#I have never been so immediately enraged by anything before good lord | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

maple-the-awesome · 1 year ago

Text

We'll Meet Again...I Know When || Chapter 32

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x GN Reader

Words: 3,853

Overview: Given your old-fashioned personality and obsession with all things 1940s to 1980s, it’s no wonder that most people refer to you as an ‘old soul’ who would’ve rather lived back then than in the modern era. Little do they know, you already did, but with your previous life as Hollie Stark cut short, you’ve been left with some…unfinished business, to say the least. Top of your list? Finally getting to marry your thought-to-be-lost fiancé.

Series Masterlist 🤎 Marvel Masterlist 🤎 Fandom Masterlist

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: GET LOW

You have to keep your priorities straight. There's a group of terrorist super soldiers running around while the serum to create them is apparently being created in the worst possible place for it, Madripoor. You only agreed to this mission to solve that problem; nothing else should be on your mind nor of your concern. The sooner you fix things, the sooner you can return home where you somewhat wish you would've stayed to begin with.

Despite your bitter and anxious mood, you keep strictly to your assigned character during negotiations. Standing behind Zemo with hands kept clasped in front of yourself, you pay close attention to every word said not because you care for the conversation itself, but so that you can be prepared if anything goes wrong.

As scripted, you only move when Zemo offers to 'trade' the Winter Soldier to Selby in exchange for information, at which point you briefly hold up a book for her to see containing the supposed code words (none that are accurate, as you made sure to confirm before even entering Madripoor).

Earlier when this part of the plan had been explained to you, you were hesitant, yet now you find yourself caring a little less, a petty side of you almost wanting to actually leave him here with this lunatic crime-lord since she seems perfectly willing to take him off your hands. It's not like you plan to ever come back to Madripoor anyway, so he'd never have to worry about seeing you again; a total win for him.

The good news is you get a lead from Selby: a man named Dr. Wilfred Nagel is the one making super soldier serum. The bad news? She refuses to say where you can find him, not even willingly to mention if he's in Madripoor. The worst news? Sam forgot one of the biggest rules to undercover missions: turning off your damn phone.

It's at this point that your facades begin to unravel like a cat's favorite ball of yarn. Based on the way Sam looks around the room nervously, you can tell it isn't a scam call or wrong number, yet there's nothing any of you can do for him once Selby demands he answer it on speaker phone. Despite his desperate attempts to maintain his role as Smiling Tiger, the woman on the other end doesn't get the hint, stubbornly remaining on line until delivering the final blow by referring to him by name.

"'Sam'? Who's 'Sam'?" Selby becomes enraged immediately, "Kill them -!"

Almost as soon as those words left her mouth, a bullet came crashing through the window, hitting Selby from behind and causing her to fall limp onto the ground. From there, you're only allowed a brief moment of surprise before a fight ensues.

Thankfully unlike the bar downstairs where there would've been a gun pointing at you from every direction, there are only two armed guards in this private room who are slow to react. Bucky and Sam easily knock them out while taking their guns for themselves which is enough of a threat for everyone else to flee without causing any further trouble, although that doesn't necessarily save any of you from this new situation you've landed yourselves in.

"We have a real problem now," Zemo complains, yet his behavior comes across as being no more inconvenienced than he would be if someone spit in his tea, "Leave your weapons and follow my lead."

You wish you could be as calm, too - which is the first and only time you'll be jealous of Zemo for something. Sure, you can act calm, but to truly be it is another talent. It doesn't matter how straight your expression is nor how casual you try to walk while still being swift on your feet; you feel like a deer walking through a shooting range the second you step onto the streets, senses heightened as you wait for any sign of danger directed your way.

You don't have to wait long. The lights of the street suddenly flash off, leaving you blinded by darkness soon disrupted by a flurry of gunshots aimed at your group. It's complete chaos after that. There’s no uniformed or planned attack like what you're used to. It's a city of criminals governed by no leadership or morals, only their own selfish interests in mind.

There's gunshots to your left and gunshots to your right. People screaming as they run for cover, people shouting as they chase after you through the many streets and allies. Now, you haven't been to the gym in months - Alright, maybe years, but practiced exercise is nothing compared to pure adrenaline. The mere thought of your life being on the line as motorcycles roar somewhere close by serves as the perfect motivator for your legs to keep moving, chasing directly behind Bucky who likely has no idea where he's going, but anywhere is better than stopping to ask for directions.

Your pace only slows when coming around another corner, at which point you foolishly duck upon hearing two more gunshots fired from somewhere ahead. When you don't feel the force of any bullets ripping through your body, you turn around to see the motorcycle drivers both hunched over lifeless.

“Well, this is too perfect,” A voice comes as a woman steps out of the foggy darkness, only removing a hand from her gun briefly to pull down her hood which reveals her face to the rest of you. If it weren’t for your excellent memory, you likely would’ve had a harder time recognizing her as Sharon Carter, someone you’ve only met once and under far different circumstances, but she’s an ally nonetheless.

This would be the point where you sigh if not for still trying to catch your breath and steady your nerves.

You're grateful for the opportunity to finally switch out of this stupid disguise you've been forced to wear all night and pleased to see Sharon has offered quite the selection of new outfits to choose from, although most look far too fancy for your taste, particularly the ones drenched in glitter. Not wanting to look like a walking disco ball, you pick something comfortable yet pretty and, most importantly, suitable for action since you highly doubt your game of dodging bullets is over just yet.

Glancing around to check on everyone else, you notice they all seem to be doing their own thing. Sam's trying to find his own change of clothes from the rack, Zemo's currently helping himself to Sharon's alcohol collection, and Bucky has simply plopped down on the couch with back turned to the rest of you (brooding, as you would assume).

"Is there someplace I can change?" You ask Sharon once she returns. She tosses her coat onto the couch next to Bucky and spares you a quick look as she passes by.

"What? Can't change here?" While her tone may have been teasing, that smirk on her face makes you question if she's truly joking, however you certainly aren't.

You'll confess that you've changed in the same room as Bucky before, however you'd also argue that the circumstances were very different then. To him, you had been roommates for so long that it didn't seem like a big deal to switch shirts or sleep in only boxers in your presence. To you...Well, you've always known that you had both done a little more than simply 'change' in front of each other in the 40s, so why be embarrassed about your roommate-once--fiancé catching a sneak peek?

The point is, while you're comfortable around Bucky, that doesn't apply to anyone else in this room. Sam's a friend you barely know, Sharon's a person you don't know, and Zemo's a liability you'd have to strangle if he so much as thought of saying anything remotely inappropriate.

"I'd rather have privacy."

Sharon rolls her eyes with a scoffed laugh, "Sorry, I didn't think you'd mind. You've never seemed that shy around men before."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Your voice alone warns her to answer carefully as does your irked expression, yet she still turns away from you with a careless shrug.

"It's just that you come across as someone who likes attention, that's all. What, with you going from Rogers, Barnes, Stark then Barnes again; you sure get around, but hey, props to you for having fun with your life, I guess."

"You know there's this thing called 'friends', right?" Sam interjects, unable to himself. He knows you all desperately need Sharon's help in finding Dr. Nagel, but he has trouble biting back the offense he takes on your behalf from her unwarranted comments.

For better or for worse, she isn't fazed by Sam's disapproval, instead responding sarcastically to it, "Really? Never heard of it."

"Like that isn't obvious," You roll your eyes then land them on Bucky who unlike Sam doesn't bother to show an ounce of concern for how Sharon's treating you, his back remaining completely turned to the problem.

Although his silence has been bothering you this whole time, you must say it especially stings right now. You understand that he's mad, but so much so that he isn't even willingly to say a single word in your defense? That he's just going to sit there and let her basically call you a whore? He knows the truth, all he has to do is say it. Who cares if it actually shuts Sharon up? At least he'd look like a decent gentleman by attempting to protect your honor instead of a total asshole wordlessly supporting her point!

Looking back at Sharon, you match her crossed arms and pair them with a disinterested stare, "I know you're bitter and shit about Steve leaving you for your aunt, but that doesn't involve me, so if you're that desperate to lift your ego, I suggest picking up a hobby or - better yet - moving on instead of pissing me off which I will only warn you once is a dangerous game to play.

"I'm sure you'll be pleased to know Barnes and I - we're nothing; not even friends. The sole reason why I'm right now is because Sam, a friend, asked nicely and I, for one, don't want anyone dragging the name of super soldiers through the mud; personally, I don't think Steve's legacy deserves that. Now is there somewhere I can change or not?"

Despite the bite behind your words, Sharon appears more impressed than offended or sorry as she nods her head towards the hallway, "There's a bathroom down the hall, three doors to your right."

"...Thanks," You brush past her with your clothes in hand, more convinced than ever that you'll never step foot in Madripoor again after this even if the rest of the world were to be on fire.

Seconds after you disappear through the glass doors, Bucky turns to send a glare Sharon's way, "What the hell was that?"

"What? ...Oh, come on! Did I really hit that deep of a nerve? I thought for Avengers, you'd all have thicker skin," Sharon's attempt at innocence crumbles under Bucky and Sam's intense glares, yet she merely sighs in frustration before going to pour herself a glass of alcohol over where Zemo's been watching the whole scene unfold while sipping his brandy in amusement.

"I highly doubt I'm the only one who finds it a little suspicious that someone who stuck their neck out for the Winter Soldier and Captain America was entirely forgiven when rich boy Tony Stark cried out in their favor only to conveniently fall right back into their former lover's arms after his death. I mean, last I saw they were practically your little lap dog seven years ago and honestly, I can't say it seems much has changed once Stark got out of the way."

Sharon finishes her little rant by collapsing on the opposite side of the couch as Bucky who shakes his head in disbelief, "Wow, you're kind of awful now, aren't you?"

"Look, Sharon. I'm sorry for everything that happened. I'm sorry no one ever called -" Sam starts.

"- You make it sound like it was just a missed date or something -"

"- I know that it seems like (Y/n) got off easy compared to the crap you've had to put up with after helping us, but it's not their fault how things ended. Stark was there to stand up for them while no one was there for you, so don't blame them, blame me. I should've called, but after the Blip, it was chaos and I -"

"- Oh, save your breath," Sharon shakes her head, looking back at Sam from over the edge of the couch, "...You know all this hero stuff is just bullshit, right? Deep down, you know it's all hypocrisy and that's why you gave up the shield."

"He knows, just not that deep down," Zemo asserts from the corner of the room, however Sam himself can't seem to say anything, only able to remain quiet while wishing he had your talent for snapping back. He wants to say something to disprove Sharon's allegations, yet he instead hands her the win with his silence, allowing her to go back to finishing her drink just in time for you to return, clearly still irritated and too much so to question whether the dim energy of this room is from your past conversation or a new one.

"Alright, so what's the plan? How are we finding this Dr. Nagel, hmm?" You get right to business, not even bothering to act cheerful or excited as you normally would; your will to do so for everyone else's sake is officially run dry.

"Are you guys still sure you want to get involved in this?" For once, Sharon doesn't show much confidence, in fact you would even say she sounds genuinely concerned as she sets her empty glass on the table, "For your own safety, I'd recommend that you don't. Nagel works for the Power Broker who, might I remind you, you're already in deep shit against after what happened with Selby."

"Free range super soldiers being produced under the management of a criminal empire? Yeah, for the safety of the world, I'd say backing down isn't really an option here," You argue, half surprised Sharon doesn't have some smartass comment to swing back at you which proves that while she might be a pain to deal with, she at least isn't stupid.

"To do this we need your help, Sharon. We can get your name cleared -" Sam adds.

"- Heh. Haggling with my life now, are we?"

"Not like that -"

"- Mmm, I don't buy it - you pretending to clear my name as your bargaining chip?"

"I can try," Sam walks around the couch, standing in front of Sharon with a hand outstretched towards her, "It's not impossible, after all, they already cleared the name of a bionic staring machine after he killed almost everyone he met -"

"- I heard that -"

"- I don't trust charity."

"It's not really 'charity'," You sit on an armchair and shrug when Sharon's glances around Sam at you, "Charity is the act of voluntary giving. We're not just 'giving' you anything, we're offering an exchange. You help us find Nagel, Sam here gets your name cleared. Can't be that hard. The government's views change like a flip of a dime. Catch 'em at a desperate time of need and they'll be more willing to pardon you for your help in the cause."

"...Nice to see someone here admits to seeing the hypocrisy of it all," Sharon inhales and exhales deeply, her words causing you to raise an eyebrow in confusion after having missed the context to them earlier. Nevertheless, it doesn't matter as she finally shakes Sam's hand and stands to her feet, "I sell to some pretty connected people, so just lay low, stay out of trouble, and enjoy the party while I see what I can do."

You're not a fan of crowds, but at least this suffocating party beats being cornered in a bar full of hostile, armed patrons. Here everything is more laid back, similar to any noncriminal run club. The music is blaring, lights flashing, and ground vibrating as guests dance to their hearts' content. All you have to do now is just look like you're equally enjoying yourself for a few hours which is significantly easier than your previous role as 'silent assistant'.

Leaned against a wall, your laughter becomes comparable to the booming of the bass and is contagious within the group of party goers standing around you. You just gotta keep this up - keep engaging in a few more conversations, tell a couple of funny jokes while downing a drink or two along the way, and soon that annoying, nagging voice inside your head will finally go mute, allowing you to sink deeper and deeper into your game of intoxicating pretend.

"Hey -!" You're suddenly pulled away from your new group of friends when Bucky grabs your arm, quite literally tugging your attention from them to him. While he's technically successful, you're hardly amused, immediately ripping your arm away from him with a glare and another swig of your drink.

"- What?"

Bucky, who was going to say something else, becomes distracted when his eyes flicker down to your half-empty bottle, "...Don't you think you've had enough?"

You huff, bringing the bottle back up to your lips while maintaining your glare, "I'm not going to get drunk if that's what you're worried about. I'm able to handle my liquor quite well, thank you very much. It's in my blood, after all."

Bucky sighs, half tempted to rip that bottle away from your stubborn hand, however he refrains from the urge.

"...Have you heard anything from Sharon yet?" Your question echoes within the glass as you survey the active party around you both.

"No. Last I heard, she's still talking to her 'connections'."

"Well hopefullyshe starts speeding things up. It's been a long enough night already," You'd blame it on exhaustion fogging up your mind, but in truth, it's probably the relief from Bucky's finally talking to you which seems to take some weight off of your shoulders, allowing you to relax and speak more freely in his presences - to be more like yourself unlike how you've been behaving around those other party goers...however you shouldn't have been so trusting to this feeling.

"Then you should go rest."

"Not until we find Nagel."

Bucky pauses, not even looking at you as he just stares at some other far off place in the room, "...I think you should stay here while we go talk to Nagel ourselves."

"There's no point in that," You sigh, "I came here to help you guys, not stand on the sidelines."

"It wasn't a suggestion."

"What?" You return your glare to him once more.

"It's not necessary for all of us to go. We don't need five people -"

"- Does my presence add that much to the equation? Three people is fine, but four's a crowd? In that case, why not have Sharon stay behind? She's the tag-along...Or is it just me?"

"It...It has nothing to do with you, okay? I just think -" Bullshit. He acts as if your accusation is nothing short of ridiculous yet never looks directly at you longer than an impatient glance. It is you.

"- Here's an idea: how about you just pretend I'm not there, yeah?" You put your free hand on your hip, feeling your blood begin to boil the more his words sink into your skin, "I mean, that's what you've been doing this whole time and you seem to have gotten pretty damn good at it, I'd say, so I doubt it'll kill you to do for a few extra hours."

Bucky inhales deeply while pinching the bridge of his nose, "...Look, we've already run into trouble and barely got out of it just searching for Nagel. Actually talking to him is going to be dangerous."

"Alright? And your point is?"

"You're at the most risk out of all of us. You don't have any formal training, you don't have any powers. Just - Come on and be reasonable. You'll only get yourself hurt -!"

"'Be reasonable'?" You can't help but laugh with a shake of your head, "I am being reasonable! In case you've forgotten, I protected your ass for two whole years and helped the Avengers fight Thanos twice! That's not even mentioning the shit I went through against HYDRA, either! For fucks sake, I've been shot at before, so training or not, the fear of dying isn't new for me!"

Your fury falters and you immediately regret your choice of words once noticing Bucky's reaction to them. Almost as soon as they're said, his expression becomes shattered and mournful, and a part of you instantly feels terrible seeing that, yet at the same time, your lingering anger - still fueled by your inner, unresolved pain - prevents you from outright apologizing.

"...You're a liability if you go..."

You grip your bottle, almost wishing it would just shatter in your hands to emphasize what you're feeling right now. Maybe then you'd have an excuse to cry in front of so many people - people who would definitely raise eyebrows if you were to completely lash out right now and confront Bucky with every swirling thought that's been burning hotter on your tongue following each drop of alcohol: 'What am I doing wrong? Why are you treating me like this? How come you don't love me anymore? Can't you see that it's drowning me?

You take a deep breath, calming yourself down a little before opening your eyes to look back up at Bucky with a false smile, "...You know what? Suuure. I'll stay behind. Whatever makes you happy, you fucking asshole!"

After spitting those final venomous words, you shove pass him roughly and storm off into the crowd, no longer caring if anyone heard your little 'lover's quarrel', as they probably all see it as. You have no idea where you're going or what you'll even do in the meantime, but Sharon's house seems big enough, so you're sure you'll have no problem finding someplace quiet to soak in all your self-pity.

Bucky almost calls after you, requiring every ounce of willpower not to chase you and give an apology, but what would that actually accomplish if he did? 'Sorry I hurt your feelings, but I'm still not changing my mind because I stand by what I said'...As if that would fix anything.

Maybe this is for the best, at least that's what he tries to convince himself throughout each second that his guilt eats away at him. For the price of hurting you, you won't be in danger if things go south talking to Nagel. Perhaps you'll even want to go home after this and you'll never have to be at risk because of any of this stuff again. Sure, you'll hate him as you probably do now, but if that's what it takes for you to be alive, then it's worth it.

...It'll be worth this heartache, won't it?

NEXT CHAPTER ->

<- PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Taglist:

@arunabrak,

21 notes · View notes

faintblueivy · 4 years ago

Text

So Imagine...

A world where Bruce Wayne died as a child in that alley that day, Martha and Thomas Wayne grieve as normal parents. They DO NOT BECOME BATMAN AND JOKER.

Nothing ever remains the same after losing their little boy. So, Thomas buries himself in his work and Martha drowns herself in depression and pain. They do therapy and it works a little and life becomes bearable but...not happy.

One day, Alfred badgers the couple to go out and relax a little and buys them tickets for a circus - Haly’s circus. Everything was going nice and dandy and Martha was in awe of this little acrobat as much as the rest of the crowd when suddenly the rope snaps and the boy’s parents fall to their deaths - right in front of him and the gathering. Thomas is quick to jump in to see if he could help them in any way but Martha can see it in his eyes that they are as dead as they can be.

They return to home with heavy hearts and Martha can’t get the image of the little boy out of her head. His skin was a light shade of bronze but his dark hair and bright cerulean blue eyes reminded her so much of Bruce that her heart wouldn’t rest. So a few days later she uses her connections to know if the child is safe and well cared for, when to her immense horror, she is replied that he was shipped to Gotham Juvie due to the lack of foster homes. She is enraged.

She calls Thomas and Alfred and lets them know about the little acrobat’s situation and declares that she was going to adopt him. They hesitate a little but she is not to be deterred as she goes ahead and brings the little boy home.

Richard John Grayson - Wayne. Or Dick, as he likes to call himself.

He is adamant that he wants no parents and Martha is fine because not only that she is old enough to be not his mother but also because no child can ever be her Bruce.

“You can just call me Grandma then.” She tells him.

His eyes are wide but he nods and then smiles and Martha, in a long while, has never felt this happy.

Her new Grandson, despite losing his parents, is a ray of sunshine with unlimited supply of energy and the cold and empty manor is warm and happy again.

Dick is a little charmer and even after Thomas and Alfred’s initial reluctance, they immediately fall in love with the boy and one day, when Martha comes down to the morning breakfast, she hears a happy, deep rumble - one she has not heard in many years. Thomas is laughing.

There on the dining table, seated beside Dick, was Thomas laughing. Her eyes water at the scene and Alfred, who is standing beside her offers her a handkerchief. None of them mention how his own eyes are wet too.

...

Dick is sixteen, a brilliant boy in academics as much as they disinterest him but an invincible athlete. Martha has been told time and time again that her grandson is undoubtedly a international level gymnast. But he is a teenager.

And teenagers steal their grandparent’s ‘coolest’ car and rush off into the night. But they don’t come back with a little battered and bruised, homeless kid tucked under their arm.

“He had jacked three tires off your car. When I confronted him, he tried to hit me with a tire iron.” He says, amused, as Thomas tries to convince the child to show him his injuries.

“I didn’t do nothin’! He’s a fuckin’ big boob liar!” They boy screams, his blue green eyes glaring daggers at Dick.

“Language.” Both her and Alfred warn simultaneously.

After hours of struggle, interrogation and fuck you’s, Martha learns that the child’s name is Jason. He is twelve. Mother died form drug overdosing and Dad is a petty henchman of some crime lord. He ran away from multiple foster homes because they are so abusive that the child feels safer on streets.

Martha goes on a rampage over Gotham’s foster care after that. She did not donate millions of dollars annually for children to feel safer on streets. After of lot of talks and reassurances and promises, Martha acquires her second grandchild.

Jason Peter Todd - Wayne.

Jason is tiny. Malnourished like Leslie said. But he is sharp, observant and hungry for knowledge. Martha and Alfred joke that Jason is Thomas' soul child. Where Dick had loved activity and movement, Jason liked quiet and stability - Martha thinks that running and fighting for survival on streets every single day does that you. So evenings often found her and Dick in the garden but Thomas and Jason in the library pouring over as many books as they can.

And to nobody's surprise, despite their rocky start, the boys become inseparable. They are outwardly different, with clashing interests and behaviors but Martha can see that they both carry the same cores of light.

When the morning of Dick’s Parent’s death anniversary comes around, both her and Thomas find Jason on Dick’s bed, arms curled protectively around his big brother. For the first time in so many years, Dick wakes up to warmth surrounding him, not nightmares.

...

Both her grandsons attend Gotham Academy so when she receives a phone call from the Principal, she is half surprised and half not. When she enters the Principal’s office, both her boys are standing on one side, Jason with his head hung in shame and Dick glaring daggers at the other side. The boy who seems to be injured is being coddled by his mother who is shooting nasty glares at her grandchildren periodically.

Then she notices another small boy standing beside her boys, trying to melt into the wall.

Tim Drake. The only son of Jack and Janet Drake of Drake Industries.

She arches a questioning eyebrow at Dick who shakes his head and then she turns to the Principal.

“What happened here?”

“Glad to see you’re here Mrs. Wayne.” The Principal says, pushing his glasses up his nose, “I regret to inform you that your ward Jason Peter Todd attacked this young man here.” He gestures to the other boy.

“Madam, Gotham Academy is a prestigious school and we do not encourage physical violence here. Yes, it might have been acceptable from where he came from but it won’t be, here. I hope you give us the right to punish Mr. Todd here appropriately.”

Martha inwardly bristles at the jab at her grandson and says crisply, “Mr. Wayne.”

“What?”

“He’s not just Todd. He is a Wayne. Please remember that.”

“Principal Sir.” Dick cuts in and Martha is confused because as hyperactive as Dick is, he is a mannerly child and knows better than to cut in a conversation like this but what draws her attention is the chilling tone which Dick almost never uses. Dick continues, “Why don’t you tell our grandmother more of your regrets? Or the prestigious Gotham Academy believes that bullying is acceptable.”

Martha has been told what she needs to know.

“Jason?” she calls out to her youngest grandson softly, “What happened?”

Jason is quiet when suddenly Tim Drake moves forward. She can see he is scared the way his hands shake but determination shines in his blue eyes. She likes him.

“I want to say something.”

He narrates the tale of how he was being bullied and how the boy on the other side with his mother threw his science project model away and broke it and physically tried to attack him when Jason stepped in to save him. Martha felt nothing but pride at Jason’s righteous indignation.

Tim also explained that Jason exercised immense control even after these bullies called him ‘street rat’, but the verbal spar intensified after Dick was insulted for his Romani heritage, but it came to fist fight after Thomas and Martha were insulted, and Bruce’s death was made fun of.

Her gaze snaps to the other three occupants of the room and they are all in various shades of pale. Apparently, the Principal had not done his homework.

“Principal” She says icily, “Yes, I give you the authority to punish Jason appropriately but only when this young man here”, she gestures to the boy who was now cowering behind his mother, “Is dealt with in the same way.”

After threatening the Principal in soft words but harsh tone about not tolerating to having her grandsons bullied the next time, she grabs Jason’s hand to drag him away from these people who don’t deserve his company, when her eyes fall on the little trembling Tim.

She offers him her hand.

He stares at it, shocked but after an encouraging smile from Dick and a small shove from Jason, he takes it shyly.

And since that day, Tim becomes a member of Martha’s family. The boys stay together so much that even Thomas forgets that Tim is not theirs.

Tim’s upbringing sends Martha’s grandmother instincts on a haywire and she resents the Drakes for their criminal neglect towards Tim.

It is rewarding that Tim flourishes in their attention.

She learns that his hobby is Photography and he is excellent at it. And he is a genius when it comes to science, computers and gadgets. He likes crime thrillers movies and books and often picks them apart with his scarily good knowledge about forensics that leave the rest of the family in awe and slightly disturbed.

The dam breaks when one day Jason and Dick return back from school telling her that Tim was absent today and they are worried about him. When they later sneak into the Drake mansion in the evening, Thomas receives a frantic call from their oldest grandchild that Tim was burning with fever. Because Thomas is a doctor, they save Tim before anything serious happens.

This time, it is Thomas who sues the Drakes for Tim’s custody after him and Jason had, had enough of ‘Timbo’s shitty parents’.

“Timothy?” Martha brushes his sweat soaked forehead gently. “Would you like to be a member of our family legally?"

Tim is hesitant about this but he admits that he likes Wayne manor much better than he ever liked Drake mansion. He confesses that he loves Jason and Dick as brothers and sees Martha, Thomas and Alfred as his grandparents as well.

The long custody battle ends with both Jack and Janet Drake dying at the hands of two different tragedies, leaving Tim an orphan, but also with a loving family consisting of three grandparents and two brothers by his side.

Timothy Jackson Drake - Wayne is adopted into the Wayne family as her and Thomas’ third grandson.

...

A year after they adopt Tim, Thomas comes home with a small girl on his side. She is clearly an east Asian in heritage with dark hair and dark eyes and is speech deprived. Thomas is clearly distressed after Cassandra - her name is Cassandra - is safely secured in warm bed in a nice room across Jason’s. He calls her, the three boys and Alfred to his study to explain about the small girl.

He talks about how Gordon brought the girl to him and after hours of wordless, signed and clumsily sketched on paper conversations with the little girl they were able to determine that Cassandra was hiding from her father who was an assassin and wanted to drag the little girl down the same path before she ran away. The more he talks about the damage and abuse the girl had experienced at the hands on her own father, the more furious Martha becomes. When Thomas’ explanations ends, Jason slams a punch into the wall making a dent but no one has the heart to reprimand him for that.

The following morning, Martha can see that her three boys have unanimously decided that they are adopting Cassandra as their sister. She is treated like a Princess, and given the nick name ‘Cass’.

Slowly but surely, Cass learns what it means to love through Dick’s bright kindness, Jason’s quiet protection and Tim’s infinite patience. After her father is finally apprehended, the family celebrates.

Cassandra Wayne, soon after, becomes the beloved Wayne Princess of Gotham.

Martha and Thomas often accompany their only granddaughter to her speech therapy lessons, so after six months of her adoption, at dinner, she places a kiss on everyone’s forehead - her three brothers and three grandparents, stands at the head of the table and croaks out, slowly, “Thank...thank you.” All of them stare at her flabbergasted, but it appears that she was planning to shock them even more.

“You...Love. Love you...”

The silence that follows her broken but sure words is deafening. Surprisingly it is Tim who breaks it as he scrambles out of his chair and launches himself at Cass, wrapping his arms around her and both Jason and Dick follow him, grabbing both their youngest siblings fiercely.

A quiet sob breaks her out of the trance and she smiles when she watches Thomas furiously wiping his tears from the sleeve of his shirt. The last time he had cried was at Bruce’s funeral. And Martha is infinitely grateful that this time these are happy tears.

...

Sometimes Martha wonders what would have happened if Bruce had lived. If these children are her grandchildren then does that mean they are Bruce’s kids? Had Bruce lived, would he have accepted these gaggle of kids that her and Thomas have collected over the years as his own? Would he have kids of his own?

Her questions are answered when one day she hears a slight commotion in the entrance is surprised to see a young woman with a sword threatening Alfred.

“I want to meet the Master of this house. Let them know immediately.” She demands in an authoritative but silky voice, and Martha suddenly sees the Toddler clutched in her arm.

“What is it?” Martha speaks as soon as she can when the woman notices her. She looks surprised for a second but immediately schools her features as the baby fusses.

“You’re alive.” She whispers and before any of them could make an indignant comment about her wordings, she says, “It appears that I might have traveled in to the wrong universe.”

Now that is interesting. Martha lives in a world where they are protected by aliens...so, it is certainly worth hearing for.

Martha offers the young lady an invitation for tea which she accepts. She notices how the woman carries herself with lethal grace and dignity as if she was a Princess but much more. As they sit and Alfred leaves to bring the promised team Martha notices how the woman’s eyes sweep over the place.

“How may I help you?”

Her voice attracts the attention of the toddler and this time, he is not clutched tightly enough to his mother’s chest to turn his small head and look at her. Martha gasps. Because the child looks too much like Toddler Bruce. But instead of the blue eyes like her son, this child has glowing green ones, like his mother. But still, the resemblance is uncanny.

“Yes, he is your son’s.” The woman answers the unasked question.

She is explained the existence of Multiverse, and it’s workings and how Bruce survived instead of them in that world, met Talia (the woman’s name is Talia Al Ghul) and had a child but had to leave. Talia mentions the reason she came here was because her son’s life was in danger and Talia’s father wanted to raise her son as an assassin Prince and a tool for him to use. Talia’s solution to protect her son was for her to give her son to the Bruce of this world to raise, since the Bruce of that world had gone missing.

“I can raise him.” Martha suddenly declares and the woman looks at him shocked. “I will not raise him into a life of violence but I can certainly protect him and give him a happy civilian life.”

Talia looks unsure, hesitant, but says, “I...have been a warrior since the day I can remember. Never once have I ever thought of my son not being a warrior. He was...born to be one.”

Martha smiles. “He doesn’t have to be one. Yes, his life will be infinitely different than the one you imagined but...he will be well loved and protected. I can assure you of that.”

“Damian.” Talia whispers as he deposits the baby in her arms after a lot of consideration. “His name is Damian.”

She looks at her son tenderly one last time and places a kiss on his forehead and Martha’s heart breaks a little for the young mother.

“Will you return back for him?” Martha asks as she follows the Talia to the door.

“No.” Talia whispers, her voice strained. “I will not. Any action taken by me is monitored by my father closely. If I return back, then he might know that I have left Damian here and I cannot let that happen. He is yours, forever.”

Martha gives her a sad smile. “You’re a brave and good mother Talia. Thank you for doing what is best for your son.”

She nods, not turning to look at Damian one last time as she leaves the manor grounds, never to return.

Martha looks at the baby secure in her arms and her lips quirk up into a grin at the sight of two curious green eyes watching her with interest.

“Welcome to the family, little Damian.”

When she introduces the new addition to the family, Thomas is dumbfounded. Dick is ecstatic at the prospect of having a new baby brother, Jason is secretly pleased, Cass is happiest and Tim looks unsure.

That’s how Damian Wayne - Al Ghul joins the family.

Damian fits in their home spectacularly. After few days of hesitation, like he had with Dick, Thomas takes to Damian quickly. He has an epic competition going on with their eldest grandson to become the baby’s favorite. Damian refuses to sleep without Thomas but his tantrums are only controlled and won over by Dick. Damian loves Jason manhandling him and giggles happily when the older boy throws him in the air or swings him around. Damian loves Cassandra because she knows what he wants before any of them do. And Cass loves to carry her little brother around to watch birds and animals in the manor grounds.

The only person Damian seems to not get along with is Tim and the older boy seems not be fond of him either. Because Damian wants everything Tim does and the older brother has to compromise for Damian every time. But Martha has to bite laughs a lot now a days because almost everytime Damian falls asleep, it is with Tim in vicinity. And she has caught the older boy tenderly covering Damian in his favorite blanket more often than not. Martha thinks that this is kind of cute but keeps her opinion to herself.

Her little grandson is quite protective of his siblings though. Anytime someone upsets any of his siblings, they are threatened with scowls, growls and even bites and stabbings in extreme cases.

Like last time when Mrs. Park made fun of Cassandra’s speech impairment, Damian almost bit her finger off. Damian hates one of Dick’s racist colleague (they all do) so much that anytime the man enters his field of vision, the first thing Damian gets his hand on is thrown at the guy’s head. With deadly precision. And last time when Mr. Link had called Jason ‘street rat’ for personally volunteering charity work for poor and homeless, Damian had smeared his juice and drool covered hands on the Man’s thousand dollars suit. And when one time, a reporter had infiltrated a Gala and chased Tim around to ask uncomfortable questions about his parent’s death and the Wayne’s involvement in it, Damian, noticing Tim’s distress had stabbed the reporter with a fork with no hesitation.

Martha is still not sure if she should encourage or reprimand Damian for that.

...

As she sits on the head of the table with Thomas on her side and Alfred on the other end, she wonders how miraculous it is for her to have all these children in her life.

Dick is engaged in an animated conversation with Stephanie who was introduced to the family as Tim’s girlfriend. Barbara, the daughter of James Gordon and Dick’s girlfirend/or not was helping Cass pile up food on her plate. Damian and Tim were bickering over something as usual but Jason trying to hide his snickers in guise of drinking water which made Martha sure that the something was Jason’s doing.

These people were her family. The ones she had gained after losing Bruce. She wonders, if there was a universe where Bruce got to meet her grandchildren.

Would he accept them? As family?

Would he love them? As family?

She brightly smiles when the multiple sets of eyes turn to her waiting for her to blow the candle.

“Happy Birthday Martha.”

Thomas says warmly, his voice thick with emotion and she meets his gaze and sees the love, affection and thankfulness in his eyes for this family that they had created after their earth shattering loss. She knows what she wants as she blows the candle on the cake flickering in front of her.

I wish for us to be family in every universe.

15K notes · View notes

cloudenthusiast2 · 3 years ago

Text

To be a human - Scaramouche x reader - Part 4

You knew committing to a relationship with Scaramouche would be no easy task but you loved him dearly and unlike others, you believed he wasn't evil. But as a mortal and the devoted protector of your village you were too much of a good person, too much of a human compared to him and your differences slowly start to show.

Previous: Part 3 Next: Part 5

Length: ~1000 words

Trigger warnings: yelling

A.n.: Sorry I was a little late with this. But as a compensation it's really long! Here ya go, have some angst

You have been walking around in circles for almost twenty minutes in the kitchen when you finally decided you needed some fresh air.

You grabbed your spear - which was an essential to have even in times like this - and ran out of your home.

The house you lived in was built on a cliff so you could see everyone and everything well. Qingce with all of its beauty and treasures laid in front of you.

The first thing you noticed when you stepped out was the lack of agents.

The fatui has left the village.

Sudden pain stabbed into your heart. Before this all you felt was anger and confusion, but now... it's become official and somehow clearer too.

'What have I done?'

You covered your lips after these words tumbled out of your mouth. You desperately looked around, trying to find someone, trying to find a little shilouette with a ridiculous, huge hat...

But he was gone.

The only people standing around were the people of Qingce village. They tried to pretend they were just working or talking with each other but you could see them taking quick glances of you.

Finally one of them, an elderly, sick man you helped out multiple times looked directly up then started approaching your house.

You took a step back and realised you didn't want to talk to anyone at that moment. It didn't matter whether he wanted to thank you or ask what happened. You wanted and needed to be alone.

As rude as it may have been, you turned around and started walking in the opposite direction. Towards the huge mountains.

You escaped into the forest. Your steps became faster and faster - and suddenly you were running.

Loud gasping echoed in your head. Your hands were shaking, not being able to grab anything properly. A wet, itchy layer blurred your vision as you stumbled through bushes and rocks.

It was a miracle that you got up on the mountain in one piece. You didn't even know how you did it - in one moment you were still climbing and in the next you were standing on the cliff, looking down and being dazed by the height.

You came to this spot on days when you had nothing to do. You liked to write letters, sharpen your spear and most importantly, think everything through here.

For a minute, you were just standing there still, breathing in and out the chilly, fresh mountain air. The rough wind blew through your hair, lifting then letting it go. It fell down and covered your face. You slowly rose your hand and fixed it, staring into the distance.

The sun has reached the top of the sky. But it was still cold around you.

You had hoped the cool weather would be able to clear your mind but it helped nothing. Instead, it made you feel like you were breathing in nothing - like there was no oxygen in your chest at all.

You were suffocating.

Your lips opened to gasp for air but it felt like you were still drowning. Your legs started shaking and you immediately fell on your knees. This broke an invisible gate. Tears started streaming down your face.

He left...

Oh, how much you suddenly regretted your harsh, angry words. You could've just talked it out, you could've just explained it to him calmly...

But would he have really understood?

Loud screech as you clenched your teeth. You did everything to hold back the tears, but it was too late now, you had lost. You sobbed desperately, painfully, alone, in an abandoned top of mountain.

Scaramouche loudly slammed his hands on the table and there was no mercy in his ice-like eyes as he stared at the agents in front of him.

'How many times do I have to say this?! Don't start fights the Millelith! We already have diplomatic issues with Liuye Harbour because of that damn incompetent Tartaglia!'

'Apologies, my lord' a pyro agent bowed in front of him while the mirror maiden followed his example. 'We thought...'

'I couldn't care less about what you think' Scaramouche cut in enraged. 'Just follow your orders or I'll make sure you won't ever see the sun coming up again!'

Deep silence followed his words in the tent.

Scaramouche tossed his hat back to glare up at the agents. But they didn't dare look at him. They were always wary of the harbinger who was probably the most powerful and surely the most unpredictable among the Tsaritsa's followers. It wasn't hard to notice how angry he was that day as well.

The cicin mages in the camp were sure it was because of that Liuye girl but most of the agents refused to believe that. It seemed impossible that he would be so upset about splitting up with a mere mortal like you.

Scaramouche let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes for a moment to rest and think a little. He stood there silently with crossed arms and wrinkled brows.

The Millelith. A pain in the neck. How could they possibly avoid them while taking advantage of the small villages around Liuye? Villages who don't have protectors should be an easy prey...

He didn't even realise what a dangerous direction his thoughts were going. He just found himself thinking about you all of a sudden.

This was the hundredth time this day.

It's been almost a day since he turned his back on Qingce. He left the village without looking back, thinking he was free again and that he would be able to finally focus on his work.

But why were you still turning up in his thoughts over and over again? Why did he feel a constant knot in his throat? It didn't loosen, even when he yelled or coughed. He tried both multiple times.

He felt impatient. His body ached to move on, his mind tried to make big plans for the future...

But something in him still didn't want to think about anything or anyone other than you.

This was so stupid.

So unnecessary.

When did stupid humans become so important to him? He killed them off with handing out delusions not so long ago without any hesitation. It was the right thing to do. He never doubted that. Not even for a second.

You were so stupid to say otherwise! Why did you say otherwise?

For a weak moment, he tried to think from your perspective but even then, he understood nothing. All he could think of was that you were just crazy.

Humans deserve nothing. They born, they live so their superiors can make use of them.

You were no exception, he decided. It was ridiculous of him to even think you could be more than just a tool to him.

Why did he even start seeing you?

Memories started to emerge and they invaded his mind in a blink of an eye. And suddenly that weird feeling around his stomach started to strengthen again.

He remembered your smile, the playful and incredibly disrespectful way you greeted him when you two first met. He was out on a quest, alone but still recognisable. You knew he was a harbinger yet you acted like he was a regular mortal.

He hated Liuye. He got lost on his first day in the mountains and who knows what might have happened if you didn't run into him on your way back home.

After making fun of the fatui and its "clumsy" harbingers you offered to be his guide and that had to accepted even though he couldn't stand you at all. You were teasing him all the time, never taking him seriously. And most unforgivable of all, you messed around with his hat.

On the first day, he absolutely despised you.

On the second day, after you have dealt with multiple treasure hoarders without any of his help, he had to admit you were a pretty good fighter.

He was in denial on the third day. You picked violetgrass for him and put them in his pockets, claiming that they suited the boy. He threw them away in a second, getting ready to face your anger. Instead, he was shocked to see you laugh it off. You had... a not so horrible laugh.

Fourth day. Your smile was not that terrible either, he realised.

Day five was the day he saved your life. You were cllimging a mountain together when you saw a Qingxin and reached out to grab it.

He caught you by the arm in the last second. Called you stupid but couldn't hide his blush when you rewarded him with the beautiful, pale white flower.

Then the quest came to an end and he went back home.

Only a month or two have passed when the harbinger came back. He went directly to your door to tell you he will be seeing you. It was not a regular ask - he literally ordered you to go out with him.

No one could tell who was more surprised when you still said agreed to it.

You two were an odd, hard to manage couple but a powerful one.

You could've been happy.

Why does it... hurt so much?

'She's just a stupid human' Scaramouche told himself. The thousandth time that day. 'Completely... replacable.'

These were the words you were the most hurt about. But he tried not to care any more and repeated it to himself.

'Replacable.'

'My lord!'

Scaramouche flinched and looked up as if he had been dreaming all along.

He realised he had been standing there the whole time thinking about you while the agents did not leave yet.

'What is it?' He grunted loudly and all of his weird, almost sad feelings got replaced by anger again. 'What do you want?'

'Your order to stay away from the Millelith' the mirror maiden dared to speak. 'Does it apply to the Abbys as well?'

'The Abbys?' Scaramouche frowned. 'What business do we have with them?'

'It's just that we've recently stumbled upon them multiple times on our quests' she started to explain but the harbinger wasn't patient enough to listen to the whole story.

'Hurry up.'

'Yes, my lord.' The mirror maiden hesitated for a moment but when the pyro agent nodded to her she continued. 'We just think that they might about to target villages next.'

'What are you talking about?' Scaramouche growled at her. He couldn't stand still any more so he started walking around in the small tent.

'The Abbys gathered a lot of hilichurls and monsters together lately. We suspect they might attack a bigger village or town.'

Scaramouche stopped as if he got frozen in his place. The maiden continued to explain what kind of disadvantage that might be for them but he heard nothing of that.

He turned around slowly, barely being able to move his own body.

'What... places will they attack?' He asked in a hoarse voice.

'We can't be sure' the pyro agent answered. 'But Mingyun village is a possibility. And... Qingce probably as well.'

Scaramouche stared at the ground.

So many emotions. Most of them he couldn't even name since he has never felt them. The only familiar ones were anger, confusion... and fear.

Deep, overwhelming, terrible fear. It started in his stomach and slowly reached out to grab his throat with its icy fingers.

He opened his mouth but at first no understandable words left his lips.

'My lord...?'

'Get ready' he finally found his voice.

Scaramouche turned his back to them so he could hide the fact he was shaking. Something terrible froze everything inside him but the fire lighting up his eyes was burning hot when he said:

'We're going back to Qingce.'

#fun fact #Im sitting in the school restroom editing this #i stayed up all night to write and now Im horribly tired #and i have a long day #so please please go and comment if you liked this part or not and tell me about it #comments make my day #help and cheer up a sad little girl #cloudenthusiast #genshin impact #scaramouche genshin #genshin #genshin x reader #scaramouche angst #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader

234 notes · View notes

asmo-ds · 2 years ago

Note

Ok so I revisited your God!Killed Mc fic and I can see, a teen mc just crying in their arms not wanting to die. (I just wanted to share my idea and my main account isn’t for OM but my personal project.

Basically my idea was they were their adopted kid, so here’s the scenario;

Lord Diavolo and Lucifer ascended the throne together after adopting Mc and finding common grown on caring for the kid who where abandoned and abused by their first and second parents. Dia finding Mc a good leader, showing a firm hand in escorting several students out in a fire and showing kindness to the younger students who were someone shaken up. Mc is made the crown prince/princess/royal, and on their coronation their killed by an Angel assassin (more angst if it’s Raphael who’s a confirmed assassin). The decadence of the event is known, colors of Red, Blue, & Purple with gold and silver accents are everywhere with Mc & Co dressed formally to the nines, a crown on their head and septar in hand, taking a formal oath & ritual that would make them become a demon (for longer life) before Raphael who snuck closer and closer before hand to stab Mc in the back, his spear going through, before being attacked by guards. Mc coughs up blood as the spear is pulled out of their body. Diavolo and Lucifer rush to Mc’s side as they hold them and console them. “Dad, Father, I-I, I don’t wanna die, please help.” They grip Diavolo s and Lucifer’s hands so tight their knuckles turn white. Their unable due to the celestial magic that’s so strongly imbued into Raphael’s spear. They all cry until mc’s eyes turn dark and lose their shine. Dia closes their arms, leaving Lucifer to cradle them as he looks a restrained Raphael with cold rage ordering him to be executed immediately. He doesn’t think to do anything else, he orders everyone who isn’t the brothers, Barbatos, or the other exchange students out. Luke stares in tears at Mc’s and Raphael’s corpses, finally breaking down as Simeon consoles him. “Did you know of this happening?” Dia gives him an icy stare, Simeon’s eyes don’t hide his innocent grief as he shakes his head ‘no.’ He then waves him back to Purgatory with Solomon trusted to watch over them. Barbatos is then asked if this could have been avoided. He gives a somber look as his gaze travels downward, a stern and somber ‘no.’ Diavolo orders him to make funeral preparations for his fallen child. The brothers are distraught, Asmo, Mams, Levi, & Beel being devistated as they mourn. Lucifer, Satan, & Bel being enraged by their death, their youngest once again slain by angelic forces. After the funeral were flowers of purple line the coffin as they rest in the Mosileum next to Dia’s father and Mother, leaving an offering for their sprits, a human tradition Mc taught him. A war has been declared, a monarch killed will never go unpunished, with Angelic forces dying wave after wave, lasting years before God himself is brough to his knees. With angels either being killed or joining after under an ding the crime that has been done. Hope you like the tragity- =>, It’s 12:00 I’m so tired

Wow holy shit i’m shaking rn i’m gonna cry holy shit ohhhh my god

This is exactly the angst i needed rn i’ve been craving it thank you so fucking much

#i’m literally about to go to bed and was about to read an angsty haikyuu fanfic #but now i’ve read this and my angst needs have been satisfied

13 notes · View notes

13atoms · 4 years ago

Text

Slippery Fingers [Dhawan!Master x Reader]

Took longer than I expected, and I haven’t written smut in forever so forgive it being a little rusty, but here’s the Dh!Master smut which (barely) won the oneshot fic vote!

Also sorry if you’re a massage therapist, we’re on a different planet so I’m hoping the now-defunct word ‘masseuse’ is still in-vogue there!

Contents: Happy Ending Massage from an alien, Smut, Jealousy, yet another unsuccessful trip to a spa planet. [8k]

“You never take me anywhere fun!” You had pouted, pushing the Master’s buttons as he researched yet another scheme.

In truth, he did take you places fun. At least, places he thought were fun. But in all of time and space, there had to be more relaxing ways to have fun than overthrowing monarchies and trying to instigate political disasters.

He’d tried taking you hiking, once, but both of you had complained an hour in. He was bored, you were too sweaty, and no one was enjoying themselves. He’d teleported the pair of you back to the TARDIS, and you’d robbed a weapon store instead.

Still, you were determined he should take you somewhere fun.

The Master’s raised an eyebrow, a concealed smile making his lips twitch.

“A theme park, a beach, a… um… a waterpark? I’ll wear something revealing?” you teased, knowing he would never take you up on the offer.

The flirtation the two of you engaged with was frustratingly endless – just a bit of fun.

You relished in the way his eyes couldn’t meet yours, as he considered your suggestions. Maybe imagined them, too.

“Sounds boring,” he finally commented.

“What’s boring about a little hedonistic fun?”

He smiled, striding across the outback-interior of his TARDIS to finally meet you beside the console. Good. Co-ordinates were being set, the screens displaying a stream of impossibly fast information in a language you couldn’t read.

The Master was planning something.

“Hedonism is about pleasure, dearest,” he ground out the last word, and it made you smile.

You refrained from making the ‘old married couple’ joke that so many strangers made on your travels, because it rang a little too true.

“Yeah?”

“And if you’re in the mood for hedonism, you won’t find that pleasure in an amusement park.”

You raised your eyebrows, leaning against the console very intentionally, so his fingers had to brush your hip to flick the switches he needed. He shot you a knowing glance, as his hand lingered a little too long.

“Where will I find pleasure, Master?”

For a beat he paused, his lips parted and somehow inviting, mere inches from yours. Then he leant forwards, only to whisper.

“A spa.”

You felt the tension in the room pop, blown-bubblegum pierced by a pin and flying back into your face. Sticky and shocking and unpleasant. It took you a second to remember where you were – and who you were with. A retort came uncomfortably slowly, and you startled as the TARDIS began to dematerialise.

“Still trying to get me in a bathing suit?”

The Master winked.

As you stepped off the TARDIS, you found yourself in a stiflingly warm room, reaching for the Master’s arm subconsciously as he offered it.

All around you was a plush whiteness, creams and sterile surfaces somehow designed in such a way that the space felt both perfectly welcoming and clean. The TARDIS door locked quietly behind you, disguised as an inconspicuous cupboard, as the Master chose a direction to walk.

“This is one of the most exclusive spas in the whole quadrant – horrendously expensive.”

“Want to split the bill?” you teased, knowing damn well he’d never let you pay for anything.

Not that you could. What was the currency here? Credits? You’d never even considered it.

He gave you a laugh, tightening his hold on your arm as a lavender-skinned member of staff walked past you in mint-green scrubs, politely avoiding looking at you. They were a clear foot taller than the Master, and you tried not to stare.

“I hacked their systems to check,” the time lord boasted, “and it’s the quietest day they’ve ever had. We’re the only patrons.”

“That doesn’t seem very time-travel safe,” you chided, remembering the phrase from the countless times he’d warned you against doing something to change a timeline.

He rolled his eyes, and you couldn’t help smiling fondly.

“It’s okay when I do it,” he sniffed.

Finally, you had found some kind of reception desk.

With nothing more than a smile and a few nods to the softly-spoken receptionist, you watched as the Master handed over a payment stick and arranged everything. You found yourself handed a dressing gown as white as the rest of the décor in this place, and so fluffy and warm you immediately pressed it against your face, much to the Master’s fond amusement.

“It’s really soft,” you explained, and he rolled his eyes.

“Go get changed.”

In the end, the cubicles you were offered to for changing were adjacent, and you were quite glad you didn’t have to offer any kind of gender-segregated spa-experience. The Master chattered away as the two of you showered and changed, spa employees silently arriving to administer all manner of hair and skin treatments before you enjoyed the rest of the facilities.

Hair conditioned and skin moisturised, you emerged from the cubicle to see the Master in just a dressing gown – mirroring yours – and the sight made you strangely uneasy. It wasn’t often he dressed down. Certainly never willingly, as far as you could remember. With conditioner combed into his hair and beard, a treatment across his nose, he had never looked less threatening.

You bit your lip to stifle a laugh which he clearly expected, already glowering at you.

“Come on,” he complained, heading for the next room.

He didn’t offer you an arm, but he did hold the door open. As you brushed past him, you noticed they’d combed the hair treatment into his eyebrows. You wondered if choosing the quietest day in history hadn’t been – as you assumed – for your benefit. His pride seemed a little wounded.

“It’s good to relax!” You reassured him, holding out your arm. He ignored it.

“For humans, perhaps.”

You leant into his shoulder briefly, trying to wind him up.

“Even big scary time lords need a break! Though, you do have a disappointingly tame interpretation of hedonism.”

“I was thinking of bodily pleasure, darling.” he purred, “I’m sorry if this doesn’t meet your exacting standards.”

Trying to ignore the rush his implication sent through you, you kept your eyes trained on the soft carpet ahead. How do they keep it so clean? I suppose no one wears shoes here.

“But I’ll ask you to reserve judgement until you’ve seen how good the massage therapists are. I believe on earth you might call it sinful.”

With a contented hum, you walked with him to the open treatment room.

As you sat in adjacent chairs, you realised just how naked both of you were, both adjusting your robes to cover yourself as a receptionist approached. She explained everything rapidly, and the Master nodded in understanding. You trusted he would reiterate anything important – you were distracted by the bare slice of his thigh he kept fidgeting to cover.

In lieu of clipboards they handed you tablet-style devices, which seemed familiar enough. The prices of the treatments seemed huge, but the Master told you to ignore them. Maybe the currency here was just inflated. The Master never seemed bothered, at any rate.

He was scrolling through his own options, and you knew he struggled to allow himself to go through anything that might seem self-care-y. The parallel massage tables set up ahead of you seemed to suggest you would be in the room with him, and privately you hoped he might allow himself to relax, to trust a highly-skilled stranger, with you right there.

“What are you getting?” you asked, curiously looking at his screen.

The options were all described luxuriously, with various options for oils and smells and styles, different firmnesses of touch and different problem areas the therapists could focus on. You were settled on some focus on your left thigh, the lingering ache of a muscle there had been bothering you since you’d fallen running from an enraged palace guard last week. Besides that, you had no idea what to select.

“Just something standard,” the Master told you non-committally, and you marvelled at how embarrassing this seemed to be for him.

Then, something caught your eye.

“What are these options?”

You pointed on your own tablet, pointing to one of the most expensive options at the bottom of the page.

Indulgent twenty-minute full body muscle release with Lerimoya blossom oil, Akesian-style massage and skin treatment. Completed with sexual release and relaxing cool-down.

The Master’s jaw seemed to clench minutely, but you pretended to ignore it.

“Exactly what it says,” he told you curtly.

You scrolled back up to the top of the options, taking a moment to consider his bluntness. You had to admit… there was something very tempting about it. Getting yourself off on the TARDIS made you nervous – a living ship with a consciousness watching you bite back moans as you masturbated a deeply un-erotic thought each time you remembered it. But this was clinical. Self-care.

The Master was a ceaseless flirt, but seemed unable to deliver on his gazes and winks and comments. You needed something.

“Isn’t that… taboo here?”

“As common as a back rub, love.”

His curtness hadn’t ceased, and it irritated you for some reason. So much for being relaxed.

The time lord had impatiently clicked some arbitrary option at the top of his list, no doubt the shortest massage he could get away with. He was already clicking his tongue, holding the device out to be collected by the receptionist. You took a deep breath.

He was always telling you to take what you want and be hedonistic. You scrolled down quickly, selecting the option, selecting the areas of your body which hurt (not least that damn thigh) before holding out the device.

You could feel his eyes on you, your cheeks burning, and some deep part of you igniting at the thought of what was about to happen. You were looking forward to it, you realised. So much.

“Chosen something expensive?” he ground out, the joke landing flat as his tone seemed oddly monotonous.

“If you’re paying, then of course.”

It was only as the tablets were taken gently from you by a kindly receptionist that you remembered the massage room would be shared. A screen seemed to have appeared silently between the massage tables, and you hoped your look of appreciation was understood by the alien.

There was something surreal about being asked to undress just a screen away from the Master, knowing he was doing the same on the other side, mere feet away as the lights dimmed and incense burned.

The spa workers were softly spoken and considerate, putting you at ease immediately as you lay down, feeling acutely aware of your body against the table. You weren’t sure where to put your arms, fidgeting, until warm oily hands smoothed them down by your sides, and you fought your instincts in order to stay still.

You wondered how the Master was doing. He wasn’t the best at letting other people touch him. At being vulnerable. He hated leaving his back exposed, always afraid someone would stab him in it.

You thought, for a moment, about trying to talk to him.

Would that be rude? Would it help him?

But talking felt uncomfortable, laying like this, and you couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

As large, warm hands started their work on your bare back, you let all thought of conversation go. You closed your eyes, feeling the smooth, gentle release of your muscles as they were expertly relaxed. The larger frames of the aliens here seemed to make them strong, pressure spread across fingertips which felt human-enough, the smell and warmth of the room tempting you near sleep, wringing soft noises of approval from you which you didn’t bother to conceal.

The time seemed to stretch on forever, in a delicious, in-urgent way you rarely experienced with the Master. He was always in a rush, unable to stand still even with a time machine.

This was, you conceded, luxurious and hedonistic: pleasure above all else. Pure self-indulgence. The pursuit of nothing but feeling good.

You could almost forget he was there. Soft music and the gentle movements of the massage therapists were the only sounds, until suddenly he was there again. For seconds at a time, in small noises, his presence seemed looming. The shifting of his beard against the table beneath him, a grunt of discomfort as a knot was released in his back, once a snap to not touch my neck.

He settled, soon enough, his treatment seeming more painful and intense than yours. You could hear the slap of skin onto his, the breath forced from his lungs as a considerable force was applied to his body. You tried to tune it out, each time the masseuse seemed to be hurting him. Likely by his own choice, you lamented. It was short, too. Your massage therapist had only just begun to work on the ache in your thigh, doing a marvellous job of easing the pain, when his massage was slowly finished.

Your body felt as though it was melting into the table, pleasantly warm with the oil and the heat of the room. Only because you strained your ears, you heard his masseuse leave the room, with a gentle instruction to lay still until they returned.

It was strangely difficult to enjoy the rest of your massage as you wondered what he was thinking about, just laying there. You had feared he might ignore their instructions and move, but he seemed to be behaving himself for the day.

A gentle murmur of “turn over for me” brought you back to your body, made your eyes snap open and a sudden rush of blood to the head caused you to feel disoriented.

“Take your time,” the massage therapist coaxed, as their soft hands guided you in turning slowly, careful not to let you fall off the table.

You had forgotten what was coming next.

The low murmur of something indiscernible started, a humming noise you soon tuned out, as hands found their way across your stomach. You felt yourself clench at the contact. This was different. Slower, more sensual touches, beyond the realm of what you would consider professional. You bit your lip, toying with stopping the treatment early, until you realised the source of the quiet buzzing.

As one huge hand began to knead at your breast, the other reached for the slipperiness between your legs.

Vibrations against your clit made you gasp, their expertly firm touches pulling you lazily yet inevitably closer towards orgasm. Your entire body felt dragged along with the certainty of a current in a river, moved as surely as gravity, pleasure growing stronger and stronger. As fingers pried your willing, limp legs apart, you let your hands roam your own oily skin, no longer caring about the noises you let slip past your lips, the quiet begs for more.

The calls of yes, please, fuck.

For a second, the Master’s fidgeting pulled you back into the room, making you gasp. But then the buzzing sped up, rubbing fingers joining it, and your mind went blank.

The Master grit his teeth, knowing nothing good could come from letting you tick that stupid box. It had been a kind of dare, a test of whether you’d actually do it. He thought he’d been playing good odds, in truth, even as a feeling of something uneasy had risen in his stomach at the thought of it.

A happy ending massage.

Or rather, you receiving a happy ending massage.

Perhaps he’d underestimated his own fondness of the pure art pleasure seeking, because his barely-relaxed body was already tensing again just listening to the hum of whatever tool they were using to finish the complete sexual release you had requested.

The whole time that damn alien had been abusing the muscles of his back, he had been wondering what you’d selected. If you actually had the nerve to go through with it. The treatment was popular here, he knew. In fact, the spa was famous for it. Famously good at it. Human anatomy and human pleasure were close enough to theirs that the richest interstellar-travellers from earth colonies would begin to arrive just a few years from the date he had chosen. They would all be seeking out the exact treatment which had caught your eye.

A strange thing to be famous for, he supposed, but popular. Certainly lucrative, and – was that moan?

It felt like it lasted an eternity, listening to how those… creatures finished their supposed-treatment, moans and calls and staccato words leaving your voice with a keening, sensual desperation he had never heard from you before. The slick sounds of your body had accompanied the buzzing of that device in the most insufferable symphony he had ever heard. He had considered leaving, so many times, gritting his teeth and trying to school his body into nonchalance as you finally came. The Master tried to block it out as you moaned, and laughed, and thanked the massage therapist, and apologised for thanking them… joked with the alien, no doubt glowing and coated with sweat and oil, flushed, your pants filling the room alongside contented hums.

He wondered why he couldn’t stand it.

“I’ll leave you for a few minutes to calm down,” the massage therapist had told you gently, and he had grimaced as you gave a breathy, giggling reply.

“I think I’ll need it.”

Then they were alone. And nothing should have changed dammit, and yet everything had. And he damned Rassilion and all those other bastards who decided time lords should be sexless and uncomfortable naked because fuck nothing had prepared him for this, no matter how much he pretended he was nothing like them.

He loathed to admit when humans were better than him at something, but in this situation, he longed to be the kind of species who could meet your eye after this.

You laughed again, suddenly, airily, and he wondered if that was supposed to be some kind of cue for him to say something.

Something witty.

Something clever.

Something him.

“All okay?” he choked out.

He was still on his front, and frankly dreading standing to change, and he wondered how you were laying. On your back, still, he presumed. All sticky and sweaty and mile-a-minute heartbeat like humans tended to be. He could smell pheromones from here, loathing his body for how he was reacting.

Yet another reason to dread standing.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” you called back, so obviously sated and giggly from just your voice.

“It was exactly what you chose, love.”

The pet name sounded unnatural, forced, and he prayed you were too whacked out on hormones to notice. The spa worker slunk back into the room, and he took a moment to hate them, to hate those fingers which had been slippery and clever all over you. His stomached clenched as he wondered if they’d been inside of you.

As the lavender and mint form disappeared between the divider, the Master shoved his face roughly back against the table.

This room is too hot, he grumbled silently to himself, stupid human temperatures.

He wondered if you were cold, your skin risen in goosebumps, or if you were warm. Pliable. Slippery and soft and –

“How are you feeling?”

“Perfect.”

He could hear the stupid smile in your voice.

“Glad to hear it, if you’re ready to stand for me…”

The Master couldn’t help the furrow of his forehead, the dig of his fingernails into the soft surface of the table. Then he heard the matching gasps of you and the massage therapist, half-way pushing himself up to run around there and save you from whatever had happened and… you were fine.

Laughing, apologising for being lightheaded, saved from falling by the spa worker who had righted you. They were coaxing you to be slow, to be careful, and suddenly the Master was remembering the times he’d bellowed at you to go faster. To push your human physiology, to keep up with him. He could hear his own rough shouts, loud and harsh enough that they had made everyone around you wince with sympathy.

Then, he wondered why those thoughts were in his mind. And why that pang of guilt was making his hearts ache.

His damned masseuse had come back, no doubt from a smoke break or a lunch break or whatever these purple creatures did, helping him quickly into his robe. They offered him far less comfort than your massage therapist seemed to think was appropriate, still fussing and saying goodbye on the other side of the stupid divider.

He waved them away with a curt “good, yes, thank you.”

Then, he found himself looking straight at you.

And he couldn’t stand it.

The Master led you from the room with a military stride, taking some twisted pleasure in how you jogged to trail behind him.

“I can see why this is so popular,” you smiled, legs a little weak and your entire body feeling raw underneath your gown.

The Master ignored you.

The softness of the material was slightly tacky against your oily skin and you pulled it closer as you trailed behind the Master, enjoying a slight giddiness and feeling lightheaded, toes digging into the carpet as you took slow steps.

He seemed in a rush to get to the pool, swinging the door open, ignoring you as he let it swing closed after him.

The cloudy water of an oversized pool was pink tinted and sweetly aromatic, none of the chlorine smell you would expect on earth. You took in the fragrance with an indulgent sigh, refusing to give up your relaxation, even as a nagging feeling refused to leave you.

The Master was unhappy.

He waited for you to look away before quickly sliding into the water, chest-deep as he rested his elbows against the poolside behind him. He looked straight ahead as you disrobed and slid into the water beside him, the emptiness of the whole complex striking you yet again, as a sole employee passed whisper-quiet through the room.

The high vaulted ceiling was as simply designed as the rest of the complex, beautiful in its simplicity, and you looked up at it as you moved slowly through the warm water.

“Are you okay?” you asked the ceiling, hoping the Master might deign to answer instead.

He hummed, something affirmative and insincere. You let yourself float back, buoyant in the cloudy water, your toes breaking the water near the Master. He regarded you with a judgemental curl of his lip, before fixing his eyes on the wall opposite.

“Enjoying yourself?”

The Master didn’t reply, he just scoffed. You pouted, the water lapping at your face, paddling to stop yourself drifting into him.

“Just trying to have a conversation,” you grumbled.

Your words rolled off him like the sweat off his forehead, oil and water mixing on both of your skin, the heat of the room just a few degrees shy of stifling.

“Does this feel warmer to you, because you’re colder?”

He nodded. You rolled your eyes at him, finally standing in the water, crouching a little to keep your shoulders covered by the flat surface of it. You waded towards him, closing in on his personal space until the underwater bump of his leg against yours made you stop.

“Too hot?”

“Fine,” he ground out, rolling his head back towards the side of the pool.

You glimpsed the sweat and oil on his neck as you let your eyes drift over him, knowing he wouldn’t catch you while his gaze was trained on the ceiling.

“You’re in a bad mood.”

“I’m not.”

“Are.”

He gave an exasperated exhale, pinching his nose, and you watched the movement of his shoulders as he shifted his weight. You’d never seen so much bare skin, and you couldn’t help staring.

Sidling closer to him, you felt the brush of your leg against his once again, not recoiling. The Master tensed, and you ended up beside him by the pool.

“You are.”

All but whispering in his ear, you grinned as a shudder passed through him. The Master didn’t find it as funny, flopping his arm back beside him, wincing as it brushed your bare breast. He pulled away at lightspeed, shaky and sudden in his movements. You were getting to him.

He kept his lips tightly sealed, teeth clenched, making the muscles of his jaw bulge slightly beneath his beard.

A door opened, intended to be quiet but deafening in the tense room.

The Master snapped his eyes open at the noise, before moving away from you. He ducked his head underwater, rubbing product and oil from his face, before re-emerging with his fringe plastered to his face.

You laughed as he tried to brush the hair from his eyes, and that was the final straw.

“You’re insufferable sometimes,” he snapped.

The Master marched to the side of the pool, soaking his robe in his eagerness to cover himself as he climbed the steps, turning to face you for just long enough to reveal something unsettling in his glare.

“I’ll wait in the TARDIS. Don’t hurry.”

His curt words remained in the room longer than him, echoing as the door closed itself softly behind his indignantly retreating form.

“Grumpy,” you sighed to the vaulted ceiling, floating on your back, and wishing that high ceiling housed the consciousness of the TARDIS.

At least when you argued on the TARDIS, you knew the ship was (usually) on your side. Maybe her gentle hum would have alleviated your guilt.

You managed to float in the pool a little longer, swimming for a bit, trying to relax. It was no use. With a mournful last duck under the water, you emerged from the pool, not hurrying to cover yourself now you were alone.

What had the Master been so pissed off by, you wondered. Hadn’t he known what this place was like? His research was usually meticulous – in fact you suspected he tended towards places he had been before when planning days out for you. Was it the nakedness? The touch of a stranger, in that massage parlour? Or simply the strangeness of a place devoid of stress and terror and chaos.

You’d thought about your life with him a lot, of late. About how you couldn’t just keep seeing the darkness of the universe. Perhaps it was naïve, but you had hoped that his recent movements towards flirting with you might have been the start of a few nicer trips. Of something a bit… more with him.

But he was acting like the bastard you’d first known, no longer softer, kinder, towards you.

Somewhere the two of you had taken steps backwards. And now he was fighting with you at a spa, of all places.

You pulled the robe tighter around you, gave a passing member of staff a tight smile, as you found the cupboard door which led to the TARDIS.

Deep breath, you told yourself.

Stepping into a different dimension always felt a little disorientating, but the TARDIS was your home now. Welcoming in her warmer, yellow light as the door closed behind you and cut off the spa’s true white lights and pristine décor.

You saw the form of the Master the second you stepped inside, the first thing your eye was drawn to. He was in a different gown, a thicker, longer one. Dark purple like his coat, and just as modest in its coverage.

He was leaning heavily on the console, hunched over with his hair messily towel-dried and barely styled. He’d clearly made some attempt, then gotten frustrated.

“Sorry for being annoying earlier,” you tried to weakly joke.

The Master didn’t even turn to regard you, he just tensed his shoulders, leaning defensively closer to the ship’s console.

“You still reek of that oil,” he spat, “and hormones.”

Even across the room, you took a step back from him. You pulled self-consciously at the neck of your robe, hoping he couldn’t see how genuinely shaken you were.

You couldn’t reply, biting down a surge of emotion at his rejection and turning from him, inspecting a side table by the door. The TARDIS sent a wave of comfort through you, but it only made things harder.

Highlighted what her pilot wouldn’t give you.

After a few seconds of silence the Master whirled around, a furrow in his brow.

“Say something.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You had nothing to say to him.

He strode closer to you, and you stepped back again, closer to the doors.

“I’m sorry!” you blurted out, an uncertainty in your tone which made the Master take pause.

“Why?”

You didn’t know.

You didn’t know why you were meant to be sorry.

“For upsetting you. Whatever I did, I…”

You trailed off as the Master regarded you for a second, something approaching genuine conflict on his face as he fully took in your appearance. Wet hair, dressing gown tightly around your skin, shivering from the change in temperature… you wondered what he saw.

He sighed heavily.

“‘Whatever you did’?”

The words weren’t cruel. It was a question. But he could be terrifying, even in a bath robe. And you watched his eyes, looking for a trick or a spark of something more troubling.

He was searching your eyes too, looking for sincerity. For some kind of comfort.

“You took me there, and I really don’t know what I did… why you hated it so much. But… I’m guessing it was my fault.”

To your surprise, he pulled you into a gentle hug, cradling your head as he pulled you near to him. He wasn’t squeezing you, your bodies hardly touching. He was just… holding you close to him.

“I don’t like being touched,” he mumbled, his words over your shoulder, like they were trying to evade being heard.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you into –”

“No I just… I don’t like you being touched. Either. It makes me nervous.”

“Nervous?” you echoed back to him.

You felt his fingers twitch against your head, tightening and loosening slightly.

“Maybe… I just… I couldn’t stand them touching you. Or seeing you. I wasn’t expecting that.”

In the silence which passed between you, you wondered if he was mulling over his own words. If he even suspected what you heard in them, the vivid green between the lines of what he’d said: jealousy.

“If there had been anyone else there, other guests, I would’ve made us leave. But you seemed happy and…”

He was struggling. Struggling to articulate himself, maybe even struggling to come to terms which his own motivations.

While bragging and flirting and banter came as easily as breathing to the time lord, sincerity was something much harder.

“You didn’t like being vulnerable?” you prompted, afraid to push him too much.

Something like an awkward, coughing laugh happened in the back of his throat – you only heard it because you were so close to him.

“I suppose you could say that.”

Snaking your arms around him, you pulled the Master closer, feeling your bodies properly together between thick material. He sighed indulgently, and you smiled, face hidden from him.

“You should have said. We could have left,” you tried to comfort him, “tell me, next time. We’ll just leave.”

He gave you the silent treatment again, though you suspected this time it was not unkind. He just genuinely didn’t know what to say.

You tried a different tact, returning to something more familiar.

“You really hate how I smell?” you teased.

He groaned, and you squeezed him just to make him groan more.

“You don’t smell like you.”

That was sweet, you conceded, rubbing his back in a few soft, gentle sweeps across the towelling of his dressing gown. He gulped.

“Did you enjoy your massage?” he asked suddenly, and edge to his words which made the question seem suspiciously loaded.

You tried not to let your wariness show, holding your posture perfectly still.

“I did. It was… intense. Good though. How about you?”

He gave a low laugh, and the knot in your stomach grew tighter, pulled taught by his sudden change in demeanour. He was holding you. In the way he might hold a hostage, not a friend. It made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, made you open your eyes and look across the TARDIS for any sign of danger.

You couldn’t know it, but you suspected that if you tried to walk away his tensed arms would stop you.

“My massage wasn’t nearly as satisfying, if the noises you made were anything to go by, love.”

The laugh you forced was barely loud enough to leave your lips. You felt the Master’s breath on your neck.

“Tell me what they did to you, love.”

“It was just… um… massage oil. And… they did my back. And rubbed that muscle I was complaining about, the one in my thigh. It feels a lot better now, actually.”

The Master stood silently, waiting. More, you could hear him thinking, more, love.

“They turned me over, massaged my front, and then they did the happy ending bit,” you laughed, awkwardness creeping into your tone where you tried so hard to suppress it.

“How did they make you feel?” he asked, an edge to his voice which barrelled straight past the boundaries of flirtation he had set before.

His voice was gravelly, seductive, each word painfully intentional as he whispered the syllables in your ear.

“Good,” you choked out, and he shook his head with a quiet, dark chuckle.

“No, darling, tell me what they made you feel. What did they do?”

Your mouth was dry, the TARDIS and your robe too hot, constricting against your sensitised skin.

You could feel yourself getting wetter, clenching, the faintest, most frustrating waves of pleasure in your clit. The Master was tense all over, and as you fidgeted, you felt him, hard against the front of your thigh.

“They hid you from me. Behind a barrier. Tell me what they did to you.”

In some deep part of your mind, a part which wasn’t clouded by lust and overwhelmed by the Master, pieces clicked into place. How he hated being exposed, but hated you being exposed more. His curtness, after you asked someone else to touch you. You damned him for being too proud to admit what he wanted, before you sought out pleasure elsewhere.

“They made me relaxed,” you began, “so relaxed. With these strong, gentle touches. All over. And then they turned me over, and I was so relaxed, I didn’t even notice how turned on I was getting.”

You paused, hoping the Master wanted to hear your words. That this was what he was asking for. His ragged breath told you enough. In his silence, he seemed to be begging for more. As you spoke, remembering the moment, you could feel your body responding to the memory. Growing wetter at saying it all out loud, at the knowledge the Master was desperately hanging off every word, his own arousal matching yours.

“When I was on my back, it was more oil. All over. Across my chest and my stomach and dripping between my legs and that was when I remembered what I had asked for.”

His grip on you tensed, his body thrumming with energy as it seemed to encircle you, and you forced yourself to conceal a smirk.

“The touches started on my stomach. They were teasing me, working me up. Then they moved to my nipples – I think your massage was done by then,” you pretended to think about it, and your tangent made him press his body against you insistently. You could feel that delicious jealousy, almost making him growl, as you paused.

“The oil was amazing. It smelled amazing and felt… so good. I don’t know if there was something in it, or if the masseuse was just that good,” you felt him shift again, privately delighting in how worked up he was getting.

“Then they had this toy thing. I never saw it, my eyes were closed, but… it was wonderful. I don’t think I’ve ever felt better, I can’t even remember it I just…”

“Came.”

The Master’s hoarse voice felt like it was in your very head, and maybe it was, his telepathy sending a powerful jolt through you as you felt his arousal and jealousy and anger for just a second.

“You let them touch you… those aliens, those strangers –”

“You’re an alien too,” you reminded him, another rush of irritation rushing forwards from him.

“I am the best alien you’ve ever met, love, and you’d do well to remember that.”

He was so close to you, and your skin was so hot, you shivered at the snarl in his words.

“I was right there, and – ” he fumbled for words, and you smiled, pulling against his grip a little so he could see. His eyebrow raised in disapproval.

“You were right there, and what?” you challenged.

The Master shifted on his feet, his arms loosening around you, before he leant in again. His beard brushed the softened skin of your cheek, nuzzling, the slight scratch making you shudder from the rawness of it all. He inhaled deeply, pressing his nose into the swathe of skin beneath your ear, tutting with a condescension that sent a jolt of heat down your body.

“You still reek of sex. Even more now, darling. Do you want to go back? Cheat on me again?”

“I wasn’t aware we were in a relationship.”

With a bitter laugh, his hands found your ribs. Their grip was higher than they ought to be, brushing the underside of your breaths over the robe, squeezing just a tiny bit too tight. You reached for the belt of his robe, your own threat held between your fingers as you assessed the flimsiness of the knot he’d tied.

His fingers dug in tighter.

“Then I’d better make you aware,” his words came out as a threat, but you didn’t feel intimidated. The muscles in your abdomen clenched, and he noticed, fingers spreading wider on your ribs. “Can’t have you going elsewhere again.”

He was teasing, but you wondered if he had perceived what you did as cheating. His surliness made it seem that way.

“Think you can convince me?” you muttered, already far more focused on the roaming of his fingers, closer to the opening of your robe.

“Obviously.”

He stepped away, and you missed the contact already, searching his dark eyes. They were unfocused with lust. Flickering lazily and obviously to your lips. His robe had loosened slightly, a sliver of chest hair exposed below the smooth skin of his neck, and you didn’t bother to conceal the bite of your lip as you trailed your eyes down across his body.

“It really bothered you that much?”

In lieu of an answer, you found your head cradled in his hands, fingers haphazardly strewn across your face and head as he pulled you in, his lips against yours. When the Master kissed you, it was everything you’d imagined. His lips were intense and firm and bruising, but not rough. The fingers wrapped around your skull were firm, intense, but not painful. Not aggressive, not trying to hurt you, just demanding all of you.

The rest of the day melted away, the TARDIS’ presence disappeared, until all your senses could perceive was him. You could feel the wetness of his lips as he kissed you so desperately you thought he might sob, hear the sound of his breathing, the squeak of your shoes on the floor as he dragged you closer still to his body. You couldn’t smell anything his skin, the oil and the water from the spa mixed with sweat and the TARDIS’ laundry detergent and him.

Even the press of his fingers on your head made you close your eyes, focussing everything on the Master.

Your fingers fumbled to reach him, hold him somehow, finding the neck of his gown and pulling, blindly reaching to run your hands across his chest hair while you fought to open the gown further. Through where he was kissing you, you could feel his amusement, the smile which threatened to break your kiss as his hands slowly released their hold on your head.

With a slight tug at his chest hair you finally broke the kiss, pulling away as he hissed at the pull of your fingers across his

You thought you should probably say something, as the two of you stood panting, eyes glazed with want, but there were no words which could serve this moment.

Your fingers went back to the belt of his robe, tugging greedily until the knot was almost free. As you were about to undress him completely, his hands covered yours, holding them in place against the slight swell of his stomach.

“My room,” he demanded curtly, though the words came out stilted and strange as he fought to catch his breath.

“If its closest,” you agreed, happy to fluff his ego in exchange for that sincere, indulgent smile which spread across his face.

In a strangely sweet gesture, he reached for your hand, pulling you eagerly towards his room. You had never been in the space before, but you barely had time to appreciate it. The dark mahogany of the furniture and the scattered books, stolen goods, and components were completely ignored by the Master as he tugged you by the hands towards a four-poster, shoving blankets and books aside. When the bed was clear he pulled you bodily around in a wide circle, before shoving you back onto the bed with a boyish grin.

Unable to resist his glee, you let yourself flop back, the robe riding up and opening at the neck, much to the Master’s delight. He was quick to try and get the white fabric off you, one deft motion undoing the belt at your waist, pulling it open down the centre with a flourish that made you roll your eyes fondly at him.

You had expected a smartass comment, some kind of brag or joke, but instead he sank over your torso. Lips pressed to the gap between your breasts, he was astonishingly serious.

The room was silent aside from the sounds of your breathing, the gentle smack of his lips as he kissed his way down your body, and the sincerity of the moment took your breath away.

The Master wasn’t a man easily moved to reverence or seriousness, not by beautiful palaces or ornate temples or tragically burning civilisations. He always had a cruel remark, a joke.

His astonished silence meant more to you than words ever could.

When he reached the slope of your pubic bone, he looked up at you, hands flat on the bed either side of your hips.

“Can I fuck you?”

Your voice shuddered as you told him ‘yes’, a ‘please’ wrung from your lips as his tongue found your clit.

He looked up at you again through long eyelashes, seeming somehow, despite the context, surprised.

“Are you sure?”

“Please,” you repeated.

One hand reached down for his chin, stroking the line of his jaw in a mute reassurance. He smiled softly, lips pressed tightly together.

Your gentle touch on his jaw followed him as he moved up your body to kiss you again, gently, with all the veneration which seemed to have overcome him since the console room. His soft lips against yours made you groan, and he paused for a second, as though afraid you might suddenly be made of delicate porcelain and shatter from the gentlest pressure. You kissed him back harder and relished in the rumble of a moan from deep in his throat.

Then he was standing, eyes refusing to flicker from staring into yours, pulling your legs astride his hips and slipping his fingers into the wetness between your legs, fingers methodically stretching you for him.

“Good?” he asked, fingers toying at your entrance, refusing to find the nerves you wanted him to be playing with.

You nodded, trying to be patient.

“Good.”

With one last look of wonderment, he lined himself up and sank into you. You broke his eye contact, throwing your head back, whining at the stretch of him inside you. His hands reached to hold your legs, a thumb stroking across your thigh, before he gently started to move.

“Good?”

“Good.”

He thrust slowly, almost tentatively, as though trying to convince himself he wouldn’t hurt you. His pace gradually quickened, desperation growing on his face as pleasure built inside of you, until suddenly you were holding yourself in place on the mattress and the Master was grunting with the force of his hips meeting yours. Your feet dug into his back, supported by his hands holding your legs up, one arm thrown over your eyes as the other desperately tried to stop him from shunting you further up the bed.

All you feel was him, the desperation in his thrusts, the tightening of his hands on your thighs as you subconsciously clenched around him, your desperation mounting in tandem with his.

“Tell me,” you panted, a fistful of his sheets clenched painfully tight as he pounded into you.

“What?”

He was barely there, you realised, uncomprehending and stupid with pleasure. A groan ripped from his throat as you shifted your hips, his hands gripping your ass to keep you in place.

“Tell me you were jealous.”

“Furious,” he grunted.

“Because you were jealous,” you ground out, feeling the Master reach between your legs, distracting you with the roughness of his fingers across your swollen clit.

You arched your back, uncovering your eyes to glare up at his sweaty face, his eyes trained hungrily on your body. As he looked up to your face, neck and stomach clenching with the strain of keeping up the furious rhythm of his thrusts, you laughed at the grin spreading wide across his gritted teeth.

His fingers on your clit fumbled for a moment, before letting you reach down to take over, your own slippery fingers barely needing to work across your clit before you gasped at the break of pleasure washing over you, the Master’s hips stuttering, struggling to stave off his own orgasm.

As you came down, he slumped over you, fucking you more and more erratically until he was coming inside of you, fingers scrambling to grip onto your body any way he could, pulling you closer as he gasped for air. You couldn’t help watch, mouth hanging over and sweat mixing with his, marvelling as he finally softened and caught his breath on top of you.

“Since it seems to really matter to you,” he mumbled into your neck, “I’ll say it. I was jealous.”

You laughed. He was heavy on top of you, his chest crushing yours as he laughed too, face pressed to the crook of your neck. You could feel his teeth against the sensitive skin connecting to your shoulder, the wetness of his mouth as he laughed, exasperated and high from the hormones.

“You were jealous!” you teased breathlessly, the words making a barest attempt at being sing-song, before his lips pressed against your neck gently.

“I was jealous,” he replied soberly, his hair brushing at you as he fidgeted, taking his weight off you a little. His legs were intertwined with yours, and you could feel the contractions of his muscles as he moved. “So, unbelievably, jealous.”

Even as you dedicated his words – this moment – to memory, you could feel sleep pulling at you. You sorely needed showers, and food, and probably water, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“So we can’t go back?” you asked airily, if only to feel the rumble of a short, exasperated laugh in the Master’s chest.

“Absolutely not.”

“What if I want a massage?” you whined, pouting for show, then gasping as the Master teasingly pinched at your hip.

“Then you’ll have to ask me.”

You pinched his hip in retaliation, his thigh jostling yours as he fidgeted irritably.

“Hm, I can live with that. If you’re any good.”

He was halfway to sleep too, tugging a displaced blanket across the pair of you blindly with his free arm.

“I’m the best, darling. Obviously.”

#dhawan!master #dhawan!master x reader #fic #13atoms #smut #writing smut in second person is always so weird #i feel like im gaslighting the reader #alexa play Gaslighter by The Chicks #this was meant to be like 2k #how did this happen

164 notes · View notes

pepperpills · 3 years ago

Text

The Harvest - RE8 fanfic

The Harvest

A Resident Evil 8 fan fiction by Joana

Karl Heisenberg x Female Reader

Notes: hi guys, I'm changing a little my posting method. at first, I was afraid the chapters were too big and decided to divide them in parts and post a new part everyday (as long as there was a part to post), but it kind of affects the reading, so I will be uploading a new complete chapter every tuesday, hope it is better for you!

Warning: NSFW content

Part I - Destiny (1) Part I - Destiny (2)

Part II – The Lord

The day after The Harvest, when you were designated to work for Lord Heisenberg, was a long one. Not really exhausting as you spent most part of it turning from one leg to the other waiting for someone to activate the bridge to the factory.

You were deadened by a miscellaneous of emotions battling to gain domain over your brain. You couldn’t stop thinking about waving your mother goodbye as the sun conquered the sky, shortly before being surrendered by the stormy clouds.

After the speech at the Chapel, you wanted to wander around a little bit, maybe hunt, thinking that it probably was your last walk on those landscapes, yet, you didn’t want to get late on your first day, so your feet lead the way past Heisenberg’s gate, close to the church. It wasn’t even lunch time when you reached the end of the road, facing the factory chimneys and the hell lot of metal discarded in its front yard.

You had completely no idea how to call someone or if you should, as far as you knew, the lord lived there alone and you didn’t think it would be a great first impression if you simply started yelling his name, so he could do that bridge thing.

Thus, you waited. Placing your bag on the ground, you stood there for what seemed to be two entire hours. Then you got tired and sat, your corselet holding your oxygen levels. After a while even being sat was annoying, your legs tingled and your stomach hurt, once you completely forgot to bring any food with you.

That would be a great time for the Duke to make an entrance. As one of his most loyal clients – maybe you sneak once in a while, claiming possessions of one or two crystals –, sometimes you two shared a meal and Gods, he was a good cook. But it wasn’t his week at the Village and that wasn’t his store’s place anyway.

When the day light began to fade and the clouds grew heavier, you started worrying about getting wet. To divert your mind from that thought, you left all your belongings at the end of the road, not too close to the border, so hopefully they wouldn’t fall in the water below, and explored the ruins, studying the bricks that build those structures, absolutely bored, not even anxious anymore. At that point you could think about a thing or two to say to that idiot Heisenberg.

What would happen if he didn’t open the gate? Could you just walk away and live your life? Well, that didn’t sound like a bad plan, if just you could reach the forest first… The first water drop popped in your hair, the rain it announced didn’t take long to join it and a few moments later you were soaking wet, cold to the bone, contracting every muscle.

Suddenly, as you were about to curse Heisenberg’s name, a gear sound rose, it sounded old, but well-oiled and was really loud, louder than the rain and thunders and made you and the crows jump, they flew, you stayed as there was nowhere to go. Approaching your dank belongings, you saw a firm, modular, sand-coloured bridge forming in front of your eyes. Its movement was smooth comparing to something that big. You were genuinely impressed and would like to ask a few questions about how that works.

This surreal vision absorbed you for a few minutes after it was done, you didn’t feel the rain chastening your skin anymore. To be honest, at that point you realized where you were at and what you had to do, after an entire day in standby.

Your own brain didn’t really wake you up from that hypnosis. Oh, no. What made your heart rate rise again was a sudden, strong and frisky voice coming out of nowhere. You looked around, moving your head way too quick, making a spray of water with your hair and saw no one, but his words were most certainly there, echoing in your mind, making your entire body feel warm.

“C’mon, honey pie, we ain’t got all day.” He said, demanding, and then laughed.

Great, a madman, you thought. You weren’t sure, though, if you blushed intensely due to what he just called you or because every cell of your body felt enraged with that joke, it was you who had been waiting for him, you who would be forever wet, because he left you in the rain. You wanted to walk to that factory and tell it straight to that son of a…

Shortly, you understood. It was a test. You took a deep breath, grabbed your stuff, which made a humid sound, and walked resiliently to the factory’s gate. He wanted to see if you were a spitfire and you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“She walks.” He giggled, the voice of the wind, and then opened the gate.

Was he doing it with his mind? You knew that Lady Beneviento had some sort of effect on people’s brains, hallucinations they said, Lord Moreau could turn into a giant fish, Lady Dimitrescu had impressive long and strong nails that could tear anyone apart. What could Lord Heisenberg do, really? The villagers talked about he being one of the strongest lords, if not the strongest of them all. He had some power over metal, but you didn’t know exactly how it worked.

Anyway, you stepped in his front yard, facing the absurd, yet fascinating sea made of his discarded toys. For Gods’ sake, you even saw a war tank half buried in the dusty soil, you couldn’t even imagine how he had that and why he would so easily neglect it. There were ripped off motorcycles, destroyed cars, metal pieces with a huge variation of sizes and shapes and a ton of mechanical parts just lying there as a good old scrap heap.

Home, you thought sarcastically and smiled. So, when the last factory doors finally spread open to you, you faced the interior with a smile on your face even though you were miserable due to the storm. Carefully, you came inside just to be greeted by a puff of heat and sweet smoke, really welcoming at your state. The warmth certainly came from all the machinery working there somewhere, making a metal orchestra that never shut off. The smoke, well, it was coming from Heisenberg’s lite cigar.

He came from above, as a god like being, building stairs with metal parts right in the mid-air and climbed them down. You had never seem such thing and it was breath-taking; you were hypnotised for a moment there, silently dripping on the grimy ground, actually cleaning it a little.

He had some sort of waddle on his walk, nothing tawdry, though. Karl Heisenberg looked like an authoritative, impulsive and humorous man and he was, above all, having fun with you being there as if you were his new pup and you sure were.

“Oh, look who finally made it!” He greeted, on the ground, standing three steps away from you, the smoke so dense it made your eyes water, yet reassuringly hot with a tobacco scent.

Heisenberg took off his spectacles, just then you realized he was wearing them inside the factory. Besides that, he was dressed exactly the same as the day before, it didn’t seem he’d showered or so. Nonetheless, now you could see his eyes, his multi-coloured greyish blue abysms staring straight at you for sure this time.

All you felt able to do was stare back, almost not blinking, taken by those soft colours on a rough man like him. You thought you would be scared, although, you were honestly intrigued. You noticed another scar crossing his cheeks and nose and wondered how it ended up there, feeling all of a sudden tempted to reach it with your index finger, gently sensing the cicatrized skin.

“Good evening, sir.” You found yourself saying to be polite, breaking the motionless aura that sunk you in contemplation.

It was bizarre, but you weren’t cold anymore nor angry, you had the grip over your own posture again, your corselet helping you to keep your back straight. You were confident.

“Good evening, Y/N.” This you weren’t expecting, almost broke you. Why would he bother to memorise your name?

You remembered what Miranda said about being solicited by one of the lords, that made you shiver, exactly like the one you had before, only this time you could also smell the iron all over, not only taste it. The scent in the closed atmosphere of the factory had a light, almost undistinguished, aroma of the night, the fresh breeze and dry grass, maybe brought by you, however, most of it was rusted metal, motor oil and tobacco. It wasn’t unpleasant, just uncommon to what you were used to.

“Guess you found less transparent clothes.” He said next, circling you, studying you and your reactions.

You noticed he also smelled like the factory as if he was part of it, or it was, indeed, himself. You closed your eyes and the iron taste emphasized, it felt like you were licking a ring, you head spined.

“It is tradition to wear them at The Harvest.” You defended yourself – and your pure intentions.

You don’t know why, but you felt your cheeks burning, actually, parts of your body that would usually pass unnoticed had lite with the tension in the air and you just hoped you could be alone, devouring some food to calm your nerves.

“Horseshit!” Heisenberg raised his voice, coming through his pressed teeth. “They just make you wear those slutty clothes so my sisterAlcina can see all of her new pups’ assets.” Heisenberg mocked, laughing madly.

“Oh.” You couldn’t think of anything better to say, you never thought of that.

At that point, you were thinking about yourself, your dress and how you felt pretty wearing it. Did it count on the selection? You felt slightly ashamed, Heisenberg’s breathing was too close to your left ear, but you wouldn’t dare to move or your noses could collide.

“Surprised?” He questioned, maliciously. You didn’t answer immediately, you were too aware of how your boobs were trying to escape the corselet’s dictatorship. “I asked you…” He bellowed “are you surprised?” he finished in a lower tone.

“Y-yes.” You finally said. “Never thought of it.” You looked at the ground, discovering a puddle where you were standing.

“You sound like an outsider.” He ruminated, more to himself than to you.

“I kind of am.” You confessed, thinking about the cabins. “I am from the cabin people.”

“Hm… Interesting.” He glanced at you, head to toe, you couldn’t help feeling heated as you never felt before. “Sorry about the rain.” Heisenberg shrugged. “I am a busy man.” He justified, mischievously, remembering you of the anger you felt back at the bridge.

The lord left you alone for a second, walking past through a curtain. You followed him into a small improvised office area with photos all over a wall, it pictured the Village, the lords’ lots and Mother Miranda, a big poster of her right in the middle. It had a knife scratch on it. Maybe Heisenberg wasn’t a family’s man after all.

You were regaining your confidence as he was distracted with the pictures – or you thought he was, unable to really see what he was picturing –, you were seeking for a good ambiguous thing to say about waiting so long for that sort of reception, however, he was quicker and made you gasp, almost choke.

“Take ‘em off.” It was an order said firmly. The way he looked at you, as if he was some kind of authority, gave you the chills.

“Them?” You innocently asked, placing a hand on your belly, trying to breathe.

“Your wet clothes.” He explained, pointing to your entire body.

“All my clothes are wet.” You insisted, flushing heavily.

He took his very own overcoat off and handed it to you. You hesitantly accepted it, not knowing exactly what to do with his eyes on you.

“For fuck’s sake.” He turned away, chuckling.

You waited half a second to be sure he wasn’t secretly looking, you didn’t know if there were cameras in the room, so you started undressing. It wasn’t a very easy dress to take off, you couldn’t reach the laces on your back, because of that, you had to ask for his help.

“Can’t even take off your own clothes, kitten.” Heisenberg mocked, as his adept hands slowly, playfully, untied the laces.

His touch was warm, he slipped his hand and you felt his calloused fingers on your skin, your body hair immediately responded husking and an electrical current flowed through you, lightening your eyes, reverberating to your core. He also felt that and some other things that made him put away his hips, but once you were facing the entrance, you couldn’t see his reaction and only heard a small movement of boots.

Lastly your dress fell to your feet and you covered yourself with his bulky overcoat, feeling better as you inhaled his aroma so intensely you almost fainted with those mechanic flavours petting your skin and his body warmth heating you.

“Now, enough chit-chat. Your duties.” He broke the silence as you finished tying the fabric belt around your waist.

“Yes, sir.” This time it was him who took a deep breath, seeming a little bothered somehow like he could use some time alone.

He had been a lonely man. You didn’t hear other people, well, living people, in the factory the next days and realised it was only you and him. It must have felt weird having someone around after years of living like an eremite. Even with all the jokes and that cheap charms, the view of him tilted to the investigative board gave you the impression that it was a bit too much having you there all at once and decided to put your rain resentments aside ang give him a chance and some space.

“I need some cleaning. I am expanding some experiments and I need to use a new wing for it, but it’s really messy.” You couldn’t see his face, but you were sure he had a grin adorning his scarred lips.

“I will do it.” You said, a little disappointed that this was your choir and surprised you were expecting something more… Dangerous? Exciting maybe?

“Of course you will.” He was leaned on the office desk, not even looking at you anymore, suddenly sold out. “One more thing.”

“Yes? What is it, sir?” Heisenberg shook his head making his grizzly hair dance as if getting rid of a thought. It wasn’t clear if he was still having fun or being disturbed by something.

“There is only one bed in this factory.” You turned stone cold with that announcement, abruptly conscious of all the blood running through your veins.

A secluded part of your mind, a usually quiet one, whispered a thought: It would be good to see where his blood is running to.

“Unless you want to sleep in a stretcher.” He added, laughing vigorously, giving you the chills again.

“Oh no, I will take the bed.” The answer came easily as if it was always there.

You took your wet clothes and belongings after he told you how to access the bedroom and you left him alone to it, whatever it was.

#resident evil #re8 #karl heisenberg #re village #karl heisenberg x reader #resident evil 8 village #heisenberg #heisendaddy #heisenberg resident evil #resident evil viii #resident evil 8 fanfic #original post #resident evil village #re8 karl heisenberg #resident evil heisenberg #fanfic #re fanfic #the harvest

50 notes · View notes

shinsouskitten · 4 years ago

Note

Hey Kat🤗 I was wondering if you could write about Bakugou, Shinsou, or Hawks meeting the reader’s family and something goes wrong and they don’t like them at first. Or possibly the parents think they are a negative influence on the reader.

Hey hey hey

I asked my mom how she’d react if I was dating someone she didn't like and she rlly just said “you wouldn’t be dating them if i didn’t like them”

like damn sis okay chile

Warnings: does it count as angst if the parents are the ones being mean? if so, there’s angst, but also fluff, bakugou is bakugou

---

💥 Katsuki Bakugou:

It wasn’t the best first meeting. You had planned to introduce your long term boyfriend to your family at your own pace, but of course the villains of the city had other plans.

You were on a date, en route to the cinema to catch a new movie amidst Bakugou’s insistence that it was a ‘stupid unrealistic movie’. Mere metres from the entrance a villain came rushing past, a handful of gold jewelry in his arms. He pushed you to the side in order to keep running, which of course enraged Bakugou, who immediately took off after the villain, completely oblivious to the sirens following his path.

Unsurprisingly he caught him within moments, but what you hadn’t realized was that all the events had been caught by your dad, standing on the other side of the street. Your dad knew you had a partner, and he knew that they were a hero, given you cancelled every opportunity to meet with the excuse of ‘another villain attack’. What he hadn't expected, however, was for your partner to be possibly his least favorite hero currently climbing the ranks.

Later that night, after your forfeit on the movie date in favour of a much more simple date with your bed, you had a series of texts from your parents.

So, Ground Zero is the partner we’ve heard so little about?

He’s a bit aggressive, isn’t he?

You should’ve told us sooner.

We just don’t want you getting hurt.

That had been the moment you were waiting for. Anyone who didn’t know Bakugou (and a few who did) would describe him as a never ending pool of anger, too aggressive to be a hero and too mean to be a good partner. But if they knew him the same way you did, they would know that’s not always the case.

Of course he’s angry when he has to deal with stupid villains interrupting every date he plans, or news reporters crowding him like an animal in a zoo whenever they got the chance. But he was different with you, more relaxed. He didn’t exactly express his emotions in the best ways, but he loved you, and he’d never hurt you.

Your parents practically demanded a meeting the next day, and blatantly refused to accept any excuses of villain attacks or the like. The meeting was awkward, with your father almost attempting to provoke Bakugou simply to prove a point, but your boyfriend knew this. He put on a good face, masking his worry and anger with an uncharacteristically kind attitude and baffling you all.

Maybe he’d changed his ways. Or at least, that was the conclusion your parents came to by the end of the night, wishing you well as you made your way home. You fought the urge to laugh at Bakugou’s sudden change once your parents left his view, and held back a smile throughout his mutterings of ‘stupid extras’.

He kept up appearances for long enough, but by the time your parents noticed it was a farce, they realized there was nothing they could do to stop the love you held for each other. After all, he may be an ass, but he’d never hurt you.

---

💜 Hitoshi Shinsou:

Shinsou, on the other hand, wanted to meet your family pretty quickly. If anything, just to get it out of the way, but there was a part of him that wanted the validation that he was good enough for you. Sometimes he just didn’t feel like he was, so if your parents liked him, it’d definitely be a weight off his shoulders.

The two of you picked out a nice restaurant, keeping in mind your parents favorite foods in an attempt to butter them up, then send them a text asking you to meet you and Shinsou for dinner. They replied eagerly, especially when you mentioned the two of you were covering the bill.

You arrived first, giving your name at the door and sitting down on the plush leather anxiously awaiting the arrival of your parents. When you finally saw them, the two of you stood up to greet them, you offering hugs while Shinsou held out his hand with a smile.

“It’s nice to meet you.” He said.

Your parents nodded, a false replica of a smile on their faces as they ignored Shinsou’s hand.

The air around you was thick, no one willing to be the first to break the uncomfortable silence, until you eventually suggested you all sit down. You made a mental note to tip your waiter extra when the night was over. It was clear they could sense the awkwardness, and thank the lord they came over at the exact moments you feared a bomb might explode.

The meals went down perfectly, but the atmosphere made it difficult to enjoy anything. Your parents spoke little, and when they did, it was always to you, almost as if Shinsou wasn’t even present.

To be truly honest, he’d expected this reaction, although he hoped he was just overthinking. He knew people didn’t react to his quirk well, and there were many misconceptions about how much he used it. He had hoped your parents hadn’t been so quick to judge.

By the time your waiter delivered your check, you were ready to curl up in your bed and not emerge for a good few weeks. The four of you walked to the door silently, but before you could wish them goodnight, Shinsou spoke up, his hand holding yours tightly as he faced your parents.

“I just want you to know, whether you like me or not, I love Y/n more than anything, and I would never do anything to hurt them. I will protect them until my last breath, and I hope that we can sort out any differences with time.”

Did he really just confess his love to you in front of your parents? Yup. Well, at least it seemed to get a response this time, as your dad replied:

“I should hope you do.” Your dad held out his hand, and Shinsou took it a bit more than happily. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

Shinsou laughed awkwardly, not sure whether to be scared at your dad's threat or not, especially when he ended it without another word, turning and walking towards their car.

I mean at least he spoke to him, right? That’s an improvement?

Either way, Shinsou quickly realized in reality the only opinion that mattered to him, was yours.

oof having a good dad who cares about you? couldnt be me. also i absolutely hate this one and idk why, but shinsou’s my bby and i feel i disappointed him

---

🍗 Keigo Takami (Hawks):

The meeting was almost completely by chance. Keigo often took you on sky-high (not mile-high get your minds outta the gutters ppl) trips on his off days, and while flying one day, you saw your parents' house from the clouds. They hadn’t met Keigo yet, so you suggested that you pop in for a moment. He agreed, and in seconds, you were standing on their porch, hand raised high to ring the doorbell.

Your mother opened the door, surprised to see you, and even more surprised to see the bird standing behind you. Nevertheless she invited you both in, and as your father called Keigo over, your mother pulled you to one side, whispering quiet enough that the two men wouldn’t hear her.

“The news says he’s a bit of a playboy.” You said.

“The news says a lot of things.” You rolled your eyes.

“And his fans?” She asked.

“What about them?” You replied.

“Well,” she paused, “he can get a little friendly with them, don’t you think.”

You sighed. Your mother wasn’t the first person to bring up Keigo’s fans when discussing your relationship, but you knew that in reality, he couldn’t be bothered with the swarms of people throwing themselves at his feet when he had you waiting for him at home.

“He’s a friendly person.” You shrugged.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“Just say what you want to, mom.” You rounded on her, the heightened volume of your voice drawing Keigo’s attention from the other side of the room. “Say it. Go on.”

She glanced around, seeing both Keigo and your father now watching the two of you.

“Fine.” You continued. “I know he has hundreds of fans who would kill to be in his bed at night. But you know what? He’s not there. He’s with me, watching crappy tv and binge eating kfc (CANNIBALISM). If you don’t like him, that’s your problem. But don’t try and convince me to do anything but love him, cause you’re not going to do it.”

Baffled, your mother stammered for a response, but you weren’t about to wait for one.

“C’mon Keigo,” you called, “we’re leaving.”

He was next to you in moments, and you grabbed his hand to pull him out of the house, stopping only when you were satisfied you were out of sight of your parents.

“So, kid…” He looked across at you with a smirk, wrapping an arm around your waist as he lay his chin on your shoulder. “You love me?”

“Shut up bird brain.”

again i hate this but where my baby birds at?

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #boku no hero #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugou #bnha bakugou #hitoshi shinsou x reader #hitoshi shinsou #bnha shinsou #hawks x reader #hawks #bnha hawks #keigo takami x reader #keigo takami #bnha keigo #mha x reader

382 notes · View notes

violetrose-art · 3 years ago

Text

Corpse Bride Headcannons, Theories, and Ideas

This is just a list of the theories, headcannons, and ideas I came up with for Tim Burton's Corpse Bride. I might add more later on, so watch out

-Victor and Victoria were born and raised in a small English village close to the Atlantic Ocean called Burtonsville

-Victor’s full name is Victor Ichabod Van Dort

-When he was about four years old, Victor found Scraps as a mixed-breed puppy in an alleyway. Nell and William refused at first, but William saw how his son quickly became attached to the dog, so he let him stay. Sadly, when Victor turned eight, Scraps was brutally mauled and tragically killed while trying to defend his beloved owner from a bigger, nastier dog

-Victor’s favorite toy as a child was a stuffed horse he called Usher. He begged his mother to let him keep Usher until he was fourteen

-Victor learned to play the piano when he was about five years old. He was a fast learner and he picked up on it very quickly, and his tutor was greatly impressed by his skill. His favorite musicians are Mozart and Beethoven

-Victor works as an artist to draw many types of butterflies for the Lepidoptera Community, as well as a professional pianist. Originally, his father wanted him to work as a fish merchant and take over the family business, but Victor politely told him “no thanks” because he wanted to follow his own dreams. William was disappointed, but deep down he wanted his son to be happy. So he usually encouraged him, especially when Nell wasn’t around

-Outside from his butterfly works, Victor does paintings during his free time at home. The color theory that he studied was written by Eugene De La Croix· Victor has been drawing since he was a child. His favorite things to draw are animals, butterflies, and other insects. He also does landscapes and people sometimes. He also likes to write sometimes, mostly a few poems and a couple musical compositions. Nothing he took too seriously, though. He also likes to sing when he thinks he’s alone

-In his childhood, Victor used to have a somewhat regular playmate named Humphrey. They were almost friends, but when William’s business became very successful and Victor’s family became rich when Victor was about eleven, Humphrey stopped coming over and the two boys haven’t seen each other since

-When he was a boy, he learned how to speak French because his mother thought it was “high-class” to be bilingual. Victor was diligent in his studies and thus has a good knowledge of spoken and written French. He may not be perfectly fluent, but he can carry on a decent conversation

-Victor is severely allergic to walnuts and poison oak

-Victor had a cousin named Mary whom he was very fond of, but she passed away when she was seventeen and he was six. She got lost in the woods and was attacked and devoured by a pack of wolves

-Victor doesn’t drink anything more than the occasional glass of champagne or wine. The reason? Mayhew once got him drunk and it turns out Victor is a CHATTY drunk. As in, he’ll tell you his life story at the slightest provocation. Victor was so embarrassed when he sobered up that he nearly swore off all alcohol forever. It’s very unlikely he’ll ever knowingly get wasted again· After he and Victoria were finally married, Victor gained confidence and he stood up against Victoria's parents earning him some respect

-Victor HATES smoking. He was secretly offered a cigarette from Mayhew when he was fourteen and after the first inhale, he was coughing and gagging so much that he nearly threw up

-Victor is the tallest member of the Van Dort family, making him stand out quite a bit during family reunions

-He may not be a sporty person, but Victor enjoys cycling. He also loves a good game of chess

-Victor adores reading. His favorite writers are William Blake, Charles Baudelaire, Lewis Carroll, Edgar Allan Poe, and William Shakespeare

His favorite books are “Les Miserables”, “Dracula”, “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”, “The Fall of the House of Usher” and other works by E.A. Poe. The play/book that he hates the most is “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” because he strongly dislikes this style of a love triangle in the plot line. He also has a fascination with penny dreadful. Yes, he knows the serial stories are really nothing but lowest common denominator trash, but he loves them anyway. He got hooked on them as a teenager thanks to Mayhew’s nephew, and he used to keep a secret stash under his mattress

-When she still rather young, Victor noticed that his daughter, Emily, became very interested in music, so he taught her how to play the piano as well as the violin

-Victoria was the one who taught her son, Edward, how to read and they bond over books and stories they both enjoy

-The worst day of Victor’s life happened about three weeks after Scraps died. Victor’s parents had some business friends over for tea, and forced a still-grieving Victor to come down and be social. Poor Victor made a bad impression, being quieter and clumsier than normal, culminating in knocking over one man, tripping his wife, and insulting said wife’s coat in apologizing. Nell, humiliated and enraged, turned on her son once the guests were off, screaming at him about what an embarrassment he was while they were still standing on the front steps. Victor was so horrified, embarrassed, and depressed that he came too close to taking his own life. He got his hands on his father’s straight-razor, snuck into the bathroom, and actually had it to his neck when a noise from outside the bathroom spooked him and he dropped the razor and ran back to his room as fast as he could. Fortunately, the distraction gave him time to realize suicide wouldn’t fix anything, and he made a promise to himself never to stoop that low again. His parents also apologized the next day, which helped a lot. Victor avoids telling anyone about it unless he feels he has to, certain they’ll think less of him for it

-Victor was born June 9th, 1867

-Victoria’s full name is Victoria Elizabeth Everglot

-When she was very little, Victoria had always wanted a pet (like a cat or a small dog) but her mother said that having a pet in the house was uncivilized and improper and that all animals were filthy and uncouth creatures

-Victoria’s favorite hobby is sewing and knitting. She often designs most of her husband’s clothes and others in her spare time

-As a child, Victoria tried to be closer to her parents, but often found the family maid Hildegarde as more of a mother figure

-Victoria loves to read in her spare time… even though most people call it scandalous for a woman to do such a thing. Her mother even said reading was too passionate for a young lady. At a young age, Hildegarde, taught Victoria how to read (something her parents never found out about)

-Her favorite books are “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”, “A Christmas Carol”, and any classic fairy tale. And her favorite writers are Charles Dickens, Lewis Carroll, Charles Perrault, Hans Christian Andersen, and the Brothers Grimm

-Victoria’s favorite toy as a child was a china doll she called Miss Liddie. By the time she was about eleven, she had grown out of it. Even though she knows she’s too old for toys now, she still misses Miss Liddie

-Victoria isn’t allergic to anything, but she does tend to sneeze if dust is in the air

-When she was a little girl, Victoria was nearly trampled by a horse-drawn carriage, which made her develop a slight fear of horses

-Victoria likes to sing whenever she thinks she’s alone. She doesn’t believe it, but she has a surprisingly lovely singing voice

-When she was a little girl, Victoria was entranced by the piano in her house and she immediately wanted to learn how to play but her mother had told her daughter many times that music was improper and too passionate for a young lady. But Victor always tells his wife that music is a wonderful way to express oneself and that he would be more than happy to teach her how to play

-Victoria used to have a regular playmate named Gwyneth in her girlhood. They were good friends, but when Victoria reached her pre-teen years, Gwyneth stopped coming over to play for some reason and she never heard from her since

-Victoria is the most beautiful member of the Everglot family

-When she was in her early teens, Victoria secretly dreamed of becoming a writer someday

-Victoria was born February 3rd, 1868

-Victor and Victoria had two children. Their names are Emily Alice Van Dort (age 15) and Edward Daniel Van Dort (age 10)

-When Victor and Victoria were married, they moved out of their parents houses and bought a beautiful two story house that sat at the edge of a large meadow that was right next to the forest… plus, the house was a good mile or so away from Burtonsville

-The Corpse Bride’s full name is Emily Charlotte Cartwell

-Emily was born into a wealthy family. Her parents, Lord and Lady Cartwell, couldn’t say ‘no’ to their daughter and they practically gave her everything she asked for, so she became incredibly spoiled, selfish, and incredibly naïve· Emily was a hopeless romantic, often spending time reading romance novels and daydreaming about her wedding when she was alive

-When she was alive, Emily was blonde

-When she made it to Heaven, Emily was finally reunited with her mother and father

-When their daughter disappeared, Lord and Lady Cartwell were so sad and depressed that they wasted away and passed away in their sleep

-Before ascending, Emily considered Bonejangles to be one of her best friends. They used to sing and dance together all the time. He even taught her how to play the piano

-When she was alive, Emily knew how to ride horses. She even had a pet white mare she called Aphrodite

-Emily Cartwell died at age eighteen

-Lord Barkis’s full name is Barkis Finbar Campbell Bittern

-Emily met Lord Barkis while she was on an outing with her parents. Her parents had their backs turned while Emily was talking with Barkis. After only a few minutes of talking, she was instantly smitten with him and she accepted his immediate proposal of marriage… and her mother and father were not happy about it at all. Emily and her father had a huge fight and she decided to elope with Barkis… but for her, it didn’t go as planned

-Barkis told her that if they were going to be together, they would need money. Emily wasn’t sure, but in the end, she agreed

-On the night she was running away, Emily stole not only her mother’s wedding dress, veil, gloves, and best shoes, but she also stole the jewels from her mother’s jewelry box and a large bag of gold from her father’s office

-As Emily was waiting for her fiancé that night, Barkis snuck up behind her, stabbed her, knocked her out cold, took all of her money and jewels, and buried her alive. She woke up in a shallow grave and tried to claw her way out before suffocating to death. That's why her hand was sticking out of the ground

-Barkis was married six times in his life. He and his first wife were married out of love until he found her cheating on him and killed her. The second was an elderly widow for her money. The third one got away before he could even hurt her, but she drowned herself in a deep, rushing river. The fourth was a drunken lonely woman who “accidentally” fell out of a two story window. The fifth being Emily and the sixth being Victoria

-In the Land of The Dead, Barkis was brutally beaten and ripped apart before he was imprisoned in an iron coffin chained seven feet underground with other criminals like him for all eternity

-After he ran away, Barkis studied linguistics in French, Latin, German, and Russian in order to impress others… or use different fake accents to fool them with

-Barkis’s original first name was Bradford and he had a rough upbringing. His father was a violent alcoholic and his mother was a reckless prostitute and they both abused Bradford as a child until he ran away from home at age sixteen and changed his name to Lord Barkis

-Barkis has a twin sister who had a son named Hector. Hector greatly looked up to his uncle and when he heard about what happened to Barkis, he was taken aback, but he also felt he could use that to his advantage. When he turned 30, Hector came to Burtonsville to exact revenge on the Van Dort family… but he also developed a vile infatuation with Emily. Whenever he tries to woo the young girl (which always fails since Emily finds him repulsive and cruel), Victor gladly steps in the way every time and he always sternly tells Hector to stay away from his daughter

-Mrs. Van Dort’s full name is Eleanor Minerva Fitzackley Van Dort

-Nell came from a lower class family. She lived with her father, mother, and three sisters. However, Nell wasn’t happy with her place in society and she wanted to became something more

-Nell and William first met when she was caught in the rain one stormy day and he offered her a ride home in his fish merchant carriage. She declined at first, but quickly gave in when it started to bucket down. As they rode together, they started chatting and soon became very interested in one another

-Nell and William made their way back to the village just in time to witness Emily's soul disappear into the night as a swarm of blue butterflies

-When she learned about Mayhew’s death, Nell quietly wept in her room about it. She might be overbearing, but deep down, she truly does care for the ones closest to her. She also adores her husband and son, even if she does find them a bit irritating. She just has a hard time showing her emotions

-Mr. Van Dort’s full name is William Oscar Van Dort

-William loves talk about fish and his business, he always tries to weasel in the topic whenever possible to his wife and son's annoyance

-William used to take Victor on fishing trips when he was younger, which practically bored Victor to death

-While he tends to be the more passive one in their relationship, William does put his foot down when the situation calls for it

-It may not seem like it, but William adores Victor and he tries to do whatever he can to be there for his son

-When Victor turned sixteen, William gave him a silver pocket watch with a design of a fish on the front and his initials

-Lady Everglot’s full name is Maudeline Hortense Glottberg Everglot

-Maudeline and Finis didn’t plan on having a child in the first place and Victoria came as more of a surprise

-Maudeline had a sister named Marie who loved playing the piano. They didn’t get along in their youth and they drifted apart as they grew up. Maudeline wasn’t even invited to Marie’s wedding to Lord Frederick Cartwell

-When Marie died, she left her piano to her sister, but Maudeline never touched it. She felt it brought back too many memories and forbade Victoria from going near it was well

-Lord Eveglot’s full name is Finis Augustus Everglot

-While he was disappointed in not having a son, Finis deeply cares for his daughter. He just doesn’t know how to show it

-Even though they’re not good at sharing their feelings, Maudeline and Finis do care for each other to some extent

-Hildegarde has lots of grandchildren and she visited their home in the countryside as often as she could before she passed away

-When he was alive, Bonejangles was a freelance jazz musician from America and his original name was Dexter. He was finishing a gig in England when he died in a horrible carriage accident (he was run over), which also caused him to lose his eyeball

-General Bonesapart and General Wellington were actually General Napoleon Bonaparte and English General Wellington, two real historical figures. However, even though they hated each other at first, they became real pals eventually

-Although they don't say it out loud, people in Burtonsville make fun of Maudeline's hair cut, calling her names like "Rump Head" or "Hairmungus"

-Elder Gutknecht is one of the many Afterlife Lords, responsible for managing the dead after they pass. Among them include God, the Devil, King Vince, Hades, Hel, Osiris, Odin, Freya, and, the Hindu God Yama

-The Underworld is actually thousands of miles underground and due to the magic surrounding it. Mortals can't access it unless they die themselves

-After his death, Mayhew kicked the habit of smoking altogether and is very glad he did

-Elder Gutknecht has a fearsome Hellhound by the name of Infernius, his fierce and ever loyal pet. He guards the entrance to the Land of the Dead and can breathe fire that heats up to 900 degrees

-The fellow who was cut cleanly in half was an English gentleman by the name of Herman, who lived in Burtonsville years before. He ended up meeting his death due to an accident involving a rather large guillotine

-Generals Bonesapart and Wellington are the leaders of army of the Land of the Dead, but are only called into combat in times of great peril

-The people of Burtonsville sometimes call Lord Everglot “Everglut” behind his back

-Victoria has a cousin by the name of Dolores. Dolores is something of a freeloading con artist who moved to America when she left home. She considers herself a very attractive woman, but she just wears too much makeup and rather revealing clothes and is actually rather sleazy in reality. She also smokes, which Victoria and the rest of the Everglots are strongly against

-When he was alive, Elder Gutknecht used to be a wise sage that helped people in their time of need. He passed away when he reached the age of 102

-The Everglots were a family of nobles with a significant amount of money, but due to a bit of excessive gambling (by Dolores), they lost almost everything

-Almost every member of the Everglot family is rather ugly due to bad genetics. Victoria considers herself very, VERY lucky to have not inherited such genes (she unknowingly received her natural beauty from her late Aunt Marie)

-Pastor Galswells was raised in a strict environment. He was taught that kindness was weakness and to be stern and firm with everyone. He passed away shortly after the official wedding of Victor and Victoria and a new pastor took his place. His name is Pastor Ivan Blackthorp and he’s much kinder and friendlier than Galswells ever was

-The reason Victor named his dog Scraps was because he only ate table scraps

-The people of Burtonsville have a secret inside joke about the squatty walk Finis Everglot does where they assume that he would jump like a toad and snatch up a fly at any moment

-Burtonsville is well known for its raven population and there's an old legend saying they're messengers to the Land of the Dead

-For some weird reason, William Van Dort is known to mutter the words "Fishy, fishy, fish" in his sleep and it honestly creeps Nell out

-Paul, the decapitated head waiter, was actually a French man who served Marie Antoinette during her reign. Unfortunately, he was unjustly executed by association with the queen when the French Revolution broke out and he was never able to find his body after he died

-Several people have assumed Maudeline's hair is an actual wig and she's bald under it… only to be mistaken, resulting in a whooping

-Lord Barkis was a master of disguise in life and was never caught by the police as a result

-The Underworld has a prison known as the Iron Tomb and it holds some pretty infamous inmates who include Bluebeard, Caligula, Henry VIII, Mary I of England, and many more

-The Town of Burtonsville was actually built on an ancient burial ground, which is possibly why the Land of the Dead is connected to it

-After her death, Emily was made the official guardian angel of the Van Dort family

This is all I've got so far, but feel free to tell me what you think and tell me which one is your favorite

#corpse bride #Tim Burton

34 notes · View notes

sweetaesuga · 4 years ago

Text

nothing feels better than this | 02

pairing: jungkook x female reader

genre: angst, fluff, established relationship, parent au, dad jungkook, mom reader!

warnings: language, implied drug abuse, drug usage

word count: 2.2k

other part: 01

a/n: decided to finish this since i’m literally stuck on man of money :/// original ending was going to be angsty af, sorry if this is shitty🤧

It was nearing three in the morning and still no sign of him. Slumber wasn't going to overtake you anytime soon, not when his body was missing next to yours. Regardless of the stubby one replacing it, you weren't dozing off as you desired. Not to mention, your messages were still unseen by him.

He was ignoring you and honestly, you weren't shocked one bit. Ever since the baby was born he vanished every weekend then came back with no explanation about his whereabouts. When you would try to ask him, he would leave again with no hesitation and no answer.

Jungkook simply didn't want to be contacted by you. You would only remind him of how mortified he should be from his actions. That's the last thing he needed, as if he wasn't feeling guilty enough for being at a party and sniffing cocaine instead of sleeping next to you and his baby. He was over the moon however, something he hasn't felt since he knocked you up.

As long as he ignored your texts, he wouldn't feel a single ounce of shame.

It was almost four when he sensed the couch sunk down besides him. Still, he doesn't turn to see who it is, his mind too gone to even care. They called out his name twice, practically screaming into his ear. He turned, eyes immediately focusing on the mint hair before his face.

"Why the fuck are you here?" Yoongi seemed livid by his presence. Then Jungkook remembered that he never wanted to see him around here again, the second he had told him the reason you weren't going to be joining them anymore. "Does Y/N know you're here?" Jungkook shook his head, grimacing at your name. He sulked and reached for the beer resting on the coffee table filled with white powder, needles, and drinks but Yoongi stopped him.

"You fucking kidding me right? You can't be doing this shit anymore! You have a kid at home!" Jungkook whined from how deafening Yoongi sounded. "You promised her you wouldn't do this anymore."

There we go. The regret was fading away, just for it to settle back in. He shouldn't have came here in the first place, he needs to find somewhere else to go. Yoongi would never be able to get off his back especially with the bond you two developed during your time here.

"I know I did! Fuck, you don't have to remind me every second," He stood up and shoved Yoongi away. It caused him to stumble back a bit but he regained his balance. "I already feel like fucking shit for doing this behind her back."

"Then why do you keep doing this to her? She doesn't deserve this, Jungkook, both of them don't deserve this!" Yoongi chased after him, pushing people aside. His fingers curled around his palm, longing for them to be around Jungkook's throat. Yoongi caught a hold of his arm before he can go any further past the front door. His grip was too tight for Jungkook to escape which forced him to stand there. "She’ll leave you. You're always disappointing her."

Yoongi ticked him off even more. As if he needed a reminder that you were being lied to by the person you've loved the most.

"You did this to me! If it wasn't for you I wouldn't be like this!" Yoongi brushed aside the pang in his heart when Jungkook said that. Although he was told that on many occasions because he was a drug lord after all, it never stung him the way it did now.

"But you did this to her. If it wasn't for your dumbass, she would've never gone through what she has been through. If you didn't play with her fucking feelings, she wouldn't have had an addiction too. You fucked that poor girl up and you're still fucking doing it," Yoongi took a step closer. Despite being a little bit shorter and not holding a lot of muscle unlike Jungkook, he was still daunting. "Come here again and you'll have a bullet in your fucking head." Yoongi released him, knocking him down to the pavement. He slammed the door behind him.

Jungkook was quiet for a minute. He wanted to cry but couldn't manage to spill any tears out. He sighed, watching a puff of smoke come out of his mouth.

He would have to ask you to pick him up, his ride was still in the house that he was just threatened to not step a foot in. His fingers are shaking when he pulled out his phone to text you. He couldn't tell whether it was from the coldness or his distress.

jk🖤: pick me up please

jk🖤: [Current Location]

You were not furious, if anything you were upset. The second he sent his location, your heart practically dropped. Too many upsetting memories were tied to that place. Jungkook picked up on this right away the second he entered the car.

Even when you saw his enlarged pupils which can only indicate one thing in these circumstances, you don't say a word to him.

He heard the movement in the back. Jungkook turned to catch a glimpse of the car seat, faced away from him. His daughter kicking away, unaware of the issue that her parents are undergoing.

By the red light, he was on the verge of tears. His palms were sweaty and he wanted nothing more than his little girl to wrap her tiny fingers around his pinkie while you hold his other hand. You don't pay attention to his state, too engrossed in your own thoughts.

"I'm sorry," he doesn't know who he was aiming his apology to. His daughter or you."I just can't do this anymore," his sobs become louder as he continued.

Finally for the first time that night, his eyes wandered over to you. You were barely covered, your thin tank top and shorts were not doing a good job fighting off the cold, and with tired sunken eyes it seemed as if life was drained out of you. He was probably right. With a seven month baby and a boyfriend who was gone half of the time, of course it would look like you were dead.

He saw you hesitate to reach over to him. "What do you mean?" your voice was shaky but he doesn't mind. It doesn't necessarily compel him to hold you as it usually should. He carried this urge to not get near you or else it would send him into meltdown. "Jungkook?" you called out, eyes darting back and forth.

God, sometimes he wished you could just understand him. He was never good at explaining himself, sometimes he can get misunderstood.

Jungkook became enraged with himself. "I can't stay clean!" he screamed, catching you off guard. The car jerked a little from his outburst but that was the least thing you were bothered about. Your daughter, who was startled by her father yelling, began to cry in the back.

Jungkook's head throbbed as he cried harder, same way the baby in the back was too. You pulled over on the road, realizing you were unable to drive with the two of them bawling their eyes out. He curled himself in a ball in the small seat, body gluing onto the car door, far away as possible from the two of you.

You unbuckled your seatbelt, reaching over for your baby. Her mouth was wide open, pouring out sobs. Jungkook glanced over to take a peek of her. She's dressed the complete opposite of you. She was in her warm yellow polka dots pijamas, a little beanie clutched in her hands. He figured she must have taken off in frustration since she doesn't enjoy accessories on her head.

She came across the sight of him, blinking before grasping that he was truly in front of her. The pacifier was shoved in her mouth to silence her cries. Jungkook's eyesight grew vague as he cried again. "I can't do it anymore. Yoongi was right," his head was hidden behind his palms once again. Your eyebrows furrowed at the mention of your old friend. "You both don't deserve this! I'm always going to let the both of you down."

You ignored the saliva that dropped down onto your chest and placed the pacifier back in her mouth. Jungkook appeared so fragile in the corner of the car. "What are you talking about? Of course you can do it," you inhaled for a second, trying to hold yourself together while rubbing your baby's back. "Don't do this to her, please."

He shook his head and pressed himself further into the door once he heard a cry escape your mouth. "I don't want to, Y/N, but fuck, I just can't seem to get better," his voice cracked as he weeped in his seat.

"When did you relapse?" Your guess was that this wasn't the first time he was back at Yoongi's place. You're too afraid to know but it had to be asked. When he doesn't say anything, you try again. "Talk to me, please. Just tell me the truth, I won't yell at you or anything like that."

Jungkook's eyes bounced back and forth between his daughter and you. One final glance at her and he was speaking. "Like, fuck, maybe when you were seventeen weeks along I started using again," he looked down at his shoes away from your glum expression. "It was only a little bit then she was born and I just—shit I'm really sorry," your hand extended out but he neglected it. "Everyone was right about me. Your friends, Yoongi, your parents. Maybe you should go with them."

You knew what he meant. When your parents grasped onto the idea that their only daughter was pregnant by her druggie boyfriend, as they would call him, they were fuming and gave you an ultimatum. Leave him and they'll help you look after her or stay with him and throw your whole life away.

He felt crushed when you stayed silent. It was obvious that you would choose the first one. The two of you weren't going to do the best financially especially with a baby on the way.

What shocked him was when you cried a few seconds after. He has never seen you cry like this. Unlike when you tried the same unknown drug as him to impress him and later cried because the sensation was unfamiliar. Unlike when he fought with another man and you tried to stop him before the police showed up. Unlike when he took your virginity in the back of the filthy bar and ignored you for weeks. Unlike when he made you so upset with the girl around his arms, you wished you never met him then ran back to him.

You cried to your parents that you loved him so much that you couldn't let him go, even if it meant that they'll disown you.

Jungkook never knew that you felt about him that way. You loved him and wanted to be with him no matter what. He didn't know what to say to that. I mean, you weren't a fling. As soon as he called you his girlfriend he made you the only girl in his life, that was it. But he never imagined spending the rest of his life eternally bound to you.

Truth be told, he adored the idea.

So Jungkook tried for you. Your first suggestion was to check himself to rehab, something Jungkook just flat out refused but managed to stay sober for couple of months then he relapsed. He doesn't remember why he did it.

"I'm not going to my parents so they could remind me for the rest of my life about my mistakes. And I know you could do it, Jungkook," you sounded so determined it made him even more miserable. Your daughter nuzzled her face in your neck, locking eyes with her father. "You just need to get professional help."

You watched his shoulders shake and stuck your hand out to touch him. Jungkook refused to believe it.You could not be possibly be recommending that he go to rehab. Anything but that. "Not rehab, I don't want to go to rehab, please."

"Jungkook, do it for yourself. You really need to go. You can't keep doing this for the rest of your life. What happens if something happens to you? I will never be able to forgive myself for not trying," he leaned back in his chair. His daughter's chubby fingers outstretched towards him, eager to be in his arms. Jungkook took her from you and laid her on his lap. "We’ll be there every step of the way."

"What happens if I don't?"

"Then," you stopped yourself to think. You blinked, attempting to get rid of your tears. "I'm sorry Jungkook but I will leave you. I can't have her growing up with an environment like this, it's not okay," you stared at his side, admiring his nose that your daughter inherited. "I want the best for the both of us."

A replica of his doe eyes shined back at him in curiosity. He didn't think of much as she did. It wasn't until he turned to peek at you, is when he made his decision.

THE TEASER PHOTOS WERE WISKSJSKEK YES SIRRRRRR

#bts angst #bts fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook imagine #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook drabble #jungkook fluff #jungkook scenario #jungkook fiction #jungkook au #jungkook x y/n #bts drabble #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts x reader #bts x y/n #bts x you #bts fiction

213 notes · View notes

pomegranates-and-blood · 4 years ago

Text

νοσταλγία (Chapter 7)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 3.0k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Ik I’ve been uploading a lot of chapters out of schedule, I’m sorry. The Saturday’s ones are never gonna falter, but I wanna upload a lil bit more and a lil bit more often. And on every two weeks on tuesdays I’ll keep uploading spinoffs, but I might upload an extra chapter during the no-spinoff week if the story is going too slow lol.

Anyways, idk if anyone reads these lol, but I’m gonna ask anyways that you please let me know what you think, and hope you enjoy this chapter/story. Thank you!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927

King Ivar talks in his sleep, who would have thought? His voice rouses you from a restless sleep, thinking for a moment he calls for you but it’s just rumbles as he tosses and turns. You sigh in the darkness, and suddenly it feels like the shadows are heavier than before, more suffocating, more…more real.

You don’t know where you are walking to, but you don’t stop until your bare feet touch the wet and cold sand.

With your knees pressed to your chest you keep your eyes on the waves breaking near the coast, closing your eyes and imagining the lull of the ocean is the same as the one you heard from the temple in Eleusis.

But the sand is rougher under your bare feet, the waves louder and more enraged, the wind is more biting and less forgiving. And you are alone, alone and defeated on a foreign land of cold and death.

So you open your eyes, because this isn’t home, and reach with cold fingers for the gifted knife you kept in your person despite the knowledge if anyone here wanted you dead you would be so.

Keeping your gaze on the horizon, you take a hold of the wind-swept tresses of your hair and cut a lock at the end of it. A mark of mourning and a mark for all the deaths you are responsible for.

Holding on tightly to the strands of grief, you extend a hand, a farewell to the Greeks that are not to return, an offering to this land that has brought you nothing but sorrow and heartache.

When you open your hand, the hair flows in the cold winds away from you, and you allow yourself a small prayer in Greek to Macaria to bless their sacrifice, to Thanatos for safe passage, to Persephone for warmth, to Hades for mercy.

And, in a selfish moment, you pray to every God in the Underworld not to summon you home just yet. For if the Fates allow it so, you will see to it yourself that the blood spilled is paid forth.

Because if the King’s word is to be trusted, sooner or later you will walk out of his land a free woman. You will return to Greece, even if you have to wade through blood to do so.

You close your eyes, and the faint smell of snowdrops fills your nose, reminding you of spring and loneliness, of teardrops and homesickness.

A part of you tries to follow the tug on your heart and listen to what the Gods try to tell you, but you’re left cold and alone when you try reaching for the Pantheon you’ve come to know your whole life.

The sound of gravel ruffling behind you startles you, and you turn around with a gasp and a strong grip on the knife Ivar gifted you, ready to at least leave whoever is coming to hurt you with a scar to remember you by.

But it is Ivar who approaches you, strong arms dragging him forward as he moves over the cold sand. His eyes stay on yours as he moves, reminding you for a moment of a serpent approaching its cornered prey.

Still, even if your mind refuses to accept it, your heart lurches in relief, and you loosen the tension in your body. Still you remain quiet as he finds a place sitting at your side, moving his legs with ease to stretch them in front of him.

You lower your gaze to your hands, and only then notice the wrong hold of the knife made you injure yourself. The faint streaks of blood in your pointer finger and near your thumb bring to the front of your mind the sting that comes with the wound you opened by holding the hiltless knife the wrong way.

After a moment of consideration, you bring your hand to your mouth and lick off the blood, letting the knife fall on your lap.

Stealing a quick side glance to the Viking has you finding his eyes on you with a strange sense of intensity in his gaze, a quiet sort of…something. You shrug it off, and stay quiet, but his irritated question is quick to break the silence.

“I woke up and you weren’t there.”

You’re startled and annoyed at the entitled tone of his voice, but you still shrug.

“I am a free woman, am I not?”

“So you were trying to escape?”

“You would stop me.” You reply without hesitation.

“And yet you still don’t fear me.”

“If you wanted to kill me you would have already, if you wanted to use me as leverage for court games you will need time to do so,” You swallow the shame, the dread, and continue as your eyes look blindly ahead, “And…and if you wanted to take me, you could have avoided all this and just asked.”

Silence stretches between you, and in a moment of weakness you turn your gaze to find his clear eyes already set upon you, seeking and demanding as they always have been.

“You wanted me.”

The tone of surprise, the slightly parted lips that draw your gaze down to his mouth, the way his eyes search your face; it all makes your foolish heart see him in a new light for a fleeting moment, in the light of the man you met in that moldy cabin that was never yours to begin with.

But you remind yourself of what brought you here, of what he truly saw when he looked at you: a foreign witch to conquer.

So, you remind him that the woman he met, the woman that lingered for moments too long on the lure of his eyes, on the curve of his smile, on his expressive gestures; the woman that thought foolishly she could be anything other than the name and titles bestowed upon her; the woman that started to trust him; that woman was gone the moment he put chains on you.

“I wanted the man I met in Aneridge, I have no idea who you are.”

And with just a few words, any trace of softness, any trace of vulnerability, any trace of that strange boyish glances he used to throw your way when you were just a Priestess and he was just a Viking, are gone.

King Ivar curls his nose in anger, lifting his head a bit as he warns you,

“I’m growing tired of your games, Priestess.”

“Kill me, then.” You bite out, even as your voice wobbles. Because you have heard the stories, you have heard the tendrils of voices not quite human reaching your ears. You know he is as cruel and as dangerous as the whispers say, you know he carries the favor of the Dread Lord, you know he was born to be ruthless, to die and return, to suffer and conquer.

But there’s a part of you that wants to test him, dare him.

Use your strength against me, hurt me, kill me. Make me know what I am to feel for you, make me disgusted, make me fearful. I’m tired of hope.

But Ivar just smiles, a cold and angry smile but a smile nonetheless, and turns his eyes head, choosing silence to reign between you until the sun comes up over those distant waves.

____

You approach the city encased in tall walls, and though awe at its size and life pulls at your heart, you cannot help but feel you are walking blindly into a cage.

There’s so many pale and distrusting eyes set on you, gazes persisting on the things that make you different to them: your dress, your hair, your face, your skin.

And you’re not stupid enough to ignore that even in the way you are brought to port you are separated from the other prisoners, from the Christians the Varangian has brought from across this sea. You sail in the same boat as their King, there’s a distance between you and the rest of the men and women in the ship, you are washed and unbound.

You stay silent, and watch raptly as the King moves away from you as the boat docks, discarding the crutch so he can lift himself up to the pier, and standing up again with help of the crutch and a nearby barrel. He lifts his gaze and immediately finds your own, and a cruel smile starts to spread over his face as he stretches a hand in a mocking gesture to help you up.

“Priestess.”

You take your eyes off his instead, and look down at your dress as you grab your skirts and lift them so you can safely move towards the pier. Standing at the King’s side -because you know he would not hesitate to call you to order, to demand your presence where he deems it so, to tug on the invisible chains around your wrists- you take a moment to look over the lively pier, filled of families reuniting, stands of fishermen selling their captures, slaves carrying baskets of goods around, lives blossoming past the winter that seems to pierce the air of this place.

“So this is to be my new prison?” You ask instead of voicing any other thought, a little delighted in the way you put the King on edge.

He doesn’t hesitate in reaching down and grabbing onto your arm, lifting your wrist between the two of you, his blue eyes challenge yours.

“You’re not a prisoner,” He repeats the lie, and although the mark of your struggle against the chains once set upon you is still there, he seems to want you to believe you are free. “You are my guest, Priestess.”

“Guest.” You repeat, and his eyes narrow, his nose furrows. It is too easy to draw out his rage, to get to see ragged edges and bled truths. And you will always prefer rage, prefer anger and chaos, over the mocking cruelty that’s the mask of the King of Kattegat.

He starts walking and the people move as to open a path for him, and considering your only option is to be left alone surrounded by these intimidating and foreign people, you bite your tongue and follow.

“You should be grateful, Priestess, your life could be so much worse, were you at anyone else’s mercy.”

“I know this is a mercy even if you have none,” You acknowledge, and the King stops walking, looking at you over his shoulder as you calmly walk to his side. You meet his eyes, and clarify, “I will still not thank you.”

He grunts as he turns back around, a movement of his head as he arranges his legs to move with the help of his crutch, and even if his back is to you, you still know he is gritting his teeth, the anger written in the lines of his back, in the huffs of air that leave his lips.

“I know, you still choose to hate me.”

“Ivar,” You call out with more softness than you intended to. After the King hesitates for a moment, enough for you to know he is listening, you reach his side again and in a voice that is almost a whisper you offer, “I will never look upon you with anything other than hate, as long as you are the one with all the power and I’m relegated to following your commands.”

____

You are given time as the King addresses his people to clean yourself up and dress up in some fresh clothing. The dresses that are offered to you, the hair ornaments, the earrings and the bracelets, they all scream of foreignness, of being away from home; so you choose to keep your old and stained red dress.

You are brought to the loud and vibrant main hall at the King’s request, and it is with a gesture he orders you to take a seat on one of the tables by his side, though he remains on his throne. You eye the people around you, laughing, drinking, dancing; the world around you moving on and on as if yours hasn’t flipped upside down.

And the stupid, childish, reckless part of you that has made you commit so many mistakes along the way; that part of you wants to refuse him, wants to stand your ground and deny him of any power over you.

But the ambient presses down on you, like the air when you reach a mountaintop, and the people are too loud and too foreign, and the only thing you’re familiar with in this cold and strange place is the eyes that burn like Greek Fire of the King.

So you take your seat at his side.

The way his cruel smile widens, regarding you like a dog that performed a good trick makes your blood boil. Your hands curling into fists and your lips pursing without your intent only seem to entertain him further, which makes the silent interaction a vicious circle you cannot seem to break out of.

“Good girl.” He mocks, because of course he does, because you are an open book and he is a cruel and insufferable man. But you refuse -and so does your self-preservation- to run your mouth, and instead play a game, like you were taught to.

“There’s a first time for everything.” You answer around a smile that the King starts to return, but a voice from somewhere further back in the hall brings your conversation to a close.

“The witch seems fiery. I wonder if she is that hard to tame.”

You were meant to hear those words and the laughs that follow, you were meant to feel the threat, the humiliation. You know this, but even knowing it cannot keep the crawl of your skin, the shame clogging your throat.

The Christians called you a Heathen. These Vikings call you a Witch. There may be a difference, but you cannot see it. Both will try to beat you or rape you into submission, both will see foreign as inferior.

Although you may not see the man that said those words, it seems that that King Ivar does. The cold eyes of someone that has killed for less and would again set on the warrior behind you, and even if curiosity begs for you to turn around and see their expression, you hold your place.

A mumble of apology reaches your ears, but it is not meant for you, so you say nothing. The King shows a quick and purposely false smile before raising his voice,

“Leave us.”

A multitude of questions arise, but again a glare from the volatile King silences any real questioning, and the room feels so much larger and cavernous once the men have left.

Ivar turns to you, studying you.

“So, Priestess.”

The tales your father used to gift you with of unarmed prisoners being thrown into a coliseum against lions and wolves and all kinds of predators are brought forth to your mind as you stand alone in that empty and cold hall.

“So, Viking.” You quip back, crossing your arms to hide the nervous tremble of your hands.

He studies you for a moment, finally asking, “What will you use your freedom for?”

“For the gift to choose, without fear you selling or giving me away like a barn animal.” You reply dryly.

“I can still do that.” He is quick to say, dangling threats over your head like it truly entertains him.

“Not without breaking your promise.” You say, not aware of how much relief his word gives you until this moment.

The King narrows his eyes, annoyance clear in his pale gaze, and stands up from his throne.

You hold your ground as he approaches you, but he instead chooses to sit in one of the chairs in the now empty table. Ivar motions with a bloodied hand for you to take a seat as well, the movement a flourish in mock recognition of your noble birth.

You sit, albeit stiffly. Drinking what you assume to be mead from a goblet, the Viking King regards you sideways.

“And what are these choices you will make, now free?”

You answer with the first thought that comes to mind, realizing too late you give away a little of yourself in the process.

“Find out what the Christians have done with Attica’s ashes.”

“Your kingdom?”

“My kingdom.” You sentence, and even after over a year of denying the people that traveled with you the right to call you Anassa, you realize now that you have been, albeit crownless, acting like it for so long.

After a few moments the Viking narrows his eyes, “You will not return there anytime soon.”

If it’s a taunt, if it’s a threat, you can only hear the stubborn possessiveness of a child refusing to let go of a new toy.

“But I will return.” You promise.

“How are you so sure?”

Looking to the hall around you, you ask, “You returned here, didn’t you?”

You could swear the King looks intrigued, impressed even, for a moment before he dismisses you with a gesture of his hand. He believes you, though, of this you are certain.

But he says nothing else, shrugging his shoulders and drinking deeply before engaging in discussion with one of the men at his other side.

You keep your eyes on the King, and although for a moment you are distracted from the braces around his legs, and the way they do not seem to work normally, when your eyes continue a path upwards and reach his shoulders and arms, you realize he does not need his legs to fight like the men that decimated Stithulf’s army.

You continue your path to his face, and study the braids that trail through the top of his head to the back of it, the proud edge of his nose, the shape of his lips, for a moment tainted with mead his tongue licks away.

The sound of tables and chairs being dragged brings your attention away from your…ogling. You lift your gaze to see two men in the middle of the hall shake off their upper armor and in the midst of laughs and cheers from the others, struggle and wrestle for victory in the middle of the hall.

It seems you are no longer the novelty in the room, and you allow yourself to relax in your seat for a moment.

_____

Hi, hope you enjoyed! I use flowers and animals a lot to point towards the Gods, either Norse or Greek, so: snowdrops are, according to where I searched, symbols of Freyja, created from her tears when she was first brought to Asgad from Vanaheim, and in her homesickness when the tears fell to the earth the flowers bloomed as snowdrops.

Also friendly reminder this Tuesday I’m uploading Ivar’s PoV of the Prologue! I would love for you to read it and tell me what you think. If you want to be added to the taglist, of course please let me know.

Thank you, hope to hear from you, and hopefully I’ll see you Tuesday! :)

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar x reader #vikings imagine #vikings #νοσταλγία masterlist

137 notes · View notes

koala-otter · 4 years ago

Note

Hi hun!! I have a prompt!! So, Zuko was born into an obviously conservative family and with all that royal training and everything, he usually speaks with proper grammar and etiquette. Enter: Sokka. Sokka has the most filthy mouth in terms of speaking and anything in general. He can turn a simple conversation about dinner into something that makes Zuko blush unintentionally. I just want to see more flustered!Zuko out here!! Ty!!

hello love! it’s probably not what you expected, it’s definitely not what I expected, but there’s a lot of flustered!Zuko, so here we are

I don’t think it’s nsfw? but it’s also not entirely sfw??

ok here’s Sokka’s got a filthy mouth and a filthy mind and now Zuko does, too almost 2k words

Zuko spent three years of his life traveling the high seas, so he spent a fair amount of time around sailors. As a banished prince, he didn’t necessarily have his pick of the lot when it came to choosing his crew, and very few men on his ship ended up being the upstanding sort typical of the Fire Navy. Instead, the men Zuko lived with during his early teen years were often slippery, prone to debauchery, and crude. They swore frequently, mercilessly, and thoroughly, and after a couple of bottles of soju, could not have been stopped by the sea itself from telling detailed stories of their sexual conquests, the deck of the ship rollicking with tall tales of quivering thighs and heaving breasts left behind at the last port. For a long time Zuko couldn’t understand why he didn’t enjoy these stories, or why all the other men did. Still, despite his uncle’s careful influence, Zuko experienced his fair share of vulgarity on his travels, and largely as a result of the seafaring men surrounding him.

Yet he finds, time and again, that he has never met anyone whose mind or mouth matched Sokka’s.

They are all sitting around the courtyard of the Fire Lord’s house on Ember Island, idly waiting for dinner to finish cooking, when Zuko hears a gasp. He looks up from sharpening his swords in time to find Sokka standing next to Katara at the pot full of their food.

“What the hell are those?” Sokka demands.

“Sea aubergines,” Katara says matter-of-factly, though Zuko hears the annoyed undercurrent of her tone.

Sokka lets out a peal of laughter. “Katara, they look like dicks!”

A governess once struck Zuko for using such a word, and he feels the sting again as he gapes at Sokka’s relaxed form. He almost expects Katara to lash out or yell at her brother, but instead she barely rolls her eyes.

“It was all they had at the market,” she says.

“Aang!” Sokka calls, cupping his mouth with his hands. He waves the airbender over. “You need to see the size of these.”

Aang skips over easily and leans over to look into the pot.

“Don’t they look like a bunch of dicks?” Sokka says, nudging him with his elbow.

Aang immediately bursts into laughter, his hands coming to rest on his stomach. Zuko can only gawk at them and the casual way they react to such language.

“Where’d Toph go?” Sokka asks. “She’d get a kick out of the dicks.”

“You idiot, I’m blind,” Toph says from her position lying on the stairs.

“You can still—” Sokka notes Katara’s glare and the fact that Toph is still a twelve-year-old girl and immediately retreats. “Right, then,” he says, taking the ladle from Katara and scooping up one of the phallic vegetables, “Zuko!”

Zuko lifts his head, the dismay clear on his face.

Sokka waves the sea aubergine in the air maniacally. “Don’t you think it looks like a dick?” he almost shrieks.

Zuko tries not to wince at the word, and instead lies, “I don’t see it.”

“What?” Sokka looks between the vegetable and the stony look on Zuko’s face. “Are you serious? It’s even oozing—”

“Enough,” Zuko says. The island heat seems to have suddenly gathered entirely around his face. “Don’t be disgusting.”

Sokka’s face breaks into a boyish grin. “So, you do see it.” He waves the ladle in the air, the sea aubergine clinging by its tip to the bowl of the spoon.

“No,” Zuko continues denying.

Katara puts her hands on her hips and finally addresses her brother. “Sokka, would you cut it out? We’re going to eat that.”

Sokka ignores her.

“Here, Zuko,” he says casually, holding the ladle handle with both hands for some reason, “maybe you just need a closer look!”

And all of a sudden, a slimy, tan-and-purple, mottled, tubular vegetable is hurtling across the courtyard straight at Zuko. Before he can even think about it, he closes his eyes and catches it right in his hands. Then comes the heat, so high and concentrated from the cooking pot, that his hands immediately pull apart, and the aubergine flops, useless, on the courtyard ground.

Zuko looks up and glares, and for the first time since going back to the Fire Nation, he swears.

“Damn it, Sokka, that’s hot!”

Sokka stops laughing abruptly, and his expression turns mischievous. “I didn’t know you swung that way, Zuko.” A blush erupts across Zuko’s face as he suddenly hears his own poor phrasing. Sokka smirks. “Good to know.”

The blush is still on Zuko’s face when they finally sit down to dinner, and it’s all he can do not to choke at the sight of Sokka’s ruthless grin each time he takes another bite of slimy, limp sea aubergine.

A couple of years after the war ends, Zuko finally lets Sokka drag him on a trip to see Master Piandao. Sokka’s already gone back a couple of times to forge a new sword and for training, but Piandao hasn’t seen Zuko since before his banishment. He politely does not react to Zuko’s scar, and instead scrutinizes the close relationship between the two young men.

“Knowing you when you were younger,” he says in his measured tone to Zuko, “and knowing Sokka,” he continues, turning to look at the younger swordsman, “I wouldn’t have imagined you two being quite so drawn to each other.”

“What do you mean?” Sokka looks up from where he’s flicking Zuko’s arm. He throws his own arm around Zuko’s shoulders and pulls him in close, beaming. “We’re best fucking friends!”

Zuko looks horrified at the blatant lack of refinement in Sokka’s language, and in front of their swordmaster no less, but Piandao remains unperturbed. In fact, if Zuko squints hard enough, it might even look like he’s smiling.

“Well,” Piandao says, picking up his own sword, “let’s get started.”

Their training session does not last long.

The two young men are caught in almost a death grip, their swords biting into each other, and their bodies so close they are practically panting in each other’s faces. Sokka’s managed to disarm Zuko of one of his swords, cast aside on the patio of Piandao’s house, and looks smug even as Zuko pushes against him. Hard.

Zuko, on the other hand, looks enraged. His leg is smarting where Sokka smacked him with the flat edge of his sword, and he has suddenly been made frighteningly aware of the fact that Sokka is now taller than him. He glowers up at Sokka, pressing back against Sokka’s sword with all of his strength, which he worries will not last as long he needs it to because since he last checked, Sokka has gotten broad, and Sokka has gotten strong.

Zuko feels a growing desire to ram his sword through Sokka, and his glower turns to a grin as he considers it. The ramming. And then a thought fills his head of how Sokka would interpret that word, and he’s shocked when he doesn’t hate it, and it makes him even angrier. Sokka’s definitely rubbing off on him. And there he goes again.

“All right, it’s a draw,” Piandao says from his safe distance away.

When neither boy pulls back, he calmly walks over and pulls them apart. They both slump onto the ground, panting like polardogs in heat.

“You’re clearly very well matched,” Piandao says thoughtfully. He waits until both boys have cooled off before he continues speaking. They sit in front of him, waiting for instructions. He nods and gestures for Fat, the butler, to join them. “There’s an orchard on the way to the village full of plum trees.”

Fat hands Zuko and Sokka each a towel.

“Best plums I’ve ever had,” Piandao continues. “Sweet and juicy, and a little sour, too.” He takes the beverage Fat hands him. “And this time of year, the trees are full of them.”

Sokka and Zuko wait as Piandao sips his drink. He hands it back to Fat.

“Go home. And walk through the orchard on your back,” Piandao says, pointing in the general direction. He bows his head slightly at the two swordsmen in front of him. “Training is done for the day. I’ll see you early tomorrow morning.”

Zuko and Sokka look at each other questioningly but scramble to do as they’re told.

Fat stands behind Piandao as they watch the two run off toward the orchard. “Those two,” he says with a shake of his head.

Piandao glances behind himself and then forward at the boys again. A thin smile graces his mouth. “They’ll figure it out,” he says warmly.

In the orchard, Zuko walks resolutely back towards the house they’re staying in, while Sokka takes his time to languorously pick individual plums from the passing trees, biting into each of them with gusto. Juice drips down his lips and chin, even down his neck, and falls from individual fruits down his wrists and muscled forearms. His appetite’s only grown as he’s gotten bigger, and so has his enthusiasm for eating. He makes loud slurping sounds to prove it.

“Stop that, would you? It sounds awful,” Zuko says.

“I can’t help it, they’re so juicy,” Sokka replies, waggling his eyebrows at Zuko. He holds one of his plums out. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”

“I’m sure,” Zuko practically barks.

Sokka shakes his head. “You’re just mad because I tricked you,” he says, referring to the three times he’s managed to pull Zuko in with the promise of a bite of plum, only to rip the fruit away at the last minute.

“I’m not mad about that,” Zuko says angrily.

Sokka raises his eyebrows. “Then what are you mad about?”

Zuko gestures back toward Piandao’s house. “We must have done something wrong if we got kicked out,” he says glumly.

Sokka stares at him. “What? We almost killed each other. In a swordfight, I’d say that was doing it right.” He pulls out one of his plums. “Besides, you heard Master Piandao. We’re well matched.”

Zuko sighs.

Sokka bites into the plum, and his eyes go wide. He holds the fruit out to Zuko.

“Zuko,” he says seriously, “try this one. It’s the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“I don’t know if I trust the guy who goes around eating random plants all the time.”

“Come on,” Sokka almost whines. He shakes the plum a bit in Zuko’s face. “It’ll make you feel better.”

Zuko gives him a hard look. “You’re not going to take it away again?”

“I’m not going to do it again,” Sokka promises, his face genuine. He almost looks caring.

Zuko eyes him suspiciously, but leans toward the plum. The skin is shiny and dark purple, the color of an eggplant, but the flesh inside is a bright and brilliant pink, exposed by the bite from Sokka’s mouth. Juice trickles down the edges of the bite into Sokka’s outstretched hand, and Zuko briefly wonders what it would be like to skip the plum altogether and take Sokka’s fingers into his mouth, to lick the juice off of them.

Zuko swallows and tries to toss the image out of his head, finally leaning toward the fruit. Just as his lips make contact with the plum’s skin, a high-pitched moan erupts from Sokka’s mouth. Zuko pulls his head back immediately to find Sokka grinning widely, and he fixes Sokka with a hot glare.

“You’re disgusting,” Zuko snaps.

Sokka smirks and takes another bite of the plum. “Ah, you love it,” he says, and he continues making those awful slurping sounds all the way back to town.

sorry

#zukka #ask #my writing #zukka fanfic #atla fic #atla fanfic #zuko #sokka

220 notes · View notes

queensparklekitten · 4 years ago

Text

A raid from the POV of a villager. Inspired by the raid I just fought off in Minecraft.

(contains mentions of blood and murder)

When your iron golem died in battle some days ago while the local player was in the nether, it’s scary enough to see a zombie.

But a zombie is desirable compared to a small group of pillagers across the river from here, brandishing crossbows and fully ready to slaughter us all.

We’re a small village, and even though I’m a weaponsmith, none of us are really capable of combat. My job isn’t useless, however, as the girl in enchantment-glittering diamond armor proves time and time again when she sells me tons of coal and iron ingots for cheap prices. I’m a journeyman by now, and she’s helped me with it a lot.

Speaking of her, I hope she comes here soon. The pillagers know where our village is, and our iron golem is dead, which... is not a good combination. Were the player here, she could kill the pillagers, or sell me more iron to make a new golem, or-

"Well this sure wasn’t what i was expecting from this trip, but okay.”

I recognize that voice. It’s her.

Dear lord, what a relief. I’ve seen her bludgeon a zombie to death with a wooden shovel. She’ll have no trouble against a few pillagers with that diamond sword... hold on. Her sword wasn’t black before.

No. Freaking. Way. She has a netherite sword. I’ve heard of netherite, and I believed it was real and felt vindicated when she excitedly told us that she found some, but hearing about netherite and seeing it for yourself are two different things.

I can’t help but watch as she fights the pillagers. She takes a few arrows, but within several minutes, she’s slaughtered them all. The last one she kills is the tallest one, which drops something on the ground. From across the river, I can’t tell what it is, but she seems to know, since she picks it up and stares at it for a minute.

“Oh god. She didn’t!”

I notice for the first time the librarian next to me, watching the player place down the item. From where she places it, I can see it better now: A banner of some kind, with what looks like a pillager face on it.

I realize that pillager wasn’t very tall after all- it just had a banner on its head. But wait, didn’t I hear somewhere that’s a bad omen?

As if hearing my thoughts, the librarian responds. “Raids almost always happen after a player arrives, and they usually have a banner that looks exactly like that!”

“Wait, are you saying we’re going to get raided? But the iron golem is dead!”

The librarian points to the player. She’s standing still, looking at us from across the river, taking out golden apples and her crossbow. Preparing for battle.

“Oh shit.”

She runs into the village, golden apple in hand.

The farmer must have seen too, because he’s running towards the bell, and rings it like crazy. The librarian rings it too, right before the player arrives, frantically ringing the bell so hard it’s almost horizontal, screaming at us to get inside now in what I can tell is panic. She doesn’t stop ringing the bell. Getting the hint, I run into the nearest building and shut the door behind me, making sure to not be visible from the window.

A few minutes later, the bell-ringing stops. I hear the sound of a horn in the distance.

Trying to stay as far away as possible from the window, I listen to the sounds of battle. Arrows hitting shields, pillagers and the player and the librarian all screaming over each other, fighters falling backwards and eventually the unmistakable sound of something being killed with a very sharp object. A moment later, I hear that sound again, but slightly different. And again, but slightly different again.

And then approaching sounds of faint panting. Something catching its breath.

I don’t hear any more pillagers. Is the raid over already?

I take the chance to look out the window. The player is standing there, blood on her chestplate, arrows strewn around her on the floor, the dead bodies of pillagers near her. No alive ones in sight. I see others leaving their houses, so I leave the building. No arrows fly towards me.

Did she win that fast? Holy crap! Netherite really IS as powerful as they say-

“Why are you outside? The raid’s not done!”

“But you killed them all-”

“That was only the first wave.”

She rings the bell again, golden apple in hand. “Get back inside! It’s not safe yet! Get back inside! It’s not safe yet!”

I run towards the first building I see. The fletcher must have seen that same building, because they’re running towards it as fast as I am. The player is following them. I can see why. Everyone with half a brain can tell the fletcher is the player’s favourite member of this village. They dip her arrows in poison for only one or two emeralds per 5 arrows. She can’t get enough of the poison arrows. Obviously, her only source of them needs to be well-protected.

The minute the fletcher gets inside, the player takes out the first block she can get to start barricading- wait, no! I’m not in yet!

I speed up, charging for the house as fast as I can, my legs hurting and my mind racing. I scream to her, telling her to wait up, and dive into the house the moment she places a netherrack block in front of the door, blocking us from getting out and the raiders from getting in. The fletcher slams the door, and I collapse on the bed, gasping and panting.

“Oh my god... a millisecond to spare and I would have been locked out with the raiders!”

As I try to collect myself, I hear the horn again, and the second wave begins.

The fletcher is looking out the window, so I decide to take a peek too, see what’s going on out there. I can see them. Most of them wield crossbows, save for one, wearing a banner and carrying an iron axe. I don’t see the player. She’s most likely barricading the rest of us indoors.

Then I hear someone scream for help.

It’s the farmer, still outside, looking for a house to hide in- oh god. He’s much closer to the pillagers than the only thing currently capable of defending us is.

I run to the door to look for the player. I see her through the acacia door right as she turns to where she heard the scream, and runs towards the raiders as another scream goes up, netherite sword gleaming with enchantment and a mix of fear and fury in her eyes-

She stops running.

I run to the window. What I see makes me want to scream myself.

The farmer is dead on the ground, arrows stuck in him in four different places.

The fletcher actually does scream. I cover their mouth, and they begin to break down crying. The fletcher and the farmer were always hanging out, chatting before work and sometimes staying in the same house. Now one of them is dead, and the other may well soon be.

As I’m hiding under the blankets with the fletcher, I hear a loud enraged growl, as if from some kind of wild animal I’ve never seen before. I assume the raiders have brought some sort of beast, but then I hear the voice of the player coming from where that growl was. Only lower, and overflowing with fury. The same voice that made that sound from before.

“You BASTARDS.”

I look out the window in time to see her charge. She swings her sword and blocks arrow after arrow with her shield, hitting raider after raider. The one with the iron axe hits her shield right, and it seems to stop working for a moment, causing her to take a hit from an arrow, then one from the axe, then a couple more arrows. She swings her sword again and then runs.

Wait, what? She ran? But she’s our defender, why is she running? How badly did she get hurt from the arrows?

She returns a moment later, surrounded by the pink haze of regeneration.

Ah. Golden apple break.

This time, she places another netherrack block, and jumps to place another beneath her, towering up and up until I can’t see her anymore.

A moment later, arrows rain from the netherrack tower, the poison tipping them getting into the raiders’ blood and taking effect immediately. Not even a minute later, she’s breaking her tower to get back down to the now weakened enemies.

“Hey, look! She’s avenging him! And she used your arrows!”

The fletcher looks up, and looks out the window just in time to see the player dismember a pillager before collecting her missed arrows and stabbing another pillager.

I cannot describe the sound the fletcher made. But I can describe the sound that came after that- namely, their screaming that the pillager deserved it for FUCKING MURDERING HIM, before starting to cry again.

The player finishes off the third pillager and runs off to get the raider with the axe, who had run off while she was on the tower.

The two of us hide from the window, the violence we witnessed playing on loop in our heads, shaking and thinking maybe we should try looking out the window again to see what’s going on and not looking out the window again and wondering what will happen if this raid lasts until night and hugging pillows until the moment we hear another horn sound.

I hear more carnage outside. I don’t want to look at what’s happening out there, but part of me wants to. I want to see what exactly is going on. Or maybe I just want to see a netherite sword in action. I am a weaponsmith, after all, and after enough time working with weapons, you begin to really love the stronger ones, admire the beauty of a shining sword made of black metal excavated from the Nether itself and fused with gold. Or maybe I just want assurance that the player isn’t dead. Even if she can cheat death, she’d still have to return here from her base, giving the enemy plenty of time to do whatever they want.

What makes me give in to the urge to look outside is hearing a roar that I know was not from the player.

I look in the direction of the roar and see what made it, and instantly wish I hadn’t. What the hell is that thing.

It’s enormous, that’s for sure. And it has horns, and appears to be saddled with some form of armor. And its face... its face is far too much like ours for anything that isn’t our species. The eyes are almost the same, the eyebrows, the nose, the only thing making its face look different from those of your average villager or pillager is the dark gray complexion and its enormous jaws with sharp teeth.

It roars, and the sound itself seems to knock the player backwards, throwing her into the center of the village. She cries for the iron golem before remembering it’s dead, and realizing she has no choice but to kill this thing herself.

She loads up a poison arrow in her crossbow and fires at the monster’s creepy face. A direct hit. The thing doesn’t go down.

I go back to hiding and listening as arrows are shot and both raiders and the player take damage. As the battle rages on outside, I start wondering why the player came here at all if she knew we would get raided if she didn’t turn back. Was there a reason she couldn’t go home?

I get so caught up in thinking about this I don’t even notice when the sounds of battle stop until the door opens. The player is standing there, covered in blood. I can’t tell how much of it is her own and how much belonged to the raiders.

“It’s safe to come out now. We won.”

As everyone comes out from the houses they took shelter in, one by one we take in the scene.

The streets are red and littered with the bodies of pillagers, some of them dismembered or sliced clean in half or decapitated. There are small puddles of poison where the missed arrows landed, and at least one damaged crossbow lying on the ground. One of the corpses is of that massive beast I saw, with at least five arrows stuck in it. And standing in the middle of it all is the player, panting in exhaustion, looking like she’s about to collapse.

“Holy crap...”

“Well someone’s gotta clean that up.”

“You saved us!”

That last one gets repeated. And... they’re right. She saved us. She saved us all.

The librarian sets off a blue firework, blazing bright against the red sunset, and the village rejoices.

“Hey, it’s getting dark, and it takes a while to get home, you guys mind if I crash here?” asks the player.

“Sure! You can stay wherever you want.”

She enters the nearest house and collapses from exhaustion almost immediately.

The next morning, the dead bodies have been moved away and the player has collected the saddle. We insist she not help us, but she says she should, and we can’t argue with her.

The whole village is offering her discounts for heroism, and she trades and trades with us. By the end of the day, she’s sold every iron ingot she currently has on her, and made tons of paper for the express purpose of selling it.

I overhear her conversation with the fletcher.

“I’m sorry for your loss... you don’t need to give me discounts. I understand if you’re mad at me for failing to save him.”

“It wasn’t your fault, it was the raiders. And you did avenge him. I think it’s perfectly reasonable that you only pay 22 sticks for an emerald.”

“Well in that case, I suppose. Oh yeah, by the way, I could not have defeated that ravager without poison arrows. Those things are made to fight iron golems, even with full diamond armor they’re super hard for a player to beat.”

“You want more poison arrows? That’ll be one emerald for five poison arrows.”

“Hell yeah I want more poison arrows.”

Ravager, huh. Is that what that thing was?

That afternoon, the village gathers in the center, along with the player and our brand new iron golem. We talk about one thing only: the raid. And somehow, the discounts have evolved into free stuff- for everyone.

It starts with the armorer giving the player a free chainmail chestplate, which the player reacts in excitement to despite having an enchanted diamond one. Then the fletcher gives her some arrows.

The player herself, meanwhile, has baked us all some bread.

“Free bread! Free bread for everyone! Who wants free bread!”

I take the bread. I also give her a free stone axe, which she accepts at once, saying she could use something to chop down a tree with for more sticks to sell and apples to make golden. I even see her using it later on, and feel a swell of pride knowing that the hero of the village is using the axe I gave her.

A baby villager is born soon afterwards, and the player gets a free chainmail helmet and boots to go with that chestplate, plus two free books, though she continues to trade with us.

As I’m wandering the village looking for something to do, I spot her by the small sugar cane farm she set up on the beach next to the village. She’s holding the banner from earlier, as well as a few more.

“Collected some of these from the raiders. Don’t see much use for them.”

She throws the banners into the ocean, and returns to the village. She’s humming a song I’ve heard her hum before.

“Do you ever hear it?”

I can tell at once what she’s referring to. The player speaks of hearing beautiful music from everywhere at once, as if the world itself is singing to her. You can always tell when that is even when she doesn’t hum along, because she often appears to be on the verge of tears.

Normally, we never hear this music she speaks of.

But in this moment, if I try to hear it, I can.

#minecraft #mineblr #my writing #the baby villager became a farmer and gave me both a pumpkin pie and a cookie for free btw

14 notes · View notes

fiction-in-my-blood · 4 years ago

Text

Unexpected, To Say The Least (ObeyMe Fic)

Okaaayyyy so... this turned out differently than I wanted it to, but these types of things happen when you leave a wip in your drafts for months (╬▔皿▔)╯ but it’s still good. This is a part 1, so stay tuned.... depending on how long it takes me haha.. ha.

~~~~~~

Scribbling in a notebook, a red night light from the window right next her defining the flyaway strands of hair on the top of her head, Aviyah was blissfully unaware of the stares from her classmates. Resting her chin on her closed fist, one leg crossed over the other, black boots bobbing up and down to the tune she had stuck in her head. She was so calm, so much calmer than she had been in weeks.

Aviyah, a human in a world of demons and angels, had arrived in Devildom two months ago. At first, she was unnerved by the close attention she gained from all the demons, angels and the other human she met. Lord Diavolo, who had also taken a liking to her, ensured that it was just because she was a different species to them. She was weak, a helpless being compared to the Avatars of sin she was living with and angels of heaven she had some classes with. Demons fed off souls, and it was an angel’s job to protect those bright balls of light in each human, so it was only right that they kept a close eye on her. Especially when the future king himself had ordered the seven strongest brothers in all of Devildom to keep her safe for the duration of the exchange programme.

But it wasn’t that. Aviyah was sure of it. She had gained unworldly attention for her entire life. Boys seemed to bow at her feet, begging her to let them serve her each and every whim. Girls clung to her, wanting to be friends with such a kind-hearted, beautiful, smart person- and also wanting to meet her every demand. Aviyah, having been raised by good-willed parents, didn’t take advantage of this strange power she seemed to hold over everyone she met, although she did accept the odd gift from colleagues and classmates on that one special day a year, mainly because she didn’t want to be rude. She hardly asked for anything in public because it would cause quite a stir, everyone in the room darting around to take care of the task she had so graciously offered them. All she wanted was an item from the top shelf, but now she had twenty boxes of cereal that she really didn’t need.

She expected, being in a world of magic, spells, and potions that could kill or force someone to love you, that she would be safe from all the unneeded, and frankly unwanted, attention. Yet, lo and behold, the first day she arrived here, in a much colder climate than she was used to, both the Avatar of Greed and the Avatar of Envy threw their coats at her, only for her to get consumed by the jacket of the largest man she had ever seen, the Avatar of Gluttony. And she hadn’t even made a pact with them yet!

“I’m telling you, there’s something up with her.” A muttering came from the other side of the otherwise bustling classroom. It was just before their lesson would start, everyone was getting themselves ready to learn about different species of man, except for one group of, shockingly, demons and angels.

“Mammon, won’t you admit your true feelings?” The dark-toned angel smiled softly at the second-born brother. Truly, he felt an unfamiliar feeling in the pit of his stomach too, something he couldn’t even begin to describe, but would never admit it himself. He was sure it was something sinful, something against his very being, and would only confess when the time came.

“What feelings! I-I ain’t got no feelings.” A horrendously red blush appeared immediately on Mammon’s entire face, noticed by all those involved in this small huddle over a desk.

“You don’t even deserve her. You already get to spend so much time with her! It’s so unfair!” The purple-haired otaku tried to bite his lip, he really did, but the jealousy for his brother grew too high, bubbling over into the trait he most represented. Envy.

“That was only because Lucifer made me! I didn’t even wanna babysit that human!” Mammon barked back, not meaning the words but needing a distracted from the embarrassment he could still feel colouring his cheeks. The two butted heads often, but this time it was literal, immediately starting to throw punches to defend the one they held so dear. Several people tried to get between them, the male human even getting his own strike to the jaw, and all hell brought loose in- well- hell.

“Guys! Stop!” A higher-toned, feminine cry, although thick with command and low with anger, echoed over the room, every single one of the occupants freezing in an instance, even those that weren’t involved in this little scuffle- or under the young girl’s pact.

Crouching beside her male counterpart, who had been thrown to the ground by the force of being hit, was Aviyah, the one they had been fighting over. With one hand on Solomon’s back and the other holding his hand to keep him upright, she glared at the two that had been previously brawling in what was meant to be a safe place.

Aviyah rarely used her unknown power to command people. Or was it the pact? She couldn’t tell any more, but at least it worked.

“Are you alright, Solomon?” Disappointment turning to anxiousness etched in her expression, Aviyah let go of the sorcerer’s hand and back- once she could tell he could hold himself up-, only to move her’s close to his face, cocking her head to get a better look at the cut bleeding through his white-haired fringe. Being in such close proximity to the woman, and earning so much of her undivided attention, brought many hateful gazes to the man, but he didn’t care. He was thriving off it, in fact.

“What? Are you worried about me?” No better was the time to tease her, to see that eye roll she did so well and hear that exasperated sigh as she dropped her hands, all previous nurturing gone from her posture as she stood up.

“You just got punched in the face by a demon and still have the wherewithal to joke?” She muttered, wondering to herself if he was the one with supernatural abilities. Well, he did, he could use magic, but she wondered if he had his own special ability since birth. Could that have been the reason they were the two, out of the entire human race, to be chosen for this life-altering program?

Once she got to her feet, she turned to see Mammon and Leviathan, both with their heads lowered in shame. They had angered their... Goddess? Master? Friend? They didn’t know what to call her, having been the first two to make pacts with her, but there was this force, this unspoken voice that drew them to her and made them bow at her feet. Or want to, anyway.

Before Aviyah could even start to berate them for losing control like that, they had even transformed into the demon-forms, a stern voice cut through the entire scene. Students pinned themselves to the wall, trying to get as far from the fighting as possible, so they seemed to surround them like hawks, eagerly watching, waiting for the two to be punished by such a soft-spoken, angelic figure.

Now in the doorway, however, was a man. With black hair as dark as the most inner depths of Devildom, red eyes as angry as the fire that sprouted from them, and an expression that has killed in the past, the man glared at the two, not even wanting to look in the direction of the girl in case she too saw his wrath.

“You two. With me. Now.” The words were curt and entirely ineloquent, nothing like that eldest would usually speak, showing how deeply enraged he was. The two quickly scurried after him, for once keeping their mouths shut.

~~~~~~

Biting her lip, Aviyah couldn’t take her eyes off that door, now empty after Lucifer had guided his younger brothers away.

“It was me, wasn’t it?” She spoke loud enough for the people closest to her to hear, but a whisper full of regret did not go unnoticed.

“What do you mean, Avi?” Simeon stepped up to try and ease the look of worry that they all saw on her face, but she stepped away, afraid for anyone to even touch her. What if he, Simeon, the nicest, most modest person she had ever met, went into a jealous rage too?

“They were fighting over me, weren’t they?” Aviyah’s voice cracked as she clutched her fists at her sides, avoiding looking at anyone directly, scared it’ll put them under the curse she seemed to have. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to pull families apart. She just wanted to have no one know who she was.

“Avi,” Simeon uttered again, but it was too late. Aviyah had already made up her mind, collecting all her resolve in one solid sniff and running out of the room, hoping she could catch the brothers before something too bad happened.

~~~~~~

“What do you think you’re doing, having a fight like that in the middle of class? Do you think it will make you seem strong? Seem manly? Because it won’t! It only makes you seem needy.” Lucifer’s booming voice shook the paintings on the walls, giving Aviyah some clue as to where he had taken the two. She followed the shouts of pain and anger, running as more and more tears grew in her eyes. She didn’t want to do what she was about to do, but she needed to. She didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. To get jealous. Not when it was all the people she actually cared about.

Finally, in an empty classroom where the shouts seemed the loudest, Aviyah found the door still open ajar, standing just out of sight so she could listen in, waiting for the right moment before anything too serious happened. If that hadn’t happened already, that is.

“You made a fool out of me! The student council! Not only that, but you made Aviyah look so defeated! I won’t let you argue like this anymore!” Lucifer raged on with a temper that rivalled Satan’s. “I may just have to claim her myself.”

The comment, although almost a whisper, shot everyone in hearing distance into full-blown madness, both Levi and Mammon charging at him, demanding how he thought he had the right to even suggest the idea. Before they could make contact with each other, Aviyah cried out, desperately begging them to just wait.

All attention on her now, as usual, the men’s eyes went wide. She was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks at the sight of the brothers, who were always so comfortable with each other, usually so familiar, fighting like this? Over her? It broke her like it broke their relationship.

“I can’t do this anymore. I want to go home! I’m not happy and I never was! Please! Let me go home!” She lied, straight through her teeth. She had never been happier than living here, in Devildom, with all their brothers. She enjoyed her time listening to them bicker playfully, not like they were now. She enjoyed watching Levi play his games. She enjoyed eating with Beelzebub. She enjoyed reading books with Satan. Being dressed up by Asmo. Listening to Mammon’s wild get-rich-quick-schemes. Napping with Belphie. Even with Simeon and Solomon, who she didn’t get to see as often as the others. Luke was fun to cook with- even though he seemed a little apprehensive of her. She enjoyed all her time here but right now, in times like these, when it felt like everything was her fault.

“Avi, what’re you saying?” Mammon’s voice broke, between all the yelling and the way his heart broke at her tone and words, and his brows knitted together tightly. Levi froze up, not knowing what to say in response to her sudden outcry, and Lucifer felt like he could steal her away right here and now. Never before had he felt so out of control.

“I’m sorry, It’s all my fault. I need to leave, go home. I need to get out of your lives because- because I’ll ruin them.” She hiccupped, choking on the tears that clogged her throat, and she tried to hide how sad she was by holding her face in her hands. Her knees shook, her body- just as frail as they had always suspected. It took so much energy for her to say these words and not completely breakdown.

“N-No, it’s not your fault. W-We shouldn’t have be-been fighting.” Levi made a move to step closer, to wrap his arm around her, to help her feel better, but both Mammon and Lucifer shot him a glare so deadly it made the room cold.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about.” Aviyah continued to stutter through her words, her tears interrupting her usually melodic, smooth voice, as she felt the indignation in their eyes.

“This always happens. It was a mistake to choose me. I... I’m going to go to Diavolo now and tell him this was wrong.” She tried to steel herself, to seem strong enough to walk through these halls alone and leave Devildom for good, but it was no use. They could all see how distraught she was.

“Always happens?” Lucifer muttered, confusion written all over his features.

“There’s something inside me, there always has been. It makes people so hateful for one another and I can’t do that to you all. You’re a family, I won’t tear it apart. I-I need to...” Aviyah led off, not knowing what else to say. Memories of her past, all the friendships she had unknowingly, unwittingly, torn apart because of what? Because she was desirable? Because she was pretty and smart and kind? No amount of adoration was worth this. None of it.

The room was silent, deathly so, no one knew what to say. Have Levi and Mammon just ruined their chances to know such a wonderful person? And not just a person, but a human. Someone they were never meant to befriend. Someone that should fear them and hate them for who they were, for what they represented. But no, she showed them care and love and compassion, what they believed only a human could give.

So, with no one left to tell her no, to not go and stay with them because they needed her so badly it hurt, she started to turn back to the door.

“Wait, Aviyah. Just... Just wait.” Shockingly at a lost for words, Lucifer turned to his desk, where his D.D.D laid, and picked it up. Aviyah started to refuse him, to say this was the right thing to do, this was the only way they could live calm, happy lives, but he continued to use the communication device, calling together a meeting that would change everything.

~~~~~~

“Tell them what you told me,” Lucifer instructed in Lord Diavolo’s conference room, having called a meeting of the student council together. Everyone looked at him with suspicious gazes, having no real information on why they were here, Levi and Mammon stressing out like they were about to take the most important, most difficult tests in their lives.

“Lucifer, this isn’t going to cha-.”

“Just say it.” The words were demanding, but the tone was soft, very shocking for Lucifer- until it was for Aviyah. He always seemed to have a soft spot for her. Like Mammon. Although for different reasons.

Aviyah lowered her head, eyes still damp from her earlier confession, thinking about what she was about to say. After a brief but deep sigh, she lifted her gaze again, but only as far as the edge of the table she sat at.

“Since before I can remember, everyone I’ve met has... wanted me.” She bit her lip, not knowing how else to say it. It always felt like someone was trying to win her over, to win her as a price to show everyone else that they were the one she chose.

“No matter who it is, they say they love me or they’d do anything for me. And no matter how much I tell them to stop, they just get more outrageous. They give me elaborate gifts or take me places I wouldn’t normally go. They shower me in a love that I never asked for until they can’t anymore.” Aviyah’s voice cracked again, tears rolling down her cheeks again as she remembered the people that bankrupted themselves to win her over and the others that have lost their health, their friends, the ones who loved them, all to impress her in one way or another.

“No matter how many times I say I don’t need it, they’ll keep doing it. It’s not until I say I don’t want them or the things they give me that they stop. I thought it’d be different when I came here, but when you guys started fighting...” Aviyah finally worked up the courage to look up, gesturing in the direction of Levi and Mammon, who blushed when she made eye contact with the both of them.

“This is why we’re here? Because those two were acting childishly again?” Satan sighed to himself, upset that his reading time had been cut short. He wouldn’t even address the panicked feeling that arose in him when he heard the solemness of Aviyah’s tone.

“You’re almost as seductive as me, Avi! Aren’t you lucky to have so much in common with me? Someday you too might be able to bring down a country with your looks.” Asmo leaned into her, ignoring how saddened she seemed by the statment. The next move she made shocked everyone.

“I don’t want to do that! I want it to stop! I hate it and I hate myself for it!” She yelled after pushing Asmodeus so strongly off her he fell right out of his seat. Every time she brushed him off she had never actually been physical. Who was she, a human, to push off a demon? Better yet, how did she have the strength?

“Hey, did you see that?” A whispering demon mentioned to his brother, noticing the flicker of light that sparked in her eyes in her yelling. Even though her words broke their hearts, it was hard not to bring it up.

The outcry caused the prince, stern-faced compared to his usual jovial smirk, to peer at her closer. “I see. Lucifer, do you think she’s..?”

“Yes, I do. It would explain everyone’s... erratic behaviours around her.” Lucifer, not wanting the entire picture drawn out for her and his brothers, interrupted the prince. The information would be hard to hear, for Aviyah most of all, and an off-handed comment was not how he wanted to break the news to her.

“But where are her features? She’s an open-book, we would have seen something by now.” Satan, catching on, eyed her as suspiciously as he had Lucifer in the past, watching the tears roll down her cheeks as she tries to calm herself down. She never yelled like that and felt awful for what she did, but was too scared to even speak to anyone else, let alone touch or apologise to Asmo for her supposed violence.

“Would someone tell us what’s going on? I-I mean, Levi might be confused, is all.” Not wanting to seem idiotic for asking, Mammon jumped up before shying away again, not being able to cope with the girl’s silent crying.

“Avi, it’s okay. You didn’t hurt me.” Asmo, along with Beel, tried to be some sort of caring figure in the room of inquisitive stares.

When Beel tried to put a hand on her shoulder, she jumped away. “P-Please! Do-Don’t. I... I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s possible she hasn’t been... awoken yet.” Diavolo couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea. It would be just like the innocent human, if that’s what she truly was, to not have the necessary experiences she needed in life to prove their theory correct. Lucifer couldn’t help but blush.

“Awoken?” Aviyah’s voice, now somewhat tamed but hoarse from her crying, looked up at the prince. Had he an idea? Could he cure her? Could he take away this curse, gift, whatever it was? Could he end all this?

“Well, depending on your immediate ancestry, it’s possible your power needs to be... unlocked, in a way. It’s clear you’re no mere human. You even seduced dear Barbatos, and he never even blushes at my comments.” Diavolo laughed again, gesturing with his gaze to the corner of the room where his butler was clearly fitting the urge to comfort the girl. She quickly looked right back at the prince the moment she noticed this.

“If I’m not human, then what am I?”

“Well, my best guess would be a succubus, but seeing as you have more human features, you could be a cambion, a hybrid. We’d have to ask your mother.” Diavolo, as usual, was much too nonchalant with the subject of Aviyah’s supposed species, a topic that would and will change her life forever.

Silence filled the air for one.

Two.

Three.

“WHAT?” Four. They made it to four seconds of silence before Mammon stood up again, shrieking, along with the female in question. Succubi and the topic of hybrids had yet to be discussed in her classes, ironically that was today’s class, but she had a clue what they were from just hearsay.

“You think I’m a demon? But I grew up in the human world! I have human par- well the people that raised me were human... But I never felt the urge to have anything in excess or trick anyone into stealing their money- sorry Mammon- but how could I be a demon?” The tears were gone, replaced with a look of pure confusion that turned to utter disbelief with a hint of ‘what if’. What if he was right?

“The people that raised you? Don’t tell me you were...”

“Adopted. I have two dads who found me on their doorstep. I have no clue who my biological parents are.” The uneasy feeling that meant Diavolo could be right started to rise as Aviyah admitted a part of her past she had never told anyone. It seemed like everything was out in the air now.

“Perfect.”

“This is a problem. Succubi and Incubi have a duty to bring all demons back to Devildom in case they go rogue in the human world. This parent of yours will have some answering to do.” Lucifer, recovered from his bashfulness in an effort to act like the vice-president he was, got furious about someone disrespecting the laws Diavolo had put in place to protect the humans he seemed to so dearly care for. “Dumping you on some couples doorstep will require some serious consequences.”

The whole room shuddered at the idea of what punishments Lucifer was thinking up at this moment, but luckily someone thought to turn the conversation away from that.

“You say she needs to be awoken? I know one way of doing that, but I don’t know… prepared for that she will be.” Satan smirked a side-eyed look Aviyah’s way as she tried to process all this information. She was a demon, or half of one anyway. To think, all those crazy white mom’s at her elementary school were right.

“I’d be more than happy to volunteer in any way I can.” Asmo started to cosy up to Aviyah once again, making it very clear what the one way of awakening a demon seemed to be.

“No! No, that’s fine, Asmo! B-Besides, I’m not a virgin, so we’ll have to find some other way to awaken this power if you think that’s what I have.” Beetred and edging off her chair to make some distance between the flirt and herself, she almost didn’t hear the snickering from some of the other demons in the room.

“Oh, deary me.” Asmo tittered to himself, Satan covering his mouth to try and suppress the chuckle that threatened to leave his lips. He didn’t want to make the girl more embarrassed. Mammon joined in, although much louder, just to not feel left out, and Levi blushed furiously, but he knew exactly what everyone else seemed so excited about. As usual, Beel was too distracted by the food laid out by Barbatos to care what was going on now that Aviyah was no longer crying.

“Aviyah, I’m afraid to say it’s not the act of sex that awakens a demon… It’s the, uh.” Lucifer tried to inform her, he really did, but the stutter that threatened his usually composed manner halted him from doing so.

“You didn’t cum, did you, Avi?” Diavolo’s brows frowned sincerely, but the wavering of his lips told her he too was trying not to laugh. Aviyah’s cheeks blossomed darker, the embarrassment from her first time flashing through her mind once again and her face screwed up in embarrassment. For her, this situation couldn’t possibly get any worse.

“Your Highness, if you wouldn’t tease her so much, there is another way to awaken her demon form.” Barbatos, unexpectedly, intervened, shocking everyone in the room but Aviyah. He had always had a sweet spot for the huma- well, hybrid.

“Yes, yes, Barbatos, you are right. My most sincere apologies, Avi. Lucifer, we’ll come to the House of Lamentation tonight. Prepare the Grimoire.” And with that, Diavolo stood to leave.

“And why not now? Wouldn’t it be best to do this sooner than later so she can learn to control it better?” Satan scowled, earning his own from Lucifer for being so upfront. The prince only chuckled.

“I need to do some… investigating first. You, Satan, of all people, should know what is needed for the ritual.” Satan’s brows frowned suspiciously at the prince as he made his final departure.

“What does he mean, Satan?” Aviyah leaned into the demon’s side in order to get a clear answer for the first time today and Satan’s gaze finally left the door.

“He needs your progenitor. He’s going to find your mother or father.”

#obey me!#OBEY ME #Obey Me Levi #obey me satan #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me leviathan #obey me asmo #obey me asmodeus #Obey me beelzebub #obey me beel #obey me barbatos #obey me diavolo #obey me solomon #obey me simeon #obey me fluff #obey me fanfic

35 notes · View notes