knowing Harry’s ankle was still hurting from all the extra yard work they had to do the last time Ron called. “You’ll get caught and I’ll make you do MY HALF of the punishment.”

Harry shook his head and pushed past her, kneeling down and picking the locks to their bedroom door, freeing them from their enclosure. They crept down the stairs together – recently she had started to feel she should be keeping a closer eye on him – and sat down at the counter’s swivel stools next to the phone.

Harry picked up the phone quietly and dialed Hermione’s number from memory. He waited a few minutes and then, “Hermione? Yeah, will you read me your history of magic essay? …Well don’t you have any time before you leave?”

Heather rolled her eyes, “Harry you need to do the essay yourself. She isn’t gonna – ”

“Oh, hold on,” he dipped his quill in ink and held it to the parchment, “Can you start from the beginning again?”

Heather smacked her face quietly.

“Oh?” Harry looked up at the time, “Thanks. Hold on,” he handed the phone to Heather.

“Hermione?”

“I CAN’T believe you’ve forgotten your own birthday! Happy birthday!” Hermione clapped into the phone.

“Oh?” Heather squinted at the glowing time on the stove.

It was ten minutes after twelve which meant they were officially thirteen now.

“Thanks for remembering. No one else did,” she laughed quietly.

“That’s not true! Go hang up right now and be at your window. They should be arriving by now. Happy birthday and talk to you soon! Oh and tell Harry if he calls I won’t be here. Bye!” Hermione hung up.

She handed the phone back and dragged Harry away, who still needed eleven more inches to his essay. They crept back up the stairs and relocked the door behind them. The window was open and a nice cool breeze was drifting in but there was still not one sign of Hedwig, who had been gone for three days now.

“D’you see anything?” Harry leaned further out the window, looking in all directions over the roofs of the other houses.

Heather squinted up at the moon, noticing a weird lumpy flying spec, “Uh, what’s that?”

Harry pulled her back away from the window as the lumpy object got closer and closer, heading right in their direction. Whatever creature it was, it must be magical, there was no doubt in Heather’s mind about that. No muggle bird was that jittery in the sky. It swooped in through the window and crashed on the bed.

Heather snorted and covered her mouth, afraid to have laughed too loud, “I thought it was some beast.”

Hedwig, Errol, and a third owl stood on their parcels – Errol was collapsed over his – and gave small hoots of triumph. Heather thought it was funny that the other two owls had to help Errol with his parcel and even funnier because Errol’s was given the largest package of the three.

They took the packages and the new owl stretched and flew out the window. Hedwig and Errol left to rest in Hedwig’s cage, watching Heather and Harry sit on the bed to read what was from who. They opened the larger parcel, reading that it was from the Weasleys.

There were several birthday cards, one from each Weasley member and for each of them. To Heather, Percy wrote that he hoped her studying was going well while to Harry he wrote that he hoped he was studying. Fred and George sent over stinky leaves for the both of them to put under Dudley’s pillows, Ginny had written a very neat “Happy Birthday, Harry. From, Ginny Weasley” and to Heather she wrote:

‘To: Happy Birthday

From: Ginny

Heather.’

Heather laughed and tucked the card under her pillow. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had sent them a birthday card as well with several pieces of Egyptian candy stuck on somehow, and two newspaper clippings, one of a family picture of them in Egypt – Ron was now taller than Mrs. Weasley, and was holding up Scabbers, and Ginny was just as tall as her, though to be fair all the Weasleys were much taller than the average student at Hogwarts – and the other clipping Harry took.

He scanned it, “Lucky them. I guess Mr. Weasley won the Daily Prophet Galleon Draw.”

Heather took the clipping, “Wow… Oh I didn’t know Bill was a curse breaker… is that… Dark Arts stuff?”

Harry shrugged, “You know… We have all that money sitting in our vault – ”

Heather shushed him, “I know what you’re thinking and NO. Absolutely not we aren’t spending that money for anything other than school! And that’s final.”

Harry scoffed but didn’t argue. They read the last two cards from Ron, which they could barely read with his scribbly handwriting.

Heather took it and tried her best, “‘Happy Birthday’ … ‘ Sorry I shouted when I called and got you guys in trouble’ … ‘Getting a new wand in London last week of summer, hope to see you two there’ … ‘Percy’s Head Boy’ … ‘ Enjoy your gift. Sorry I could only get one’ … and then I think it says ‘Pocket Sneakoscope. If there’s anyone untrustworthy around, it’ll spin and glow.’”

Harry unwrapped the last Weasley gift from Ron and pulled out the Pocket Sneakoscope. It didn’t glow or spin, which they supposed was good and hoped it wasn’t just broken or anything. Next, they moved on to the parcel Hedwig had brought in, reading that it was from Hermione.

Heather opened the letter, “She says… She’ll be in France soon and won’t be able to answer the phone for a month.” Heather ignored Harry’s groans, “And that the presents are by ‘owl-order’ and… That she hopes to see us last week of holidays too.”

They opened the presents which were two Broomstick Servicing Kits and gasped.

“Ok, we need to get Hermione a good birthday present this year. These are – ”

“Wow,” Harry opened it up and started going through it.

“We still have this one.” Heather cut the twine holding two rectangle packages and a note from Hagrid. “‘Happy Birthdays! You’ll be needing this for next year, you’ll see. Your friend, Hagrid.’”

Harry took a package and dropped it as soon as it growled, “Heather… Hagrid knows not to send us anything dangerous… right?”

Heather shook her head. She picked up the other package and felt it move slightly and growl like the other one had, “Harry you open yours. We shouldn’t open them both.”

Harry nodded and tore at the top, ripping the brown paper apart and sliding the object out. It was a book, with fur all around it, except for the shiny green letters spelling ‘The Monster Book of Monsters’. Heather and Harry tilted their heads to read the title when two eyes on the front popped up and stared at them evil-y.

It lunged at Heather’s knees and she jumped from the bed, allowing the book to scuttle under the pillowcase. Harry picked their pillow up and swatted the book creature off the bed, hearing it growl and bite at something under the dresser.

“Surround it with boxes!” Heather pointed at Aunt Petunia’s storage boxes taking up part of their room.

Together they pushed and trapped it under the drawer where it would stay until they could write to Hagrid to ask him what on earth he was thinking sending them that thing. She couldn’t imagine what people could actually read it without having their fingers and noses bit clean off.

They sat on the bed panting and gathering up their things. They shoved all the scrap paper in their drawer and opened up the floorboard again to put their presents in where Uncle Vernon would never look.

“Well, happy birthday and goodnight,” Heather collapsed on the mattress.

“Happy thirteenth and night.”

She yawned and went straight to sleep, dreaming of going back to Hogwarts where she could practice all the magic she wanted, far away from the Dursleys. That night not even the owl’s hoots woke them up and they slept soundly until Aunt Petunia unlocked the door in the morning and told them to get going on breakfast while she showered.

They took out all the normal stuff the Dursleys liked to eat: eggs, bacon, sausage links, waffles, and toast. She didn’t know why or how they could manage to eat so much for breakfast, even Harry and her didn’t have an appetite so early in the morning and they were always hungry when they were here. One or two sausages went missing from the pan to the table but overall, they managed to stack several plates high for Uncle Vernon and Dudley – Petunia liked just toast.

There was tapping on the kitchen window and Harry pulled back the curtains to greet an owl with two letters in its beak. Harry took them and handed one to Heather, seeing it was addressed to each of them with a Hogwarts seal.

Heather opened hers, eagerly anticipating the class materials list, and took out a permission slip of some sort with a letter from Professor McGonagall. “We can visit Hogsmeade this year?”

Harry groaned, “But only if we get Vernon or Petunia to sign this… How’re we going to get them to do that?”

“We can fake their signatures?” Heather leaned in closer to whisper, “I don’t think the teachers would be able to tell, do you?”

He shook his head. Aunt Petunia came down and they both hid the letters under their clothes, having to keep up the pretenses that Hogwarts and all things magical never existed. They would never sign a permission slip form for them to go to a wizards only village, not in a million years would they allow it. Heather sat down next to Harry to share a plate of their pre-cooked breakfast that Aunt Petunia always makes for them the night before.

Uncle Vernon came down next, sitting in his usual seat, followed by Dudley who went straight to turning on his new tv that sat on the counter. None of them looked at the twins, nor acknowledged their existence, let alone the fact that they were now technically thirteen years old.

Heather began eating the terribly cooked oatmeal and joined Harry in taking some toast since all three Dursleys were transfixed on the morning news reports on the tv. The reporter was sitting at his desk, shuffling papers, and pointing at a picture of a deranged man.

“A convict has escaped, believed to be armed and dangerous, last week. If you have any information, please call this number,” the numbers flashed on the screen and the reporter went on with other news.

“He should be fairly easy to spot,” Uncle Vernon laughed, “A filthy criminal with a rat’s nest on his head walking around town,” he chuckled, “Yes, I should think they’ll catch him in no time.”

“That’s what happens to lazy good-for-nothings who never bothered to even go to school,” Aunt Petunia scooped out some grapefruit and made a face, “They have nowhere else to turn to but petty crime. They’re useless to society – ”

“I couldn’t agree more, dear,” Uncle Vernon eyed Heather and Harry over his newspaper.

“Where did he escape from?” Heather risked the question, seeing as it was her and Harry always tasked with taking out the trash at night and early mornings.

Uncle Vernon rolled his eyes at her and opened his mouth but nothing came out. He looked at his wife who was looking wide-eyed at him and Dudley. “Son, did you hear where that lunatic escaped from?”

Dudley shoved a whole bacon slice in his mouth and shook his head, his eyes still transfixed on the television.

“Vernon! He could be anywhere!”

“Maybe he’s hiding on our street,” Harry hid a smile.

Heather kicked him under the table, seeing how nastily Uncle Vernon looked at him. Aunt Petunia looked over out the window, as if the man really could be walking up their street that second, not that she’d mind calling the number herself. She’d finally make it on the news and have gossip for all her neighborhood friends.

Uncle Vernon looked at his watch and finished his tea, folding up the newspaper and stood. “Well, I’ll be back with Marge in thirty minutes.”

Heather and Harry looked at each other suddenly.

“Aunt Marge? She’s-She’s staying? Here?” Harry tried to keep his face looking as unemotional as possible, but his bouncing leg gave him away.

“For a week or is that a problem?” he growled. “Think you have a say on what goes on around in my house, do you?”

Aunt Petunia put her hands to her hips and Dudley finally looked away from the tv, hoping to see the twins get yelled at. Heather and Harry shook they heads and looked away.

“Let me remind you both,” he pointed his finger at them, “You will not talk to Marge unless spoken to. And WHEN speaking to her, you will be nothing short of civilized!” He came closer, “And no funny business, understand?”

Heather nodded and expected Harry to do the same, but he didn’t.

Instead he looked back at Uncle Vernon, “I’ll be civil if she is.”

If it hadn’t been for the time, Harry would have had an earful. Uncle Vernon huffed and continued, “You go to St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys,” he said to Harry, “and you go to St. Mary’s Etiquette Academy for Disorderly Girls,” he said to Heather.

She bit back her tongue and nodded, pushing oatmeal with her spoon. She wanted nothing more than to leave this house and go straight to Hogwarts. Why couldn’t they stay summers there? Surely Hogwarts would be able to accommodate two students and Hagrid would be happy for the company.

Uncle Vernon walked to the door and looked for the correct car keys. Harry had been glaring at his food when he suddenly looked at Heather and bolted out of his chair, running to the door. Heather turned and watched with dread at what Harry was attempting.

“There’s a permission slip Heather and I need signed,” he motioned for Heather to approach. “To visit a village near our school.”

Uncle Vernon laughed, “Why would I sign that?”

“To make sure we follow your rules.”

Uncle Vernon was about to yell at Harry’s audacity to take control when Heather quickly interjected.

“What he means is… It can get hard for us to remember so many details… Maybe with this incentive… What was the name of my school again?”

“St. Brutus’s and St. Mary’s,” he snarled.

“We might accidently let something slip,” Harry shrugged.

Heather almost smacked her head, thinking Harry was laying it on too thick for their good.

“Then you might accidently get the stuffing knocked out of you both!” he grabbed the doorknob and twisted it open.

“And hope Aunt Marge just forgets what we say?”

Heather gave him wide eyes, warning him to quit and abort mission while he could.

Uncle Vernon closed the door slowly, “If you two act like normal children for ONCE… I will sign your ruddy slips. But,” he growled, “I will be monitoring your behavior and if ANYTHING odd happens even slightly, no matter how miniscule, you’ll BOTH be sleeping outside for the rest of summer AND your slips won’t be signed.” He opened the door once more and slammed it shut behind him.

Harry smiled at Heather, “Well that solves it.”

She frowned at him, “Yeah, and now if anything happens we’ll be camping outside until school starts!”

“What could happen,” he grinned and ran upstairs.

She couldn’t believe he had already forgotten last summer with Dobby, or the one before that with the snake. His optimism was dangerous… but contagious. She sighed and ran after him, sparing him a much needed lecture on life and unfortunate events.

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turning-dreams-into-chaos · 5 years

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Banished (Part 16)

*Not my Gif*

Summary: When the 100 was sent to the ground, Y/N Y/L/N was one of them. Having been locked up for almost 8 years, how will she react to surviving on Earth? Especially when she gets banished…

Post Date: 9-20-19

Paring: Bellamy Blake x Reader (it’s gonna get there, I promise 😉)

Word Count: 2.1K

A/N: I know this one was mainly focused on Y/N but I hope I make up for that later and it will make more sense! Also sorry for the wait on Bellamy and her but you know, I’m not really sorry! 😊

I might post another teaser on Wednesday if people want it!

~Banished Master List~

~Master Lists~

*Based off episode 2x03 of the 100 “Reapercussions”

Nothing could’ve prepared you for seeing an army of grounders in cages but your eyes never left Anya in front of you, practically cowering when she met your seething ones. Your breath shook when Clarke put her hand against the cage.

“We’re gonna get you out of here.” She assured her. You didn’t want to believe her, sure leaving someone in these cages was barbaric and cruel but it didn’t matter. Anya and her men tortured you. They tortured Murphy and if it was up to you they’d all be locked in here.

“Clarke.” You muttered making the girl look at you. Your eyes still pierced at Anya, unwavering for a second as Clarke saw what you were getting at.

“We can’t leave them. They’ll kill them.” She argued. You let out a sigh, trying to control the anger building inside of you.

“Better them than us.” Clarke ignored you, finding a crowbar and prying open the door to her cage. “We have to go!” You whispered harshly, grabbing Clarke’s arm and stopping her from working more. She gawked at you before giving the final pressure to break the door open.

“We need her. With her help we can get an alliance with the Grounders.”

“You won’t get an alliance if we’re all dead.” The door to the harvest chamber beeped when it started to open and you and Clarke froze. Anya was beginning to climb out of the cage before Clarke shoves her back in, joining her in the cramped enclosure. You knew three people couldn’t fit in there and you could see Dr. Tsing making her way past the draining body so you closed their cage door and slowly moved to the end of the aisle where you hoped she couldn’t see you.

You looked between the slots of the cage in front of you, watching the doctor pick up a bag of blood from the freezer before turning down the aisle where Anya, Clarke and you sat waiting. Crouching down, you could barely see anything before a hand moved out to touch yours on the bars. The woman inside brought her fingers to her lips, telling you to keep quiet as you nodded, trusting the grounder in front of you for absolutely no reason. Her hand shot out of the cage towards Tsing and she moaned, it was weird to see but what threw you off the most was how everyone copied, making the doctor uncomfortable and retreating back to the medical room.

“Thank you.” You whispered to the tired girl who settled back into her cage, letting her eyes close. Clarke was pulling Anya out before you ran over to them, throwing Anya’s arm over your shoulder and holding her up because you knew leaving her behind wasn’t an option anymore. Clarke ran ahead, pulling open a door that said ‘End Containment Area’ as you all filed in. You dropped Anya’s arm and clutched your stomach, trying to ignore the heavy pain passing through you as the door closed on you three.

Had you have been paying more attention, maybe you would’ve noticed the floor before it disappeared from under you.

The three of you groaned when you hit ground, and your stomach was practically throbbing in pain.

"Next time, don't open your wounds." you whispered to yourself and met Clarke's eyes. It was only then did you realize a hand was laying on your shoulder that most defiantly wasn't yours, Clarke's, or Anya's.

You grimaced and pushed the dead hand off of you, bracing yourself on the edge of the cart to join Clarke and Anya on the other side.

Clarke spotted a pile of clothes on the ground as Anya turned to look at you.

“I’m not leaving my people.” She argues while holding herself up with weak arms against the cart.

“We’ll come back for them, but you can’t help them right now without getting out of here first.” You tried to get her to understand as Clarke informed her about the guards but she just wouldn’t listen.

“There is no ‘we’.” The sound of someone shouting causes you to tense up, knowing nothing good could come out of this. “Someone’s coming.” Anya said pointing out the obvious. You stared at the tunnel where the sounds were coming from as shadows danced across the walls.

“Reapers.” You whispered before Anya tried to pick up something to fight with, receiving a scolding from Clarke before you were all jumping back into the cart of people. You closed your eyes when the Reapers dumped more barely living bodies right on top of you and pushed the cart away with you along with it.

You tried not to move as the grounders on you pushed into your stomach, making you wince every time the cart made a turn the only thing you could do was stare into Clarke’s equally afraid eyes. The cart stopped and the grounders hailed some bodies out, leaving the few of you in the cart with the rest. Clarke peaked over the cart as you pushed the grounder off of you.

“Come on. We have to go.” Clarke whispered before you sat up, realizing the man was groaning in pain. It hurt you to see him like this, even if you didn’t know him. Pushing the hair out of his face you ignored the stares of Anya and Clarke as she yells at you to go.

“Yu gonplei ste odon.” You snapped snapped the grounders neck, letting it echo in the quiet cart before you jump out. Anya watched you the entire time, curious as she observed what Lincoln had taught you about Grounder traditions.

The three of you made your way through the tunnels, trying to find any way to the outside but you couldn’t. “This place is a maze!” You shouted and came to a stop, leaning your hands on your knees to catch your breath. Your body ached from the running and you’d do anything for a quick rest but it wasn’t in your cards apparently.

“What were they doing with us?” Anya asks as Clarke looks down the tunnel, checking for Reapers.

“They’re using your blood.” You told her as she furrowed her brows, letting you straighten your breathing out. “Your bloods healing them somehow. I don’t know but someone with major burn marks apparently got all better in a matter of days.” You followed Clarkes lead, peaking around the corner side of the tunnel before Anya walked past you. “Where are you going?”

“You go your way, I’ll go mine.” She declared as you threw your arms up, letting Clarke take the lead on convincing her to stay. You didn’t care if she left or not, you only cared about getting out of here and back to- and back to no one. You clenched your jaw when Bellamy popped into your mind, you knew he had to be alive but so what if he was? You and him weren’t anything and you’d never truly allow yourself to be. You didn’t know him. And he most definitely didn’t know you. That what you had to keep telling yourself and maybe you’d believe it.

“Let’s go.” Clarke grumbled as she pushed past you, letting you realize Anya was no where to be found. You didn’t press it though. Instead you followed the leader going after Anya and looking out for Reapers as much as you could.

Neither of you said much as you walked down each tunnel, keeping the conversation to a quick ‘which way’ and nothing more, until Clarke brought up the one conversation you didn’t want to have.

“I’m sorry we closed the doors to the drop ship.” You bit your lip and nodded, putting yourself more into searching in order to ignore her, but she wouldn’t have been deterred. “You understand why we had to do it right?”

“Clarke. I don’t blame you for closeting the doors.” You assured her in a harsh tone, causing her to stop walking and stare wide eyed. You sighed, placing your hands on hips and looking at the ground. Honestly, you weren’t mad at Clarke for closing the doors, you would’ve done the same thing. What you were mad at exceeded that problem by a mile. “I’m mad because I came back and everyone treated me like I never left. They treated me like they didn’t kick me out and lock the door.”

You were mad because no one bothered to convince Clarke and Bellamy to let you stay. They only tried after you were gone, but by then the damage was already done. It was Clarke’s turn to nod her head and you scoffed, letting your emotions get the better of you. You were about to let her have it before groans filled your ears and you and Clarke took off running.

Your feet pounded against the dirt below you, scraping to a stop when the tunnel walls brought you in.

“Please, no!” Clarke pleaded as if it would’ve made a difference. You pounded on the tunnel walls,, hoping something would’ve happened but nothing. Until a high pitched screeching caused you to snap your head back, seeing heavily covered guards pointing guns towards you both and the Reapers fell to the ground. You thought they shot them at first before you realized that the sound caused them to fall.

“Clarke Griffin, Y/N Y/L/N, you’re coming with us.” One of them ordered as you and Clarke exchanged worried glances. They began to make their way to you and you stepped back to the wall, pressing your back as one of them grabbed your arm.

“No!” You yelled and shoved her fist into the side of his face, causing his to stumble back as two more guards grabbed your elbows, not letting you take another swing. You thought Clarke would’ve fought back or something but she didn’t, only trying to talk with them as they pulled you along the tunnels again. Your head hung low ignoring the possessive hands griping you no matter how hard you try and make them release.

“We know what you’re doing to them. We know everything.” Clarke argues as you take a small glance at her, hoping she’d stop talking. You knew better than to talk back when someone else is in power. She didn’t seem to catch your eyes before the guard spoke up.

“That’s why you’re going right into the harvest chamber with them.” He told you both before speaking to the people inside Mount Weather, telling them to open up. You were about to admit defeat before a cry above caused you to have hope and Anya swung in, ripping the helmets off the guards. When they started screaming out in pain and released you you tried to fight back, pulling one of their masks off before they screamed.

“The masks!” You cried out as Clarke and Anya started ripping off their masks and soon they all fell, allowing you to run away. You didn’t get far though as Anya led you to a clearing in the tunnel walls. You leaned over, catching the water colliding on the surface and Clarke shook her head.

“There has to be another way.” She shouted barely audible over the sound of rushing water. The guards round the corner and Clarke held up a fun she nabbed from the guards earlier, pointing it at them as Anya took the jump.

“Clarke, come on!” You yelled as she looked back at you, seeing the worry in your face when you glanced between her and the guard. She reluctantly put her hand down before turning into a full sprint towards the edge of the dam. You followed, not listening to the shouts of the guards as they neared you before you fell off.

The water rushed past your ears as you hit the surface, instantly getting sucked under as water infiltrated your lungs. You started to black out as you fought to the surface only for a pair of hands to wrap around your waist, hauling you to shore and letting water sputter out of your mouth.

You gasped for a breath, clenching your wrists together before opening your eyes. Clarke passed out was the first thing you saw and thought she might’ve had the same thing that happened to you happen to her but when Anya looked down at you holding a rock you knew it wasn’t like that.

“You burned 300 of my warriors and I can’t show my face without a prize.” She said before the rock made contact with your skull, knocking you out and leaving you defenseless.

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mvrcutios · 4 years

Text

— INTRODUCING:

➺ Alexandre Preston as M𝔢𝔯𝔠𝔲𝔱𝔦𝔬

Hi everyone! I’m Olivia, 24 from the pst timezone !! I love romantic foreign films and every incarnation of Skam ever created. Also, tik tok. Way way too much tik tok. This is my interpretation of Mercutio (loml tbh), Alexandre! A pretty boy with charm and brains and you bet your ass he knows it. Portrayed by the beaut that is Maxence Fauvel, i’m genuinely filled to the brim with muse for this boy so, without further ado, time for the main event! (as he prefers to be lbr )

name: alexandre henri preston

age: 21

birthday: July 28th, 1998

gender: male

pronouns: he/him

degree: double major of business & music composition (father currently aware of the 1st)

zodiac: leo.

languages: fluent in french & italian, attempting to swear in russian and japanese.

hobbies: piano, cello, running, sex, parties, reading

vices: whiskey, gin, socialites, card games, fast cars, midnight symphonies, menthol cigarettes

pinterest is here !!

the aesthetic: Dom Pérignon, lipstick stained shirt collars, blue eyes with darkened circles, menthol cigarettes, 2am melodies on a piano down the hall, bruised knuckles, hotel balconies, strobe lights and heavy bass, macarons flaked in gold, lips pressed to cheeks, 3am club invitations, lingering eyes, too bright smiles, bitten bruises soothed with a tongue,shattered mirrors, ripped fingernails, screaming into the silent night, laughter whispered into skin, pills pressed to tongues, platinum amex cards, chewed on pens, eyes growing distant, texts left on read, ink over his heart for his maman, naps under campus oak trees, flasks sipped in a lecture hall, hands on hips, backs, and his own throat.

➺ but what is in a name?

➺ { Alexandre } : The french translation of Alexander. Defender of Man. The irony of a name is not lost on him, nor the man who’d held it. He was named for his maternal grandfather, a man who had sold his soul (and his eldest daughter) for money, power, name, all under the guise of the importance of family. A name meaning man of honor. Certainly a strong name for a boy who’d been born to rule a soiled throne, but content to find ways to sneak sweets from the kitchen, trick a smile from his mother as she stared out the window yet again. But defenders are not born, no.They are made, and from the moment blue eyes opened for the first time he was destined to be just that. Made. Into his father’s visions, his mother’s dreams. And Xandre is no fool. All he wants — no, rather. All he desires from life is simple. Everything.

➺ { Henri } Ruler of households. Once again nothing but irony for a boy who grew up wanting for nothing in life, but knowing the expectations were to be just that. A leader. Who would be the one to tell him that the throne he was set to rest upon was built on the blood and bones of the lesser fortunate? More importantly, who would teach him to care?

➺ { Preston } Meaning priest, settlement, enclosures of God. Carried to England from Normandy after the great conquest. A name befitting to the family who in some circles considered themselves holier than most. Gods among men. Who turned whiskey to gold, words to bank notes, and blood into power. If you were a Preston, people knew it. And what could be better than that?

➺ for he is the devil in every detail

➺ ( + ) He was a boy of pressed shirts and dark windswept waves. Blue eyes that sparkled of mischief and peels of laughter that echoed down marbled halls. He was Alexandre Preston, a boy with the stars in his eyes and the world at his feet. Who when he smiled, his entire face lit from within and led to that hint of the devil sparkling just so from that gaze of his. Who smelled of citrus and whiskey and a bite of mint. Who adored beauty, in life and what it had to offer him. A man who’d grown into his looks and was taught by a wise mother just how to use them, a well placed kiss to a cheek or brush of skin, eyes meeting across a room enough to give them what they desired and more than ever, what he craved. He was tall, dark and oh so handsome, and knew how to get just what he wanted. Born with his father’s intellect and drive for more, padded by his mother’s beauty and ability to wield it for the weapon it could be. It made him anything but a bore, a useless first son too afraid to grasp what was before him. No, Xandre knew his fate. But in the meantime, he lived his life how he chose. If dearest dad was none the wiser, well. What’s the harm?

➺ ( + ) But let’s go back to the beginning, shall we? Born on a warm evening in late july, Alexandre Henri was destined to be the only child of Simon Preston and Violette Dupont. A product of two passionate individuals and a loveless marriage, Xandre’s mother was the eldest daughter to a man of debt. The Dupont family had in name what they lacked in capital and with a marriage between Violette and Simon, had everything to gain. Xandre’s birth was a bright burst of fleeting color for a mother who felt caged into the world she’d sold herself to, doting on the little boy and doing what she could to leave him with a part of her, a piece of her own waning soul. Where Simon was boastful, she was wicked, demure. Where he was aggression, she was soft sighs and whispered curses. Two sides of what lead to be a machiavellian son. Destined to rule with a gilded fist and fleeting, passionate heart.

➺ ( + ) He was put into lessons as a boy to dwindle that energy that thrummed with his every step, sports and arts and languages but they were fleeting moments of time, hobbies cast aside once the obsessive grip of his mind released them. But his mother’s love of piano rang true to his blood, picking up the instrument even with some difficulty. It bothered him so, to have something he couldn’t master with minimal effort. It required a honed drive, a passion and ethic to create something magnificent through nothing more than hard work. It fueled him, the boy almost manic with the late hours he spent alone in the sun room, fingers dancing along keys and cursing with every missed note. As he grew, so did the realization that it was not something you could master. The great composers themselves went mad with trying. It was a never ending race, and one he still holds steadfast this very day. It is as much a part of him as anything could be. Alexandre is meant to be a leader, Alexandre blows thousands on parties and card games, Alexandre needs music like air to rattling lungs. His current double major at Ashcroft is a direct result. If he’s to live out this new version of day to day, he’ll do as he pleases. As long as his father remains where he belongs, ignorant as the rest are.

➺ ( + ) if music was a stronghold, most everything else in his world was a passing fancy, aimless ways to spend time and money and have fun in this life he was so destined to lead. High school meant parties and fun, learning the intricacies of the body and passion as girls and boys alike came and went from white rumbled sheets. For his mother had taught him to wield beauty for what it was; a weapon. And oh, did he learn with the best. A university career begun at Oxford (if only to spite his father), where the real fun began, nights spent in club after club until the sun rose again, liquor fueled nights of passion and fun, barred from certain clubs and embraced at others, heavyweight card games and street races with a bottle of dom in hand. Started a gambling ring in his dorm hall until the RA caught wind a year later. (But he eventually joined, so no harm no foul) He was at an all time high, never fearing the inevitable crash to follow. He welcomed it like an old friend, navigated the highs and lows with a long learned finesse. Now in Edinburgh, he chases the residual high with his normal vigor, finding drinking buddies to waste an evening with, occasional bodies to slip into his too high thread count sheets.

➺ ( + ) The very definition of love ‘em and leave ‘em. Xandre doesn’t do true relationships, has never truly given his heart to someone in any form. He doesn’t believe in it, the type of love that makes people do such foolish things. He does foolish things just fine on his own, heart be damned. He can be passionate, charming, attentive lover at the best of times, possessive fool at the worst of times. He loves to feel desired, wanted, needed even. But never aims to be someone’s entire world. That type of need, that type of love does nothing but wound. And every wound he will ever have will be of his own creation. Has had more than a few flings, even reoccurring instances of women or men a few times in a row. But the connections are shallow, surface deep. You don’t need to witness his soul to get into his bed, afterall.

➺ ( + ) It was all a beautiful distraction from the blood that stained every letter of his name. His cousin was allowed to live in blessed ignorance of the family means, but Xandre, he was thrown headfirst into the lion’s den and came out grinning, the truth of it never leaving past blood stained lips. He isn’t resentful of that fact. A part of him feels it was always meant to be this way. If his cousins were the sun, he was the endless night, the whispers of shadows and secrets meant to withstand. For he could take it, surely. Right?

➺ ( + ) while his fate may be anything but up for debate, he is anything but a too willing participant. Being at Oxford meant enough distance to gain a bit of the freedom he craved. The night his father was arrested, Alexandre was doing what was normal, even on a tuesday evening. Partying at a local hotspot four bottles deep in champagne and whiskey, pills pressed to lips in between fevered kisses of a woman who’s name escaped him the next morning. Sweetened black coffee in hand as he watched his phone buzz over and over, the news blaring the headline of what he’d always known would come to fruition. But his father was still kicking, and so the heavy head who bears the crown was not yet his own. So he went about his day, his week, his months. Until, octavia.

➺ ( + ) his cousins were the siblings he’d never had, and for a man who doesn’t truly believe in intricacies of love he loves them with all he has in him. Wolfie the brother he’d craved, the two stirring trouble with every laugh as they raced down the cavernous halls of their homes. Days spent listening to his whispered dreams, his own a hollow echo in response to the passion that thrummed from his cousin’s. The lectures of his poor influence never bothered him, his role had always been rather set after all. The shadow to the sun. Was he ever to be a leader? Possibly. But he was never born of the responsibility and dreams that lingered over his cousin, never expected to amount to anything rather spectacular beyond the built business reputation and blood that soaked the name Preston. He was too impulsive, too passionate to have it beaten from his bones, just always a little too much.

➺ ( + ) And Octavia – she held a special place in his heart. Daddy’s little girl, it was easy to see how she could bat her lashes and smile her smile and let the world fall at her feet. He admired it, respected it even. Game always has to appreciate the game. She and her brother leaving for Ashcroft was a blow he hadn’t anticipated, for they’d always had one another, the two musketeers and the girl who fought to be anything but a shadow. It was an unfamiliar ache, missing them. And with Octavia now gone, that ache has grown tenfold. Morphed into anger for what he knew she was up to, for somehow somewhere, she’d pissed off the wrong people to where even the Preston name couldn’t quite save her soul. But her essence is everywhere, haunting the halls and whispering in ears. It’s all so very dramatic, so very her. He’d pour one out for her if he didn’t think she’d simper about his distaste for wasted wine. Her spirit was a mild comfort, a balm over a roughened wound. a bigger amusement than anything, a middle finger to those who’d ended her bright existence. A Preston knew how to fuck you over, that was made all the more clear with each report of her sightings. And god, did he love her for it.

➺ ( + ) and that at the very crux of it all, is what has brought him to ashcroft. A new scene for parties, new faces, and a remaining cousin who could use a shoulder to lean on. & those all look lovely on paper, but the fine print? Always read it carefully. For the smiles and charm are all Violette without a doubt. But the danger that lingers, the passion and fire that fuel his soul and border on the precipice of mania? Alexandre is Simon Preston’s son, that was never to be denied for long. And someone has wronged them all, taken things they had no right to take. Someone he considered to be a part of his heart. He doesn’t take kindly to such things, and so to Ashcroft he’s come. He is passion, recklessness, a hidden grief fueled by fleeting love wrapped in a shiny veneered package. He’s here to revel, to discover, to maybe even punish. If deemed necessary. Blood will always be blood, and for a man who’s always willing to go a little too far? It is all that remains.

➺ ( + ) as for what has qualified him for such a prestigious society upon his enrollment well, that is a mystery to some and a hard headline to others. His family’s connections? His relation to Wolfie? His letters of transfer from his classical composition professors back in London? As far as Xandre is concerned, it’s nothing more than a certain Oberon Ashcroft seeing he has a role to play, and one he plays rather well. Unassuming at first, a disarming charm soothing the blunt edges of his words. He says what he feels, and what he knows must be said. And due to that, he knows his worth, what he brings to the table. Knows how poorly it would look if he hadn’t been inducted. He brings a good time, a laugh, a chance to rebel against the societal norms and oppressions that leak from every pore of Ashcroft. But he also brings a weighted name, a wicked ability to decipher through the purple prose people can preach, to the truth at the core of it all. And he plays a mean Chopin, what can he say?

➺ ( + ) there is no way to wrap up all that he is, to summarize a man who is nothing short of a dichotomy, a symphony in fractured parts. Perhaps a jekyll and hyde of his own making, two heads of the same beast he wielded within his soul. for there was something to be said of being seen, eyes drawn to your every move, to feel the power of being adored, desired, craved. He is the devil on your shoulder, crooning saccharine words and screaming in triumph in a breadth. A gleam of mania tinging those baby blues when he pushes just so to get his way. He is that very symphony, a concerto who’s pace continues to drive faster and faster, upward and onward until its very PEAK, a cacophony of beauty and agony as notes ring out, clash, COLLIDE. and then, the briefest moment of silence. He has discovered the distractions his body can wield, but also the power to be found in stillness, in silence. At his lowest he craves it, aches to be surrounded by masses just once more to drown out the roaring in his mind, to draw it to ecstasy, to blissful silence. All leading up to the final, ringing note. Before the applause, of course. never deny yourself the applause. That had always been Lesson One.

➺ A LETTER TO OCTAVIA:

Tavia —

Where do I start? You always knew how to make an entrance, tav. should’ve figured your exit would be the same. But…why the fuck wouldn’t you call me? Why wouldn’t you tell me the extent of just how bad shit had gotten so quickly? You knew no matter what I said, or how I complained or warned you off to be careful I would’ve been there in a heartbeat. You didn’t have to do this alone. I should’ve seen that and come the first time you called. Don’t haunt me for that. And that police chief mentioned a baby, Tav. You never– me of all people would have understood. You were the only one I ever told about Clara, how my dad paid her off. You never judged me for him, you understood. Let me get wasted and cry it out in that shitty suite in London. We could have made a club of it, you and me. Poor little Rich kids with secret kids. Poetic, no? Poetic justice is bullshit in hindsight. And I just really, really miss you.

I’m sure everyone in these letters are telling you the reasons they adored you, how they’ll never forget you, the wild memories they’re sharing with you, that they say they’ll never forget. I don’t need to say all those things. You know I do, and you know I won’t forget. You’re a part of my heart, as battered and shriveled as we liked to joke it is. But apparently death makes us sentimental fools, so here’s this for you, because it’s 4am and the memory won’t leave my mind no matter how many times I close my eyes. That summer we spent, all of us, vacationing in that house on the riviera. Remember? I spent the day running around the grounds with Wolf and we’d laugh and tease like elder brothers do when you’d seek us out, pouting those lips and crocodile tears until we included you in our games. But when the sun set and dinner was long gone, you’d drag me into the tea room with that baby grand in the corner and demanded I play. You always were a determined thing, you brat. But you’d smile that smile and even I couldn’t fight the urge to sit and play your favorites.You sang along and danced and danced and danced until you were breathless with it. Only you could make dancing to britney fuckin’ spears look like an artform you know? You’d call me your co-star, and never let me hate myself for the mistakes, never laughed if I stumbled on a note. You were my biggest supporter that summer, but I was only one of your many adoring fans. That’s how it was supposed to be. That won’t change, I promise.

( A few tears stain the edges of that previous paragraph, angry, bitter droplets that he wipes away and slips the paper further to defend the onslaught of them. He sighs deeply, clears his throat. )

And look at you now, huh? Haunting your friends and your brother with the best of ‘em. Leave it to you to find a way to remain the star of the show even in death. I can see how it’s unravelling them. The ones who look too pale to be innocent, everyone here has a fucking secret. Thanks to you maybe we’ll see them all sooner than later. And what fun that’s gonna be. But do me a favor and haunt some hot freshman for me, will you? Whisper sweet nothings of my beauty in their ears, make it a good one. I’ll owe you one. You know I’m good for it.

I’ll watch over Wolfie. Of course I will. I’ll get him piss drunk at that club you mentioned last time we talked, bring a few lines and a bottle of dom all just for you, gorgeous. I’m here now for him, for you. I’m here for what I should have done from the beginning. If you had to leave him —had to leave us, it won’t be for nothing.

I miss you, cherie. Visit me tonight in my dreams, alright? You can dance for me, I’ll play you a song.

We’ll make it a happy one, for old times sake.

-Xandre

#spectreintro #𝔞𝔩𝔢𝔵𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔦 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔫 ╱ 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺 .#if you read this whole thing ur a god and i am sorry

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mythiica · 5 years

Note

Myth congrats on all of your new followers!! ❤️❤️❤️ May I get a Modern!AU slow burn fic ending in fluff for either Ieyasu, Mitsuhide, or Shingen? Tbh, I'm having a hard time choosing who, please choose whichever one inspires you! I trust your decision hehe 😊

Title: Modern AU! Slow Burn

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Character: Ieyasu Tokugawa, Mitsuhide Akechi, Shingen Takeda

Genre: mini fics

Warnings: none

Intended Gender Audience: Female Audience

Word Count: each is about 700 words x 3 = 2100 words

POV: second person w/ (Y/n)

Other comments: im insane so im doing them all as mini scenarios; i decided to use the official art of what jobs they would have in an AU setting, hope you like!-

Ieyasu - Animal Kisses

“Hold her, will you?”

You do as you are told, allowing Ieyasu to wrap the fawn’s leg with a bandage. It squirms in your grip, but you keep the animal in place the best you can. Once he smooths down the edge of the wrap, Ieyasu gives you a short nod, letting you know he has finished. The fawn stands up and takes a few steps with her newly bandaged leg before licking Ieyasu’s cheeks.

He stands there, rather unamused, but accepts the creature’s kisses without saying anything. The deer also nuzzles its head against Ieyasu, but then he promptly picks her up to return her to the enclosure.

“Aww! She likes you~” you tease as you follow behind him. “Thank you for helping her. I was really worried when I saw the blood this morning. I thought that something had broken into the conservatory, but she just fell over a broken branch.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s my job.”

“Still though… all the animals here like you. You have a special connection with them.”

Ieyasu presses the button for the intercom. “Can someone come get Twyla? She’s ready to go back. Make sure she gets antibiotics in her food for the next six meals. If she comes back looking worse, I’m blaming you lot.”

Your pager pings, so you pull it from your pocket. “Oh…” you mumble dejectedly.

“Something wrong?”

“No…” you reply, “I have to go to the other side of the facility to help one of the bush babies. It seems like one of them got stuck in a tree hole and is a bit too pudgy to get out.”

Ieyasu chuckles slightly at this. “They have been putting on more weight than usual. Perhaps they are trying to bulk up for mating season?”

Of course he has a reasonable answer for this. Ieyasu always knows everything about every animal in the rescue center. He also is always so kind to any creature that comes into his room.

“I’ll see you around, then,” you say with a wave. “Bush babies to save...” You bite your lip and fumble with your fingers. An awkward silence passes between the two of you before you escape from the lab.

Ieyasu lingers in his spot, leaning against the metal table, and thinks for a moment. He brushes off the notion and turns around to tend to some files for incoming animals.

An hour later, a knock at the door coaxes him from his work. “You again?”

You laugh. “This time, I am the patient.”

He raises an eyebrow, to which you raise your finger and show him the smallest trickle of blood going down your finger. “Mating season indeed. The male attacked me when he heard the female squeal as I tried to remove her.”

“That stupid saucer-eyed cotton ball,” he curses. “Come here.”

Your heels click against the tiled floor as you walk over, and Ieyasu grabs your hand to inspect the puncture wound. “I washed it before coming here, but I didn’t know where we keep the medical supplies that are… well… for humans. I guess I’m too new here!”

Ieyasu rips open a small alcoholic wipe and cleans your finger before applying a bit of cream to it and wrapping a band aid around it.

“What’s my prognosis?”

“You’ll live,” he replies. “Just make sure you wash it when you get home and keep it covered while you work.”

“Thank you, Dr. Tokugawa.”

“Don’t call me that. It makes me sound old.”

You cover your mouth and laugh. Placing your hands back in your lap, you look around at his lab to avoid sparking up further conversation. But the, Ieyasu clears his throat, and you immediately worry that you intruded on something.

“Oh! Sorry. I should… be getting to lunch. Thank you again.”

This time, when you turn to leave, Ieyasu is not so quick to let you leave. “Would you like to stay here and eat?”

“I thought we were not allowed to bring food into the labs.”

Ieyasu points at the tables. “I sanitize these at least forty times an hour. My floors are cleaner than the cafeteria tables.”

You can’t hold your smile back and nod your head enthusiastically.

Mitsuhide Akechi - Late Nights at the Precinct

You turn the lights out and close your office door behind you. The lock clicks shut, and you begin to walk to the front doors to leave the precinct. With your hands on the door bars, you catch a glimspe of Mitsuhide in his own office. He is hunched over his desk, reviewing papers for a recent case he took on.

Up to now, you have only heard whispers of the famous Mitsuhide Akechi – he was a legend in Japan for solving the most difficult of cases. People said that it took him three days to find an illusive serial killer that had evaded the police for nearly a year. You wonder if he is really as ruthless as they say. Not only was he extremely good at his job, but people claimed that he had more connections to mafias and gangs than anyone in the country. This earned him the nickname ‘kitsune’, as he could shape shift to fit his needs for the case.

You knock on his open door and lean against the doorframe. “Burning the midnight oil?” you inquire, trying to sound cool.

He looks up, his golden eyes seemingly piercing through you. Mitsuhide takes his glasses off and leans back in his chair. His hand shifts, moving the case file over the papers so that you cannot see them. Of course he is guarded. He transferred to the Tokyo division only recently.

“Is it really that late? I hadn’t noticed.” Mitsuhide proceeds to stand up and stretch before sauntering over to you. “And what is a little mouse as yourself doing here at a time like this?”

“I had to finish a report for a case I just closed.”

“Oh?”

“Kidnapping,” you explain.

Mitsuhide’s eyes shine. “I don’t think we’ve properly met, Detective…?”

“(Y/n) (L/n).”

“Ah, of course. You helped with the Yandere Killings last year, didn’t you?” Mitushide refers to a string of murders that happened over the course of a week early last spring. They were strangely consistent with murders that happen in the game Yandere Simulator, hence the name ‘Yandere Killings’ was coined for the case.

“Yes, but I didn’t do as much as you did, Detective Akechi. After all, you caught the person who was doing it.”

Mitsuhide smiles, accepting your praise happily.

“Sorry to bother you, I just saw your light and…” you trail off, not really knowing how to explain why you stopped by.

“It’s no problem.”

Indeed, Mitsuhide was keeping his answers short as to avoid complicating the conversation further. You wonder if he ever let anyone in. Shaking the thought from your mind, you bow your head. “Best of luck on the case you are working on now. I will take my leave now. Goodnight, Detective Akechi.”

“Goodnight, little mouse.” He stays in his spot as you leave, only moving from the doorframe until after you have exited the building.

The next morning, when you enter the precinct, you can see Mitsuhide sitting in your chair from the main hall. “Hello Detective Akechi. What brings you here?”

He brings his feet down from your desk and looks at you. “I came to ask you a question.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

Mitsuhide clicks his tongue. “Do you suppose it is possible that the murders from the Back alley case were moved there?”

You tap your finger against your chin, pondering this idea. “I haven’t reviewed the case file in detail, but there wasn’t any evidence that they had been killed on the spot, right?”

He nods. “Smart mouse.” Mitsuhide seems to really like this nickname. “Does that not make it kidnapping, technically?”

“Well…” you think back to your years of training, “Not always. Kidnappers are not always motivated by a murderous intent. Unless the victims were held captive and then killed, I don’t know that… wait…” Something seems off. Why is he asking you this? Mitsuhide is smart enough to know the answer himself. He could just as easily look it up. Why bother to com ask you directly?

Mitsuhide tips his head and looks at you as if he is analyzing you.

“Are you asking me to work this case with you?”

The corners of his mouth curl upwards into a sly smile. “How perceptive.”

You laugh. “You could have asked me or put in a request with–”

He stands up and pats your head, ruffling up your hair. “Yes. I could have. But I wanted to test you. And you passed, little mouse. Congratulations and welcome to the homicide division.”

Shingen - Etude in G# minor, Op.25; No.6

He plays with the grace of a swan gliding through crystal clear water. His fingers glide across the keys, creating beautiful harmonies that echo throughout the concert hall. The rest of the symphony has stopped playing, allowing him to continue with a piano solo.

You find it strange – you have heard this particular piece, Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No.2, but the way Shingen Takeda plays it… he transforms the piece and brings the audience along for a mystical ride along with him. You would not be surprised if there were people moved to tears. In fact, when you inhale, your chest rattles with a surpassed cry.

Shingen ends the song, keeping his finger held down on the key for a bit longer than was supposed to, but no one notices because the hall erupts into applause. You have been attending concerts for many years, but this is the first time that people throw roses onto the stage.

He picks one up, and when he smells it, his gaze locks with yours. You are not too far in the back, and nor are you very close to the front, so this catches you off guard. Your stomach does flips in your abdomen when he winks. If Shingen Takeda was anything in addition to one of the best pianists in the world, he was the biggest flirt in the world as well.

The concert dismisses, and crowds run to the exits in an attempt to catch him before he leaves. When you enter the main hall, you hear screams from behind you. A mob of young women runs straight for you, but before they make impact, a strong hand wraps around your waist and pulls you out of the way.

When you look up, you nearly lose your breath – Shingen smiles at you with that charming smile of his. It melts your bones and steals any words you could have said in the moment.

“Careful there,” he purrs, dipping his head closer to you, “an angel like you should watch her step.”

Your heart thunders in your chest, and you pull to get away. The crowd of girls has circled around you, trying to get a piece of the action. Shingen pays them little attention, and actually seems saddened that you have moved away from him. “You played beautifully tonight, Mr. Takeda.”

“Hearing that, from you, is a gift in itself.” The women all swoon simultaneously, but Shingen tips his head slightly when you do not fall for the same sweet talk.

“Thank you,” you say quickly before escaping the crowd.

The next day, you return to reality and your job as a hostess at a high-end restaurant. You arrive a bit earlier than usual so you can help set up the tables for dinner. The restaurant sits on the top of a skyscraper-hotel. As soon as you come out of the elevator, you nearly drop your phone because you see Shingen Takeda sitting at the piano in the middle of the dining hall.

He plays as beautifully as he did last night, putting you in a trance that nearly makes you miss getting out of the elevator. Skittering out from the elevator, you try to find one of your coworkers and ask them to explain why Shingen is there.

“Oh, the boss asked him to make an appearance tonight and play for the guests. Did you not get my text?”

You look down and realize that you have gotten a message from her, but you were busy ogling Shingen to notice. Inhaling, you shake the nerves off and collect some table cloths to go cover the tables. Deep down, you pray that he doesn’t notice you, but when you hear him whistle, you know you’ve been found.

He waves at you, and you know that he won’t stop until you visit him. “Hello again,” he greets, “it must be fate that allows me to see you again today, my angel.”

“I’m not your angel. I work here.”

Shingen runs his hand through his hair. “Tonight, I will play whatever song you wish. Tell me, what do you desire?”

Rolling your eyes, you smirk. “Chopin's “Etude in G# minor, Op.25; No.6.” It was one of the most difficult pieces you knew, so you threw it at Shingen in an attempt to deter him.

Instead of being discouraged, he smirks and nods. “A fine choice. I will make you proud, my goddess.”

You pause. “Uh.. angel… is better than goddess.” A blush spreads across your cheeks as you say this, but it only makes Shingen laugh.

When guests begin to arrive, Shingen finally starts to play the song you asked for. As he plays the first few notes, you stop and turn to look at him. The spotlight is focused directly above him, catching everyone’s attention. Your heart shatters as the minor undertones take over because he is that good.

Snapping back into reality, you take a group to their table. On the way back to the front, you stop by the piano and place a flower on the music stand. He smiles at you, but continues to play.

The music wraps around you, enveloping you in the strong emotion he pours into the piece. Of course he does. He is Shingen Takeda after all – the world’s best flirter and pianist.

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hitchell-mope · 5 years

Text

(Third film. After “who we are”. Part two)

(Jay’s about to leave with Matty but Carlos pulls him aside)

Carlos: good morning

Jay (smirking): good morning

(They almost kiss but Matty distracts them)

Matty (disgusted): BLEAURGH

Ben (sensing trouble): do we have a problem here?

Matty: they’re both so old

Carlos (offended): I’m only eight years older then you, you little twerp

Matty: Still

Mal: you know what! Doug. Doug can take you to your room. Could you please take him to his room Doug ol buddy ol pal of mine. Please?

Doug (thoroughly enjoying the verbal sparring match): sure. I have experience dealing with monetarily obsessed children. C’mon kid

(They leave. Ben turns to Mal)

Ben: that. was

Mal: exhausting

Ben: but worth it

Mal: ahem if you say so.

Ben: hey bud. The elderly need to have a talk. Do you mind taking an early lunch?

Carlos (knowing full well what Ben is planning on doing): So jay, is the brunch table still open

Jay: why yes. Yes it is

(The disappear in a puff of gold smoke)

Ben (offering Mal his hand): c’mon. I wanna show you something

Mal (taking his hand, intrigued): oh really

(Elsewhere)

Celia: So this is gonna be our room?

Dizzy: for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll be at mom and dads starter castle.

Celia: for how long?

Evie: the entire summer. But, but, if you prefer. Tiana and Naveen or mama Odie have rooms ready at their homes.

Celia: hmmmmm. How long is this summer?

Evie: ...twelve weeks. Three months

Celia: you’ll do. For now

(She smiles mischievously. Dizzy crows with delight and immediately starts showing her the amenities Auradon has to offer)

Celia: Dizz, Dizzy, Dizzy. It’s ok. I think I’m gonna like it here.

(This is when “I think I’m gonna like it here” happens. At the end of which Celia bumps into a pink clad figure)

Celia: hey watch it

Audrey: I am so sorry I heard you guys

Evie: eavesdropping? I thought you’d learned your lesson by now

Audrey (face set in a kind smile but scared stiff): the halls are echoey

Evie: sure(.) Celia, this is the kings ex girlfriend

Celia: you’re that bitch that insulted Evie when she first came here

Audrey (looking terrified): mhmm

Celia: So what do you do now you’re not gonna be queen anymore

Audrey: I am in summer school because I took an impromptu spa vacation last semester during term time

Celia: why?

Dizzy: Maleficent tried to kill her at the coronation

Celia: oh yeah. I watched that. So sad you lived

(Audrey looks at Evie silently asking for a defence. Evie smiles evily)

Evie: it was oh so very sad.

Audrey: m-moving ahem on. I am princess Audrey of Auroria. And I will be your dorm advisor next school year.

Celia: is that supposed to mean anything to me

Evie: basically she’s just your glorified unpaid babysitter. Who can’t control anything you do. But you are at liberty to annoy her. There’s nothing to petty to go to her with

Audrey: well I need to sleep but

Evie: Abigail Sweet never slept when we needed her for something

(Audrey looks like she’s trying to swallow a brick)

Celia: puce is a good colour on you

Audrey (running her fingers through her hair): it’s a really dark magenta actually

Celia: wavy talking about the hair

(In the distance two voices shriek then laugh)

Evie: So the twins have seen the statue then

Audrey: here is the menu for today’s dinner

Celia: ah man. No rabbit pie.

Evie: the bolognese is just tonight’s recommendation. There’s a full buffet. And if you can’t find what you want. You can always use magic to create it.

Celia: I really like it here

(At the brunch table)

Carlos: morning gran

Jay: you have two more grandsons

Belle: hello dears. And yes Gil told me about the twins. Where are they?

Jaylos: fencing arena

Belle: aw that’s nice. Gil and Lonnie spend so much time there. It’s good to keep healthy. Unlike me.

Carlos: uh gran? It’s 11 o’clock in the morning. And you don’t smoke

Belle: I am, how do say it? Oh yes. Psyching myself up.

Jay: it’s finally happening then?

Belle: yes

Carlos: bout time if you ask me.

Belle: where is Ben. I’d like to say goodbye before I leave

Carlos: where they first met

Belle (smiling knowingly): do please tell him where I’ve gone.

Jay: of course. Want me to teleport you to the court house?

Belle: no thank you dear. I’m taking a car. Gives me time to think.

Jay: I can drive.

Belle: thank you for offering. But they’ll want to see you after if it works.

Carlos: and if it doesn’t work. She might not be ready remember

Belle: then they’ll both need you.

Elsa: queen mother. The cars here.

Belle: thank you Elsa. Are you?

Elsa: no. My daughter is expecting me

Belle: word of advice. Never marry a man who lies about resurrecting a man who attacked the both of you back from the dead.

Elsa: wasn’t planning to.

(Belle leaves)

Elsa: now boys. I see chocolate croissants and salmon bagels that are yet to be eaten. I declare a competition. Who ever finishes this food first will get the royal Arendelle chocolate fountain for the summer. I’ll referee. Sound good?

Jay: Hell yeah.

(Back in the courtyard. Ben’s used his magic to create a eatery area with a full buffet table. And a projector and film reel)

Ben: So this is a

Mal: butter bar

Ben: a butter bar? Um

Mal: context?

Ben: yes please

Mal: I was bored. And hungry. You were in a budget meeting. And Evie was annoying me. So I got a stick of butter, dipped it in cinnamon, dipped it in chocolate, deep fried in churro batter, and put peanut sprinkles on top. Magic keeps everything from melting.

Ben: that sounds absolutely disgusting. And I must try it

Mal: go ahead

Ben: I might be a decent cook, but you’re a confectionery genius

Mal: why thank you. How did our niece get on with her first transfer session?

Ben: she was great. Everyone was so great. Except

Mal: yeah?

Ben: Celia asked why you weren’t there.

Mal: ah. What did you guys say?

Ben: Carlos took care of it.

Mal: he didn’t mention my therapy did he?

Ben: no. No he didn’t

Mal: oh thank goodness. Don’t worry. I’m not, ashamed, of getting help. But it’s just that

Ben: when people you’ve not seen for a while are prone to judgement it can be a little difficult to admit your foibles

Mal: yeah. So anyway all this is very very nice. But why. Oh boy. It’s not your birthday is it?

Ben: that was two months ago. You took me to dinner at Tony’s?

Mal: right. A Thursday. It’s not my birthday is it?

Ben: you’re a month older then me

Mal: I might need to change Friday night drinks from beer to orange juice

Ben: ahhh you’re fine.

Mal: well I am half human. Not exactly pure

Ben: neither of us are.

Mal: yeah. Yeah we aren’t. So anyway. What is all this for. You can’t have missed me that much. You were only gone for twelve hours

Ben: I always miss you. But no. This is the exact same spot where we first met. A year and a half ago today.

Mal: this isn’t an anniversary. Is it?

Ben: no

Mal: oh thank god for that. I’m so sorry. That sounded cruel

Ben: that’s ok. I kinda like it when you’re a little cruel.

Mal (cackling): yeah I know. So what is that for

(She points to the film projector)

Ben: ah yes! I learned a new spell

Mal: oh yeah?

Ben: memory and dream extraction.

Mal (intrigued): continue

Ben: my dreams. And memories. About us

Mal: is that why..? The whole eatery enclosure thing

Ben: mostly because I needed food. But yeah. The occasion provides privacy. Shall I press play.

Mal: go for it. Jesus. Is that what my hair looks like from the back? And who’s speaking?

Ben: you’re hair always looks nice. And that’s me. My inner monologue

Mal: ah. And do you still have that suit?

Ben: not anymore no. I don’t think it would fit.

Mal (chuckling fondly): do you ever miss your old hair?

Ben: I’ve got purple roots because of my magic. It makes me closer to you. Why would I miss my old hair.

Mal: you’re sweet. Ah fuck.

Ben: yeah my technique is rather crude. But we got together in the end

Mal: yes. Yes we did. I tried to avoid you for so long. Because I believed you deserved better then a villain

Ben: well I’ve always been somewhat attracted to the darkness and badassery

Mal: oh the badassery is all jay. The darkness is all me. But I’m working on it. Still remember our little conversations back then

Ben: of course

(He uses magic to activate a nearby stereo. Mal shrieks in delight. This is when “as lovers go” starts. After the song)

Mal: oh my god. Omigod omigod omigod

Ben: I love you. Would you like to be my queen

(Mal tackles him in a bear, or dragon, hug)

Mal: yes. Yes yes yes. To be honest I kinda knew you had this planned

Ben: oh really?

Mal: yeah. Evie’s not been able to look at me for a month without crying. Speaking of

(She gets off of and dissolves the faux eatery revealing their friends who’ve been waiting)

Mal: C. You’ve got an official father

Carlos: YEEEEEEEEES

(He bounds up and hugs them both)

Jay (jokingly): you know if you do anything to hurt

Ben: I’m sure my magic will get to me first Jay.

Doug (more warningly but still with a smile): same goes for you Mal

Mal: Roger

(She disentangles herself from the boys)

Mal: hey. Are we filming?

Evie: I think the approved press are still here. Or at least their cameras are.

Mal: Doug buddy. Could you start rolling

Doug: sure

Mal (turning to the camera, takes a deep breath): IM ENGAGED!!!! HAHAHAHA

Evie (aside to Doug): I dunno why but I kinda thought that’d be more regal

Jay and Lonnie: it’s Mal. What did you expect

(Once Doug shuts the camera off)

Audrey: ooh ooh ooh. You can borrow my shoes.

Mal: I have bigger feet then you pal. But thank you for offering.

Chad (running up and pushing between the two friends): NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! Don’t touch her! You’re not the queen. You’re a fugly hag of a witch. Audrey’s the rightful queen. Soon everyone will see and

(Mal gives Audrey a look, Audrey nods her head, Mal wafts chad away mid sentence in a puff of smoke)

Mal: drunk, stoned or just plain tired?

Audrey: probably all three

(Elsewhere)

Gil: where mama? She should be here

Squeaky: uncle Florrie does this make Mal our auntie now?

Ben: sure does buddy. Moms at the courthouse. It’s the first of June. Dad finally stopped dragging his feet

Gil: ohhh

(End of part two)

#disney descendants #zendaya!mal

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