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lightsovermonaco · 4 years ago

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His Good Sweater: Chapter 12

Masterlist

Winding down from the frenzy of the last chapter... Thanks to @acollectionofficsandshit for being my bestie and beta reading! This would have never happened without her ❤

Word Count: 5.9k

Recommended song: "I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy

“Mon amour, wake up.”

Pierre’s sleep-heavy voice rouses you from the best sleep you’d had in a long time. You’d fallen asleep to the sounds of his even breathing under the soothing touch of his thumb tracing patterns on your side.

You crack your eyes open to see him silhouetted by the white light of the waning moon, his bare chest left uncovered by the blanket slung low over his hips. The sight alone has your mind instantly jumping into overdrive, fighting the need to sleep with the need to continue ogling the bare skin a foot from your face.

“I let you sleep as long as I could,” he says softly, reaching behind him for his phone. “We have to be on the M1 in about half an hour.”

“Mmmph,” you groan, snuggling back under the blanket and closer to him, chasing the warmth radiating from him. “The sun isn’t even out.”

His chuckle shakes the bed. “I figured you would say that which is why I made you breakfast and picked out your clothes. All you have to do is brush your teeth and get dressed.”

You hum appreciatively and press a kiss to his bare sternum. “Is this how you’re going out today? Because I won’t complain but you might cause a few heart attacks.” A kiss to your temple is a small reward for your comment, as well as a concession.

"Don't worry, this is reserved only for you." He stretches an arm above his head, grinning when your eyes immediately are drawn to the way the muscles ripple and pull under his skin. You stare shamelessly as he flexes a little for your benefit, the action going straight to your head.

"As it should be." You bite your lip and let your fingertips dance over his chest, memorizing the way it rises and falls so predictably with each deep breath. Against your better judgement you trail kisses up over his pectoral and spot them along his shoulder, dragging another light chuckle from him.

"My love," he warns, voice tinted with mischief, "we don't have time."

"Oh I think we do." You continue your path over his collarbone and to the hollow of his throat. Taking advantage of his biggest weakness, you flick your tongue over his prominent adam’s apple. The move has his hand engulfing your upper arm, giving you a warning squeeze.

"As wonderful as this is" -he sucks in a sharp breath when your teeth graze his neck- "if I'm late Horner will kill me."

"What's new?" You say, but draw back. The mere mention of his name made you see red and shattered the moment. "Do you really want to go back to Red Bull after how they treated you?"

"No," he admits, slipping an arm around you and tugging you up and into a sitting position, taking advantage of the momentary lapse of lust. "But if I want a shot with a top team when my contract is up, I don’t have much choice."

"Where do you see yourself going?"

Pierre studies you as you slip into the clothes he had selected for you. Nothing fancy, just an AlphaTauri branded navy and white hoodie and some light wash jeans. You don't miss the way his lips twitch upward when you notice it's his hoodie, his last name embroidered in block font on the cuff a dead giveaway even if the hoodie hadn't been ridiculously oversized on you.

Cheeky bastard.

"I think I would look good in sunshine yellow," he remarks. You make a show of looking him up and down under the pretense of imagining him in a Renault branded hoodie or their signature black race suit. Truthfully it was just another excuse to drink him in like the fine wine he was and recall how he had tasted on your tongue last night.

He would look good in any color on the grid but you don't grant him the satisfaction of pointing that out. Instead, you lean forward to toy with the waistband of the jeans he had hastily buttoned seconds earlier. "You and Daniel get along just fine." You snag him by the belt loops and yank him forward back onto the bed. "I think you should go to McLaren.”

“I’d still look good in orange.”

You wind your fingers under his waistband. “I think you’d look best wearing nothing at all, actually.”

“The time,” Pierre protests lightly when you pop open the button and undo the zipper. He groans when you yank the denim down around his thighs, finally submitting to your touch and lacing his fingers in your hair. Your lips explore the planes of his abdomen, any and all thoughts of speed abandoned on your end. "If you don't hurry up we're gonna be late."

"Maybe you'll just have to drive fast. I hear you’re good at that."

**********

"So how is it that they got your car all the way to London?"

"It's got its own private jet."

You roll your eyes and smack the hand resting on your thigh. His response is a light squeeze and a chuckle before he continues, "They've got a few spares they keep around for when drivers come to town. I can't be seen in a Mini or it would cause a scandal."

"Oh yes it would be quite tragic." His hand charts a dangerous path along your thigh. He knows exactly what he's doing as he slots a thumb between your legs and presses it tight to the apex of your thighs.

You snap your knees shut, effectively trapping his hand "Now you're just being cruel."

"Only dishing out what you did this morning," he points out and wiggles his hand free to rest on your knee instead. The message was clear: he had shaken you well enough for his liking and was perfectly content to leave you frustrated until he could get you home.

“So catch me up on what I’ve missed,” you say, determined to distract yourself from Pierre’s slight teasing. “What’s new in the life of the rising star in Formula 1?”

“Rising star,” Pierre mumbles and rolls his eyes. “Not yet, my love. Getting there, but not yet.”

“Please, you’re too modest. Last night when you fell asleep- you were out like a light as soon as your head hit the pillow, don't give me that look!” Pierre picks his jaw up off the floor and shakes his head as you continue, “I read plenty of articles that called you the next big thing, right up there with Max.”

The comparison didn't seem to sit right with him. He shifts in his seat, rolling words over on his tongue. “I’m sure you’re caught up then. I haven’t done anything really besides train and race.”

“I did notice you’ve beefed up a bit.”

“Yet another reason to thank Pyry.”

“At this point I should send him a fruit basket for his trouble.”

“Maybe you should.” Pierre grins, hand leaving your thigh for a split second to upshift. “What about you? How’s year four treating you?”

“Ugh, don’t get me started,” you groan. “My senior project is already killing me and I’ve only just started it. We have to design a building from the ground up- I mean I like architecture but I’m trying to be an engineer, not an architect. I dunno why I have to be the one to design a building! At this point it’s just a brick box.”

“Sounds challenging,” Pierre notes, flooring it when he merges onto the highway. Though the speed makes your stomach flip, you don’t miss a beat.

“My team doesn’t do much either, I’ve been doing most of it. I could rant for hours about it.”

Pierre glances at the clock, then back to you. The blue of his eyes is blocked by his signature purple tinted sunglasses, shielding them from the rising sun that casts him in a warm orange glow. “Humor me. We’ve got time.”

The hour and a half drive was by no means dull with Pierre's teasing touches and endless string of questioning along the way. He asked after every aspect of your life that had transpired in the last four months, only stopping you once in a while to interject with an opinion or anecdote. He didn't stop at your life either, even asking after Ben's relationship. You'd been happy to report that he had indeed wooed his crush and had officially asked him to be his boyfriend.

"Those secret French lessons paid off," Pierre jokes as he pulls up to the imposing glass fronted building that served as Red Bull Racing's headquarters. The sweeping curve of the entrance was flanked on either side by two-story red and yellow bulls; proof that the team's dramatics extended far past the track. Anyone approaching for the first time would have been intimidated by the sheer size of them that suggested they were ready to stomp on their competition at a moment’s notice.

“Guess it’s time.” You sigh and undo your seatbelt and fiddle with the buckle, doing your best to stall. There was no reason to be this nervous. You were no one to these people; the focus would be entirely on Pierre. You would be an afterthought, not that you minded because it made it easier to fade into the background.

Pierre picks up on your hesitation in a heartbeat. “I’ll keep them off your back,” he promises and you nod, the single sentence taking the edge off. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” You reach for the door handle but Pierre tsks and you pause.

"You know better." You bite your lip to keep back the grin fighting its way to the surface as he comes around to open your door. He offers you his hand and you gladly take it and are pleasantly surprised when he threads his fingers through yours and heads for the entrance.

The atrium serving as the lobby is breathtakingly gorgeous. You had to hand it to the interior designer; they knew what they were doing. Sleek white marble floors are accented by red and yellow leather chairs scattered in small groups throughout the grand space. A tiered circular modern interpretation of a chandelier hangs above to offer guidance to the accountants, engineers and artists that weave through the lobby on their way to their respective wings or offices.

A waist high, glass front cabinet of drivers helmets serves as the reception desk. The unmistakable scent of a fresh cup of coffee hits you as you approach and the secretary hands a steaming paper cup to someone before they scurry off, presumably to a private office if they were important enough to warrant special attention. The first rays of morning sunlight glint off the silver Red Bull logo inlaid in the black marble behind the woman at the counter, making you squint.

"Bonjour Monsieur Gasly," she says in perfect French. "Ça va?"

"Bien," he says simply and switches to English for your benefit. "Has Christian come through yet?"

"He has," the woman says, glancing sidelong at you. Whatever conclusions she draws about you are insignificant enough that she writes you off immediately, angling her body towards Pierre and resting her chin in her hand. The posturing puts her ample chest on display, nearly spilling out of her billowing blouse, but Pierre's eyes don't wander. "He's not expecting you yet. Voulez-vous un cafe?"

"I'm good." The woman may have been determined to alienate you but Pierre was having none of it. Pierre turns to you, a grin playing on his face. This was your first test as an official couple and he intended to see how you handled it. "How about you, my love? Coffee?"

The woman's eyes slip to where your hand remains clasped in his. She cocks her head so slightly you think you might be imagining it until Pierre's grip tightens, a silent encouragement. Your confidence soars. If this was how Daniel's girlfriend felt when the two of them were out, you finally understood why they didn't hide. It was a rush knowing that everyone wanted Pierre but he only wanted you. No matter how blatantly women threw themselves at him, there was no doubt in your mind that he would never give a single one of them the light of day.

It was about damn time you afforded him the same unwavering commitment as he had shown you.

"No thank you," you reply sweetly with a mocking smile directed to the woman. You lean in and drop your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You might want to fix your shirt though, it’s… slipped. I know I'd hate for that to happen to me and no one tell me, especially at work. I don't think I'd ever recover from it."

Her face immediately turns scarlet as she stands straight and folds her arms over her chest. "If I were you-"

"Let Horner know I'm here," Pierre interrupts and it's somehow the hottest thing he's ever said. His purely commanding tone leaves no room for argument.

"Of course," she replies with a sharp smile in your direction that makes your spine stiffen. "Good luck. Christian is in rare form this morning."

"Just ignore it," Pierre murmurs and sweeps his thumb over the back of your hand as he leads you across the cold marble and down a carpeted hall. "You handled that well.”

“I may have gotten a few pointers from Daniel’s lover.” Your soft smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. The short interaction had sapped most of your confidence, leaving you on uneven footing. “I would rather not have to deal with that again soon though.”

“I can handle the women easy enough when I know I’ve got you to come home to.”

The tightness in your chest eases further when the hall opens into another startlingly white space, this time packed with rows and rows of navy cubicles. But that's not where your attention is drawn- instead, your gaze is immediately snagged by the case of trophies towering high along the back wall. Cups of every shape and size shine within, each one representing a different podium for the team achieved in various years and tracks.

"There must be over a hundred," you breathe, mesmerized by the glinting silver and intricate craftsmanship. The case was easily thirty feet tall and you had to crane your neck to catch a glimpse of the ones in the top row. Each one told a story of blood, sweat and tears, each one earned by a driver who had made countless sacrifices to be where they were and finish on a podium.

"A hundred and eighty five to be exact," he counters, laughing at your amusement. "Your inner architect is screaming isn't it?"

"Only a little."

Pierre laughs outright at your white lie and tugs you along. "You can stare on the way out. I'll even show you which ones were Max's."

"Did you memorize what all his trophies look like?"

"Hey, meetings with engineers get boring. It's one of the more interesting ways to occupy your time when they are going on and on about fluid mechanics and thermodynamics- you know, stuff you understand but not me."

"Oh whatever, you enjoy those meetings and you know it."

"Only a little," he quotes.

People recognize him as you pass and some nod or give a simple greeting as they go about their morning but no one stops him to chat. The air feels a bit hostile, like no one knows what to do with him now that he's walking through the building after a nearly two year absence.

"Do you miss it?" You ask after he smiles at someone for the millionth time.

"I miss the team," he admits, "but not the management culture. My team was great- they supported me any way they could but it didn't help that Horner didn't exactly encourage them to believe in me. It's hard to crank out results when there's no one on your side."

"I'm on your side," you point out, nudging him with your hip. "You've got me forever, no takesies backsies."

"I'm grateful for it," he murmurs and gives your hand a squeeze. He hadn't let go once; not when he had to open a door or the two of you had to walk single file to let people pass.

The building was a labyrinth and if it wasn't for Pierre you'd have been lost the moment you set foot inside. He navigates the twisting halls with ease, having no need for the countless signs posted along the way.

He leads you up a set of steel stairs after what seems like ages. When he knocks on a heavy oak door, his grip on your hand turns possessive like he suspects the office’s occupant would try to rip you away from him.

“Morning.”

God, even the one word makes rage simmer in your veins. The voice precedes the man and Christian Horner swings open the door, a plastic smile splitting his face. He doesn't bother acknowledging you with a greeting, instead addressing his driver directly.

“I wasn’t expecting you to bring a guest.”

“A pretty face was needed around here,” Pierre snaps back without missing a beat. You bristle, free hand curling into a fist. If there was one person you didn’t mind teaching a lesson to, it was Horner. He had little respect for anyone he viewed as disposable- up to and including “underperforming” drivers.

Christian raises an eyebrow. “Sure. She can wait out here- you and I have terms to discuss.”

Fine, Horner wanted to play dirty? So could you. When it came to staring him down, you became fearless. He was the one person you refused to let intimidate you.

Drawing on your newly minted confidence you smile up at Pierre and silence the protest forming on his tongue with a grin. “Gimme a kiss, race winner.”

Pierre doesn’t hesitate to press his lips to yours. Cupping a hand to the back of his neck you draw him in and nip at his lower lip. The hand on your hip tightens at Christian's scoff but Pierre makes no move to break away. You linger a moment longer than necessary to drive your point home: you didn’t care what Horner had to say about you, you were here to stay and he would have to get used to it.

Pierre gives you a small, blissed out smile before dropping your hand and following Horner inside. The door clicks but doesn't shut all the way, Pierre leaving it cracked for your benefit.

Uninterested in eavesdropping on small talk, you lean on the metal railing to observe the research and development garage coming to life on the floor below. Hybrid engines in various stages of disassembly dot the space, small teams of mechanics and engineers tweaking components to reduce weight or increase horsepower. Pistons and valves are scrutinized and exchanged before being placed under stress to test their strength.

An FIA official in a red jacket wove through the garage to observe and jot notes down on a clipboard. He looks over the shoulder of an engineer pouring over formulas on a whiteboard, startling him when the official asks a question. Someone calls your name from below and you search for the origin, finally spotting the woman and waving back at her.

Management may have their qualms with Pierre but it was clear there were still some within the team that had his back. They were likely the same ones that knew he would have to leave the Red Bull umbrella to find any semblance of success. They may not have possessed the guts to stick their necks out for him when Horner had cut him but they were at least happy to see him back around headquarters.

"You sure you'll rise to the challenge?" Horner's question drags you back to the mezzanine.

"I'll take seventh. I'm only a few points away and we have plenty of races left."

He had five races to catch up to be exact. Pierre currently was comfortably ahead of the pack in ninth, Sainz was only three points ahead in eighth, and Norris ten points beyond in seventh. It would only take a DNF or two from his rivals and a few podiums to pass them up.

"Right," Horner starts. "There's a reason you've done so well this season and it's not luck. You've been racing exceptionally well and I don't want that to change."

"If there's something on your mind just get on with it." Pierre's voice is calm and collected in a way yours wouldn't be if you had been in his shoes. You've been dying to rip into Horner since the day he wrote Pierre off.

"There's been a fire in you the past few months since she has been gone-"

"Leave her out of this."

The tone sends a chill down your spine. It maintains the same level headedness that Pierre had perfected over the years and you had come to expect when he was backed against a wall, but it was laced with an unspoken threat. The intent was clear: he would walk out and abandon his chance for a seat at Red Bull if it meant protecting you.

You creep to the door to peer through the crack. Horner crosses his arms, a sly smile on his face. "You would sacrifice your chance at a championship winning seat for her? Everything you've worked so hard for, gone in a flash, because of her?"

"Without question," Pierre answers immediately. The conviction and commitment behind it nearly makes you stumble. "I'm sure there's plenty of other teams that would love to have me after the season I've had. She’s not going anywhere, so either you stop disrespecting her or I walk out."

You clench your fists, ready to burst in and demand Pierre stop being a fucking idiot. His long term plan saw him at another top team that would take care of him and nurture his skill- a long stint at Red Bull Racing was never in the cards. It wasn't an environment for everyone. Some people like Max thrived in it, letting the toxicity roll off their backs but for Pierre it was a cruel form of punishment. However, a seat at Red Bull for the 2022 season could mean the difference between an offer from Alpine and an offer from Haas when his contract was up for renewal.

The idea of seeing his number stickered to the floor in a Red Bull garage excites and intimidates you. Last time he hadn't been given the chance to prove himself. Would they still hold that against him? Knowing Christian, he probably would. On the other hand, it meant that they admitted their mistake in cutting him mid-season, whether they said it outright or not.

Pierre's redemption day was on the horizon and you couldn't wait to see the look on Horner's face when he finally won. And the longer Christian stays silent, the more potent the urge to throttle him grows.

Christian gives a slow clap. "Now there's the unwavering commitment that was missing during round one."

Your heart hammers in the dead silence as papers are shuffled. "Here's the contract. Terms are as discussed, you secure seventh in the world championship in 2021 and the second seat at Red Bull Racing is yours for the entire calendar in 2022. No demotions, substitutions, or shuffling of drivers unless medically necessary or mutually agreed upon by all affected parties."

"And the same spec car as the number one seat," Pierre insists, spine straight. "Same strategy."

Christian waves a hand. "Yes, that's in there too. Feel free to take a moment and read it over."

He does, allowing Christian time to pour a knuckle of whiskey and set the glass before Pierre. He pours himself an identical glass and waits until Pierre signs and initials all the boxes before raising it in acknowledgement.

"Congratulations. Welcome back to Red Bull- conditionally."

Pierre leaves the glass untouched and remains silent, staring his potential future team principal down. He gives the man no margin to question his abilities further, conveying all he needs to with a look that would have had you shaking at the knees. Even if you can't see his face, wrath radiates from him in waves and you wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of it when it explodes.

"Right then." Christian lowers the glass, his fake smile vanishing. "I look forward to seeing what you can do."

"Don't worry. I'll deliver."

You step back and allow him to set the mood as he exits the office and slams the door behind him. Pierre sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. "You heard all of that right?"

You nod. "You wouldn't have really walked out, right?"

"I almost did."

He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like you should know that he would choose you over all of this, that all of his dreams and everything he had sacrificed to achieve them thus far meant less to him than you did. How many times did he have to prove his unwavering commitment before you realized it was true?

Pierre laces his fingers through yours, the heat welcomed by your ice cold skin. It was as much a comfort to you as it was to him. "I just have to grab some things from Max's office and then we can head out."

His jaw is still set after his stand off with Christian and you want nothing more than to ease his mind. Publicly comforting him with a touch to his chest or a kiss to his neck was out of the question so you settle on temporary distraction.

"Hey, you know what I want to see?"

"What's that?"

"That room full of all the old chassis. You know, the one that they hold all the fancy virtual events in? I wanna see those."

"I think I should be able to get you back there." He veers down a hall and you yelp, pulled along by his momentum. His attitude brightens a little at your laugh. The grin he throws your way is your own personal sun, warming your soul.

"Hey- hold on." You pull him to a stop and lead him into an alcove. The inch of space between your chests is charged with electricity, begging to jump from one to the other.

"Can I help you?" He asks and grins down at you.

"No," you say nonchalantly. "Just wanted to be selfish for a second."

You rise up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. He melts into you, one hand coming up to cup your jaw while the other finds the small of your back. You side your tongue over his lower lip and he presses you against the door leading to who knew where and opens his mouth to you. You sigh into the kiss, arms winding around his neck and losing yourself in him.

Now that you had gotten over your anxiety, everything was so much easier. You know there's press roaming about the building and any number of them could pass by at any moment but you genuinely couldn't care less. Let them talk; you were over caring what anyone thought or said.

All that mattered was the man beneath your fingertips. You would endure a lifetime of insults if he was the one to soothe the wounds afterwards. As long as you both were happy, no one could come between you ever again.

Pierre pulls away when someone passes by and coughs quietly. "You're trouble," he murmurs, leaving an arm propped next to your head and effectively caging you in.

"And you're dangerous," you tease, tugging on his hair and exposing his throat enough to nip at it once. "Together we're the perfect pair."

He groans and leans away. "Keep that up and I might have to stay in London an extra week."

You slip out of his grasp and give him an unrestrained grin. "Don't threaten me with a good time." You spin on your heel and set off down the hall, swaying your hips a little more than necessary.

"You know where you're going?" He calls after you.

"Someone will point me in the right direction, I'm sure."

"Someone like me." He catches up to you and once again takes your hand in his. He was enjoying showing you off almost as much as you enjoyed hanging on him.

"Maybe we should head right to Max's office and hurry home, huh?"

"Maybe-"

"Pierre, there you are."

You both turn to a woman hustling up the hall after you. She’s slight and her brown curls bounce as she jogs to where the two of you pause at a bend. You glance up to Pierre to see if he's just as confused as you are.

"Hey Mary," he says cheerily. "How are you? Sorry I didn't check in with you when I got here."

"Oh it's fine- why aren't you in the Alpha samples I sent?” The woman props a fist on her hip and tips her head to the side. “I think I got your size right now that I’ve laid eyes on you. I was hoping for a shoot today since you've finally come by."

It takes you a moment to register that she's addressing you. You shoot Pierre a look and he offers you a tentative, closed off smile. "Um, what Alpha gear?"

The woman's chocolate brown eyes go wide. "The ones I've been sending to Pierre. Hoodies, dresses, jackets. All the stuff from the new line. They have been sending the samples to you, right?"

"Um, yeah I've gotten them," Pierre says, rubbing his neck. "I haven't given them to her though."

"Oh, I see!” Pink tinges Mary’s cheeks. “I must have missed a memo. I just thought that you'd want to do a shoot with her today, since we already had a quick one planned for you. After all, you talk about her all the time."

"He does?"

Mary nods. "Oh yes, we've all heard plenty about you. You're lucky to have someone so enamored with you. I just dropped off some more samples in Max's office as a little thank you for letting us steal him so often-"

"Okay, thank you Mary," Pierre says abruptly. "I'll get back to you on that."

Pierre steers you away and down the hall. "What was she talking about? Why would they want me to come by for a photo shoot?"

Pierre runs a hand through his hair and pauses outside Max's office. The Dutchman must have been away because Pierre pulls out his key and fits it in the lock. "I just- come on."

He waves you inside and you obey, letting him close the door and grant you some semblance of privacy before continuing.

"I never formally told anyone that we broke up. Most people came to their own conclusions once they didn't see you around for a while. Some people didn't get the message. Obviously Mary was one of them. I would still talk about you, I couldn't help myself. There was one shoot where Yuki and I were together and he mentioned off hand that you'd be a good brand ambassador. I tried to explain that it wouldn't work but Mary wouldn't hear it and she just kept sending me more and more samples.”

You draw a breath and interrupt his rambling. “But where-”

"I had it all in a box in my office but I struggled to concentrate with a reminder of you hanging over my head. I sent it over here to Max and that's where it's sat ever since. I used the excuse that Max was in town more often than I was and no one read too far into it."

"Why didn't you tell me?" You whisper. "I would've taken them. I'm sure you got an earful from Mary."

"Would you have?” Pierre pauses, your silence in the face of his frustration speaking volumes. “I waited four months to hear from you. Tell me that sending you thousands of dollars in unreleased merch wouldn't have made you even more hesitant to come back to me."

Not knowing what else to say, you let your gaze fall to the carpet. Sending you expensive things would have felt something like a bribe, like he was trying to influence you with fancy clothes.

Pierre shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, it’s in the past now. We can take it home today and you can wear it when I take you for dinner and Alpha will get the press they’re after. Everyone will be happy.”

He wasn’t happy. That much was plain to see. He hadn’t been able to stomach seeing something intended for you, even that minute of a reminder had been too much for him to bear. God, you had thoroughly wrecked him. You were lucky that there were still enough pieces of him left to heal.

“I didn’t realize you were hurting so bad,” you say, voice barely above a whisper as you cross the cramped space to him, stepping over piles of strewn paperwork carefully so as to not disturb whatever random order they were placed in. You don’t dare reach out to touch him as his shoulders slump, any and all forward momentum he’d gathered suddenly sapped.

“It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever gone through.”

Unable to let him suffer alone with his thoughts, you wrap your arms around his middle and let your cheek rest between his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to alienate you. I was waiting for you, too.”

“You needed space and I gave it to you.” His hand rests on your arm with a gentleness you’ve come to expect when he lays himself bare like this. “There were so many times I almost gave in to the impulse and just messaged you but I made myself wait. I didn’t want to rush it and make things worse. You always need time to think things through- I knew you would come around eventually. It didn’t make it any easier though.”

You rub soothing circles on his side as you blink back the tears that spring to your eyes. “I’m sorry I put you through that. I’m sorry I took so long and I’m sorry I made you wait. It had to have been torture-”

He turns in your embrace and cups your chin, forcing you to look up at him. The pad of his thumb sweeps across your cheek, the metal of the ring on his middle finger biting into your flushed skin. “It’s alright. You had a lot to sort through and I had to respect that.”

“We lost so much time-”

“Hey,” he says softly, ducking his head to meet your eyes. “We’re together now. If there’s one thing I’m sure of it’s that you can’t let missed opportunities control you or else you’ll never be happy.”

You nod, swiping your sleeve under your eyes. “What did they send?” you ask, nodding towards the box overflowing with tan and navy threads.

“Pull up a chair,” Pierre suggests, “there’s a lot.”

You roll over Max’s desk chair and tug on Pierre’s arm. Once he gets the picture and sits, you settle in his lap. He winds an arm around your middle, the close contact already soothing your frazzled nerves.

“That better?” he murmurs.

“Much better.”

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duskholland · 4 years ago

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The Fame Game (Part Nine) - Tom Holland

Summary ↠ Breaking up is hard. But breaking up with your fake boyfriend, with whom you’ve fallen irrevocably and painfully in love with? It’s almost impossible.

Warnings ↠ Angst, Y/N’s being stubborn but can we blame her? Cursing and crying. All the good stuff.

Word count ↠ 5.2k

A/N ↠ This part? Emotional rollercoaster and a half. We’re almost at the end of the story, though! :((( Only part ten and the epilogue to go, and I am not okay. Crazy crazy crazy. Anyway, buckle in and enjoy part nine :)

NINE: Expiration Date (Y)

It’s raining in London. Tracks of grey, miserable water stream down the dirty window, obscuring the view of the city beyond. Your fingers are cold as you hold a mug of stale tea, the liquid pale and long-past its best. You’d poured it an hour ago, intending to throw it back and pull yourself out of your stupor, but you’d failed.

Today is the end of your relationship with Tom - the expiration date, as your team likes to call it. In a move of obscene pathetic fallacy, the weather curled across London seems to emanate your innermost thoughts. It’s cloudy and grey, darkness settled across the sky. In the distance, the clouds grow blacker, and a part of you wonders if it’ll thunder later.

You feel a tear slip from one of your eyes, and the warm line traces down your cheek as you sniffle. With slow movements, you finally put down the mug, crossing your arms over your chest as you continue to stare out of the window, vacantly. You’re in your London flat, your belongings in boxes around you. With the conclusion of a final filming project comes the end of your lease, and when you leave London tonight on a plane, you leave behind your flat, your job, and your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend.

Your fake boyfriend, who sometimes acts like your real boyfriend, but has made it all too clear that he is only, only, only your fake boyfriend.

A scowl springs out across your face, and your fingers curl into fists at your sides.

You thought you’d been hurt by Tom before. For years, you’ve felt anger towards him - resentment, irritation, burning frustration. You’ve cursed him out on countless occasions, publicly denounced him, and watched on as he’s returned every move you’ve made against him with equal ferocity. At almost every given opportunity, Tom has launched blow after blow at you, but you’d taken it. You had accepted that that was just your relationship - that sometimes two people don’t get along, and sometimes they thrive off irritating the other. His insults didn’t touch you - not really, not like this. They’d riled you up and they’d made you seethe, but they were just insults - just empty, irritating insults, which you’d returned with a smile on your face. But now…

For the first time, Tom Holland has actually broken your heart.

It’s painful when you think about him, as you cast your mind back to your last day together. You’d been so excited, so hopeful, when you’d turned up at his place in LA, and as he’d laid you down and you’d held one another, you’d felt the love you have for him grow. Each time he’d kissed you, you felt your love deepen. Each pass of his hands over your skin made your heart race, your mind shake. You’d been waiting on the right time to open your mouth, say the three golden words, and then propose giving your relationship a real shot, only for Tom to jump the gun and tell you that he, in fact, loved you.

To have Tom stand opposite you and tell you that he loves you - only to immediately follow it up with a retraction - has shattered you. You can’t stop thinking about the moment that you’d let yourself believe, for one brief, shocking second, that Tom reciprocated your love - that Tom had softened out, and grown to love you, too. His words had knocked you off-guard, but fuck, if they weren’t the sweetest three words you’d ever heard. You’d been fully prepared to drop everything and jump into his arms, only for him to add--

“No… Wait, no.”

You are upset. You are so fucking angry. You are a whirlwind of tears and clenched fists and stiff jaws. The more you contemplate it, the hollower you feel. You have never known heartbreak as pronounced as this.

You hate the power that you’ve given Tom. Hate that you’d walked straight into this, eyes open. You can’t even blame it on blind infatuation, because you’d been aware at every moment how dangerous your budding feelings were, just you’d chosen to ignore the warning signals, too distracted by Tom’s easy smile and his kisses. You hate that you let him break your heart, hate that he’s emerged from this unscathed when you feel the weakest you’ve ever been.

But above all, you hate that you don’t hate him. It would be so easy to slip back into old habits, to return to that blind, festering hatred that used to roar through your veins at the mere mention of his name. You can’t return to that, and every time you try to drum up some anger towards Tom, you’re instead reminded of how nice, and funny, and sweet he can be.

You release a shaky breath. It’s your expiration date, today. All that’s left of your relationship is a visit to Tom’s house to collect your things, and a few pap photographs of you leaving his place, in pieces. There’s no doubt in your mind that the paparazzi will find it convincing: you’ve been a mess for days, your tears will be real. You’re full of apprehension and rattled nerves about seeing him again, about walking back into his house knowing it’ll be the last time and having to act like he hasn’t reached into your chest and ripped out your heart.

You are an actor, to your core, but your role within this relationship has been your hardest performance to date - and you have the sinking suspicion that not even you can pull off the denouement.

The paparazzi are already outside Tom’s as you walk down his front path, raindrops bouncing off your jacket. The flashes from their cameras illuminate the garden, and your eyes hurt as the light glints off the collection of small garden gnomes Harrison and Tom keep in front of their house. You’re quick to drum your knuckles on the front door, tugging on the chords of your hood and trying to shy away from the yelling journalists.

After what feels an eternity, the door is opened. Tom stares out at you, eyes widening as he takes in the pouring rain.

“Shit, it’s wet today, isn’t it?” He mutters, quickly moving aside. You hurry into the house, sighing contentedly as the warmth envelops you. You kick off your shoes, but your fingers are frozen solid and you can’t quite tug the zip of your coat. “Do you need help?”

You glance up, seeing Tom eyeing your shivering fingers as you try and fail to release the slippery zip. “Yeah,” you mutter, quickly glancing away. It’s not your intention to stay long, but you’re not so inconsiderate that you’d traipse through Tom’s entire house in a dripping jacket.

You stay very still as Tom steps forward, one of his hands holding the bottom of your jacket as the other goes up to the zip. His tongue slips out between his teeth, and a deep crease appears between his eyebrows as he grasps the zip and carefully tugs it down. A smile splits over his face, and you sigh as the coat releases.

“There you go.” Tom doesn’t stop there, though. He goes so far as to help you wiggle out of the jacket, and even hangs it up on the peg for you. The same peg you’d used when you’d stayed with him a few months ago. Your peg. “So.” Tom rocks back on his feet, looking at you through narrowed eyes. “Why haven’t you been answering my texts?”

You clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest. “What?”

“Y/N.” Tom steps a little closer, his eyes wide with hurt. “My calls, too. I really needed to talk to you.”

“Sorry,” you fib. You’re not sorry, not even one bit. Every time you’d watched your phone go through to answerphone, you’d felt a little stronger. “I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Oh, you know. Stuff.”

Tom frowns at you. “Well, I needed to talk to you.”

“Yeah, you said that.” You clear your throat, shaking out your arms as you try to lighten the air between you. You hadn’t meant to come into your last encounter with Tom with so much hostility on your shoulders, but being so close to him again makes your chest ache. “Sorry,” you mutter. “What did you want to talk about?”

Tom nods his head. “Well, it’s… It’s complicated.” Now he’s hesitant, with reluctance clinging to his features. You feel irritation stir inside as you watch him fluster. All you want to do is get this over and done with, so you can leave his house before you start crying again. You don’t want to drag this out.

“Well, can we talk about it as I pack my things?” You ask, your voice clipping a little at the edges.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” Tom moves out of the way, letting you into the main body of the house. “What do they want us to do, again?”

You bite your lip as you see the photograph that hangs from the wall in the hallway. It’s new, and it shows you, Harrison and Tom, laying out together on one of their sofas. You remember the night well: Harry had taken the picture, teased Tom for the way he’d got you wrapped up in his arms and refused to let go for the duration of the scary film you were all watching. On your other side is Harrison, glaring at you and Tom, mock outrage on his face. It was a good night - near the end of your trip to London, back when things were better.

“Did they send you a box?” You say, voice vacant. You can’t stop looking at the photo, at the way Tom has his face buried in your neck. You look so happy. “They want me to put all my stuff in a box. Apparently, paps just need to see me leaving with all of my things, and then they’ll get the picture.”

“Pretty simple, then?” Tom drops down to his knees, beginning to rummage in the cupboard under the stairs until he procures a big red box. “This is the one they sent.” He passes it up to you. “Will that be big enough?”

“Yeah. I only have a few things here, I think.”

“Cool. Do you want to start upstairs?”

“Why not.”

You feel awkward as you slowly climb the staircase. The air between you is unsettled, and you can tell Tom’s hurt that you’re clearly less than enthused to be here. Part of you wants to soothe him, but the other part wants to run, run, run.

“Harrison not here?” You ask as you walk past his empty bedroom. You enter their spare room, which you’d been crashing in back when you’d stayed, and quickly start pulling out the odd book and bottle you’d left. Management had instructed you to leave a few things back when you’d left, and now you understand why.

“Nah, Liverpool,” Tom says. “It’s just me.” He sits on the edge of the bed, watching as you quickly pile everything into your box. “Look, Y/N, can we please talk?”

“I’m listening.”

“No, no.” Tom stands up, and you freeze as he reaches out for your arm. The second his warm fingers touch your skin, a lump comes to your throat. “I need to- we need to talk.” You stay completely still, closing your eyes as you feel him slide his hand up your arm. His palm rests on your shoulder, weighted and familiar, and the contact makes your heart pang.

“What do you want to talk about, Tom?” You ask, voice hoarse. You keep your eyes shut. The scent of his cologne is so familiar it brings back the tightness in your chest. You aren’t sure if you’re so upset because this is the last time you’ll be together, or if it has more to do with the fact that you can’t look at Tom without being reminded that he doesn’t love you.

“Come and sit down. I can make tea.”

You suck in a deep breath. “You know that I’m walking out of your house in ten minutes and probably never coming back again, yeah?” You mutter. “What’s so important that it deserves a cup of tea?”

Tom only chuckles, not seeming to mind the bitterness of your voice. “I’ll tell you. Over tea.” He squeezes your shoulder, and you finally open your eyes. Your vision swims with tears, but if he notices it, he doesn’t comment on it. “You can pack your stuff up here, and I’ll meet you in the living room. Okay?”

You nod. “Alright.”

You try to delay your conversation for as long as possible, which takes you on a short trip into Tom’s bedroom. In your defence, you don’t mean to snoop - you did, in fact, leave your favourite book on his desk - but you do also take the opportunity to have a little look around.

On Tom’s windowsill is a line of very dead plants, their leaves shrivelled and broken. You roll your eyes as you peer into the empty watering can, chuckling softly. Typical. On his desk is a pile of scripts, dog-eared and stained with the round marks of spilt tea, and crumpled clothes hang everywhere, shoved over various armrests and laying in heaps on the floor. Tom’s entire room is organised chaos.

What catches your eye, though, is the large shelf hammered into the wall. You’ve been in Tom’s room before, hell, you’d spent your last night in London in his bed, but you’d never taken the time to look up and examine this shelf. Settled in the middle of it, gathering dust, is Tom’s BAFTA. You sigh, and instinctively, you reach up and take it.

It’s heavy in your hands. You’ve felt it before, but you’d forgotten the weight of the blue glass trophy. When you’d last touched it, it’d been on the night of the show, and Tom had thrust it into your hands mockingly, making some flippant comment about it being a mark of his success. You’d immediately tossed it back at him, almost dropping it in the process, and shut him down with a snide remark.

Now, you run your thumbs over the award. The curves are smooth beneath your fingertips. You blink a few times, and two tears splash out onto the thing. As you rub them away, you take a deep, shuddering breath.

Pull yourself together, Y/N.

You swallow, and when you release a deep exhalation, you feel steadier. The award goes back to the shelf, and you pick up your box. Just ten more minutes. One conversation, one cup of tea, and ten more minutes. Then you can leave him behind.

How much can change in ten minutes, anyway?

There’s something melancholic about the way you find yourself sitting on Tom’s sofa, facing him again. You’re in the same position that you were in back when you’d customised your shoes together, before everything had gone to shit: you, leaning up against one armrest, Tom against the other, both of you with your legs outstretched and meeting in the middle. Tessa has staked her claim sitting on your feet, and as you sip nervously at your tea, you keep your eyes on her.

“So.” Tom’s fidgeting. If he’s not drumming his fingers over the ceramic of his mug, he’s picking at the strap of his watch. “I need to talk to you.”

You wince a smile. “Yeah, you keep saying that.” You take a sip of your tea. It’s still hot, and it burns the tip of your tongue, but part of you wants to down the whole thing just so you can leave. Being so close to him makes your chest sting.

Tom takes a deep breath. “I said something really stupid the last time we were together. I was… I was just going to leave it, but then I realised that doing that would be even more stupid,” he starts. Immediately, you feel yourself bristle. You can’t have this conversation again.

“We don’t need to talk about it, Tom,” you mutter. “What’s the point? I’m leaving soon.”

“Which is exactly why we need to talk about it, love.” Tom’s eyes are wide, a hint of desperation swirling in them. He sets his tea down on the coffee table and sits up straighter. “I didn’t mean it.”

You sigh, rubbing at your forehead as you feel another stab of pain in your chest. He’s really twisting the knife, now.

“I know,” you remind him. “You’ve already told me that you didn’t mean it.”

“No, no.” Tom shakes his head, running a hand through his curls. “No.” He’s visibly anxious, but you’re too perplexed to consider offering him any comfort. “I mean… I said I didn’t love you. Well, I said I loved you, and then I took it back.”

You release a sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan, and it brings on a fresh set of tears. “Yes, I remember, Tom.”

“Well, I was wrong.”

Very slowly, you look up at him. You put down the tea and bring your knees to your chest, staring at him through hard eyes.

“What?” You say, voice dull.

“I was wrong. I shouldn’t have taken it back.” “Tom.” You’re exasperated and confused. “What are you trying to say?”

“I love you, Y/N. I’m in love with you.”

Your eyebrows pull together. “What?”

“I love you.” Tom’s lips quirk into a soft, warm smile. “And- And I know you probably don’t feel the same way, and you probably don’t want to hear it, but I had to tell you before you leave. You have to know how I actually feel.” He sits forward, and his foot nudges your knee. “I love you. I’m sorry for being a dick, I just… I panicked, I guess.”

Your brain feels like it’s running slow, wading miles behind the rest of you. You’ve spent so many days coming to terms with the fact that Tom doesn’t love you that the evidence for the contrary isn’t sinking in.

“What- but you said that you didn’t love me?” You puzzle.

“I was wrong.”

You look at him. You look at him long and hard. Your eyes dissect the soft smile on Tom’s lips, the eagerness in his eyes, and the blush on his cheeks.

You don’t believe him.

“How can you get something like that wrong?” You ask him, frazzled. “Tom, I- I don’t know if I can trust anything that you say.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “So you want it to be true?”

“What? Shut up, this isn’t about me.” You have a lump in your throat. “Tom, this is- this is about you, not knowing how you feel.”

“But I do know how I feel. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you-”

“Stop.”

You can’t take it. With every repetition, it feels like Tom’s rubbing it in your face.

“Y/N?”

You stand up from the sofa, displacing Tessa who whimpers in response.

“You’re so cruel, Tom.”

Tom scrambles to his feet too, hopping as he regains his balance. He stands in front of you. “What? What do you mean?” His eyes are wide with hurt. “I’m being honest, Y/N. How is it cruel to love you?”

Tears form in your eyes.

“You don’t get to take it back. You… First, you said that you loved me. Do you… Do you know how happy that made me?” You screw your hands into fists, voice hoarse. “I thought, for a second, that you loved me. I really, really did. I thought that we could end this stupid thing and just be happy. But then, you turn around, and you take it back. You’re not allowed to take back a declaration of love, Tom. Do you know how- how crushing that was?”

“-But-”

“No, I’m talking.” The end of your nose tingles, and you reach up to brush the wetness from your cheeks. “You… You broke my heart, Tom. Because I-” You break off, and you meet his eyes. You speak directly to him. You finally bare your soul. “I love you, Tom. I fell in love with you, and so for you to turn around and take it back-” You break off, waving a hand through the air. “It broke my heart.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is raw, and you watch as Tom rubs at his eyes. “I didn’t know, Y/N.”

“How am I supposed to believe you?” You look at the floor, vision blurry. “How am I supposed to believe that you aren’t going to turn around in two minutes and take it back again?” You rub at your arms. “Why do you get all of the power?”

Tom steps closer, but you just move away. “Y/N, please. I don’t want to hurt you. I would never, ever want to hurt you. I was confused, but I know now more than ever how I feel about you.”

“But you have hurt me, Tom,” you say, finally looking back at him. “Our entire relationship has been us hurting each other. Why should it be any different now?”

Tom clasps his hands together, his cheeks red and ruddy. “We both know it’s different now.”

“Is it?” You release a dim laugh. “Because I feel, just now, exactly as horrible as I used to feel when we’d argue, Tom. All we’ve ever done is hurt.”

“That’s the past.” Tom’s voice is picking up now, growing in strength. When he looks at you, you see his jaw flexing. “I’m sorry for the ways I’ve acted, Y/N, but I can’t change it now. All I can tell you is that you’ll be making a bad decision if you walk out of the door.”

“I have to.” It’s too much to process - too much to think about when Tom’s looking at you so desperately. This morning you’d woken up expecting an awkward visit and then a plane ride far, far away from him. This revelation upends all of that.

“No, you don’t.” Finally, you let Tom take your hands. He runs his thumbs over the back of your palms and you whimper. “Stay. Stay here with me. Fuck PR, fuck the paps. We can be together. We can love each other.” He smiles again, softly. “Let me love you. Please.”

It’s very tempting. As Tom holds your hands tightly and stares into your eyes, you want so desperately to cave. You want to throw yourself into his arms and tell him that you love him, that yes, yes, of course you’ll stay with him. But you think back to all the tears that you’ve shed, and you look at his face, and you’re reminded of the night at the BAFTAs when he’d thrust his polished trophy into your face and bragged about it. You think about all of the times he’s made moves against you and tried to trip you up. You think about your last day together, and how easily he’d retracted his statement.

How can he stand here in front of you, and ask you to forget about all of that so easily?

“I can’t.”

You step away from Tom and instead grab your big red box. You walk quickly into the hallway, your eyes full of hot tears. He follows.

“Yes, you can.”

You sit on the stairs and start lacing up your shoes, staring at Tom angrily.

“I can’t.” Your fingers shake as you tie your laces. “I have a flight. I have a life in LA that I need to get back to. This was never part of the plan, Tom. You’re my fake boyfriend. You aren’t supposed to be my real boyfriend.”

“But you love me.” Tom’s blocking your way, his biceps bulging from his black t-shirt as he stands in front of you desperately. “You told me. You said that you love me, Y/N, and I’m telling you that I love you too.”

“Love isn’t always enough, Tom.” It hurts to look at him, to think about how easily and foolishly he’s handled your heart. “Let me go.”

“Love can be enough.” It’s his final attempt; you can see it in his eyes. “Don’t let us end like this, Y/N. Please.” He takes your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips. His mouth moves over your skin, dropping kisses to your cold skin.

You feel trapped. You know the car is waiting outside, and it’s all come on too fast, too soon.

“Tom,” you say. You pull your hand from his grasp. “Let me go.”

Tom steps aside. He finally slumps against the wall, pressing his head into his hands. “Is this what you really want?” His voice is raw, broken, and his eyes are red.

You tug your soaking jacket from the peg on the wall as you shrug haplessly. “You can’t drop these feelings on me ten minutes before I’m out the door and expect me to change my life for you.” You look at him. “It isn’t fair.”

“Fine.” Tom stands up straighter. “You should take off your hoodie, then. It’s mine. Wouldn’t be the best impression of the paparazzi to be seen wearing my clothes, would it?”

You drop your jacket to the floor and start shuffling out of the pink hoodie. It’s an oversized fit, and it comes off easily, but you chuckle bitterly. Tom’s taken everything from you - your heart, your sanity - even the very clothes from your back. What more could he possibly want to take?

“There.” You shove it into his hands and angrily pull on your coat. The sleeves are cold and damp against your skin, making you shiver. “Happy now?”

Tom looks down at the jumper. “No,” he says, voice soft. His eyes are round again, widening further as you reach for the front door. “Y/N, please.”

Your fingers linger on the doorknob, cold to touch. You hesitate. When you glance back at Tom, your resolve crumbles. As frustrated and bemused as you are, you love him. You love him, and he’s your best friend, and you’re leaving him.

“Tom,” you whimper. You step away from the door, dodging the box, and fold into his arms, crying with your face on his shoulder. Tom’s arms wrap around your back and he pulls you in tightly. “I’m sorry.” You aren’t sure what you’re apologising for - your departure, your broken heart, your tears staining his shirt. You just know you are so overcome with every emotion that it’s overflowing now, leaving your mouth in ugly sobs.

“Shh.” Tom rolls a hand over your back, patting in large circles. Your jacket crinkles at the action, and you think you can feel his chest shake. “It’s okay.”

You stay in his arms, your face buried in his neck until you stop crying. Even then, you feel clogged up and weakened. He’s so warm - his embrace strong, and comfortable. You feel protected, and when you step back, you feel your heart break again.

“I’m sorry, Tom.” You wipe at your eyes and pick up the red box. Tom’s face falls in response. “I just… I need time. I’m not- I’m not saying that we can never be together, I just… I can’t stay just now. It’s too fresh, I don’t...”

“It’s okay.” Tom steps forward. One of his hands goes to the doorknob, the other rests on your shoulder. He’s near to you - so near that you can see the flecks of pain in his eyes and the freckles on his face. His gaze flickers down to your lips. “I can wait.”

You lean in and kiss him, softly. His lips taste of salty peppermint.

“I… I’ll see you later.” You want to say it, want to tell him so desperately that you love him, but the words choke in the back of your throat.

Tom just smiles, the action not stretching to his eyes. He tilts his head towards the door. “Are you ready?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Tom looks at the box in your hands and reaches up. He tugs up the hood of your jacket and tucks your hair into it carefully. “Safe flight, darling.”

“Thank you.”

He opens the door and steps aside, and then you’re on your own.

London Heathrow Terminal 5 is very empty. You’re sitting alone in the back corner of the waiting room, hood drawn around your face, sunglasses resting heavily over your nose. You haven’t been able to stop shaking since you left Tom’s house. Feeling numb through bag drop, security, and duty-free, it’s a miracle you’ve made it to your gate on time.

You close your eyes, and you see him. You open your eyes, and you expect to see him. He’s everywhere.

Is this what you really want..?

It plays on loop, lilted in his voice. Is this what you really want? To be sat alone, crying in Heathrow airport, when Tom is waiting back at home, finally willing to take you into his arms?

You sniff as you wipe at your eyes, furiously trying to stem the flow of tears. It had all happened so quickly; it felt almost unfair.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you’re grateful for the distraction.

Tom <3: Have a safe flight. I’m sorry for being such a dick. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I love you. I love you and I’ll wait for you. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to figure it out. I love you. Xxxxxxxxxx

You put the phone down, sucking in a deep breath. Your eyes fall to your feet. You notice, for the first time, that you’re wearing your special personalised Converse.

With shaking hands, you pull off your sunglasses and stare at your feet. The ink has run a little, obscured by the pouring London rain, but you can still make out some of the shapes Tom had drawn over them, all those weeks ago. A love heart, a flower, a couple holding hands. The lump in your throat grows bigger.

Is this what you really want..?

“Now boarding, Flight BA0269, London Heathrow to LAX. We now invite our platinum club to board.”

You sigh. You stand up and pull your backpack over your shoulders. You look back at your feet.

The love heart is wobbly and uneven, and you remember the look of concentration on Tom’s face as he’d tried his best to doodle over your shoes. The room had been so warm, back then. Just the two of you, together, finding comfort in one another’s company. It’d been simple, and you can remember looking up at him and feeling warmth for him in your heart.

Is this what you really want..?

No.

Your relationship has felt like a series of rash decisions lately, and you aren’t about to make the final, irreversible choice of leaving London. You can’t leave - not now, with the path finally clear. You can’t leave Tom, who’s finally told you how he feels. He’s messy, and complicated, and being around him makes you feel like your heart is on fire, but you love him. You love him, and maybe he’s right - maybe love is enough.

You know that you have come too far to throw it all away without giving him a chance.

You’ve never been a fan of bold, romantic gestures, but as they call your gate again, you turn off your phone and you turn around. You turn around, and you run. You run back to him.

↠ next part

#sob #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland #tom holland series #crying on main time #y/n #y/n use #self insert #self-insert #tfg #ahhhhHHHHH screaming truly #what am i gonna do with my fridays when im finished with this series!!#:((( anyways #please let me know what you're thinking :)))#almost didn't include the final scene in this part but :)) i thought it deserved to make the final cut

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luminnara · 4 years ago

Text

The Dismemberment Song | BOP Victor Zsasz x Reader | 18+

Fandom: Birds of Prey

Words: 3,791

Summary: Zsasz takes a liking to one of the burlesque dancers at Roman’s club.

PART ONE | PART TWO |

WARNINGS: graphic blood/gore/violence, reader may or may not torture and murder a guy, alcohol, all that good Gotham stuff, reader is kinda fucked up

Seriously, don’t read this if you don’t like blood

Based on The Dismemberment Song by Blue Kid!

This is written as a kinda vague fem!reader, but if there’s interest I can always write alternate versions for different genders, more specific body/personality types, or whatever else might tickle your fancy! Just hit up my ask box!

Requests are open!! Pls, I really wanna write more Zsasz or Zsaszmask x reader, gimme ideas!

The Black Mask was a club that boasted only the best of the best. Top shelf booze, luxurious furnishings, and entertainers that Gotham’s other club owners wished they could get their hands on all came together to form the East End’s trendiest spot. You were lucky enough to be one of those very entertainers, and you had been performing onstage at Roman’s club ever since one of his goons saw you dancing at another spot across town. Roman Sionis had bought you easily, promising a good nightly wage and all the free drinks you could stomach, and a few years later, you were still enjoying the nice gig at the Black Mask.

Most nights were the same; you showed up around seven, hung around in the dressing room with the others while you all got ready, and enjoyed a drink or two before your first number. You were always in the chorus, not that you really minded--Roman paid you more than enough to keep you happy, even though you knew the stars got more. Girls who did solo numbers, especially if they could sing, those were Mr. Sionis’s favorites. You never really expected to achieve that kind of status, not when people like Dinah Lance were around and holding his attention, so when Roman pulled you aside one night to tell you that he wanted to give you the chance to do your own routine, you nearly dropped your drink.

“Full creative control,” he said, a hand resting at the small of your back as you gaped at him.

“I--what?” you managed to choke out. “I-I mean, thank you, Mr. Sionis, really--”

“Please,” he chuckled. “Call me Roman.”

“Thank you, Roman,” you smiled, swallowing down your fear. “I won’t disappoint you, I swear.”

“I know you won’t, doll.” he motioned for someone to bring him a drink. “Full creative control, like I said. I want to see what’s swirling around in that pretty mind of yours. Put some heart into it for me, k doll?”

You nodded. “You got it, boss.”

He grinned, hugging you to his side and pressing a kiss against your temple like he did with all the girls he liked. “Looking forward to it, beautiful.”

He let you go, turning to leave, and Zsasz slunk after him, but not before casting you an almost annoyed look.

“Don’t disappoint,” he teased, whistling low before he followed his boss.

You gulped. You were sure he wouldn’t mind peeling your face off, but you rather preferred staying alive.

“I won’t!” you called after him bravely.

He glanced at you over his shoulder, his eyes practically boring into you as if were sizing you up. He thought you were just some prissy little girl, didn’t he? Just like Roman, just like everybody else. But you would show them. They wanted to see what kind of shit really ate at your brain? Oh, you’d give them a nice little glimpse.

And so, only a couple shorts weeks later, here you were, getting ready in the dressing room like usual, only you were far more nervous than you had been for any other shift. You had busted your ass getting everything ready, even taking a few nights off to work twice as hard on what you hoped would be a good debut. You had given the band their sheet music, you had learned your lyrics inside and out (because you were absolutely determined to go that extra mile for Roman Sionis and show him that not only could you prance around onstage, but you could sing, too), and you had spent hours upon hours hand-decorating an old corset and lingerie set you had sitting around. Roman wanted this to come from the heart, he wanted a passion project, and you were gonna give it to him.

You just had to pray that he was in the right mood to enjoy it.

“Think you’re good to go, my love,” the house mom said as she finished with your hair.

You stared at yourself in the mirror. So far, so good...your hair was in big barrel curls, still warm to the touch as your house mom gave it a couple more passes with the hairspray for good measure.

“You sure I don’t need--”

“You’re gonna knock ‘em dead,” she interrupted, retreating to her usual chair.

You kept staring at your reflection. “Do you think it’s too much? I mean...”

She laughed loudly. “Hon, this is Gotham. There’s no such thing as too much.”

Glancing down at your outfit, you weren’t so sure. “But...”

“But nothing. Now go on, go show Roman why he stays in business.”

You stood on shaky legs, nodding to her as you made your way towards the door. “R-right.”

“Break a leg,” she called after you.

All you could do was nod. You knew what you were doing. You had practiced for hours every day to get ready for this. With a deep breath, you made your way down the hall leading to stage, shaking your hands out as you stood in the wings. You could do this. You were ready.

As soon as your stage name was announced, you stepped out, ruby encrusted heels clicking against the wooden floorboards. The lights were harsh, the crowd quiet as you came out to face them. The stage was set for you, a few props already waiting for you as you stood there, ready for the music to start.

Then, the band began playing, and you sprang into action.

“Hold still, my sweet. I’m tryin to measure the space between your molar and your jaw...” You sang, lunging forward to grab the medical-grade calipers sitting in a metal bucket for you. You trailed them down over your victim’s jaw, smiling as you did so. “...This caliper, no cause for fear. No it...it doesn’t hurt, it only helps me measure how much skin you have...”

Across the club, Zsasz looked up. He was standing near Roman, his boss sitting in a booth while he chatted with some business associates. He was far more interested in you than their conversation, his dark eyes tracking you as you moved across the stage. He was absolutely enthralled by your outfit, your tightly-laced corset covered in blood red rhinestones that glimmered under the stage lights, your matching bra and thong shining just as brightly. You looked like you were covered in blood, the gems catching his eye in a way he hadn’t expected.

“--and the topmost layer of fat, but I won’t make an incision till you’re nice and numb...” There was an operating table on the stage, where one of Roman’s lowest-ranking goons was tied down. If Zsasz remembered correctly, this guy had fucked up pretty monumentally recently, so seeing him strapped down and struggling brought a grin to his face.

You ran over to the man, the crowd laughing as you leaned across him. “...Oh, and laughing gas can be so much fun, please don’t doubt my decision...”

The scene you had set was both comedic and sexual. In all honesty, Zsasz hadn’t expected you to do anything like this; you were a chorus girl, someone he had thought would go for something overdone and classic. Maybe some old school stupid, annoying, Singin In The Rain type shit, yet there you were, dressed in an outfit that was obviously meant to emulate dripping blood while you flitted around a man on a gurney.

Zsasz couldn’t look away.

“This’ll be ooh, this’ll be ahh, this’ll be absolutely whee!” you squealed, teasingly pressing your sawblade to the goon’s torso. “This’ll be nice, this’ll be neat and bring you closer to me...”

You grabbed the goon as he struggled against his restraints, holding him down. Zsasz was sure the man was in on your little number, and he thought it was cute; you were pretending to be some sort of killer, maybe trying to appeal to Roman’s face peely urges. Maybe you were trying to make the boss happy by scaring his lackey like this.

“So don’t you squirm, don't you fret, I'm not gonna hurt you...yet.” You grinned, leaning down before you shoved the man’s face to the side, letting him go as you ran back across the stage. “I just feel the need to be gettin’ a little of you, a lot of blood lettin’, I know the sensation you’re probably dreading...”

You pranced back to the gurney, moving with that little extra theatrical oomph that made everyone think you were just playing. You smiled as they clapped and laughed loudly. They would figure it out soon enough.

“Cutting you up will be so refreshing for me...” you cooed, discarding the calipers in favor of a scalpel. You traced it down the goon’s bare chest, a little line of blood following the blade as it pierced his flesh.

He let out a scream, just as you hoped he would, and you gave his little table a shove, sending it wheeling a short distance away.

“Now don’t you cry,” You sang, “And don’t call Miriam, she’s my alibi...oh let me check your toes out!” You picked up a set of pliers, taking hold of his big toe. “Aren’t your toenails cute?” you grabbed one and pulled, the goon screaming as you removed the nail, leaving a bloody pulp behind. “...and red is such a lovely color on you!” you leaned down in his face, grabbing the opposite foot’s big toenail and yanking. “...But you won’t be needing those!”

Roman began clapping, giving a loud “Whoo!” as he watched you. He had no idea that when you had asked him for the name of his least favorite henchman, this would be the reason. Now, watching the man suffer onstage in front of everyone while you were dancing around him in six inch heels and a scandalously skimpy outfit, Sionis was more than entertained. He was impressed, absolutely astounding by the cruelty his little burlesque dancer held inside of her. He couldn’t have hoped for more.

“When you’ve got no knees!” you sang, dropping your weapons in favorite of a crowbar. “...Or shins, or pinky fingers, or arteries....”

You brought your weapon down on each of the man’s legs, somehow still managing to poise yourself perfectly as you did so. You gave him a few good whacks, then dropped the bar, leaning down to pick a knife up out of the bucket and run it over his hands teasingly.

“...so hold still while I remove them!” you trilled.

The man tried to sit up, struggling against his restraints, but you shoved him back down with a sweet smile.

“...Oh, and don’t fight back,” you sang, hopping up to sit next to him. “I think you’ll find you’re missing the point, with that.”

Meanwhile, Victor Zsasz was grinning, showing off his gold teeth while he watched you. He kept a close eye on your hips as they swayed, his trained eyes following your ass as it moved across the stage. Were you really carving a man up right then and there? He wanted it to be true. He wanted to smell the overwhelming tang of blood as you plunged a knife into your victim. But he was too far away, and so he had to settle for watching instead.

Your victim tried to scream, and you shoved his head to the side playfully.

“That’s enough outta you!” you sang, holding his jaw tightly.

As you repeated your chorus, your knife returned to the man’s flesh and he grunted in pain, pleading to an audience that didn’t care about him. The Black Mask was a fucked up place for fucked up people, no matter how trendy it was, and nobody in the audience was going to protest when someone was torn apart onstage. Besides, Roman Sionis was far too powerful for the GCPD to go after, and as you heard him laughing loudly in the audience, you had a pretty good feeling that he wasn’t going to send anyone after you for carving somebody up in a way that only you could.

You kept going, peeling your underbust corset off with the same grace and dexterity that Zsasz peeled faces with. As you stood in only your bra, thong, garters and stockings, you felt exhilarated, powerful, as if you had been born to cur people up in front of an audience.

It’s not like this was your first time chopping a body up, anyways; there was a reason you had to move to Gotham and get a new gig, after all.

Zsasz watched you. In fact, his eyes were glued to you, even when Roman walked away to chat with a few mob bosses in a nearby booth. Were you seriously killing this man right in front of everyone? Victor didn’t necessarily care for all the theatrics, but he could appreciate how seriously you took you took your craft, and he had to admit, he was surprised that this was what you had come up with when Roman told you to give him something good.

“‘Cause I’m all out of hurt, you’ve used up all I’ve got,” you taunted, sneering down at your victim as you brought your saw down on his leg. “So I’m chopping you up and still coming up squat! If I want it to bleed, I’ll just roll up my sleeve and saw and saw and saw...”

The blade cut back and forth, and Zsasz’s eyes followed it. Blood was spurting up, drenching your arms as if you were wearing red opera gloves.

“And saw, and saw, and saw, and saw....”

“Zsasz, can you believe this?” Roman asked, leaning towards him.

“No, boss,” Zsasz said with a little grin, shaking his head.

“She’s good. We may have to give her a new job...”

You paused, giving your victim a break as you tossed the saw back into the bucket, drops of blood spattering across the stage as you pulled out a large butcher knife. Before it could touch Roman’s henchman, you used it to flick open the clasp on your bra, tossing the thin little piece of lingerie out into the crowd. You didn’t really care where it went; you were too busy enjoying yourself.

“This’ll be ooh, this’ll be ahh, this’ll be absolutely whee,” you purred, trailing the blade down the side of the man’s face. “This’ll be nice, this’ll be neat and bring you closer to me...”

“So don’t you squirm, don’t you fret, I’m not gonna hurt you, oh no, no, no, not...yet.” you plunged your blade into his chest, between two of his ribs, not close enough to knick his heart but definitely deep enough to cause him immense pain despite all the adrenaline that was sure to be running through his system now.

You pulled the knife back out, blood dripping off the metal blade as you held it tightly and pranced back across the stage. “I just feel the need to be gettin’ a little of you, a lot of bloodletting, I know the sensation you’re probably dreading but there’s one thing you’re forgetting...”

Turning back to him, you brought the blade to his throat, and in the crowd, Zsasz’s eyes lit up. He was delighted. He was enthralled. His pants were getting a little tight, but whatever. The rest of the audience was gazing up at you with wonder, disgust, amusement...but Zsasz was absolutely admiring the way you so confidently played with your victim. The theatrics were starting to grow on him, he decided, and he wanted nothing more than to go right up there and lick all that blood off your face.

“There’s nothing like the thrill of a shredding,” you sang, almost snarling, “but this is no orthodox beheading...”

You destroyed the man on the gurney, carving through him, drenching yourself in blood in an almost comical way.

“Cutting you up,” you sang as you made an absolute mess. “Cutting you up...”

“Cutting you up is gonna be....” you finally stepped back, catching your breath as the song slowed. “...so refreshing for me.”

As your routine finished, you took a little bow, still holding the knife as you crossed your ankles and bent at the waist in a delightfully fancy gesture. The man on the gurney was very much dead, blood dripping down onto the stage, and the audience was still eating up every second of it. You could hear Roman cheering, and as you spotted him standing there amidst the crowd with Zsasz at his side, you blew them both a little kiss.

“How about that?” you heard Roman’s voice boom above the clapping as you strode offstage. “I would call for an encore, but unfortunately, I think we’d need a new victim....”

Your head was still abuzz with the rush of killing, and you walked back to the dressing room in a daze. You were vaguely aware of Dinah Lance wrinkling her nose as you passed her, but you didn’t pay her any mind. Absolutely nothing could kill your good mood now.

“Well?” the house mom asked as you made your way to your mirror. “Sounds like it went well, judging by those cheers...”

You smiled and hummed to yourself, nodding as you reached for something to clean your face with. You were going to need an entire shower to get all this blood off yourself.

“Told you.” the house mom snorted a laugh.

“He loved it,” you grinned.

She shook her head in amusement. “You are one fucked up girl, I’ll tell you that much.”

“That’s showbiz, baby,” you joked, raising a towel to start working at wiping your face.

“Oh, pussycat?” a singsong voice made you freeze.

You could see Zsasz in the mirror.

He was leaning in the doorway, smirking as he watched you. “Boss wants to talk.”

You paled. Had you fucked up after all? Did Roman get his shits and giggles and now planned on having Zsasz peel your face off? Sionis was infamous for his fickle moods. You’d watched him have plenty of people dragged off into back rooms just for speaking at the wrong time, and you had just done way worse than interrupt him.

You gawked at Zsasz, still staring at his reflection. What were you supposed to do? Run? He was blocking the only door, and there was no way you’d be able to get past him. You had no choice but to follow him to Roman.

“O-Okay,” you managed to stammer out, finally turning towards him. “Lead the way.”

“Might want this.” he held up the bra you had tossed, twirling the strap around his finger while he gave you a smile that showed off his gold teeth.

“Give me that!” you snapped, rushing towards him.

“Ah.” he held it above his head, leering down at you. “Think I like this view more...”

“Zsasz!” you protested, scrambling against his chest and practically trying to claw your way up him to get your lingerie.

He froze. He finally smelled the metallic tang of all that blood covering you, and coupled with the feeling of your tits against his chest...oh, he was so fucked.

When he dropped the bra, you grabbed it from him, tossing it back to your mirror and moving to pick up a silky red robe off a nearby hook. You shrugged it on, tying it shut while Zsasz cleared his throat and offered you his arm.

“Such a gentleman,” you sneered, taking it anyways.

“When I want to be.” his voice was low and rough, as if his vocal chords were scraping against each other with every syllable.

You looked up at him, a bit dumbfounded, as he led you out into the club once more. The band was playing as a few people cleaned up the carnage you had left behind, the bar’s patrons all chatting and drinking again. It was as if nothing had even happened and they hadn’t just watched a man be torn apart onstage a few minutes prior.

Zsasz took you to Roman, the crowd parting before the two of you easily. Sionis was sitting in his favorite booth, sipping his drink and laughing, still seeming to be in a very good mood.

“Ah, there she is!” He said when he saw you, standing up and spreading his arms.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” You asked nervously as Zsasz let you go.

“Yes, yes, I had Mr. Zsasz grab you so that I could congratulate you on a thrilling performance.”

You stared at him. “You liked it?”

“Liked it? I loved it, darling! A bit messy for my tastes, but a lovely show, truly, though I suspect our dear Mr. Zsasz here wishes he could have been the one to take care of your victim. Isn’t that right, Zsasz?”

You glanced up at Zsasz. He grunted, not necessarily in agreement. He didn’t hate watching your performance by any means, and as much as he enjoyed helping little birds fly away from the world, he rather enjoyed watching you do it, too.

“I’m glad, Mr. Sionis,” you said.

“I told you, call me Roman.” he took a sip of his drink. “You know, normally, I don’t enjoy it when someone kills the people that belong to me, but I must admit, you certainly have a way with a knife.”

“I would have asked your permission, but I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.” you gulped.

“And what a lovely surprise it was!” Roman laughed loudly. “You’re very talented...in fact, how’d you like a promotion? Yes? Perfect, perfect! No, no, don’t shake my hand, you’re...well, you’re covered in blood. Quite frankly, it’s disgusting.” He snapped his fingers. “Mr. Zsasz, take her up to the penthouse so she can clean up, I don’t want all this blood getting on the new carpeting in here.”

“Oh, Mr. Sio--Roman,” you cleared your throat, “I can use the shower in the dressing room, really, it’s no trouble--”

“Nonsense, nonsense.” he waved you away. “You’re part of the team now, aren’t you? Besides, a job well done deserves some sort of reward. Zsasz will show you upstairs. Don’t worry, he’s completely harmless.”

As Zsasz put a hand on your lower back, you had your doubts. Harmless wasn’t really a word you would choose to describe Roman’s right hand man.

“Come on, princess.” Zsasz purred, guiding you through the crowd before you had much of a chance to protest.

He took you to the elevator in the corner, the bouncer standing guard in front of it stepping aside with a nod. The man hit the up button, and soon, you were pressed up against Zsasz in the small space, on your way up to Roman’s spacious penthouse.

#victor zsasz x reader #zsasz x reader #victor zsasz #bop zsasz #birds of prey zsasz #birds of prey imagine #birds of prey x reader #birds of prey #dceu #dceu imagine #dc imagines #dc imagine #dc x reader #gotham #chris messina imagine

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themcuhasruinedme · 4 years ago

Text

I Wanna Take Forever Tonight

[Summary]: You and Scott get slow and sensual

[Paring]: Scott x reader

[Word Count]: 2,727

[Warning]: SMUT, NSFW (18+ ONLY), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, people!), toy play, masturbation, porn watching

Tagging: @dividedwecantfall @peterman-parker @avengerofyourheart @metalarmproblems @imagine-assembling-the-avengers @that-sokovian-bastard @hellomissmabel @abovethesmokestacks @beccaanne814 @hymnofthevalkyrie @buckys-shield @callamint @redgillan @iwillbeinmynest @aubzylynn @sgtbxckybxrnes @avengersnthings @feelmyroarrrr @girl-next-door-writes @honey-bee-holly @fvckingavengers

A/N: Gif was made by yours truly! This fic kind of came out of nowhere but I can say that the song “I Wanna Take Forever Tonight” inspired it (if you wanna listen to it, look it up.. links apparently still don't work in posts) and the idea for it never left my head.. I don’t think this really has a plot behind it, which is most unusual for me, so enjoy this straight up sin wagon I decided to write! Lol!!!

You did it. You finally broke down and got one. You looked around the big room of the Tower to make sure no one was around as you secretly tried to carry the small box back to your room, face a little hot and slightly red knowing what it harbored inside.

Closing your door behind you and locking it just in case anyone were to try and get you while you opened up the box, you breathed a sigh of relief that so far you were in the clear of taking out your very own rabbit vibrator.

Taking it out of it’s own box, you held it in your hand and gently stroked it, feeling how soft the silicone was. Setting it aside, you took out the instruction manual and started to read it while also taking out the charging cord to power that baby up.

“2 hours to charge??” you read out loud and sighed. “Well, I guess I’ll have to wait until tonight to use it then.” Placing it in a spot that no one would see it, you left it alone and closed the door to your room.

Later that night after everyone had come back from a fun and somewhat drunken night out, you went into your room after saying your goodnights and closed your door immediately but didn't bother locking it, thinking everyone was too drunk off their asses to leave the couches. You then had dirty thoughts of the one person who you wanted so badly, fill your mind as you unplugged your vibrator from its charger.

Only thing was, was that after you left, Scott came wandering in the Tower by himself because he spent that night taking care of Cassie. Seeing everyone practically passed out on the couches, he sighed, shook his head and silently went into his room to get ready for bed.

After putting on a cute bra and panty set made of satin and lace, you grabbed your laptop, laid down on your bed and got on a porn website to start the fun. You first watched a couple videos doing nothing but rubbing your clit through your panties to start getting the feelings going.

Grabbing your vibrator, you turned it on to the lowest speed and slowly moved it up and down your clothed folds, feeling yourself getting more wet. You took one of your breasts in your hand and started to rub the nipple between your fingers, making it hard. You sat up and slowly took the bra off, the air making the other nipple sensitive and hard. Placing your back against the wall, you turned your vibrator on to the next speed and pulled your underwear aside, your body and throbbing pussy feeling so many different things all at once as you placed the head of the vibrator on your clit.

You let out a few moans and shifted your hips, grabbing hold of your pillow while your breathing started to get heavier with each second. Pulling off your underwear completely and tossing it to the floor, you rubbed the vibrator up and down your wet folds arching your back some as you felt your body tense up.

Laying back down so you could get a better position, you opened up your pussy lips and placed the vibrator back on your clit, screaming out in pleasure into your pillow. You then slowly slid the vibrator into your throbbing pussy, letting the little rabbit do his thing.

Blood coursing through your veins and electricity shocking through your entire body, you pressed the button once more reaching the highest speed and sending even more shockwaves through you. Your mind started to fill with thoughts of how you wished it was Scott that was deep inside you and hearing him make the same delicious sounds that you were making.

Pulling the vibrator out and placing it back on your clit made you scream out Scott’s name... just as he was passing by your room coming from the bathroom. He stopped by your door a minute, wondering if he really heard you calling for him and if you did, were you possibly having a nightmare.

Opening the door a crack to make sure everything was ok, he couldn’t help but get wide-eyed. Seeing you in all your glory, he could feel his own body start to tense up. As he watched you keep working at your clit with the vibrator, moans and heat filling the air, he grabbed hold of his hardening cock and slowly started to stroke it.

You arched your back again as you slid the vibrator back in, breath hitching in the back of your throat. Pumping it in and out as it hit your sweet spot having moan after moan escape you, it made Scott get harder by the second. Getting on your hands and knees, you kept pumping it as Scott’s name breathlessly came out of your mouth.

“Scott... Oh god, yes... Scott, yes... harder.. harder.. faster...,” you moaned.

Scott stroked his hard cock as fast he could, your words ringing through his mind, imaging what your wet pussy would feel like around his shaft. As he kept going, he let out his own moan which made both of you stop dead in your tracks. You immediately pulled out your vibrator, shut your laptop, threw on your shirt and underwear, opening the door to find Scott still there, frozen from fear.

Both of your faces looked red from embarrassment. “Scott.. wha- what are you, uh.. what are you doing here?” you managed to stammer.

He looked down and pursed his lips together, not knowing what to say. His mind on the other hand did the reacting for him and before another word could come out of you, his lips landed on yours. A little shocked but not backing out of it, you closed your eyes and let him sweep you in his arms as he deepened the kiss.

Wrapping your legs around his waist, he closed the door behind him and flopped you on the bed, his lips now moving down your jawline. You ran your fingers through his dark brown hair as you bit your lip, feeling his breath heat up your skin. Reaching your collarbone he stopped and looked at you with those piercing green eyes that you swore you could get lost in, and you gently placed your hand on his cheek.

Gently sweeping some hair off your forehead, Scott smiled at you making you smile back. He slowly ran his thumb over your lips as the two of you literally got lost in each others eyes. It almost felt like time just stood still.

“Wait,” you whispered and got up, opening your curtains and turning off the light; the full moon now the only thing casting light into your room.

You laid back down and he encased your lips in another slow yet passionate kiss, gently gliding his fingertips down your side until they reached the hem of your shirt. He slipped his hand under the cotton material and traced shapes on your side, making you softly moan into his kiss which made his cock twinge.

Breaking from his lips, you sat up and took your shirt off revealing your body to him. He slowly looked you up and down, his eyes taking in every inch of how beautiful you were. You helped him take his t-shirt off and both of you laid down on the bed with him hovering above you. Those green eyes glistened in the moonlight and you couldn't help but be in awe of their beauty.

Scott sat up and pulled you up to him encasing you in his arms, your breathing slowly coming together and taking in each of your scents; Scott smelling the the light floral scent of your shampoo and you breathing in his lingering cedar wood body wash. Feeling his warm breath on your shoulder, you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck and gently ran your fingers along his spine.

You then started placing gentle kisses on his collarbone, making soft moans escape his lips. You could feel his cock start to harden a bit through his boxers against your wet folds. Slowly you slid your hand down his chest stopping right at the hem, goosebumps now crawling over his skin. Taking in a deep breath, you slid your hand into his boxers and wrapped your fingers around his shaft keeping eye contact with him. Scott sharply sucked in his breath as you started to slowly pump it.

Feeling him get even harder under your touch made you so wet that you needed him to know just how wet you were. You quickly let go and slid your panties off, placing Scott’s fingers in your wet folds making moans come out of both of you. Quickly pulling his hand back, slipping out of his boxers and having you lean back, he let his fingers do their magic and what magic they did.

Scott slowly slid his fingers back and forth through your wet folds and played with your clit, making the room fill with your moans of pleasure. He then grabbed one of your breasts and kneaded the soft flesh, the nipple getting hard within seconds. You started to grind your hips back and forth as his fingers still toyed with your clit, feeling your body shake from the pleasure.

“Scott... oh god.. yes... Scott.. that feels so...,” you started to say but was cut short with a loud moan as you felt him slid a finger in your pussy.

“Oh god, [Y/N]... so wet, baby.. so wet and tight...,” he muttered as he then moved his hand over to give your other breast attention.

He slowly slid his finger in and out of your pussy as his thumb went to work on your clit. You leaned back a bit more to give him a better angle and felt your vibrator behind you as you moved your hands back to brace yourself more. Grabbing it, you handed it to him. Giving your breast a break, he took it and turned it on, placing it on the underside of your breast, moving it around your stomach and sliding it up and down your inner thigh, turning the speed to its highest as it got closer and closer to your clit.

Scott had you lay down, came over to your side and placed your hand on his hard shaft. He couldn’t help but let out a soft moan as you started to stroke it. You on the other hand inhaled sharply as he slid another finger in your pussy and placed the vibrator on your clit, electricity going through your entire body. Running the vibrator up and down your pussy, getting you even more wet if that was even possible, Scott took his fingers out of you and slowly slid the vibrator in.

A loud gasp erupted from the back of your throat as the sensation reeled through you. Scott climbed on top of you, pinned your arms back, entangled his fingers with yours and encased your lips once again in a passionate kiss as the vibrator built up the hunger inside you of wanting Scott to fuck you badly.

“Scott... please.. I want you... in me...,” you whimpered as he pulled away. Giving you a devilish grin while lustful green eyes stared back at you, Scott couldn’t help but become undone hearing you beg for him.

“Is that what you want? You want me that badly?” he asked as he teased your pussy, placing his cock by your entrance and letting the vibrations make him tingle from head to toe.

He slowly pulled the vibrator out and entered you, your pussy taking in every inch of his shaft. Giving you a minute to adjust, Scott started off with slow and gentle motions, making you feel like you were a delicate flower to him. As he found his rhythm in his slow thrusts, you couldn’t help but be amazed at how you thought he would be more wild and faster but in actuality he’s the sort that takes his time and worries about hurting you, even though his teasing game was completely different.

“[Y/N]... my baby [Y/N]...,” he whispered as he pushed some hair off your face and you couldn't help but smile back at him.

Sliding out slightly, he had you turn on your side and hug you from behind still slowly thrusting while every few minutes, he’d pick up the pace a bit. Scott slid his hand down to your clit while the other kneaded your breast and he placed soft kisses on your shoulder up to the nape of your neck. You let out a moan as his fingers circled around your clit, feeling your core heat up once again.

Scott pulled out completely and had you turn to look at him, placing your hand on his cock feeling how slick it was covered with your juices. You sat up on your knees and slowly licked the tip, making Scott arch his back a bit. Taking it even slower in your mouth, you could feel him writhe under you, feel his cock twinge in your mouth.

Hitting the base of his shaft with your lips, almost hitting your gag reflex, you slowly came back up and released him with a pop making Scott see stars. Taking your tongue, you licked the vein from base to tip then placed gentle kisses on it, Scott bunching the sheets in his hand and running his fingers through your hair.

“Oh, god... shit [Y/N]... that.... that feels so... feels so good...,” he said in between grunts and moans.

Placing him in your mouth once again, you bobbed you head slow a few times, picked up the pace a bit then slowed it down. You did this several times feeling Scott tense in your mouth, edging him to his climax. Letting him go once again, you climbed on top of him straddling his hips and gave him a sly smile, your pussy aching for him to enter you.

Taking his hardness in your hand you rubbed the tip along your wet folds, moans escaping both of you and slowly lowered yourself onto his throbbing cock, feeling your soft flesh spread over him like honey. You start to rock your hips back and forth, finding your rhythm, pinning his hands above his head.

Encasing his lips with yours, your body thrusts in synch and guttural moans being swapped in each others mouths, you could feel the build up of your own climax as your core heated up even more.

“Play with me, Scott,” you begged, pulling away from this kiss.

Releasing one of your hands, Scott slid a finger in your pussy feeling your warm slickness and slowly circled your clit. A shaky moan hitched in the back of your throat as you felt your insides spark and heat up like lightning starting a wild fire. Scott picked up the pace a bit with your body shaking from the reeling sensation and pleasure.

“Oh god.... Scott... yes, Scott..”

“[Y/N]... I’m getting.. I’m getting close... c’mon baby..,” Scott said between thrusts.

Feeling your body shaking all over, you knew you were about to go over the edge as well. Just one more minute. Just one more. One last thrust had you screaming out Scott’s name as he emptied his seed in your aching pussy, which in turn made you go over the edge and had Scott screaming your name as he felt your walls clamp around his shaft.

Scott pulled out of you and sat up, pulling you close to him as your body shuttered from riding out your high. You snuggled into his chest, feeling his heart slowly returning to its normal rate while having the rise and fall of his chest almost lull you too sleep.

He got up to go clean himself off and put his boxers back on, disturbing your sleepiness which was a good thing because you needed to do the same. Scott got back to the bed before you did and you found him practically passed out already, half snuggled under your blanket. You smiled and shook your head, putting your underwear back on before getting under the blanket with him hoping this moment could last forever.

#marvel imagine #avengers imagine #scott lang imagine #scott lang x reader #scott lang smut #marvel smut #scott lang x reader smut #scott lang

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sxvxrxssnape · 4 years ago

Text

severus' sixty-first birthday

- minerva sends severus a birthday card every year and though she doesn't sign it or return address it, he knows they're from her. they worked together for years, he recognizes her handwriting

- he's not entirely sure how she found his address but maybe owls are just that good at tracking people. still, she never asks to see him or mentions how the rest of the wizarding world has long thought he's dead

- at this point, he opens his kitchen window in the morning and watches the sun peaking over the horizon as it starts to rise, sipping on his coffee, as he waits for the letter to arrive

- he'll read through it, smiling softly (though he wonders about the part where she mentions a gift on the way. shes never sent anything more than a card) before tucking the card away with all the others. he'll get dressed then and then walk into town. it's a quiet place where he's chosen to live and he's made friendly with a number of people and sometimes he misses the vibrancy of the wizarding world and the comaderie of being a hogwarts professor but that atmosphere had long fizzled out and going back would never truly mean going back. he's moved on and he's fine with that

- he prefers early morning to get the shopping done. it's less crowded and the world feels untouched, pure and magical, at this hour. he'll stop at the local bakery, buy himself a pastry and another cup of coffee, savoring sweet almond and blueberry, before continuing to the grocery store and picking up the few things he needs for tonight's dinner

- its his 61st birthday today and though he doesn't want to make a big deal out of his birthday, he's learned that it's okay to celebrate your own existence and indulge in the things that make him happy

- as it stands, a well made shepherds pie with good bread and red wine would make him very happy today

- his grocery tote is charmed to keep cool and feather light, so after gathering what he needs he'll head to the bookshop. this is one of his favorite activities and absolutely not reserved for his birthday. his favorite bookshop is old and quaint, hosting strange books with mysterious origins. a lot of the locals think its all false but severus has a trained eye and can recognize magical tombs when he sees them. the first time he came, he cleared out any that could be considered dangerous to muggles. now he likes to browse through the remains and pick up a new read or two; they're not all magical but they are all interesting. the shopkeeper is a very old woman who looks very out of place in this millennium, but he supposes he does too some days

- she wishes him a happy birthday, eyeing his black coat with a certain kind of scrutiny he's gotten used to from her. he was never able to give up his long coats and now he wears them unbuttoned over black turtlenecks. it makes him look less imposing, he supposes, although enough people have asked what he teaches that it sets him on edge

- he doesn't remember when she learned his birthday, but he pays it no mind. a few of the people he's come across here have learned his birthday by now. its the reason he'll get a free scoop of ice cream on his way home. she always looks at him like he's familiar but just can't place how, and part of him worries she's going barmy and starting to forget he's been coming here for years

- as he's paying for the two new books he's found, she says something that feels like its meant to be a warning but feels more like a threat: the aurors are in town today

- "pardon?" he asks, but she just smiles sweetly and waves him off like nothing was amiss, as if his blood hadn't just turned to ice beneath his skin

- he leaves the shop numbly, thinking it over. she couldnt have meant anything serious by it, although now he's kicking himself for not realizing she was a witch (or perhaps a squib?) he kept up with the wizarding world fairly regularly when he'd first disappeared. he knew potter had cleared his name posthumously and that he was hailed a hero, so whatever the reason for the aurors being in town, it has nothing to do with him. he decides to carry on as normal; too many years have passed for him to be known by this new generation of aurors.

- he does get his free ice cream, a scoop of vanilla caramel with a drizzle of chocolate, and he's sitting in a wrought iron chair outside the shop, under a carefully cast warming charm to keep him comfortable in the january air but with a cooling charm cast over his frozen treat, when he sees them

- there's two of them, fairly young and most likely born during the second war. they're dressed in the muggle version of their uniform he's come to recognize and watches them from his peripheral as they head down the street and wonders what they could be in town for

- he doesn't notice the third, older auror watching him with widening eyes, no longer paranoid enough to check who's standing behind him, as he swirls his spoon through the remnants of melted ice cream and gets lost in his thoughts

- he heads home after that, lights a fire, and makes a tomato and cheese sandwich for lunch. he catches up on a few episodes of his current favorite show (a historical drama this time) and enjoys his quiet afternoon

- when its time to start on dinner, he'll put something on the record player (he's got a soft spot for the record player alright, he's aware of what spotify is, he just enjoys the nostalgia of vinyl), and get to work. he's got a glass of wine and he's singing along to pearl jam as he cuts carrots and potatoes

- he grows wild thyme and rosemary in the front yard, right next to the white chrysanthemums, so he puts his spoon down and goes to fetch some

- he doesn't expect to find potter standing just outside the gate with a pink bakery box in his hands looking simultaneously like a deer in the headlights and like he's just seen a ghost. which he supposes he has

- he ignores him in favor of picking the herbs. once he's done, he glances once in the direction of harry potter before returning inside. he leaves the door open and waits. it isn't until the herbs are washed and finely chopped, being stirred into the stew, that potter finally enters the kitchen. he holds the box tightly and blurts out "i thought you were dead"

- "evidently not." severus responds, spooning the mix into a baking dish and begins to top it with the mashed potatoes. "how did you find me?"

- he mutters some nonsense of working a case involving a local store selling magical wares to muggles (and severus frowns at this information, worried it might be imelda) and seeing him outside the ice cream shop. getting his address wasn't that hard and the cake he brought was simply a social nicety

- perhaps he hasn't been a professor for years now but he can still smell bullshit so he raises an eyebrow at the answer he's gotten. potter has grown in the years since he's seen him, no longer a strong-willed seventeen year old but now a tired looking auror of forty who's still just as bad at lying as he ever was. he thinks how he was around his age when they last spoke and that fact feels a little dizzying

- "you dont seem that surprised." severus muses, putting the pie in the oven and bringing down another glass. he has a feeling potter will be staying and the idea is already giving him headache. he thinks back to minervas letter and wonders if this is what she meant. perhaps its time to finally write back, he thinks, as he pours them each some wine; they have a lot to talk about it seems

#this was meant to be a plotless one shot but i never found the time to write it so have the bullet point version instead #snapedom #pro snape #severus snape #snape lives #current snape #harry potter #minerva mcgonagall

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hsmtmts-justsomewriting · 3 years ago

Text

Not to be your stereotypical second semester senior but EJ Caswell is a bit too busy to be thinking about sports metaphors...

(Alternative title- overcommitted..sounds like a Caswell)

Senior year was insanely busy. Being so overwhelmed EJ had been slowing down over the last couple weeks, but he was brushing it off just fine.

EJ has arrived late that day, which was unusual in itself, as he prides himself on being on time. Holding a half eaten packet of Oreos he shuffled into the rehearsal room slumping on the bleachers away from his chattering cast mates.

“EJ honey great you could join us, you’d think a senior couldn’t get lost in the halls!” Miss Jenn giggled at her own joke as the cast were suddenly alerted to the older boys presence. EJ absentmindedly nodded and grabbed out his script.

“Yeah...sorry..um...where are we at?”

“Page 63” “Cool... thanks”

Flipping to that part in the script, he looks up to take in the scene. Kourtney, Gina, Seb and Carlos are clearly half way through blocking a castle scene- Carlos complaining his arms are tired from ‘staying in character’, Kourtney and Seb working out where they are going to come in from and how to negotiate Sebs big box costume (although it’s proving very difficult considering the rehearsal room is about a quarter of the size of the stage) and Gina is animatedly discussing the scene choices with Miss Jenn.

Within an instant, EJ is startled from the scene as Natalie is beside him rambling something about ‘needing a fill in for cogworth’ ‘went home sick’. Sauntering up with his script, EJ’s vision goes spotted as he gets up from the bleachers. But as soon as it comes it’s gone.

He just needs to get through this rehearsal, then he can; go home, finish his debate speech, go over the plays for Friday’s waterpolo match, study for tomorrow’s maths assessment, start his exam notes, memorise his lines, work on his college applications, and maybe even get some sleep.

Joining the cast he tries to hide in the back corner. Following the basic blocking directions seemed harder than usual, his head had began to pound and fatigue hit him like a wave.

However he continued on, sluggish but present helping them to finish blocking the scene.

Walking back to his place on the bleachers EJ trips over his own feet. Catching himself before a big splat on the floor he is able to avoid the attention of his cast mates. Well mostly.

“EJ are you ok?”

EJ didn’t need to look up to know that his cousin had definitely seen his little trip.

“Yep fine”

“Ok try again but this time make it the truth”

Ashlyn was caring but firm, she definitely wasn’t going to brush it off. EJ could feel his facade fading under her concerned gaze. His voice drops low.

“I-i just don’t know... Ash, I’m trying-“

“ON TO THE NEXT SCENE Gaston and Le Fou, I need you boys to start down stage right”

EJ got up slowly, subtly steadying himself against a chair not to lose balance.

“Nevermind it’ll be fine”

EJ walks off, with that any vulnerablity on face vanishing, leaving Ashlyn’s stomach to churn in a pool of worry.

Being an after school rehearsal, most of the cast heads off after they start rehearsing the next scene as it only has Gaston and Le Fou. Leaving the rehearsal room with just Miss Jenn, Big Red, EJ, Ashlyn and Gina (the latter two who were waiting on the senior for a ride home).

EJ and Big Red slowly work through the dialogue, the scene is about as smooth as a clunky old railway track. After running it twice EJ feels like his words are melding into one. But pushing through, based off his poor entrenched habits, EJ made it through another run through of the scene.

“Um can we take a five?”

Miss Jenn looks at the senior perplexed, he’s never asked for a five. Ever.

“EJ honey is everything ok?”

“Hm, yeah just need a sec”

EJ’s exhausation catches up with him, the light seems to highlight the bags under his eyes. He drops onto the bleachers, resting his head in his hands he closes his eyes for a second.

“Miss Jenn, EJ doesn’t look so good maybe you guys should wrap this up for today-”

“Ash I’m-“

“No. You look exhausted! You barely have the energy to stand up for 10 minutes”

Ashlyn moves to grab him his drink bottle but runs into his iced coffee and Oreo packet first. She flinches. Her cousin never drinks coffee unless he purely needs the caffeine.

EJ freezes she moment he realises she’s seen it.

“When was the last time you slept?!”

All eyes are on him.

“James” His head snapped up. But he couldn’t look his cousin in the eye. Because then she’d see his eyes are glassy with unshed tears. His overwhelmed thoughts race through his mind.

“Ok I think we’ll pick this up next rehearsal, please be safe getting home and get some rest”

The four students start to pack up their bags, Ashlyn asking her boyfriend to give them all a lift. Turning to her cousin, helps him finish packing his stuff.

“You can stay in the guest room, we’re having lasagna tonight”

EJ too tired to protest, walks past his Jeep in the parking lot to get in a smaller orange bug car. He’ll have to come back for it tomorrow because there’s no way he could drive safely in his tired state.

The car ride home was eerily quiet, Ashlyn day in the passenger seat next to Big Red. He drove to Ashlyn’s house like a routine he knew by heart. Gina keep flicking worried glances at EJ but the senior didn’t even notice, having closed his eyes and resting against the window the moment he entered the car.

“Thanks for the ride Biggie”

Gina gentley nudged EJ and his eyes were open in an instant.

“Thanks Red” He mumbled as he got out of the car.

“No worries, take care guys”

As the orange car was disappearing into the distance, Ashlyn unlocked the front door. Gina and EJ follow her into the house.

“James lets go the living room”

EJ follows Ashlyn to the couch, and Gina continues past to grab a drink of water from the kitchen.

“What’s going on?”

Ashlyn puts a hand on his shoulder and gently squeezes it, grounding him and reminding him that she’s here to listen. He looks at the faded colourful rug and his words begin to vomit out softly.

“I’m just trying to get it all done ...and um.. for weeks I just never seem to have enough time, and I still have to do my study notes and finish my assessment and college apps tonight... but I’m just so tired...”

His voice cracks and the wall behind his eyes begin to break.

“I have to stay up so late, to get everything I have to all done...and then polo practice at the crack of dawn... i don’t know.. I just can’t... let anyone down..”

Ashlyn pulls EJ in tightly. His body wracked with sobs, her heart breaks as she hasn’t seen him like this in a long time. Gina initially freezes entering the room just as the senior had begun to cry but soon shifts over beside them engulfing them both in a hug.

Grabbing some tissues and a sip of water he’s able to stop his crying but his tense shoulders give away his overwhelmed mind.

“it will be ok, we’ll work this out. Everyone else will understand if everything is not done right now. You’ve got to take better care of yourself, what matters is if you are ok”

Gina nods in agreeance with Ashlyn as she comforts EJ.

“But for now you need to take a break, just have a quick nap before dinner in the guest room-“

“But I have to-“

“No James you need a rest, all this stuff can come later”

He sluggishly gets up heading for the guest room mumbling a “thanks Ash” as he retreats to his long awaited rest.

After he closes the door, Ashlyn lets out the breath she had been holding. She was convinced they would have to put up more of a fight to get him to go to sleep, but the fact that they didn’t was almost more concerning.

“He did seem a little bit off earlier in the week but yeah I had no idea that this was under the surface”

Gina says to break the silence created by her and Ashlyn’s shocked worry.

“Yeah he’s always been pretty good at bottling this stuff up, definitely a Caswell skill”

Ashlyn starts to pick up the tissues heading to the bin in the kitchen. Both the girls enter the kitchen to finish heating up the leftover lasagna they made yesterday.

While cooking the veggies the girls trade stories of earlier in the day and discuss the spotting of Miss Jenn and Mr Mazzarra at Sliced on Valentine’s. Just as they’re plating up, EJ reappears. He looks somewhat disheveled, wearing sweats and his usually spiked hair is messy like a 2012 Bieber hairstyle. His contacts are long gone being traded for his wide framed glasses.

“Feeling any better?”

Bringing the plates to the table they all sit in their usual seats.

“Yeah a little...thanks guys this looks amazing”

As if on cue his stomach grumbles with excitement and they dig into the food. The three teens continue to tell stories of their day. Although exhausted, a goofy smile makes its way onto EJ’s face while telling the girls about his classmate in English that tried justify his argument quoting spark notes, instead of the actual book.

Once they’re finished, EJ stacks and clears away the plates. Grabbing her laptop, Ashlyn creates a new copy of one of her old timetables modified with all EJ’s stuff. After cleaning the dishes, EJ plops down beside her and together they start to work out.

Half an hour and a warm hot chocolate later, they manage to finish a schedule that looks like it fit a bit of time for everything while keeping a heathy amount of rest time.

“Thank you so much Ash... I really appreciate it”

Ashlyn smiles back at her cousin.

“Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself, or at least you’ll let me know if you need help”

EJ engulfs her in a hug.

“Yeah I will, thanks”

As they both move to join Gina in the lounge room, EJ grabs his laptop to start completing his speech. Flopping down onto the couch, the tv is turned onto a Brooklyn Nine Nine halloween heist episode.

Taking EJs laptop at 9:30, the older boy fell asleep within an instant. Keeping to his promise, he followed the schedule he made with Ashlyn (most of the time at least) and finally learnt how to ask for help when he realised he couldn’t do it alone. And when he asked for help, Ashlyn and Gina were always there with an extra mug of hot chocolate.

Thanks for reading! I’m open to write prompts or suggestions

(...Also if anyone can think of any better names for this please comment because all my thoughts were low key trash😂)

#high school musical the musical the series #hsmtmts #hsmtmts season 2 #hsm the series #ej caswell #ashlyn caswell #gina porter

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ancientwastedlores · 4 years ago

Text

Undone by “Darling”

REQUEST (from @november-solarstorms): Celebrating another year of this earth being braced by Tom Hiddleston's presence! Lol. Might I make a prompt request? I feel as though it would be interesting to read from Loki's POV to explore the dynamics between him and a human female who is just as intelligent as he. She has a sharp wit and even sharper tongue. Her sarcastic and clever nature enable her to out-banter Tony Stark, the king of snark himself (may he rest in peace). But she is also just as flirtatious and salacious. She never blushes, never falters, and is incredibly clever. You can decide the nature of their encounter. Really im just in it for a good game of cat and mouse.

A/N: Okay, I had SO MUCH FUN writing this!! And yeah, this will run a bit longer than my usual fics lol. Also, there IS a Loki POV, just keep reading thaaanks <3

WARNINGS: none.

WORD COUNT: 1,932

____________________________________________________________________

Undone by “Darling”

17 hours and 6 white chocolate mochas later, it was finally ready - an upgraded version of Corvus Glaive’s glaive, this one spec-ed out to your fancies and requirements. It was a beast, and definitely not something Nick Fury would ever let you play around with, even if you made it.

Satisfied with your work, you remove your safety goggles and grin at Stark, who is working on his own weapon he scavenged from the Black Order.

‘I’m done!’ you say triumphantly, causing him to look up and groan. ‘How did you finish before me!?’ he lowers his glasses and looks at your weapon. ‘I’m smarter’ you say. ‘I went to MIT’ ‘And I didn’t, yet here we are, both in the same lab’.

He shakes his head, not unlike a petulant child, causing you to laugh.

‘How far along are you?’ you ask. ‘Still running diagnostics’. ‘Still!?’ ‘Have you seen the size of his hammer?’ he gestures to Cull Obsidian’s chain hammer on his work table, but the innuendo doesn’t escape you and you grin at him. He facepalms. ‘Y/n, for god’s sake...’ ‘You’re just tired, or you’d appreciate the joke too’.

You stretch your weary body and let out a deep breath. You’d test the weapon out tomorrow, but for now, you need a nap.

‘Take a load off, Stark. Hammer’ll be there tomorrow’. ‘Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you...’ he puts his goggles back on and get to work.

Loki’s POV:

Humans are surprising, but I always knew that. I never thought them boring, even if my brother says I do. Humans are of so little power but such incredible resilience that it’s frankly astonishing. I am inclined to believe that sometimes resilience is just stupidity... in most cases, I am right. But that’s not to say I haven’t come across some truly brave people.

Take the Avengers Tower, for example.

Just in here, you have Y/n, a brave soldier with the mind of an intergalactic scavenger, and I do mean that as a compliment. She’s awfully clever, she can build better than Stark, and has a track record of finishing every mission to perfection and before time. And then you have the Super Soldier Steve Rogers, a big muscled, big hearted idiot who often mistakes challenging our enemies for bravery and morality.

The two couldn’t be more different, but they get along like siblings. Not siblings like Thor and I... better adjusted, perhaps.

They sit in front of me, talking about some mission while they play Chess. Her moves are quick but calculated, his take more time because he’s more interested in telling his story than playing the game.

‘...so there I am, no weapons, no shield, bang in the middle of the Serpent Citadel...’

He’s a good storyteller, I’ll give him that. But not as good as Y/n. She paints quite a picture, full of delicious gory details and horribly dark jokes.

‘Steve, you have to pay attention, you’re losing’ she says. ‘Yeah, I don’t actually know how to play chess, I just wanted you to listen to my story’.

She looks up at him, almost offended. ‘STEVE...’ ‘Cool, I’m gonna go wrap Stark into a game of Battleships and tell him about my fight with Copperhead’.

She laughs as he leaves the room, and she puts the chess pieces away.

‘We could play?’ I ask her. ‘Is the God in a mood to lose?’ ‘Over confidence isn’t attractive in anybody’. ‘Oh darling, neither is telling someone what is and isn’t attractive’.

She’s never called me that before, and in the context it should seem cutting, but it isn’t. ‘Darling?’ ‘Problem?’ ‘It’s quite a term of endearment to set someone straight’.

She says nothing.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ I tease her. She only smiles and continues putting the pieces away neatly. Stark’s chess set is gold and black, all individually carved pieces. The pawns are all Iron Man suits, but that’s to be expected. She handles them with the care Stark would.

‘I mean...’ I continue, ‘honestly, if someone heard, they’d never let you live it down’.

And she carries on, unbothered.

‘Y/n!’ ‘Oh dear, look at you come completely undone with just one term of endearment’ she comments, shutting the chess set. ‘Whatever would happen if I held your hand?’

The very thought of it seemed to drain my brain of blood. I unwillingly glanced at her hands, working the lock mechanism of the box, her blue veins prominent.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ she asked.

I stood up, the human emotion of embarrassment becoming too familiar for me. ‘I’ll have to see you at lunch’. ‘Sure, darling’.

Oh, I hate how she’s enjoying this.

----------

The next day, Y/n booked a training room to test out the Glaive, and Stark had a rusty but working chain hammer. Steve insists on trying it out anyway, and now our breakfast is being spent on discouraging him from doing that.

‘Guys... if nothing else, I’ll still have my shield. Let me test it out!’ ‘Y/n’s glaive cuts through Vibranium, you know that, right?’ Stark says. ‘Y/n wouldn’t do that’. ‘Oh yes she would’ Y/n says nonchalantly as she sinks her teeth into a bacon and egg sandwich.

As she does, the yolk runs down her fingers. She makes a sound at the inconvenience and sets the sandwich down, then grabs a napkin. I’m hardly ever crude, but the energy it took not to take her hand and lick off the yolk myself could burn every star in the galaxy.

Captain America scrunches his nose at her remark, severely offended.

‘In any case, that shield barely covers your giant body. It will force Stark to make you a new one’. ‘What do you care about his giant body’ Stark says. ‘It’s America’s ass, Tony’ she takes a sip of her iced coffee. Steve blushes, and Tony rolls his eyes.

----------

The training facility is magic, of course, somewhere between a mirror dimension and Wanda’s reality powers creating a safe cocoon inside the building so no one can be harmed. Y/n hardly trusted anybody to fight with her except Thor, but given the nature of Corvus’ Glaive, she knew magic would be required.

And so she called me.

After getting into my battle armour, I stepped into the facility, equipped with my sceptre and the teachings of the witches of Asgard.

She whistles as I walk in. ‘Trying to distract me from killing you?’ ‘Are you?’ I ask. She’s dressed in a black bodysuit, details of purple in her belt and weapon harnesses. ‘Why yes, I am. Glad you noticed’.

The glaive is on the floor, and she stomps her foot on one part of it so it swivels up and neatly places itself in her hand. She smiles.

‘Try to keep up. I’m not just looking for eye candy in a training partner, darling’ she says, getting into battle stance.

With nothing left to say for the second time this week, I aim the sceptre at her and the stone at the end glows.

She charges and I shoot at her, but she spins the glaive and creates a shield which absorbs the energy.

She continues to charge at me. I shoot again, and again the glaive takes the hit. Not a scratch on her.

Once she comes closer, she simply places the flat end of the weapon against my chest, sending me hurtling back into a wall.

She spins the glaive and laughs.

‘Compliments of Wakanda. It absorbs any hits and charges up with kinetic energy’.

I get up on my feet. This is far from over. I create multiple illusions to surround her, all of them brandishing knives, Chitauri tech, and sceptres.

‘Damn, suddenly my whole evening has opened up’ she says, looking around.

Even my clones look around at each other puzzled.

‘Come on then, who’s up?’ she spins the glaive around. ‘One at a time or all at once, baby’.

They charge at her, and I expected her to fight them off at once... instead she plants the staff on the ground and ducks, and a semi-circle shell grows from the top of the staff, down to the floor... like a mini fortress, completely impenetrable. It could, no doubt, continue to take hits and build up kinetic energy, so I call off the clones.

She gets up and retracts the shell. ‘Nanotech’ she grins at me. ‘The whole shell sits in a disk. It can withstand bombs and even a moon’. ‘Is there any tech you haven’t adopted?’ ‘I’m an intergalactic scavenger, aren’t I?’

I stare at her, horrified. Can she read minds?

‘Maybe I can. Or maybe I heard you tell Stark when he was complaining about me finishing my weapon first’.

Silence.

‘Also, darling, you’re awfully predictable in your fighting’.

She picks up every trick and tech she sees, so beating her is less about weapons and more about cunning.

No problem. Cunning is my specialty.

‘Ready now?’ she asks. ‘Mhm’.

She takes a deep breath to ready herself, her eyes shutting slightly. Once they open back up, she stares in shock.

In my Jotun form, I give her my most menacing smile.

She cocks her head to the side, studying my icy blue skin.

The illusion I cast of myself approaches behind her, dagger in hand. Once it’s close enough and I can almost taste my victory, she raises the glaive and in one swift motion, sticks it into its abdomen.

The illusion disappears into green light.

‘Cute’ she remarks. She points the glaive at me. ‘What else you got for me?’ I shift back to my Asgardian form and sigh. ‘You win’.

Y/n laughs and lowers her weapon. ‘Oh darling, I won the second you walked in wearing all that leather’. She winks at me, then walks out of the facility. I feel a blush creep to my face, much against my will.

-------------

‘Maybe you should stick to your guns, Tony’ Y/n says, ‘Fancy suits is it for you, chain hammers may be overshooting it’. ‘Is that what they taught you in the back alley you learnt ironmongery from?’ ‘Yes! Do you want their number, I’m sure they’ll have a spot on the waiting list for you’.

Ah. Y/n’s relationship with Stark seemed more like mine with Thor. While they banter, Steve and Natasha tear up from laughing. I wouldn’t go so far as to call this domestic, but it certainly is comfortable.

‘Come on, the glaive can’t be that good, right Loki?’ Stark asks.

The company looks at me expectantly. ‘To say her weapon isn’t good enough means to insult your own tech, Stark. Everything about it is founded on your theories’.

‘So technically, it’s my brain that made the glaive so cool’ he tells Y/n. ‘Yeah, you could say that. The glaive comes from the same mind that manufactured Captain America’s dinner plate’.

Steve doesn’t find that one funny, but Natasha does, sending her into peals of laughter.

‘Oh whatever’ Tony huffs. ‘I’m going back to the lab’.

He stands up and Y/n grabs his arm. ‘Aww Tony, I’m just kidding!’ she pats his hand, ‘Look, you’re a brilliant inventor, we all have our slow days’.

He sighs and nods, and holds her hand. ‘Thanks... I guess I’m just not in my element, you know?’ ‘Yeah...’ she keeps patting his hand.

And the feeling of domesticity creeps in. We really are all a family. Y/n smiles encouragingly at Tony, and Tony seems more relaxed.

‘So, you want me to get you the number of that ironmongery, or...?’ ‘OH FOR...’ he snatches his arm away and storms out of the room, with Steve and Nat losing it all over again.

___________________________________________________________

Ah this was so fun!!!!!!!! I hope you guys liked it <3

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novelconcepts · 4 years ago

Text

fic: souvenirs you never lose

prompt, for @karatam: five scars Dani found on Jamie’s body (and one she left behind on her heart)

It takes Jamie time, to open up. This does not surprise Dani in the least; the Jamie she met at Bly wasn’t the sort to show off--not her innermost secrets, and certainly not her body. Even innocuous bits, elbows and forearms and collarbones, were covered half the time in thick jackets and jumpsuits. She didn’t see Jamie’s knees for the first time until they slept together.

It feels less like Jamie is hiding something, and more like Jamie appreciates a certain barrier between her body and the rest of the world. Dani can respect that. Knows the value of armor, of a good sweater and pounds of hairspray and the effort to be seen only as you choose. And what Jamie chooses, mostly, is to be seen as the job. As soil under fingernails, as hair messy around her face, as small hoop earrings and old t-shirts and overalls. Jamie doesn’t much put in the effort, because she’s busy channeling all of that effort into more important things. Dani likes this about her.

Still, for the first month or two, she doesn’t see much of Jamie’s bare skin. Maybe because Jamie is still working out the angles of their relationship in her head, easing in gently even as she’s taking enormous leaps of faith on little more than Dani’s word. Maybe because they’re leaving England (where, even in summer, a chill holds dominion over most nights) for Vermont (where, by the time they arrive, fall is chipping away at what remains of the year). Either way, for a while, Dani thinks Jamie is hiding in baggy sweaters and loose jeans because it’s just Jamie.

It isn’t until they’re in bed in a hotel in Pennsylvania that she thinks for the first time: maybe it’s about something else. Maybe it’s about the lives Jamie lived before meeting her. Maybe there are some boxes Jamie holds close to her chest, will need time to unlock.

Dani can be patient.

“It was a pot,” Jamie says, like that’s the whole of the story, but a story is never so simple or so short as that. In fact, it was not just a pot, not just water, not just a child left to raise a baby like she’d ever be prepared for something like this.

Jamie, maybe eight years old--she has trouble thinking back this far, has trouble remembering anything from this time with an adult’s clarity--stands as tall as her meager height allows whenever she’s in this house. Shoulders thrown back, chin up, the way she’d seen her mum in shops. Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let it land. Just keep your chin up, eyes forward, and keep walking.

Jamie, maybe eight years old, with hair that hasn’t been trimmed in months and hand-me-down trousers from Denny, who scuffed his shoes and scowled and said nothing, because what could he do about it? Denny, who keeps his distance, who hasn’t had a kind word for her since she can’t remember when. Jamie tries not to mind. Tries to understand, with an eight-year-old comprehension of human instinct, why her big brother is so determined to shut her out.

They call her mum things in the street, and maybe that’s why she left. Maybe sticks and stones aren’t all that can tear you up, in the end. Jamie’s had her share of both, has limped home and mopped up tattered knees and scraped cheeks more than she likes to recall, but maybe words can do the same kind of damage if there are enough of them all bound up together.

Or maybe she left because Jamie wasn’t big enough to wrap her arms around all the little aches her mum was made up of. Maybe because Denny turns up his nose at anything he doesn’t like, and Mikey screams all day, and Jamie--sandwiched between them with no way out--is just too small.

She’s trying. She’s trying so hard. Mum’s gone, and she hasn’t seen Dad in...what’s it been now, days? A week? She’s losing track fast. Losing track of a lot of things, really. She’s falling asleep draped over her desk, sneakers dangling off the floor, waking to wadded up chunks of paper drenched in someone else’s spit clinging to her neck and hair. Her homework, when it gets done at all, usually gets stolen out of her bag and shredded before she can turn it in. She’s starting to hear the whispers at night, falling asleep with one eye open, one arm wrapped around Mikey’s tiny frame: Whore. Cunt. Your mum’s a--

She doesn't even know what these words mean, but they live beneath her skin like razor blades, and she is so small, and so tired, and only eight, only eight, only--

The day the pot goes over, she knows. Something prickles at the back of her neck like a bad itch, like a bug bite, like the worst kind of déjà vu. She’s got Mikey in one arm, bouncing him up and down the way he likes, and the other hand is trying to stir pasta. It’s one of the only things she knows how to make, and Mikey probably should have something more, something better--baby food, or fruit, or something--but Dad’s been gone for maybe-days, maybe-weeks, and Jamie hasn’t figured out how she’s going to buy groceries yet. Problem for another day, she keeps thinking, the idea growing more fringed and frazzled by the hour.

She’s standing on a chair, baby in one arm, stirring, and it wouldn’t have happened if only she were bigger. It wouldn’t happen if only she could stand taller, if only she didn't need to climb on things to reach, if only she had been able to sleep last night under all Mikey’s whimpers and Denny kicking the wall they share and the hisses of whore, your mum’s a dirty whore reverberating through her head.

She’s swaying, bouncing Mikey up and down, up and down, and then she’s swaying too far. Too far to the left, too far to correct, and before she knows it, gravity’s got her in a headlock. She pitches sideways, the chair skidding out from under her with a squeal on linoleum, and Mikey is already bawling. Even before her stirring arm yanks the pot. Even before the water sloshes over, all bubbles and steam and Jamie distantly realizes she is shrieking. Her right shoulder comes up in a protective shroud around her little brother, taking as much of the splash as she can stand, and her shirt is pasted to her skin, pasted and bubbling and Jamie hadn’t known anything in the whole world could hurt as much as listening to Mikey screech from against her chest.

“Just a mistake,” she says, yawning in a dimly-lit hotel room. “Just a mistake that a little kid makes on too little sleep and too much responsibility. It’s okay.”

Dani, fingers tracing the edges of raised skin, watches her. Jamie’s head is turned away, her body tucked into the space where Dani suspects she’s always sort of been waiting for someone to lay. Jamie is bunched up tight in the too-high AC, her knees pulled up to her chest, her hand holding gently to the arm Dani has draped loosely over her waist. She feels small in Dani’s arms, which is strange, because Jamie always feels like she takes up so much space in the world. Brass bells on her laugh, brass tacks in her smile, walking like she was told one too many times to sit down and her only response was to flash the finger.

Dani sometimes wishes she could walk like Jamie does. Breathe like Jamie does. The closest she comes to it are nights like this, pressed close in a bed barely bigger than a twin, Jamie speaking slowly, tiredly, to the opposite wall.

“You protected him,” Dani says softly. She doesn’t so much like the feel of the scar under the pad of her finger as she does the sensation of Jamie breathing beneath her hand. Jamie, exhausted from a long day on the road, still pressing backward into her like she can never get close enough.

“Had to,” Jamie says sleepily. “Was so little.”

Dani gets that, understands what it is to hold something small and precious and innocent, and know the world doesn’t care about any of it. The world doesn’t want to keep small, soft things safe. The world just barrels on, riding its own track, and damned be the rest of them.

She bends her head, presses her lips to the top of Jamie’s shoulder, waits for permission. Jamie exhales, leans her head back.

“Go on, then.”

She smiles against the soft slope of Jamie, of the lightly freckled skin where no secret memories lurk, and drops a kiss right on the edge of the scar. Jamie doesn’t move, doesn’t push her away, just breathes lightly in and out as Dani explores the spot where a child’s error in judgment left a permanent brand. She traces the map of it with soft lips, careful not to do anything that might cause Jamie unease, careful to simply embrace this part of a woman who pretends it was just a pot because it’s easier than admitting the rest. How much guilt she must have carried for years after. How much it had hurt in ways that have nothing to do with searing burns.

Her hand tightens across Jamie’s stomach, pulling her reflexively closer, and Jamie arches her back. Her breath is coming a little quicker now, her laugh deep in the shadows cast by one tiny lamp.

“S’just a scar,” she says, and turns in Dani’s arms to kiss her lips. “Just a scar, Poppins. S’all right.”

A few months go by, Christmas stumbling past with all the grace of a young puppy, the winter months unspooling after in its wake. Eventually, the world begins to wake again. The days warm, the sun casting its light on a new apartment, and Jamie--for the first time since Dani’s known her--is wearing shorts.

“You’ve never told me about this one,” Dani says, seated on the floor of the living room, surrounded by clean laundry. Jamie is on the couch, legs dangling on either side of Dani’s shoulders, a book propped gently against Dani’s hair.

“Which?” she asks absently, flipping the page. Dani shakes the book away, pressing her thumb lightly to a spot high on Jamie’s right inner thigh. Jamie sucks in a showy breath. “Gettin’ a bit handsy there for all that laundry, Poppins.”

“One,” Dani says, “you can get down here and help me fold. Or two, you can tell me about this one.”

Jamie tosses the book aside, leaning over to look. “Ah. That. Was just a bad jump.”

Dani can tell right away that this is like the burn, that nothing with Jamie’s past was ever just anything. She rests her head against Jamie’s knee, gazing up at her, waiting.

Jamie doesn’t advertise it or anything, doesn’t think anyone really needs to know, but she’s always been a good runner. Had to be, when she was little, when the other kids were big and strong and the only thing standing between her and a busted lip was to take off like the wind at the first sight of them. Had to be even more in foster care, when quick thinking and quicker legs were maybe the only chance she had at a peaceful evening.

She’s not much to look at, seventeen and gangly, hips still figuring themselves out and legs prone to tangling when she’s tired. But, oh, can Jamie run.

She’s running now, in fact. Running like all the world’s vices have her number and are ringing her up, and it feels good to move like this. Arms pumping, chest expanding and contracting around heaving breaths, eyes wild. A woman dives out of her way, almost upending her shopping cart, and Jamie laughs like she’s got the breath to spare.

It would all be better, maybe, if she didn’t have the goddamn police on her tail.

If she didn’t have a rather damning piece of fine silver tucked up under her shirt.

If she could be sure why she was doing this in the first place.

But no matter. No worries at all. It’s just pavement beneath her battered old work boots, just the breeze tearing at her hair and the dirty glares of complete strangers, and Jamie thinks, Yeah, you wish you could move like this. You wish you had the fucking freedom.

Hands, catching at her jacket tails. Big hands, broad-palmed and nasty, and if they close over anything that counts, she knows she’s done for. Knows this is the price of living free: sometimes, you’re free to make choices that get you run down. Not that she cares. Not that she minds it in the least. So long as she can run like this, Jamie figures she can go just about goddamn anywhere.

She shrugs the groping hands away, hears one of the uniformed men swear as she bolts left down an alley. She knows this street like the back of her hand, knows if she can just get to the end and up over the gate, she’s home free. The cops are older, bigger, slower to swing around such a tight corner, and Jamie’s leap takes her halfway up the chain link before she even has to start her mad scramble.

She’s all seeking hands and desperate boots, gasping around the burn in her lungs where a fresh smoking habit is not doing her endurance any favors, and she’s laughing still. Even as she goes over, even as she feels something barbed catch along her inner thigh and tear, she’s laughing. Blood, spilling hot down the leg of her jeans, soaking black into the faded denim. Still, she throws her head back and brays insane laughter toward the sun.

She’s still laughing when she rounds the corner and slams straight into the barrel chest of a beat cop. Not the grabby one; he’s still puffing his way over the fence behind her. This one has mean eyes and a shark’s grin, and when his hand closes over her forearm, all the laughter seventeen years can produce goes rotten in her chest.

“That,” the cop says, “doesn’t belong to you.”

Jamie, lungs heaving, silver hot against her belly, feels the shredded skin of her thigh pull tight, and winces.

“Went in not long after,” she says, shrugging and resting a hand lightly atop Dani’s hair. “Stayed in nearly five years.”

She says it like everything’s okay, like it doesn’t hurt to remember a teenage girl who felt her only recourse from the world was to steal from it. Dani shifts, pulling Jamie’s leg higher on her shoulder, and kisses the jagged remnants of the day Jamie saw her freedom stuffed into a cage.

“Honest,” Jamie breathes, watching her with eyes gone dark with some mix of desire and memory. “It didn’t even hurt all that much.”

She’s lying, Dani can tell; Jamie’s a terrible liar, so bad at it that she rarely bothers. She holds Jamie’s gaze, feels the uncomfortably sharp edge of the scar against the soft skin of her lower lip. Jamie’s brow pulls like she’s warding off something dangerously akin to shame.

“I did it because,” she says, and Dani kisses the spot a little harder, shifting to her knees on the carpet. Jamie swallows hard, leaning back against the cushions. “Dani, I was...”

Don’t, Dani thinks. Don’t say my name like you’re confessing something. She presses her face against the hot skin of Jamie’s thigh, tries to imagine being young and desperate and foolish. It isn’t so hard to do.

“You were just a kid,” she says, muffled. Jamie rests a hand lightly on the back of her head, giving her permission. “Just a kid running from so much.”

“It was stupid,” Jamie says thickly. “I was--”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dani says, so fiercely she surprises herself. “Doesn’t matter who you were at seventeen, Jamie. Do you have any idea how stupid I was at seventeen?”

They could go back and forth all day--Jamie’s mistakes stripping her of five years of freedom, Dani’s nearly stripping her of a lifetime. They could, but Jamie is looking at her with such love in her eyes that Dani knows it isn’t the time. It just doesn’t matter, not as much as this place and Jamie’s smile and knowing they're both who they need to be for one another, regardless of the past.

Her hands are moving toward the zipper of Jamie’s shorts, her mouth light and gentle on Jamie’s skin, and they don’t talk about the scar again. Even with Jamie moving her hips restlessly, even with Dani’s tongue teasing and tasting, even as Jamie grasps her by the hair and makes the most wonderful sounds above her, Dani keeps her thumb pressed gently into that spot. Reclaiming it, in a way. Giving Jamie a dose of what it feels like to fly, to forget all her mistakes, to know only what it is to be loved.

She likes to think she knows Jamie’s body pretty well by the time she finds the third scar. They’ve been together three years--three years of blessed, shocking serenity, and Dani feels good. Has felt good for so long, in fact, she’s almost forgotten anything else.

That always feels a little like rattling the bars of some enormous cage, like taunting something huge and bestial she still can’t make out among the trees. Still. It’s no less true.

They’re in the kitchen, of all places, when she notices it. Jamie’s shirt has ridden up as she stretches to retrieve a plate from the cupboard, and there--just under the strap of her bra--a mark Dani’s never really registered before along her ribs. It’s a small thing, a puckered spot smaller than the nail on her pinky.

“What’s that from?”

Jamie twists awkwardly, trying to look under her raised arm. “Ah...bit of a mishap with a sharp implement.”

“At the shop?” Dani frowns, trying to imagine what kind of barbed plant it would take to skewer Jamie in such a way. Trying, too, to imagine what would keep Jamie from sheepishly showing her the same night, allowing Dani to patch her with rubbing alcohol, bandages, a long kiss.

“Uh, no, actually. Inside.” Plate recovered, Jamie drops back down and tries to sidle around Dani toward the stove. Dani raises an eyebrow.

“Inside like in prison?”

“Just about the only place I can think of gets described as such,” Jamie says lightly. Dani jabs her gently in the shoulder.

“So, how’d this one happen?”

“Accidentally.”

Her voice is too light. She’s doing a little dance back and forth, trying to pass Dani, who finally relents.

“You got accidentally stabbed. In prison.”

Jamie sighs. “I suppose you’ll want this tale, too, mm?”

Dani gives her a look, half-exasperation, half-deeply entertained. A well, yes, Jamie, if it isn’t too much hassle to clarify the time you got shanked in prison look. She hadn’t even known she had a look like that, but bless Jamie: always teaching her new things about herself.

It’s not as bad as it seemed at first, Jamie learns quickly. Prison isn’t a picnic by any stretch, but for the most part, the other women leave her be. Maybe it’s something about the way she walks, a trick picked up before she was even into her teens: a good healthy swagger keeps at least the lowest-tier assholes at bay. Walk like you know what you’re doing, walk like you own the place, people are often less likely to take interest. Self-preservation’s a hell of a thing, especially in a place like this.

She doesn’t make friends, exactly, and maybe that’s for the best. The last friends Jamie made all had too-pretty eyes, too-quick smiles, hands that could produce a knife or the wallet out of your pocket with equal glee. She’d fallen in with them in all the wrong ways, these girls who knew too much of the world and were all too willing to share it with a gutter rat who kissed like it was the only thing worth doing, so long as no one went talking about it later.

Prison feels like that life magnified to its highest order. Still some pretty eyes, still some too-quick smiles in here, but no one Jamie feels secure even chatting up for long. Everybody in here is in for a reason. Some reasons less justifiable than others, maybe, but still.

Still, there is one girl. Jamie’s been in for maybe two years, maybe three--gets hard to keep track, after a while--when this one arrives. Fresh meat, as the worst of the women say. Walk says she’s been around the block, but Jamie’s fair certain she can’t be older than Jamie herself was upon arrival. Just a kid.

Kids make bad choices sometimes, she knows better than anyone. It isn’t her problem.

Even so, she finds herself trailing along in the kid’s wake. Keeping an eye out. Kids who walk like that sometimes get skipped over--Jamie did, after all, but Jamie also knew when to say when. Head up, mouth shut. The back half of that plan is crucial to survival.

This kid doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. Every time Jamie comes around a corner, it seems like she’s walking in on another bag of bullshit. The kid, always picking fights with women bigger, or crueler, or more capable than she is. By the time Jamie realizes it, she’s taken to talking these women down. An extra pack of cigarettes in exchange for letting the girl live to see another day. A shift in the garden traded for a shift doing laundry. The women grudgingly accept Jamie as one of the level-headed among them, even if they don’t particularly love her for it.

Not my problem, Jamie thinks each time she sees the girl raise hackles, and each time, she finds herself making it her problem anyway. Stupid. But maybe if she’d had someone in her corner, someone watching her back...

She’s been cleaning up after this kid’s messes for about three weeks when it happens. Jamie’s just minding her business, just walking around the yard, and suddenly...there’s pain. A weird, blazing, hooked-talon pain radiating up through her side.

Pain, and the bared teeth of a teenage girl.

“You keep the fuck out of my business,” she hisses, brandishing the sharpened bit of what Jamie’s pretty sure was once a toothbrush. “Hear me? Fuck out of it.”

Jamie, hand clapped around a small puncture in her jumpsuit, pulls her palm away streaked with red. She raises her eyebrows. “Clear as day.”

She doesn’t see the girl again. Doesn’t question it. Can’t bring herself to wonder if it was a transfer or something else altogether. All Jamie knows is, this is what comes of sticking your nose into other people’s shit.

“Wasn’t my finest hour,” she says, checking that the chicken in the oven isn’t actually on fire. “Just left me feeling dumb, really. Imagine getting poked by a goddamn toothbrush.”

“You said it was an accident,” Dani points out. Jamie sighs, opens the fridge, closes it again.

“It was. Wasn’t meant for me, not really. I just happened to be there. She would’ve stuck anyone silly enough to step in her path.”

There’s a look in Jamie’s eyes Dani isn’t sure she’s seen before. Something tired and responsible, though not exactly guilty. She moves closer, carefully sliding Jamie’s shirt up until the tiny scar is lit by the overhead lamp, gleaming pink against Jamie’s pale skin.

“I knew better,” Jamie sighs, leaning her hip against the counter as Dani gently touches just beneath the scar. “Saw myself in her, y’know? Same caged-animal desperation. Same darkness. And I didn’t think I could save her or anything so...fucking noble, but I thought maybe she just needed a little time.”

Time, thinks Dani, right. The one thing none of them are ensured enough of.

“Never tried anything like it again,” Jamie says, taking Dani’s hand from her ribs and kissing her knuckles. “Never saw the use. I was in the garden by then, and actually giving therapy its due, and by the time I was up for anything like real human connection, I was out. Probably for the best, though. Imagine if she’d gone for my face.”

She’s teasing, trying to pull the sympathy from Dani’s frown and replace it with something brighter. Dani lets her. There’s little point in dwelling on a scar Jamie has already put to bed, after all.

“It was good of you,” she says before letting the subject drop. “To try.”

“Maybe,” Jamie says softly. Dani cradles her face in both hands, willing her to believe it. A small smile touches Jamie’s lips.

“Speaking of trying,” she says, giving Dani a light kiss on the cheek. “Think the bird’s burnin’.”

The fourth scar, Dani doesn’t feel too terrible about missing. She only finds it by accident one night, sitting on the side of the tub while Jamie soaks off a long day, and only then because her hands are busy massaging Jamie’s scalp.

“Hey,” she says softly, so as not to shatter a mood built of lit candles and quiet music. Jamie leans her head back, questioning. “There’s something here...”

“Nothing big,” Jamie says, in that tone of voice that says she knows Dani will want to hear anyway. She sighs, patting gently at the foam of bubbles climbing the sides of the tub. “Just another tale of my misguided heroism...”

Dani laughs. “For someone who says she doesn’t care, you sure do get into a lot of hero-shaped situations.”

“Takes one to know one,” Jamie teases, and some of the light fades from Dani’s grin. She doesn’t want to talk about that. Doesn’t want to think about it much. A night a thousand years ago in a lake a million miles away, and though she can feel it all creeping in at the edges, she thinks there’s still time to turn her head.

“Anyway,” Jamie adds in a slightly louder tone. “Anyway, how are you only just finding this now? With all the times you’ve pulled my hair...”

Her hand is creeping toward Dani’s knee, armed with a thin trail of bubbles. Dani shakes her head.

“After,” she says, “you tell me the story.”

Jamie moves into the little flat above the only pub in Bly and thinks, Right. Home. The way a person who’s never really had a home does, she’ll reflect later. When you think a home is just four walls and a bit of furniture, a place to lay your head. At the time, in this moment, it feels better than anything she's ever had.

She's already decided how the next year--maybe five, maybe ten, maybe the rest of what she’s got ahead of her--will look. Nothing complicated. Nothing big, or heavy, or loud. No pretty eyes. No quick smiles. No one to tell her they’ll love her if only she’d do this one little thing for them, no one to tell her they’ll kiss her if only she can keep her mouth shut about it afterward.

Just this, she decides, looking at the tiny flat with its tiny sink and tiny bathroom and tiny spot where she’s just managed to wedge a bed. Just this, and the job. Don’t need much else to get by.

It’s a good job, one she was unaccountably lucky to snag so soon out of prison. There’s so much green, she can feel her head spin to look at it all, and knows there is fortune in being asked to care for such an expanse of life. Five years ago, she doesn’t know that she could have done it. Doesn’t know if she could have been trusted. These days, she can’t imagine anything better.

A good job at a great old manor, flowers as far as the eye can see, and this little flat. She’s doing all right for herself, Jamie. She’s doing just fine.

Though the pub is a bit much some nights.

She usually comes straight home after work, uninterested in playing nice with the very specific breed born into Bly. There are some, she supposes, who are pleasant enough, but the grand majority remind her of watching her father climb into and out of a coal mine. They have the same blank expressions, the same vapid smiles, the same shape of mouth that so easily tends toward words like whore, whore, your mum’s a--

Nah. Better keeping to herself, really.

Every so often, though, despite the noise and the company, she treats herself to a drink. Just one, usually alone at a corner table or the far edge of the bar. At first, there were men who tried to get involved, men who thankfully got the message--or if not the message, at least one similarly postmarked not interested--fairly quickly. Good for everyone. Jamie’s patience is only so thin, and there is something deeply alluring about a sharp fork on a bad night.

She’s thinking about this on the night one of these men--one she remembers fairly well from a couple of weeks back, dark hair and patchy beard and bad aftershave--takes it upon himself to visit the backside of a woman’s skirt. His hand is trembling, a whiskey reverb taking the wheel, but it lands exactly where he’s aimed it. The woman, tall and angular and nervous, flinches away.

Jamie casts a quick glance around, reading the room. Everyone saw that. A pub like this, in a town so small; everyone sees everything. And yet, stunningly, no one is moving.

The guy knows it, too. She can see it all over his face, the triumph of having gotten away with a misdemeanor. Did it even happen, if no one calls him on it?

Best not find out, she thinks, and before she’s got a handle on this impulse, this stupid impulse that once got her stabbed in a prison yard, she’s up and moving. Just got out, she reminds herself, even as she’s stepping between the man and his target.

“Lady doesn’t look like she’s having a good time,” she points out. There’s a feral smile on her lips, one she hasn’t entertained in a very long time. Never ended well, nights that put this smile on like a coat of deepest red.

“Don’t remember asking,” the man sneers. His breath is so stained with alcohol, it nearly sends her reeling. The woman behind her makes a tiny noise.

“We could ask,” Jamie says, faux-brightly. She twists at the waist, just enough to glance at the woman. “You having fun with this pack of shit?”

“Hey,” he snaps. “Bitch. Who the fuck asked--”

She loses her brief struggle with restraint on bitch, her head punching forward into his nose. It hurts, a little. Hurts him worse. He’s staggering back, blood streaming between his fingers when he reaches up. She’s gratified to see he nearly pokes himself in the eye in the process.

“Might wanna,” she adds to the woman with a little nod toward the door, watching as the drunk’s intended prey rabbits on out into the night. It feels good in a way she doesn’t entirely like, listening to the blood sing in her ears. Men like this shouldn’t be allowed in public. Men like this are--

A crashing, tinkling sound, as if from very far away. Jamie’s eyes go dizzy, her hand fumbling for purchase on the bar to stay upright. Glass rains down out of her hair as she gives her head a small, aggrieved shake.

A bottle. This fucker has a bottle--well, what remains of it after introducing its length to her skull--in hand, his eyes wild. Jamie stares at him with gray disbelief, blood trickling down the back of her neck.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” she says thinly, just getting the words out before another man throws himself at the first. Then, a woman, apparently deciding the night has been too dull to stomach. And her friends. Before Jamie knows what’s going on, the world has devolved into the very particular chaos of a bar brawl, people slipping and screaming and slapping at each other with aplomb.

Right, she thinks distantly, too aware of the blood pooling sticky under her collar. Head injury. Maybe time to...

She’s back upstairs, the door double-locked behind her, before anyone notices. Briefly, while pressing a damp cloth to the back of her head and gazing at her nerve-wrackingly gray pallor in the mirror, Jamie considers calling Lord Wingrave and telling him she needs tomorrow off. Imagines how he’d sound, clipped and unyielding, over the phone line.

Of course, she won’t do it. Of course not. This job is important. This flat is important. Everything else?

Everything else is just a reminder of why she’s best left to her own devices.

“So, anyway,” Jamie says, absently patting a foam of bubbles into a small tower. “That’s why I didn’t spend much time in that little pub. If you were curious.”

“Jesus.” Dani can’t quite find something more coherent. “Jesus, didn’t you press charges?”

“For what?” Jamie looks honestly puzzled. “Small town bar, small town life. It happens.”

“You could’ve been concussed!” Dani says, louder than she means to. “You could’ve gone to sleep and never got back up again!”

Jamie reaches up, touches her cheek gently. “Hey. Poppins. Easy. I’m here. Right here.”

Dani realizes the breath is pounding out of her faster than it’s coming back in, a sure sign that she’s about to tip over the precipice of something dark and exhausting. She leans into Jamie’s hand, squeezes her eyes tight.

“Hey.” Jamie’s sitting up, knees squeaking along the bottom of the bath as she shifts. Water drains over the edge of porcelain, soaking into Dani’s skirt, trickling onto the tile. “Hey. With me, yeah?”

She lets herself be folded into Jamie’s arms, finding balance in each deep breath Jamie draws until Dani is able to match her. Jamie is still sopping wet, slippery, and the most stable thing in the room.

“Still here,” Jamie says against her ear. “Bit battered around the edges, but it’s nothing new, is it? You still like me this way, dented packaging and all?”

“Love you,” Dani corrects in a thin gasp. Jamie squeezes tighter.

“Exactly. That scar? It healed up. Like all the rest. It’s just a memory now. Can’t hurt a fly.”

Dani reaches up, combing searching fingers through Jamie’s hair until she finds the spot again. That strange raised bit she must have touched a hundred times, and only just registered. Someone hit Jamie there. Someone hurt Jamie there.

“I’m all right,” Jamie says, enunciating every word right into her ear. “Save for being a bit chilly. I don’t suppose you can help with that...?”

She’s tickling Dani, moving to kiss her neck with sloppy good humor until Dani finally breaks. Even so, for a moment longer, that image holds: Jamie alone, Jamie holding a cloth to her bleeding scalp, Jamie with tears in her eyes and a decision never to care branded on her heart.

“I love you,” Dani repeats, so forcefully, Jamie pulls back to look at her.

“I know, Dani. I love you, too. Now. Hand me a towel, or get in here with me, I’m cold without you.”

The fifth and final scar, Dani doesn’t have to look for. Jamie shows it off herself, wearing an expression Dani remembers all too well from a panic attack, a shrub not quite big enough to hide behind, a mention of just how many times a day the average Bly groundskeeper bursts into tears.

It’s a bad day, and this is Jamie’s way of making her smile again. Jamie, whose body she knows so well now, whose heart she knows even better, who wears her ring and has barely left her side in days.

It’s a bad day. They’re in bed, one of the last places in the world Dani still feels completely safe. All of the mirrors are gone from this room. The pictures on the walls are strategic in placement, making sure Dani can never catch an accidental glimpse of herself--or not--in their glass. This room, where she sleeps with Jamie each night and wakes to Jamie each morning, is a bastion against the monsters.

“Here,” Jamie says. She is, as Dani prefers her, without pants, hair up in a messy tangle, gold band gleaming on her finger. She is also, baffling Dani, holding up the bottom of her left foot.

“What...?”

“This,” Jamie says, “may be the final frontier.”

“Your...foot,” Dani replies slowly, wondering if the increasing bad spots are taking a toll on her memory. Maybe this is a conversation that would make sense, if only she hadn’t spent so much of yesterday in a daze.

“My foot,” Jamie says confidently. “More specifically: this.”

She’s pointing to a spot about midway down the sole of her foot, a spot Dani only just now can see is actually a small three-pronged scar. She frowns.

“What happened there?”

She’s a bit afraid to ask, if she’s honest. Jamie has told her so many stories over the years, and they’ve gotten progressively more intense, progressively more violent. She's not sure her heart could take it if Jamie were to tell her this was from some unexpectedly grievous injury.

“You sure you want to know?” Jamie asks gravely. “It’s quite the story. I mean, really, this is among my best. I’ve saved it just for a night like this one.”

Her mouth is somber, but her eyes are dancing. Dani feels herself smile, just a little.

“Tell me,” she says, settling her head in Jamie’s lap.

Jamie has been working for the Wingrave family for a couple of years, and it’s been better--and worse--than she could have imagined. The land is sprawling and fertile, incredibly eager to grow whatever she plants. Her rose gardens--and they are her gardens, make no mistake--are thriving. Sometimes, she thinks they’re doing better even than the human residents of Bly Manor.

It’s been a rough couple of years, even with the fulfilling nature of the work. She’s met people she can’t help regarding with a deep affection bordering on family: Hannah, and Owen, and Rebecca, and the kids. She’s met some she doesn’t get on with so well: namely, that prick Peter Quint. And things have happened, things no one could guess at or control. Lord and Lady Wingrave, once so kind and generous to her, are gone. Rebecca is gone, too, in a fresher sense. Jamie’s starting to think letting any of these people in was a mistake. People have a way of vanishing.

The plants, though. The plants are lush and green and loving. It’s silly, but Jamie thinks they believe in her more than anyone else ever has.

This middle ground between grieving people and loving the gardens of Bly is where she’s grown most comfortable, and it is that comfort she blames for being surprised when things change one sunny day.

She’s been puttering around the greenhouse for a couple of hours, glad to have the time away from prying eyes and whispering children. Flora and Miles--Flora more than Miles, lately--are charming, even wonderful, for kids, but they’re also under the age of thirteen. Jamie rarely knows what to do with kids that small, save for tossing them over her shoulder and teasing them mercilessly. They make her think of days long gone, of brothers not seen in two decades, and it scratches a strange, painful itch she doesn’t like thinking about.

So, the greenhouse. Quiet, off-set from the main property, a nice place to prepare pots and experiment with seeds. She likes it out here better than anywhere, except maybe the roses.

She especially likes how no one visits her out here. Not even Hannah or Owen, who know her better than most, and therefore understand a person’s need for solitude. No one comes out here at all--which is why, when she raises her eyes and spots a figure passing the window, she almost shouts with surprise.

Blonde, she registers. Blonde, and a sweater in some pastel off-shade of purple, and--

Who the hell...

She’s drifting toward the door, she realizes only when her legs carry her through and out onto the lawn. The woman is walking with Flora, talking to her in a voice that does not carry out to Jamie. The new au pair, she realizes. Rebecca’s replacement. Of course; they were bound to find one eventually.

And something about this one...

She isn’t looking where she’s going. It’s a rookie mistake, especially out here where the ground slopes and there are as many holes dug by rabbits as by Jamie’s own hand, and while she’s gazing after the blonde woman’s retreating form--

--her foot comes down on the upturned teeth of a fallen rake.

The breath whistles out of her through clenched teeth, pain shooting up through the bottom of her foot in radial bursts. She hops for a second, grabbing hold of the greenhouse wall, and grasps her ankle for a better look.

“Son of a,” she hisses. These boots were good, once, but good only lasts so long on a fresh-out-of-prison budget. Three of the four teeth she managed to land on have punched straight through the base of the shoe and into her skin.

“Jesus,” she mutters in mild disbelief. Years without injury on this property, and the first time she deals herself a good one, it’s because she was mooning after some woman she’s never even seen before, Jesus fucking wept.

At least she’s way out here, all on her own. At least there are bandages and a slightly less beloved pair of boots to change into. No one ever has to be the wiser.

“You see?” Jamie makes a grand gesture, wiggling her toes. “My most glorious story yet.”

Dani sits up, mouth working, unable to land on any one expression. “Are...did that really happen?”

“Did I step on a rake like a true goddamn idiot because I’d just caught my first glimpse of one Dani Clayton, you mean?”

“Yes,” Dani says, her throat suddenly dry. Her eyes are itching, tears pulling at the corners. Jamie smiles fondly.

“I did. But I recovered myself marvelously. Bet you didn’t even notice the limp.”

“You weren’t limping,” Dani recalls, remembering in a hot rush how Jamie had strolled into the kitchen that afternoon. She’d looked so at home, so confident. Dani had felt instantly, wildly, as though they’d already done this once before. Like taking a test to which she had all of the answers.

“I was not,” Jamie confirms. “Because I’d already spotted you once and made a fool of myself, and I was not about to pull that trick off again. Did you think I was cool?”

“The coolest,” Dani says, unable to stop the tears from spilling over onto her smile. Jamie pulls her close, kissing her forehead, rubbing comforting shapes into her back.

“Then mission very much accomplished. Want you to know, though, it did hurt like a--”

“Why are you telling me now?” Dani asks from against her chest. Jamie pauses.

“Why am I telling you my deepest, most embarrassing secret?”

Dani nods, sniffling a little. Jamie thinks on it.

“Because,” she says at last, reaching down to tip a finger under Dani’s chin until their eyes meet. “There are some people you don’t want to keep anything from. Some people who have earned rights to every story in your book. That one? That scar? No one knows about that. Just me. And now you.”

It means more than Dani could possibly explain. More than she could clarify, even to herself. Jamie, seeming to understand the hugeness of such a small moment, pulls her close again, kissing her with all the weight of thirteen years finally at home.

Jamie’s body is a map of scars, she thinks sometimes. A map of all the strange little accidents and intricacies of a human experience. Things that have gone wrong, so wrong, in her life as to leave a permanent mark in their wake. They’re on her back, her thigh, her side, her scalp, her foot. A road map of a life lived fully, if not always precisely well.

None, though. None could match this one.

She won’t show it off to anyone. Won’t have an ugly raised bit of flesh where the wound sealed over and made itself whole enough to carry again. Won’t have a cute story of clumsiness or a vicious tale of chivalry to back it up. This kind of scar, she thinks, is different in a way no one could understand unless they bear its ilk themselves.

The letter stays by the bed. Every night, before completing the ritual of Dani’s shirt, Dani’s pillow, Dani’s reflection refusing to show itself in the bath, Jamie picks it up. She had it memorized by the end of the first night back here, alone, pressing as close to Dani’s side of the bed as she’d dared. One night, spent back in their bed with all its pillows and blankets and emptiness.

And then, never again. She reads here, sometimes, remembering the way Dani would lean back against the headboard and watch old movies. She’ll do paperwork among sheets where Dani once lay, sprawled naked and happily asleep. She makes the bed each day as though it had been slept in the night before, rumpling the blankets a little before leaving the apartment so she’ll have something to fix when evening comes around again.

But she doesn’t sleep here. Not without Dani. Not ever.

She stays, instead, on the couch. Turns it to face the front door, with the lock that always seemed to stick with Dani’s key in it, and turned smooth as butter for Jamie. She props that door open with one of her oldest shoes, careless of whether it will still be there in the morning. Dani’s shoes, the heels she hated and the flats she wore everywhere and the sneakers that had started off Jamie’s and been slowly co-opted onto Dani’s side of the closet, stay safely tucked away. If one of those went missing, the price of some desperate thief in the night, Jamie suspects she’d lose her mind trying to track it down.

She stays on the couch, door open just a crack, bathtub full. That first night, she’d thought about just laying down in that bath and letting herself fall asleep. A bad thought. A thought running contrary to Dani’s final word on the subject. That Jamie was, above all else, to keep going without her. That she believed with her whole heart that this was the right answer. That she’d see Jamie again, and Jamie would be able to tell her off then, tell her off, and kiss her blind, and love her endlessly.

But first: this one thing. This one last, hopeful thing. To keep living. To keep going.

The worst thing, Jamie thinks each night, laying with pillows behind her back and her eyes on the door, she’s ever asked of me. Maybe the only bad thing Dani has ever asked of her in almost fifteen years. Dani was never cruel, not once, but sometimes Jamie is still angry with her for this much. For doing exactly the one thing she knew Jamie could not deny her. For asking this kind of oath.

She can’t show this kind of scar to friends at parties, can’t find the words to spin out a pretty story about how it mapped its way onto her body. All she can do is sleep with it each night. Wake with it each morning. Walk with it each day. Sleep. Wake. Walk. And know, deep down, that there is nothing like a scar left by someone like Dani.

Nothing in the world like it.

Sometimes, with her eyes squeezed shut and one of Dani’s shirts against her skin, she thinks she can still feel a hand tracing the spot on her back, that spot just under her shoulder where a small girl once dragged a boiling pot off a lit burner. Sometimes, if she closes her eyes hard enough, if she lets herself drift through the black dots behind her eyelids, she imagines slim fingers finding the raised edges, mapping them with such care, such wondering love.

She wishes Dani could ask after this one, too. She wishes more than anything she could turn a corner and there Dani would be, asking how she missed another one, how she possibly could have one more story to unburden. How would I even explain it, she wonders. How could I even tell this kind of tale?

Maybe she’ll work it out, someday. Maybe. She can’t imagine anyone wanting to hear it. Can��t imagine anyone understanding the kind of print, the kind of wound, the kind of sear one person leaves on another when they’re gone for good. Maybe someday. Maybe Owen would, or Henry. Maybe she could...

But not now. Not yet. The wound is still open, still bleeding, and every day, she finds something new to pick at its edges. A journal Dani bought and only wrote in three times. A sock lost under the couch on laundry day. A package of those silly hair ties Dani liked, the ones Jamie liked to pull gently from her hair until it tumbled in waves around her shoulders.

The place still smells of her. Jamie knows that will change, is nearly wild with horror at the idea of it. She goes to the shop in a daze one day, impulse-buys an entire cart of Dani’s shampoo. Her brand of deodorant. Her perfume, used only on special occasions like birthdays and engagement dinners and when she just wanted to get Jamie into bed for the hell of it.

This is what a scar does, Jamie thinks, staring fixedly into a mirror that stubbornly refuses to show her blonde hair and a wry little grin. This is what a scar is. One that sits in your chest. One that sits here, and tears itself back open every time you think you’re starting to heal. It picks at you. It owns you.

A story for another time, maybe. Another night, maybe.

Right now, Dani is a scar Jamie couldn’t share even if she wanted to. Dani is hers alone to carry.

She sleeps, and she dreams, and from somewhere far, far away, she imagines Dani pressing a kiss against her heart.

#the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #fanfiction #dani x jamie #jamie x dani #anyway this is also all karatam's fault so go yell at her for making it happen #I hope you're pleased with yourself. it certainly acted as a great distraction from this extremely stressful day #and now I'm a mess so you're welcome #also I'm sorry in advance to anyone currently in class

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chaseatinydream · 4 years ago

Text

sleazy seonghwa who sneezes (i) || p.sh (atz)

➳ pairing: reader x park seonghwa (ateez)

➳ word count: 7146

➳ genre: badboy au; fluff

➳ synopsis: by the intervention of fate (namely Choi San), you see a different side to the school’s resident bad boy that you weren’t aware existed.

>>>

Park Seonghwa is, decidedly, what most of the school population would call a bad boy.

With his jet black lip piercing and dyed blonde hair that is clearly in rebellion against every dress code in school, he’s exactly the sort of boy your parents warn you against. The black leather jacket he wears in place of his uniform tie and blazer doesn’t really help his image at all, and you’re sure you’ve seen him step into school at precisely twelve in the afternoon from the window of your classroom, long after lessons have started.

You’ve known Seonghwa for a long time, since elementary school, back in the days when his hair was still its natural shade of soft ebony and his lips curved up in a soft smile instead of the thin, sharp line it does now. With silent eyes you’ve observed him over the years, watching as the death of his mother struck him as hard as a speeding car and doing a million times the damage, witnessing his transformation from the boy with the cute, candy like smile to the young man with hard, cold eyes and even steelier fists.

A few years, your heart broke for him as you watched him turn away from the light and walk into the shadows without a backwards glance, casting his life away into a hopeless abyss. But as time passed, the memory of that young, lost boy reaching out for his mother’s hand faded, replaced by bruised and bleeding knuckles, split lips and cold eyes.

You had stopped keeping track of how many piercings he’d gotten when you couldn’t count them on your fingers anymore.

Students whisper about him behind closed doors every time he passes them in the corridor, citing unknown sources and rumours about smoking, gang fights, drugs, the usual deal. Girls chatter mindlessly about his good looks, he’s strikingly handsome, you have to admit, but his arctic gaze is enough to keep them at least five feet away. No one dares to cross him, not even the teachers and school authority, and honestly, it’s a miracle he’s still even in this school.

He’s part of a circle of friends the school calls ATEEZ. Their leader, Kim Hongjoong, has kept his mullet for the last three years of high school, completely ignoring the repeated warnings that the school gives him, because who dares to touch him anyway as the eldest son of one of the richest men in Korea? Some you know by face, some by name, but you’ve never met, much less talked to any of them before. Instead, you keep your distance, not wanting to be mixed up in their troubles when they come roaring into school with jet black motorbikes, smirks and bruised fists.

It’s been exactly six years since Seonghwa’s mother passed, and you’re walking to school in the morning. Your earbuds are plugged in, the radio’s on and you’re just listening mindlessly to anything that comes over the station, scrolling through your Instagram feed. Oh. San is considering adopting his third stray cat, the ‘vote yes or no’ option beneath his story.

You click ‘no’, your best friend already has two stray cats and a Shiba Inu in his house, and Shiber is terrified of the felines. It’s a miracle how Shiber even got used to Darong and Puchi, but you doubt that he’ll get used to yet another stray invading his personal territory.

Turning and entering the back gate, you’re stepping across the grounds to your classroom block when your phone suddenly pings with a flurry notifications.

It can only be one person.

[Green Mountain] how could u not let me adopt yobu hes gonna be so sad u know TT

[Green Mountain] retribution on you and your kids and your grandkids and your great grandkids

[Green Mountain] why are we even friends

You roll your eyes, feet crunching on the dry leaves under the soles of your shoes as you type out a reply.

[You] What’s the point of asking for my opinion if you’ve already named him and adopted him San

You’re nearing the back of the school building when you hear a sniffing sound. You pause in your tracks for a moment, wondering if someone is crying from the stress of the exams that are coming in a week, before a soft achoo reaches your ears.

You barely have time to be surprised before the little sneeze is followed by a rapid series of more, each sounding more adorable to your ears than the ones before. There’s another sniffle and a sneeze, and you can’t help your lips curving up in a smile. Perhaps spending too much time around San has made you soft, but you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

You fish out a handkerchief from your pocket, since it’s the first day of the week, you haven’t used it yet. The person behind the noise must have gotten a cold from the chilly autumn weather, so you think they might appreciate the gesture. Stepping up the stairs to your classroom block, you turn the corner around the building with your handkerchief outstretched and a gentle smile already in place.

“Hey, I heard you were sneezing so I thought you might want this...” Your voice trails off as your eyes widen, seeing the infamous Park Seonghwa leaning against the wall, hand over his mouth and nose, your own shock mirrored on his face.

For a moment, the two of you simply stare at each other in stunned silence.

You’ve always admired him in the same way people appreciate statues in art museums, from afar, studying each and every feature but never quite understanding the full story behind the carved jawline, the sculpted nose, the mysterious dark eyes. But this is the first time you’re seeing him up close in the dappled morning rays, someone so far away and untouchable, and you see the flaws that mar what you had once thought was near perfect skin, a bruise at the corner of his mouth, a scrape on his cheekbone, the white scar across his left eyebrow.

His handsome features pinch into a wary scowl when he sees you, straightening up his originally relaxed position against the wall. You’re a little intimidated by his height as he towers over you by at least a head, giving you a dark glare. “Get out of my sight. I don’t need your help-” The words are cut off by a massive sneeze that sends him burying his face in his hands, before he starts hacking furiously, alternating between adorable sneezes and baby-like coughs.

A snort escapes you before you can stop it and he actually pauses to give you a murderous look, right before he goes back to sneezing.

Oh my god, you think in your panic induced haze, he’s going to kill you to stop rumours of his childlike sneeze from spreading around the school.

You fight down the urge to laugh in this terrifying situation, instead focusing on the predicament you’re in. You’re trapped between a rock and a hard place, right before a person with one of the most feared and sordid reputations in the entire school. Give him the handkerchief and risk his anger, or leave without lending him a hand and still perhaps bring his wrath down upon you?

In the end, you simply do what you had set out to do in the first place.

“Here!” You practically shout in his face, trying to muster as much courage as possible so your voice doesn’t tremble, but it betrays you anyway in spite of your efforts. Thrusting the white handkerchief into his hands, you do some sort of awkward bow before the idea can run through your mind fully and your face turns tomato red in embarrassment. “I hope you get better soon!”

And then you spin on your heel and dash into the classroom block before you can die from shame of it all.

“Hey, wait-” Seonghwa calls after you, but you’re already gone, leaving nothing but your white handkerchief in his hand.

“You’re late today.” San remarks in a surprised voice when you slide into the seat next to his, panting for air from your little dash to class.

“I was lending someone a handkerchief. And you’re early.” You turn to the window, making a big show of searching the sky. “I don’t see any pigs, falling or flying… so I must be dreaming.”

“Well, I had to come early to school so my chauffeur could fetch Yobu back to the mansion for me.” Your best friend remarks with a shrug, and a silly, goofy smile crosses his face for a moment at the thought of the adorable one eared ragdoll cat. “I couldn’t leave him waiting here in the cold.”

“I swear the reason all these cats relate so much to you is because of this.” You tug at the thick leather choker resting against his throat, fingers brushing the cool metal of the round, silver studs on it. “If we just add a bell to this, you might as well be an actual cat, Sanie.”

Your best friend merely grins, cocking his head to the side as he looks at you expectantly. “And I suppose that’s…?”

Laughing, you pull a small cardboard box from your school bag, opening it and presenting it to San proudly. It’s a small silver bell, one that reminds you of one on a cat’s collar. The moment you had laid eyes on it at the mall, you had known it would be perfect for him. You gesture for his arm and he stretches it out to you with an amused smile on his face, your fingers fiddling with the friendship bracelet on his wrist. Undoing the clasp, you slide the silver piece onto the bracelet with nimble fingers where it rests next to the Siamese cat charm, the bell making a soft jingling sound.

“Ooh, pretty!” San inspects it with shining eyes, smiling broadly at you. He then takes out his own box, a red jewelry affair with the name of some expensive brand stamped on the lid in bright silver. Your breath catches in your throat as you catch a glimpse of it, the box is probably worth more than the entire charm you bought San.

“Sanie, you know I don’t like it when you buy me stuff like that…”

Your best friend pauses in opening the box, mouth turning down in a sad frown as he looks at you with earnest eyes. “But I want to do it for you. You’re my best friend, and I want to spend my money on you to show you how important you are to me.” You waver at his words, heart sinking as you feel like you’re making use of him for his wealth. But you know San is determined, and besides, he’s already bought the charm, so you sigh and try to fix him with a stern gaze.

“This is the last time, alright?”

San’s face cheers up in a split second.

“Alright!” He whoops, putting the charm of a Norwegian Forest Cat on your bracelet. It feels heavy, probably made of silver and custom made to boot. It’s been your tradition for the last two years of school. Every day, on the first day of a new semester, the two of you had promised to buy each other a charm to celebrate your friendship. Somehow, every charm the two of you had bought for you had ended up being some breed of cat, so you suppose that you’ve broken tradition for the first time today by giving him a bell instead. When San fixes the clasp of your bracelet, he grins at you and pats you on the head.

“There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

You kick him in the shin. “I said this is the last time, you goof. Don’t go getting any ideas.”

San pouts at you, shaking his head so that his dark brown hair falls into his eyes, showing off the red streaks in them. Your eyes widen in alarm and smack him on the arm as he lounges back in his chair casually, placing his booted feet on the table. “I thought I told you to get rid of those last week before school started!”

Your best friend whistles cheerily, feigning ignorance. “I promised nothing.”

San, for all the adorableness he holds, is too, part of ATEEZ. A certified bad boy, a definite troublemaker. Everything on him, from the designer white shirt with scrawled designs all over it to the multiple silver piercings in his ears to the striking red coat he has slung over his chair, screams rebel in response to every dress code in existence. San rebels, but he at least does it with style.

On the first day of school when the two of you been assigned to seats next to each other in class, the very first thing he’d done upon meeting you was to rip off his tie and declare to you loudly about how the colour scheme of the tie was absolutely hideous when matched with the shade of the blazer. He had then proceeded to rant to you all about the material of the blazer and the undershirt, and you don’t think you’ve seen him in uniform since that day.

Well, you suppose he knows what he’s talking about, considering that he’s the heir to one of the biggest fashion conglomerates in the country. Besides, you’ve stolen that red coat more times you can count on cold days and it often spends the night over at your house when San makes you wear it home.

“What kind of name for a cat is Yobu, though?” You ask San, shaking your head at him as the teacher walks into the classroom. He simply grins at you, tweaking one of his many earrings with amusement.

“A friend of mine chose it-” He begins to explain excitedly, but then your teacher clears her throat in front of the two of you hesitantly and San’s expression darkens, looking up to glance at her as if she’s a pesky fly he’d like to smack. The teacher’s face drains of colour.

“What is it, Ms Kim?” His voice is dripping with venom and you feel your face flush at his bad attitude. You tug on his ear and he yelps in pain, turning back to pout at you.

“Ow! Why are you bullying me?” San sulks like a little kid and you can’t help but swat at his arm. The teacher, drawing a little courage from seeing San being steamrolled into submission by you, pipes up.

“Mr Choi… you’re not supposed to be sitting there-”

That’s her mistake.

San’s eyes turn glacial as he turns to face her slowly, gazing down his nose at her imperiously, dangerously like a cobra waiting to strike. San isn’t loud and quick to anger like some of his other friends are, but he’s no less dangerous with that vicious, poisonous mind of his. The teacher falls silent immediately, none of the other students willing to help her out lest they get on his bad side.

“I’ve said it at the beginning of term and I’ll say it again.” San enunciates every word slowly and precisely, his dark gaze never wavering from the teacher’s eyes. You can almost imagine it, a monstrous serpent like aura looming behind your best friend, frightening everyone before him into submission. You’ve never been on the receiving end of his gaze, but you hear people describing the experience to be akin to staring down the barrel of a gun. “I’m sitting besides her and no one else. Did you not hear me the first time?”

“Mr Choi, I’m just doing my job-”

“Do. You. Understand.”

His last words are nothing like a question, instead carrying a more mocking tone. The threat is like a loaded gun, the bullet unseen and hidden in the chambers of the weapon, but the finger is already resting on the trigger, eager to fire. Your teacher pales at his words, fingers trembling against her binder.

You feel bad for her, so you gently tug at San’s sleeve, pulling his razor sharp gaze away from your teacher. “Hey, San, I’m not going anywhere. How about you start thinking about ways we can get Shiber to warm up to Yobu when we go over to your house later while I have lessons?”

His face brightens right away, the icy look melting right off like snow in the summer at the thought of Yobu and Shiber playing together. “Of course! Why didn’t I think about that?” Pulling a piece of paper from your bag, he swipes one of the pens off your table and begins jotting down ideas and names of cat treats. His attention off the teacher, the entire classroom heaves a simultaneous sigh of relief.

Your teacher takes five minutes to calm her racing heart before the lesson begins.

Seonghwa sits at the bench at the school gates, waiting for the rest of his friends.

Golden and red leaves spiral through the air, caught and tossed around by the autumn winds as they flutter to the ground like clipped butterfly wings. They fall to the ground, devoid of the green freshness of spring, dead and utterly lifeless. He remembers the limp hand of his mother, her fair skin drenched in crimson lifeblood, the drunk driver having crashed right into the side of his mother’s car as she returned home from buying him supper. She’d died on the spot, right before any the ambulances and paramedics arrived.

His fingers curl around the dry maple leaves, crushing them and scattering them with the wind. He hates the autumn. All it brings is death and pain.

“Hyung!”

He’s pulled from his thoughts and turns around to see three of the five 99’ liners stepping out of the school gates, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. A smile crosses his face briefly. No matter how terrifying of an image he might have to others, he has a soft spot for the rest of the boys in ATEEZ. All of them have stuck together through thick and thin, supporting each other no matter the struggle, Wooyoung through his addiction and Jongho through his fits of violent rage, Hongjoong with his familial conflicts at home and so much more. They’re like family to him, he briefly wonders, before his eyes darken at the thought of his drunken father back in the house they share.

He forces the thought from his mind, instead looking upon his friends’ faces, frowning in confusion.

“Why are you smiling so much, Sanie?”

The boy in question merely grins wider, tucking his hands into his pockets as he dodges a kick Wooyoung aims at him. “Wooyoungie tripped on Mingi’s shoe and fell down the stairs earlier.”

Mingi stifles a laugh at Wooyoung’s flat expression.

The sleeves of San’s white shirt are rolled up, showing the cat charm bracelet dangling from his wrist. The silver bits and bobs usually tinkle and jingle, letting everyone in the area that San is coming, but today, the sound seems to be especially prominent. Seonghwa’s eyes rake over the charms, counting five, six, seven…

He spots a silver cat bell dangling at the end.

“Did you get a new charm, San?” Seonghwa asks, curious and San nods proudly, preening in front of his hyung. The bell jingles once more, as if showing off to Seonghwa.

“She got it for me!” He smiles widely, stuffing his hand back into his pocket. San doesn’t need to say who it is for Seonghwa to know. Aside from ATEEZ, San has no friends… except a mysterious girl that San doesn’t want mixed up in their business.

“Can’t have Wooyoung seducing her from me.” He’d joked once, to Wooyoung’s not so amused amusement.

But Seonghwa can understand why San wouldn’t want his friend to be associated with them. From the way San speaks about her ever so often, she seems to be a quiet, mild tempered girl who focuses hard on her studies and can even miraculously convince San to revise for the upcoming exams with her in the school library. Being related to them in any way could stain her pristine reputation, make it difficult for her to attain any student leadership positions in the school that were vital to a portfolio, or even make any friends in general.

Honestly, Seonghwa doesn’t know why she would stick with San.

But San is happy when he speaks about her. He’s clearly fond of her, he’d even dragged all of them to search for a suitable charm for her birthday gift.

Then a ticklish feeling rises in his nose and he pulls the handkerchief from his pocket, sneezing into it. He doesn’t want to admit it, but the piece of white cloth has saved him so many trips to the convenience store nearby to buy a pack of tissue. Looking down on it, he sighs as he looks the handkerchief over. It’s a piece of plain white cloth, without embellishment or embroidery, nothing outstanding to set it apart from others physically, but unique, because it was there for him when he needed it. Just like the girl who’d given it to him, he thinks to himself with another sigh, wondering how exactly he’s going to find her and return the handkerchief to her.

He doesn’t remember much about how she looks, having been trying to stop himself from sneezing in front of her when she’d literally thrown the handkerchief in his face and shouted at him to get better, before she dashed away faster than Usain Bolt on steroids.

Honestly, who still uses handkerchiefs in this day and age?

“Did you catch a cold, hyung?” Ever perceptive Wooyoung asks curiously, before spotting the handkerchief in his hand. “I didn’t know you used handkerchiefs, though.”

For some reason, something in his voice is completely judgemental and even though Seonghwa feels the same, he can’t help but feel like he needs to defend the girl who gave it to him, at least. Then he catches himself, frowning. Wooyoung’s too curious for his own good, tell him a little and the he’ll have her name, class, blood type, age, address, favourite food down to a tee tomorrow.

Besides, Seonghwa wants to do this by himself.

So Seonghwa shakes his head.

“It’s not mine. A girl gave it to me in the morning, but I don’t know who it was. I owe her a word of thanks, at least.”

Mingi raises an eyebrow, teeth fiddling with the silver piercing on his lower left lip absentmindedly. “Someone approached you, hyung?’ He sounds as confused as Seonghwa feels.

Curious, San glances over at the piece of white cloth for a moment, staring blankly. Then something in his dark eyes glint minutely, the side of his lip quirking up in amusement. Is it fate?

A thought forms and the cogs of his mind start turning, building upon that wisp of a thought until it turns into an idea, then a plan. Seonghwa catches sight of the little smirk on San’s face and frowns in confusion, opening his mouth to ask the younger boy exactly what he’s thinking. He’s a little afraid when San smiles like that. It usually means he’s up to no good.

“San, what is it?”

But San shrugs playfully, eyes shining with glee.

“Oh, it’s absolutely nothing, hyung.”

Seonghwa’s been searching for you for a week now.

For the first time, he actually attends school regularly even if it isn’t to go to class. Standing at the main gate at the crack of dawn, his eyes rake the faces of the students who walk into school every morning. All of them give him a wide berth, wearing the same terrified, yet befuddled expressions, similarly confused as why to the one of school’s bad boys would actually be in the school compound before the bell rings.

Regularly, at that.

About fifteen minutes before the bell rings, he hears the familiar thrum of an engine and raises his head to glance at the driveway outside. Just as he does, a sleek black Jaguar purrs into sight, coming to a stop. It’s presence still causes the same ripple of excitement and anticipation as it did three years ago, and Seonghwa can see all the students in the front yard of the school whispering behind their hands as they discuss the boy inside, wondering whether he’s going to abide by the school rules for once.

The driver, dressed impeccably as ever in a black, custom tailored suit and white gloves, crosses over to the passenger’s side and opens the door for the person inside with a deep bow.

“Young master.”

Kim Hongjoong, eldest son to the CEO of one of the most powerful business empires in Korea and probably the world, steps out with a yawn, rubbing at his eyes as if he’s still half asleep. Then he turns to the chauffeur, who Seonghwa recognises now as Hongjoong’s personal assistant and bodyguard, and gives him a nod.

“Thank you, Jaebeom.”

Jaebeom falters momentarily, head rising a little as he looks at his master. “Young master, you know your father does not like it when you thank me… I am a mere household servant-”

“Who gives a damn what that old fart wants?” Hongjoong grabs his bag from the backseat, adjusting the silver beads and tags in his mullet. “I’ll see you later, Jae.”

The chauffeur can’t exactly argue with his employer, so he merely sighs a little and nods, bowing once more. “As you wish, young master.”

Seonghwa watches quietly as the car zips off down the street.

“Still here, Mars?” His best friend steps up next to him, bag casually slung over one shoulder as he quirks a brow, showing off the eyebrow slit at the side. Seonghwa lets his face relax into a small smile, adjusting the collar of his maroon turtleneck.

“Yeah.”

Hongjoong merely sighs in exasperation, waving his phone in hand. “You know, like I told you at the beginning of all this nonsense, I could have just given Jaebeom a ring and you would have your mystery girl’s identity in a folder on your lap within ten minutes. It would have included handphone number, siblings, hospital records and financial accounts and you wouldn’t be standing here like some lovesick goof every morning.”

Seonghwa doesn’t take any offense to his friend’s barbed words, knowing they stem from genuine concern for him. In fact, Hongjoong only uses his glib tongue and charisma when it comes to charming people into doing things that he wants. He’s not quite as skilled a manipulator as Wooyoung, who can puppet any person like a marionette on strings, but then again few are.

Seonghwa prefers it when Hongjoong takes on this tone with him. It’s more casual, more informal and Seonghwa doesn’t feel like he’s at risk of being played. When he speaks like that, he’s not the heir of the Kim Corporation, Kim Hongjoong, but instead he’s just Hongjoong, Seonghwa’s best friend.

“You know why I want to do this myself.” Seonghwa says softly and Hongjoong pauses a moment, because he does. He understands all too well just having everything presented to him on a silver platter with a golden spoon, not having to put in effort for any of it. Things lose their value that way, and he knows Seonghwa is determined not to let this happen.

Hongjoong merely sighs as he glances at the white handkerchief in Seonghwa’s hand.

“Well, I doubt anyone’s coming in now, it’s pretty late.” He tells Seonghwa, who nods and tucks the neatly folded cloth in his pocket. “Let’s get to class.”

San calls you at approximately five in the morning. On a Saturday morning, in fact.

Groaning as you roll over in your bed, you reach for your phone, the silver cat charms clicking against the screen as you put it to your ear. You’re thinking of a hundred and one ways to slowly butcher him and rip him into tiny little pieces when his cheerful voice comes over the phone. “Hey, my dear best friend, what are you doing up so early in the morning?”

A growl tears from your throat. “It’s 5:16 AM, Choi San. If you don’t have a good reason for waking me up at this time of the morning I’m coming over to your house, I’m going to rip out your throat and I’m going to steal Shiber from you.”

A horrified squeal comes over the phone. “Don’t steal Shiber!”

You almost sigh at how he completely missed out the ‘I’m going to tear your throat out’ bit, but you pinch the bridge of your nose in exasperation, sitting up on your bed as the blanket falls to your lap. “What is it, San? If you tell me now that you want to watch reruns of the Golden Girls at this time of the morning, I’m going to strangle you in your sleep.”

“Oooh, kinky.” San whistles and you groan, smacking your head against the bedside table. Murder does really seem to be a tempting option now.

“Choi San I swear if you do not give me a good reason right now I’m going back to sleep-” You begin but then San cuts in more quickly than a swerving F1 racer.

“No no no, please don’t! Well, you see, one of the maids back at my house just told me that Yobu fell sick and needs to see a vet, but none of them are open at this time of the morning.”

Your jaw drops at the news, heart thundering in your chest. “I can’t believe you wasted all my time talking nonsense when Yobu was ill! What are we going to do, San?” You’re honestly worried for that sweet mannered ragdoll cat, fingers drumming anxiously against the table when San continues.

“But I have a friend knows about veterinary medicine since he works part time at a vet, so could you please bring Yobu to him? I’ve already told him that you’re coming.”

Something strikes you as odd and your eyes narrow suspiciously. “San… why can’t you just bring Yobu there yourself?”

“Ahh…” You hear your best friend falter a little over the phone and from the sheepish tone in his voice, he’s up to something again. You’re about to question him when you suddenly realise that there’s the thumping of the bass in the background, synthesizers screaming and the sound of drunken singing. Your heart falls.

“You’re in a club, aren’t you?”

San pauses uncomfortably. You’ve made it clear multiple times that you don’t approve of his partying lifestyle, but you’ve also told him that it’s his life and he needs to make choices for himself. “Yeah… “ His voice is soft over the phone, but then it tries to cheer you up a little. “I swear I didn’t even drink a lot! I’m not even drunk right now! I just came for a bit of booze and the atmosphere.”

At that, your smile softens a little. You know that San is desperately trying to change his ways, but it’s only the beginning, the first step of a long journey. “I know. Be back before sunrise, okay? Stay safe and don’t make me worry about you.”

You can hear San’s smile over the phone. “I promise. Now then, I’m leaving our child in your hands, alright?”

You’ve barely agreed when the call ends, the beeping of the phone all that’s left of your conversation.

You’re standing outside an apartment building at seven.

Yobu lets out a little mrrow from the basket under your arm and you stroke him on the head gently, checking the address on your phone. He looks perfectly fine to you, but then again you’re no doctor. Glancing at the block number and the unit, you’re indeed at San’s friend’s house. What friend, you have no idea, but you really need to get Yobu checked up as fast as possible.

Stepping up to the door, you press the bell once.

There’s an electronic warble and some shifting coming from behind the closed door. “Wait a moment, please-” You hear and you frown, the voice sounds male and vaguely familiar, as if you’ve heard it before. But before you can remember where, the door swings open to reveal the resident of the house.

You nearly drop Yobu in your shock.

You’re so going to murder San in his sleep.

Because it’s Park Seonghwa standing there, blonde hair mussed from sleep, dressed in a soft grey sweater and sweats, staring back at you with equally wide eyes. No leather jacket, no silver chains around his neck, simple black piercings in his ears. To your surprise, he looks soft as a kitten, not at all like that bad boy image you’re so used to seeing in school.

You glance down at his feet. He’s wearing freaking Gundam cartoon themed socks.

“Mrrow…” Yobu meows plaintively from his basket, as if demanding for the two of you to stop staring at each other and get a move on. That’s enough to jerk Seonghwa out of his shock and he opens the door a bit wider to let you in. “Uhh, please come in.”

You do as you’re told, slipping your shoes off at the door and stepping inside. The house is surprisingly bare, a pair of folded mattresses against against the wall and a lumpy couch in the corner. There’s a vet’s bag on the floor, stethoscope already laid out. You glance to the shelf at to your left as you set Yobu down on the ground, there’s a picture of a woman who you assume to be Seonghwa’s mother, and next to that is a collection of assembled Gundam models.

It seems as if someone is a fan.

You’re briefly afraid if something bad is going to happen to you when Park Seonghwa closes the door behind you, but as much as San enjoys playing pranks on you, he’s never one to put you in danger. Seonghwa sit down before you, cross legged, looking painfully awkward for the first time you’ve seen him.

“Umm… Hi…” He greets you softly and you stiffen to attention, Yobu curling in your arms and you hesitantly stroke the tiny cat gently. “So… Yobu is sick?”

Your eyes widen a little in surprise. “You know Yobu?”

Seonghwa nods slowly. “Yeah well… I was the one who named him.” He holds out his hands for the grey ragdoll, looking at you hesitantly while you’re still staring at him in shock from this unexpected information. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip nervously, dragging across the black piercing there. “May I?’

You somehow regain enough cognitive function to place Yobu into his arms, the small feline nosing into Seonghwa’s chest and he lets out a gentle laugh, nuzzling the kitten with his nose. “Let’s see what’s wrong with you, little guy.”

Your mind is still reeling from all of… this. From what you know, Park Seonghwa is a mysterious bad boy who is a member of a terrifying group called ATEEZ that your best friend also happens to be part of. But even after knowing San for three years, he’s never really exposed you to any of his other friends, so you still steer clear of them whenever you see them in school.

But this Park Seonghwa before you is looking at the tiny kitten like it holds the moon and stars in its tiny paws, humming a soft tune under his breath as he reaches for his stethoscope. He’s nothing like the Park Seonghwa you’re familiar with, bruised fingers gentle as he checks over Yobu for any physical ailments, cooing to the cat in a sweet voice when it attempts to squirm out of his arms occasionally. You usually never say this… but you’re quite mindblown.

“There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with him.” Seonghwa muses after a while, setting his tools down. You’re jerked out of your stunned stupor, letting out a witty ‘eh?’ as he puts Yobu down on the ground, the kitten batting at his sweater sleeve with its paws.

Seonghwa tugs his lip piercing between his teeth and for a second, you’re raising your eyes to heaven to ask exactly what you have done to deserve this punishment, but then he’s speaking once more. “I don’t see anything wrong with Yobu… He seems perfectly fine. Did San mention anything?”

You shake your head. “No, San just told me to bring Yobu over to you.”

“That’s odd…” Seonghwa frowns, fingers fiddling with the piercings on the shell of his ear before he lets out a sigh, rising to his feet. You keep your remark of ‘yeah, that sounds like San’ to yourself as you follow him with your eyes, watching as he steps over to the shelf, opening one of the drawers. “Anyway, I’m glad you came. I’ve been looking for you for a couple of weeks now.”

You pause, a little confused. Looking for you? What would the Park Seonghwa be searching for a person like you?

When he turns around, he’s holding your white handkerchief in his hands.

The two week old memory comes to the front of your mind and your mouth falls open. You remember walking to school, hearing someone sniffing quietly behind the school building, offering them a handkerchief… only for the person to be the one and only Park Seonghwa.

“Ahh…” Is all you manage to say, a little stunned as you accept the handkerchief back. It smells of clean cloth and soap that you don’t quite recognise, meaning that Seonghwa must have cleaned it for you. “You didn’t have to, but thank you anyway.”

Seonghwa shakes his head firmly as Yobu paws at the hem of his sweats, whining for attention. “No, I needed to. Thank you for lending it to me. I really appreciate it… could I repay you somehow? Maybe bring you out for a meal tomorrow?”

Your brain hits the brakes, all activity coming to a screeching halt as the words ‘meal’, ‘tomorrow’ and ‘repay’ bounce around your head like rubber balls. Thankfully, you’re saved from having to answer from the sound of your ringtone, although the second you hear it, you’re tempted to kill San right this second, and maybe yourself too, to save yourself the shame.

“You have a call! You have a call! Hey! Answer it! Don’t ignore me! Pleaseeee~” San’s voice comes from your pocket and you freeze in embarrassment, as Seonghwa stares at you in shock.

Your face turns red and you rush to answer the call, cheeks heating up in horrified mortification. Jabbing the little green icon with as much fury as you can muster, you hiss into the phone when the call comes through.

“What the hell did you do to my phone, San?”

“Hello! How’s my dear Yobu doing?” He sings, completely ignoring your furious question. You pause in your tracks, wheels turning in your mind as you put all the clues together. His too cheerful voice, the handkerchief, how he didn’t tell you Seonghwa was this veterinarian friend…

“Choi San.” Your voice is literally bubbling with mounting vexation and your rage must be clearly heard, because there’s a gulp over the phone. “Did you plan all of this?”

The line goes dead and you stare at your phone in shock.

Then you shriek in fury.

“I’m going to kill that slimy worm! That little bastard! Playing me like this!” Your fists are clenching around your phone, dearly wishing they were wringing San’s scrawny neck instead. You’re about to throw something when a warm hand settles on your shoulder and you whirl around in shock, suddenly remembering that Seonghwa is still in the room with you.

“Is everything alright?” He asks hesitantly, dark eyes wide and concerned and your rage dissipates into thin air, replaced by all too potent self-consciousness. He’d just seen you screaming your head off like a mad woman, for god’s sake.

“Yeah...I’m just going to have to kill that bastard the next time I see him.” You mumble under your breath, turning your phone to silent before savagely shoving it in your pocket. “Yobu is fine, San just played a massive prank on us.”

To your surprise, Seonghwa doesn’t even react in the least, clearly expecting something like this after having known San for so long. He merely presses one hand to his face as he shakes his head in exasperation. “I knew something was up when he was smiling so much that day. That kid, honestly…”

“Sorry for the bother.” You apologise quickly, scooping up Yobu in your arms and placing him in his basket. The ragdoll lets out a soft meow, as if confused as to why you’re leaving so soon when you practically run for the door in shame. But right before you can leave, Seonghwa’s hand grasps your wrist lightly, pulling you back, and you make a soft ‘eep’ in surprise as you turn to face him.

He actually looks painfully nervous, teeth toying with the black piercing on his lower lip as his gaze moves around shiftily, his toes scrunching up under Robot Man’s face. “Well… will you… will you let me bring you for dinner tomorrow? To thank you?”

You freeze awkwardly, the tension between the two of you thick as sauna steam. After a long, awkward pause of silence, Seonghwa finally seems to realise he’s holding onto your wrist and drops it like you have the plague, scooting back several steps to a more respectful distance. His tongue swipes across his pink lips shyly as he musters up the courage to speak again. “Please? I mean, if you’re uncomfortable, you don’t need to, I completely understand-”

You’re snapped out of your lip piercing induced shock when you finally realise that Seonghwa thinks that you’re reluctant to go with him. Not that you aren’t slightly… but maybe it’s time to give San’s friends a chance and get to know them. From what you’ve seen of Seonghwa, he doesn’t seem that bad to you anyway.

Awkwardly, you unlock your phone and pass it to him.

His eyes widen in surprise when he sees a blank contact open, the tiny line hovering at the ‘Name’ bar. Then a smile, one real and genuine, settles on his face as he enters his name and phone number, saving it before he passes it back to you.

“I’ll call you?” He asks as you slip on your shoes, balancing Yobu’s basket in one hand and your phone in the other. You nod in reply, a little breathless from his radiant smile.

“Yeah.”

From the basket, Yobu gives a smug mew of affirmation. His mission is complete.

#ateez #ateez seonghwa #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #seonghwa fanfic #w; seonghwa #seonghwa #w; fanfiction

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hauntedbythefanficsofmypast · 4 years ago

Text

When you need a Superfriend

By Nach0Ava

On Archive of Our Own

Tumblr user: @nach0ava

So I have not really watched Supergirl however when I read the first chapter I had to share this with you all! This is the first chapter by Nach0Ava. (Second chapter is on its way as well!) Marinette gets sent away by her parents to America! Please go read Nach0Ava's story!

Summary:

When Tom and Sabine believe Lila's lies, they send Marinette off to live with an old family friend in National City. When living with a government agent and a physiologist, how long is it until she gets figured out?

Chapter 1:

“I don’t understand! Why are you sending me away?”

Marinette looked up at her parents in disbelief. They had just told her that she was going to be sent to live with a family friend. In America! Sure, she could speak fairly good English, but it still didn’t make sense!

“Your recent behaviour has led us to think that the change could be good for you. Kelly and her girlfriend Alex are lovely people, and they might be better equipped to deal with you than we are.”

As her mother spoke, Marinette felt a bitterness rise in her. Of course. Lila. She had made good on her threat, managing to turn even her parents against her. Claiming that she was involved in a gang, she had an older boyfriend, she did drugs, the list went on. And when Tom and Sabine had caught Marinette out past curfew one too many times, they took it as the truth. She couldn’t tell them that she was Ladybug, so all she had was half-hearted excuses. Still, she needed a way to stay in Paris, as she couldn’t be Ladybug somewhere else, and if there was no Ladybug, there was no-one to catch the akuma, and no-one to cast the cure, never mind all her guardian duties…

She was getting off track. She had a goal and she needed to accomplish it. Just like taking down an akuma. Except she couldn’t hit this problem really hard for it to go away.

“Is there any way I could stay in Paris? I’ll switch schools, I’ll go live with grandpa Roland, I’ll do anything!”

Tom and Sabine exchanged a look. They didn’t want to believe it, but they had to make sure.

“Honey, calm down, aren’t you worried about an akuma?”

Marinette started pacing as she rambled, mostly to herself.

“Right, I’ll get upset, then you guys will get mad at me, and then one or both of you will be akumatised and then I’ll have that whole mess to deal with.”

Tom reached out a hand to her shoulder to stop her pacing.

“You aren’t worried about you getting akumatised?”

Marinette shook her head.

“No no, I’ll be fine.”

A slight push from her bag and the looks from her parents made her backtrack.

“I mean, I’m really good at calming down before they get to me, I mean, it’s worked so far right?”

She let out a nervous chuckle while her parents stared at her.

“Marinette… Are you working with Hawkmoth?”

Marinette looked for the start of a smile from her mum, the laughter in her dad’s eyes, anything to say they were joking. When the just kept staring she burst into laughter.

“Haha, you guys… You guys really thought… Haha, that’s hilarious!”

Her parents failed to see the humour and gave her thatlook.

“Remember all those times I’ve been attacked? Reflekta, Horificator, pretty much any akuma that clones or traps people I’ve gotten tangled up in.”

Not technically a lie, she never said she got hitspecifically, but she definitely got attacked.

“Well, maybe you should get out of Paris anyway. It’s clearly not safe here, and maybe it’s best for you to leave. You’ll like it in National City, they even have their own superheros!”

Great. A reminder of what I have to give up because of Lila. She was about to keep protesting, but she felt three quick pushed on her side by Tikki. We need to talk.Her argument died on her tongue and she sighed.

“When am I meant to leave?”

Her parents exchanged relived looks.

“The plane is booked for next Friday. That gives you about a week to pack up. We could mail over a box with all of your sewing things once you get settled, if Kelly and Alex are ok with it of course.”

Marinette fought the eyebrow that was threating to raise. A week? I was hoping for some more time to test and train a new guardian, and a new holder for Tikki. It would be a rush, and there weren’t many people she trusted anymore. Still, there was work to be done, so she had to get started.

“I guess I’ll go start packing then. Can I be un-grounded so I can spend my final week saying goodbye and sorting things out?”

Her parents nodded, glad she was taking this so well.

“Of course honey, just not tonight ok? It’s getting rather late.”

Marinette nodded and ran up to her room, shutting the trapdoor quickly. She went up onto her bed and starting crying into her pillow, feeling the weight of all the kwami comforting her. Eventually she rolled on to her back, drying her tears.

“I’m sorry Tikki, you said you wanted to talk?”

She looked at her expectantly. Marinette already knew what Tikki wanted. She needed to find a new wielder and Guardian, and she shouldn’t have been putting it off, but sometimes it felt good to cry. Tikki came to settle on her lap and patted her leg comfortingly.

“Marinette I know what you’re thinking, and you don’t have to give up being Ladybug or being Guardian. So you better stop that train of thought right now missy.”

Marinette sat up, blinking. How could she… Oh.

“I’m an idiot.”

Tikki giggled while she flew up and booped her nose, while Kaalki sniffed from the corner.

“I can’t believe you forgot about me Guardian. You’ve given me out before!”

Marinette giggled at the kwami’s haughty attitude.

“Sorry Kaalki, I got a bit too emotional to think clearly.”

Kaalki just grabbed a sugar cube with a huff and flew off. Marinette climbed off her bed and grabbed her bright pink suitcase.

“So who wants to help me pack?”

~~<3~~

Chloe, Kagami, Luka and Marinette were all sitting at a table at a café during their lunch break. Luka had graduated already, so he was usually free to hang out. Chloe had come up to Marinette not too long after Lila’s takeover with an apology. Marinette had been wary at first, but Chloe was actually really nice when she wasn’t putting up an act. She had soon proven herself and had been given another chance at being a hero, under the new name Honeybee. Kagami had approached her after Adrien had asked for advice on the Lila situation. She had hated his passive approach, and when she had tried to talk to him about it, he just refused her help, ignoring the fact that he had asked for her help. Kagami had come to offer her help, and they become friends soon after. She had re-claimed the dragon, under the new name Tempête. Luka had heard Lila’s heart song and immediately knew that was someone that he didn’t want to hang around. He had tried warning Juleka and the rest of Kitty Section, but Lila had told them that having an older singer wasn’t a good look. He had been kicked out, and Marinette had been there to comfort him with pastries and musicals. After she had introduced everyone to each other, they had become a tightly knit group. So, as one could imagine, they weren’t taking this well.

“They gave you a week? That’s ridiculous, utterly ridiculous!”

Kagami made a noise of displeasure as well.

“Sending you to America seems a bit extreme, what reason did they give again?”

Marinette scoffed.

“My ‘recent behaviour’ or something like that. Also known as, Lila. Oh, that’s not even the best part.”

Marinette gave out a dry chuckle and everyone looked on in interest.

“Apparently, I’m working with Hawkmoth.”

Luka plucked a string on his guitar, sending out a loud note. Chloe just stared in disbelief, and Kagami made for her foil.

“I’m going to run them through with my sword.”

Kagami gripped it tightly, ready to get up and make good on her threat, but Marinette grabbed it from her, unbothered by the fencer’s unimpressed glare.

“No-one is stabbing anyone. I don’t really have a choice, so I just have to suck it up and deal with it. Besides, it could be good to get away from Lila.”

Chloe was the first to get up to give her a hug, followed by Luka, and then by Kagami, who Marinette wasn’t completely sure that she wasn’t just trying to get her sword back.

“It’ll be ok guys, we can still video chat through Skype or something. I won’t be able to text, because I’ll be on an American phone plan, but we can figure something out!”

Chloe pulled away and took out her phone, tapping away immediately.

“I’m going to get you an amazing phone plan, with unlimited overseas. Same for the rest of you. That way, we can all talk and not worry about the fact that there’ll be an ocean dividing us.”

Marinette slowly took the phone and added it to her slowly growing pile, pointedly ignoring the glare Chloe shot her.

“I’m sure there are other, free, ways to contact each other. I think there’s an online service, what’s the name in English? Chaos or something like that?”

Luka strummed at his guitar in thought before pulling up an app on his phone.

“Is this the one you were thinking of?”

He had opened Discord, in dark mode of course, and had his profile open.

“Yeah, that’s the one! We can talk on there, and it has the bonus of being accessible from computers! So, no reason to go overboard, ok Chloe?”

Chloe humped and opened up the app store, downloading Discord. Kagami noticed what she was doing and mirrored her. They all took a few minutes to make accounts and become friends, before Luka, the one with the most experience, had set up a server for them all. Quickly choosing nicknames, Marinette pocketed her phone with a grin.

“Now that that’s done, anyone want to come help me pick some things to take?”

~~<3~~

It felt like the week passed quickly, lessons passing by in a blur. She didn’t pay much attention, just enough to keep Mrs Bustier satisfied. She didn’t bother alerting anyone in the class (outside of Chloe) that she was leaving, ignoring their taunts and insults. Chloe and Kagami had been big helps in learning how to ignore them, so now they rolled off her like water on a duck. She made sure not to bring anything valuable, most of her stuff was in a suitcase anyway. On her final day, she only had her schoolbooks, the school assigned tablet, and three neatly wrapped gifts. As she was packing up to go meet her friends for a final goodbye, she was stopped by Alya.

“I need you to make a dress for the upcoming school dance.”

Marinette briefly noted that this was a demand, rather than a request, but she just started her usual commission speech with a sigh.

“Depending on the materials used and the time it takes to make, the dress could cost anywhere from €300 to €500. There will also be shipping costs, plus the fact I’m not taking commissions right now, so it will probably be a few weeks before I might be able to get started on it.”

Alya was staring at Marinette like she had grown another head.

“€300, what are you talking about? I’m not paying youfor a dress, and you make mine every year, so what’s the problem? I can’t wait a few weeks, the dance is next weekend!”

Marinette sighed and pushed past the taller girl.

“The problem is that I don’t have time, materials are expensive, and I made you those dresses when we were friends. But we’re not now. So, leave me alone. Goodbye Alya.”

She walked out to meet her friends, leaving Alya behind, too stunned to talk. When she snapped out of it, she grumbled to herself.

“She’ll see reason on Monday. She has no right to refuse after all she’s done to Lila! Maybe if she makes Lila’s dress too, she’ll forgive her! Lila’s nice like that, Marinette will come around after making up for everything she’s done!”

Alya walked away, satisfied, planning her new dress in her mind.

Marinette ran up to her friends, engulfing them in hugs. They all hugged right back, sad to see her go. Marinette suddenly pulled away from the hug, and grabbed three parcels out of her bag. She handed them all out, urging them to open them. Luka opened his first, finding a beanie that perfectly matched his hair, with a teal snake pattern around the rim. Chloe went next, her patience not holding any longer. She got a headband with tiny bees embroidered all along it. Kagami received a red handkerchief, with an elemental dragon on one side, and a storm cloud on the other, a lightning strike going all the way across. They all started to thank her at once, with Marinette just blushing sheepishly.

“I just took note of all your favourite heroes, and added them to a design. It’s not that big of a deal.”

They all hugged again, before the clock chimed behind them, making Marinette jump.

“I have to go! I’ll send you all a message when I land, but you better not stay up for it if it’s late here!”

A chorus of “No promises!” filled her ears as she ran home, taking in the sights one more time. She burst into the bakery to find her mum still working the counter, and her dad busy baking. Not thinking much of it, she went up to her room to grab her belongings. After some quick cuddles from the kwami, she had everything she needed. Most flew into the suitcase, comfy in the hidden area Marinette had made, lined with a soft faux fur. Only Tikki and Kaalki flew into her jacket, ready to transform if need be. They had assured her they wouldn’t show up on the x-ray, so she was fine with having them in there. As she lifted her suitcase and went downstairs, her strength from being Ladybug shining through, she was surprised to see her parents still busy at work.

“Maman, Papa, I thought we were going to the airport now?”

Her parent’s exchanged looks before Tom stopped his baking and walked over.

“Honey, we can’t afford to come with you, we need to keep the bakery open. There’s an Uber outside for you, but you’ll have to go on your own. I’m sorry.”

He pulled her into a hug, one she half-heartedly returned. She walked over to hug her mum as well, and went outside with her suitcase.

This was it.

She was really being sent away.

All because of some dumb liar.

With a comforting press coming from inside her jacket, she got in the Uber, prepared to start her new life.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous marinette #marinette dupen chang #miraculous au #miraculous fandom #miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir #ml salt fic #superfamily #supergirl #arrowverse #kelly olsen #alex danvers #lila bashing #lila salt #class salt #alya+salt #chloe sugar

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kurokoros · 5 years ago

Text

appetence (part 1) | bakugou katsuki

Rated: M

Words: 4.8K

Pairing: katsuki bakugou x fem!reader

Summary: Appetence: longing or desire. A mission to track down a villain leaves you and Bakugou in a rather… compromising situation. It’s going to be a long twenty-four hours.

AN: I have zero explanations for this one either. I just felt like writing a smutty fic with Bakugou and the reader locked in a building for twenty four hours. Queue the kinky smut. Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist for future chapters! I’ll try to update once a week, but it depends on how long the chapters get! I’m aiming for 4-5 chapters, but again, we’ll see!

Warnings: smut, language, aphrodisiacs, marathon!sex (future chapters)

XXX

As a Pro Hero, you’re no stranger to potentially hazardous situations. Tracking an A rank criminal isn’t exactly a new experience. In fact, most of these missions go exactly the same way. Mind-numbingly boring stakeouts that can last for hours until you can verify the presence of your target. A sixty second window between verifying the presence of said target and all hell breaking loose. And, of course, the part where all hell breaks loose because no one can understand the concept of a stealth mission. Stakeouts you can handle, for the most part. While boring, at least you aren’t actively being punched, stabbed, or shot at, so you consider it a minor win most of the time. The conversation is never great, but you can deal with that. And, really, you can’t complain about having a six feet wall of solid muscle to back you up.

But why the hell did you have to get stuck with Ground Zero?

You cast a glance at the other Pro out of the corner of your eye, your mouth twisting into a frown when you see his agitated expression. He looks halfway to blowing a gasket already, and you’ve hardly been here for an hour. At this rate, the two of you aren’t going to last until the target slips up.

It’s not that you dislike Bakugou. That’s not it at all. Frankly, you usually enjoy working with the brash, temperamental man. He’s a good Hero: smart, strong, capable. He always watches your back when you need him to—and you can’t deny that he’s some pretty great eye-candy, considering your situation. But he’s also incredibly impatient. And watching him pace around like a caged animal isn’t exactly helping your own irritation at being stuck in a cramped, ram-shackled building, in the rain, waiting to catch a glimpse of a villain that might not even be here.

It’s going to be a very long night.

“Would you sit down?” you snap at him, tearing your eyes from the compound you’re supposed to be staking out once again. He shoots you an irritated look, and you sigh, shifting in your seat. “Please? You’re making me claustrophobic.” It’s like he’s trying to make you antsy. Usually, stakeouts aren’t this bad, but something about the shitty location and the shitty weather--and the fact that he’s close enough for you to feel the heat rolling off him--have you a little on edge.

Something in Bakugou’s eyes shifts, his glare losing it’s bite, but then he snorts. Shuffling back to where you’re sitting near the small window of the hideout, he does as you ask, though he doesn’t look happy about it. Whatever. You’re just glad he doesn’t seem to be in an arguing mood right now.

“This is fucking stupid,” he grumbles under his breath. You probably wouldn’t have heard him if there wasn’t exactly two inches of space between you. His shoulder brushes against yours as he crosses his arms, firm muscle flexing beneath his costume.

You ignore your little flicker of disappointment over the fact that he’s wearing his winter costume.

Figuring he’s complaining about the waiting, you say, “Regardless, we can’t just go charging in there, Ground Zero.” This time, you keep your gaze locked on the building Cobra is supposed to be in, watching for any signs of movement at all. Nothing. Either Cobra’s being especially careful--something he’s never been before--or you were given faulty Intel. “We don’t even know if Cobra is inside,” you remind your partner. “Dammit, if Omen sent us on a bust mission…” You trail off with a heavy sigh.

Bakugou follows your gaze to the building, regarding it carefully. It’s not particularly large or heavily fortified, but that’s the point. It’s the perfect place for a group of villains to hide and lay low for a while. His jaw clenches and he turns back to you. “What do we know about him?”

You sigh, shooting him another look. “Did you seriously not do any briefing at all?” You shake your head. “Why they put you on this mission instead of Deku is beyond me.” Before he can start bickering, you continue. “Cobra’s quirk allows him to secrete and manipulate toxic fluids created from his body. Gasses too, according to a few sources.”

It’s not too different from Bakugou’s quirk, if you think about it, but you’d take the explosive sweat over toxins rivaling that of a Box Jellyfish any day.

He scoffs. “That all?”

“Reportedly, these toxins can be corrosive enough to burn straight through human tissue and bone in a matter of minutes.” Bakugou doesn’t look the slightest bit impressed by the new information, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. “If he manages a direct hit on either of us, we’ll have an hour tops to get help before the damage is irreversible. And we don’t have backup,” you remind him.

“Whatever,” he grumbles. Despite his blasé reaction, you’ve known him long enough to recognize the slight furrow of his brow. Clearly, he’s about as enthused as you are about dealing with Cobra. “Any idea how to take him down?”

Pursing your lips, you turn back to the building across the street, scanning the windows for any kind of movement as you contemplate your response. “We’ll have to be careful,” you tell him. He snorts at the obvious advice. “Cobra is fast, and we only have one shot at this. He tends to go underground for long periods of time after a spree like this week.” Two bank robberies and a successful museum heist. He’s getting bolder, smarter--running with a crew now. You need to take him out now or things are only going to continue to escalate. “If we time it right, we should be able to incapacitate him fairly easily if we stick together. He has a strong quirk, but he’s not much of a fighter.”

Bakugou hums in thought, his brows furrowing as he surveys the building as well. “Got a plan, babe?” he asks. There’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there just a moment ago, and you can tell he’s just itching for a fight. Clearly, you should have told him about the corrosive, flesh-dissolving poison earlier.

Bakugou catches your gaze and smirks in a way that does dangerous things to your heart. And then--fuck--he actually licks his lips and a large part of your brain short-circuits for about half a second before you catch yourself. Shit, you need to confirm the target and get some sleep. Obviously, you aren’t thinking straight.

You swallow thickly, mouth a little dry. “Apparently, he’s a talker,” you say, opting not to comment on the pet-name. “If we time it right, I can keep him distracted long enough for you to blast his ass from behind.”

His expression goes from pleased to petulant in a second. “You wanna play bait?” he grinds out from between his teeth. The question comes out akin to a low growl, and you quirk a brow at his apprehension, bristling. A quip burns on your tongue, but any thought of snapping at him for doubting you disappears as soon as you glance at him. There’s a slight grimace on his face, like he’s uncomfortable with the thought of you playing distraction for an occasionally homicidal art thief with a quirk that can eat through flesh like paper. As soon as he realizes you’re watching him, Bakugou’s lips curl back in a sneering grin. “Sure you can handle that?”

“One of us has to,” you say, deciding to ignore whatever just happened. You can worry about that later. You glance at him again, grinning. “And I’m faster.” He still doesn’t look very reassured, so you try a different tactic. “Though, like I said, that’s only if he’s here.”

Of course, that’s when a small explosion goes off in the building across from you.

Bakugou swears under his breath, lunging to his feet. “That proof enough for ya, sweetheart?” he asks, straightening his gauntlets. He flexes his fingers before curling his hands into fists. His roguish grin is back.

“Dammit,” you hiss, scrambling up as well. The explosion might not be big, but it is noticeable. Criminals don’t draw attention to themselves like this unless they don’t plan on sticking around much longer. “Let’s go.”

You practically throw yourself out the window, Bakugou right on your heels as the two of you fall two stories to the ground. Hitting the ground, you roll to your feet. The impact jostles you, but it’s not the biggest fall you’ve had before, and Bakugou’s firm hand on your lower back urges you forward silently.

The two of you run silently across the street, smoke from the explosion offering you cover, so thick you almost can’t see. “Stay close and stick to the plan,” you call towards Bakugou, not waiting for a response as you dash towards the entrance on the side of the building, close to where the explosion came from. If you can cut Cobra off as he’s trying to run, you might be able to end this fight before it really starts.

Things go wrong the moment you step into the building.

The smoke is thick and noxious. The smell burns your nose and chokes your throat; your eyes water, stinging, your mask doing little to protect you. Something about it doesn’t feel right, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, goosebumps prickling across your bare arms and legs. The smoke and the smell are disorienting, and you know immediately that you need to get rid of it, but neither of your quirks are practical for this. Bakugou’s would only spread it around. Shit, this isn’t good at all.

Movement to your left draws your attention. Your gaze snaps to the hazy outline of a person racing past you and disappearing around a corner. Bakugou. Swearing under your breath, you take off after him. Of course he would ignore the plan--as vague and half-assed as it was--and run headlong into things like this. You should have expected as much coming from Ground Zero. Hopefully you can catch him before he runs into Cobra.

Careful not to make a sound, you race after him, throwing yourself around the same corner he did. The hallway is empty already, but you can hear faint footsteps coming from the other end. The smoke isn’t as thick here either. You round the corner at the other end of the hallway in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of Bakugou turning another corner. Huffing, you give chase again, picking up the pace now that you can see again.

It’s like a game of cat and mouse. Each time you think you’ve caught up, he manages to stay just out of your reach, much to your frustration. You don’t know what the hell he’s playing at, but when you catch him you’re going to throttle him. Damn stubborn bastard.

You round another corner.

A hand lashes out, purple gas bubbling against a calloused palm.

The reflexes you’ve gained from being a Pro are the only thing that saves you from having your face melted away. “Shit,” you hiss, throwing yourself back against the nearest wall as the blast blows past you. Some of that purple gas brushes the tips of your hair, dangerously close to your nose, and you watch the strands dissolve in front of you.

“Ooh, you’re fast,” the man in front of you compliments. His grin is wide, revealing dangerously sharp canines. He stares at you from behind spiky hair, impressed. “Not many people are able to dodge a point blank hit like that.” His head cocks to one side, his expression smug. “The commission really sent in the pros this time, huh? I’m so flattered.” The toxin he secretes with his quirk liquefies and drips down his fingers. The ground smokes where the droplets land.

“Cobra,” you respond, voice even. Shit. It definitely wasn’t Bakugou earlier. Cobra must have noticed you were there, somehow, and used the smoke to get you separated. Fuck, you’re going to kill Omen later. Tensing, you keep your eyes on Cobra as the man takes a step towards you, relaxed despite his escape being compromised.

Maybe this is what he was waiting for.

You clench your jaw, back straightening as you edge away from the wall--you can’t let him pin you down.

His smile widens. “I see my reputation precedes me.” He looks particularly pleased with himself at your recognition, violet eyes darkening as he looks you over. His fingers flex, purple smoke billowing around his palms. He doesn’t strike at you though, not yet.

If you can keep him distracted for a little longer, maybe Bakugou will be able to find you. You can still make this work. You can fend him off for that long. “How did you know we were here?” you ask, wetting your lips.

If he finds the conversation suspicious, he certainly doesn’t act like it. “Just a hunch,” he tells you, shrugging. “Things were a little too quiet. I figured the commission had to be sending someone.” The corner of his mouth quirks upwards. “Didn’t think it would be you and Ground Zero though. They must be getting desperate, huh?” His drawling tone makes your jaw clench in irritation. When you take too long to respond, Cobra sighs, his mouth curving down in a disappointed sneer. “Well, as much as I’d love to stay and chat, I really don’t feel like going to jail today. So why don’t you make this easy for me and step aside?”

Your hand curls into a fist that doesn’t go unnoticed by the villain in front of you. Channeling your quirk into your feet, you prepare yourself for his next strike.

“No?” Any lingering friendliness disappears in an instant at your silent refusal. “All right, sweetheart, we’ll do things your way.” He throws his arm forward, poisonous gas hurtling towards you.

You’re already moving, springing from your spot as pale blue electricity crackles around you. The impact of your feet against the opposite wall sends a shock-wave through your legs, and you whirl around, keeping your eyes on your target. There’s a hole in the wall where you were just standing, and a jolt of fear strikes you between your ribs.

The next blast comes just as suddenly as the first, and you dive out of the way again. It sets up another game of cat and mouse, but this time you’re the one running, and there’s nowhere for you to hide. You don’t know the building like he does, and Cobra is proving to be nearly as fast as you are, throwing poison gas at you just as quickly as you can dodge it.

He doesn’t let you get close enough to strike at him, and you silently curse your quirk for being ill-suited for long range combat. You’d need to land a direct hit, and in these cramped hallways you can’t surprise him from behind.

Where the hell is Bakugou?

Poison nearly scorches your arm, and you hiss as it burns your skin despite not touching you directly. With your jaw clenched, you throw yourself against the wall to your right. In the split second before he can aim his quirk at you, you change your angle and lunge for him. Cobra’s eyes widen in surprise. Caught off guard, he doesn’t have the time to deflect the electrically charged fist aimed towards his head.

Cobra smirks.

Panic wells in your chest, and you pull your fist back just as Cobra dissolves in front of you. Your knuckles brush against the cloud of violet dust before it disappears. Fire races through your veins.

“Too slow,” a teasing voice calls from behind you. You whirl around on your heel, prepared to strike again, but Cobra is faster. As soon as you catch a glimpse of him, his hand lashes out. Coral colored dust explodes in front of your face, blinding you. The powder sticks to your skin and chokes you, rushing down your nose and throat until you feel like you can’t breathe.

It knocks the breath out of you, throwing off your balance, and suddenly you’re falling to your knees and coughing. Panic swells in your chest, but you’re quick to shove it down. It’ll only make the poison spread faster. You can already feel it burning through your veins, an uncomfortable heat tingling from your fingertips to your abdomen.

As if he can hear your thoughts, Cobra smirks, all teeth. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’s not poison,” he coos, crouching down in front of you. “I couldn’t do that to a face this pretty.” He grasps your chin between his fingers, tilting your head so that you’re forced to look at him. The desire to lash out rushes through you, but your limbs are heavy and you still can’t breathe. Cobra wets his lips. “Though, you might wish I did.”

A hiss escapes through your teeth as you double over, the heat intensifying. “What the hell did you--” You cut off abruptly, crying out as a full-body shiver wracks your frame.

“Such a strong reaction already,” he muses, squeezing your chin a little tighter. “You’d be a fun one to play with. Damn shame I can’t stay to watch the results.” There must be a puzzled expression on your face, because Cobra leans in a little closer, lips hovering an inch away from yours. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, sweetheart. I like to mix a little pleasure with my pain.”

It clicks. “An aphrodisiac,” you gasp.

He taps your cheek with one finger, and the feather-like touch makes your breath hitch. “Smart girl. Poison works fast, but sometimes it’s fun to watch people squirm a little--until they’re just begging to get fucked.” Cobra’s head cocks to the side. “Bet you can feel it now, right? Heard it’s a bit like liquid fire. And let me tell ya, that itch isn’t just gonna go away by itself.” He chuckles. “I’d give you a hand, but I don’t think your partner would like that very much.”

Cobra releases your chin and lunges to his feet, swinging his arm just in time to send a fistful of that pink powder directly into Bakugou’s face.

“Ground Zero!” you cry out, voice shrill.

A small explosion bursts in front of Bakugou, dissipating most of Cobra’s quirk before it can hit him. He winces as the dust burns his throat.

“Perfect timing,” Cobra murmurs, throwing himself backwards as Bakugou drives his fist into the ground in front of you.

The floor explodes. You throw your arms up to cover your face, and when you lower them again, Bakugou is standing in front of you, one arm thrown out defensively as he glares at Cobra, sneering. His shoulders are tense beneath his jacket, and in your dazed state you can’t help but appreciate how broad they are.

“Stay the fuck away from her!” Bakugou growls, his fingers sparking. You can feel the tension rolling from him, the hallway sweltering with the heat from his quirk and the drug burning through your veins.

Cobra glances between the two of you, a slow smirk overtaking him. “As you wish,” he says, taking a step back. “You two have fun.” And then he turns around and runs.

Instead of giving chase, Bakugou whirls around and drops to his knees in front of you. His gloved hands cradle your jaw carefully, and you whimper as he touches you. Heat bursts across your skin. Fuck, he needs to stop touching you. “Ground Zero,” you gasp, “you have to--”

“Shut up,” he snaps at you, tilting your chin to the side. His ruby eyes look over you carefully. “That bastard hurt you?” he demands, jaw clenched. The pad of his thumb brushes against your bottom lip.

“I’m fine,” you hiss through your teeth. “He said it wasn’t poison.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s so close that you can smell the caramel scent of his quirk. It curls around you, making you press your thighs together tightly. You shiver as he moves your head to the side again, and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop another soft noise from slipping from your mouth.

Bakugou’s eyes narrow. “And you think he was telling the truth?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Yes. Now you need to go after him, I’ll be fine.”

He continues to stare at you, then makes a displeased sound in the back of his throat. “You better be right fucking here when I get back,” he snaps, lurching to his feet and taking off after Cobra.

XXX

Outside of the building, a hooded figure glances up as Cobra comes strolling out of the building, his arms crossed behind his head lazily. “You took too long, Cobra,” he says, voice eerily blank. Blue eyes narrow behind his hood, glowing in the darkness.

“What can I say?” Cobra grins, winking at his partner. “Good things take time, Diamondback.”

Diamondback's gaze slides to the building curiously. “Did you finish them off?”

Cobra’s smile widens. “Not quite,” he says, waving off the other man’s concern, “but they won’t be following us anytime soon.”

“You sure about that, bastard?” someone snarls behind them.

Both men look up, Cobra glancing over his shoulder to see Ground Zero racing towards them, small explosions lighting up the darkness. Cobra’s expression sours, his smile waning. “Seal the exits,” he demands.

Diamondback is quick to comply. Clear fluid springs from his hands and snakes across the ground to the open doorway. The substance covers the door and hardens just before Ground Zero can reach it, and the Hero slams into the shield feet first. Bakugou grunts at the impact, the glass like structure holding firm beneath his weight. His eyes narrow on the men on the other side, a feral grin spreading across his face as his feet slide back to the floor. “Think that’ll stop me?” he taunts, pressing his palm to the clear wall between them. An explosion rips from his palm, bright light and smoke clouding the room.

When the smoke clears, Bakugou’s eyes widen.

There isn’t a scratch on the shield.

“Nice try,” Cobra commends him. “Unfortunately, even your power won’t be enough to get you out of there. Diamondback’s shield is stronger than any other substance on this planet.” He steps towards the building and raps his knuckles against the glassy surface. “And I wouldn’t try blasting your way through the walls either. Enhanced, quirk resistant steel walls, and such. All you’re going to do is make that pretty friend of yours inhale more smoke.” When Bakugou bares his teeth, Cobra laughs. “Really, you should be thanking me,” he tells the Hero. “Enjoy the next twenty four hours!” Still laughing, he walks backward, offering Bakugou a salute as Diamondback starts to follow.

Bakugou throws his fist against the surface. “Dammit!”

XXX

Honestly, you didn’t think tonight could get much worse, but seeing Bakugou stomp back into the hallway with Cobra nowhere in sight proved you very wrong.

“Shit,” you groan, head lolling back against the wall as Bakugou inspects your injured knuckles. They don’t hurt much anymore, just sting in a slow, irritating way, but he insisted on looking them over as he explained what happened with Cobra. “Diamondback wasn’t supposed to be here. We aren’t going to be able to bust through.”

Bakugou’s eyes rise to meet yours. “So what the fuck are we supposed to do?”

“Well, the good news is that Diamondback’s shields can only maintain their solidified form for a maximum of twenty four hours. After that, they’ll return to a liquid state and disappear.” He nods in understanding, finally releasing you in favor of helping you to your feet. His hand is hot against your waist, and you swallow down a pleased sound as his touch lingers. Cobra must not have gotten a good shot on him. Or maybe the aphrodisiac isn’t as strong because he’s so much bigger than you are. You quiver at the thought. “Until then, I guess we just… make ourselves at home.” You shrug, glancing around the empty hallway. “They were camped out here for a while, so there should be some place to sleep.”

Sleep would be good. The heat that consumed you before has only spread in the short time Bakugou was gone, and with him so close the feeling has only doubled in intensity. It spreads like water beneath your suit, which suddenly feels almost too tight.

Bakugou nods, but doesn’t say anything as he helps you back to the main room where you came in. The silence would be comfortable, if you couldn’t feel the way your face flushes, your nipples stiff beneath your bra and suit. Each step makes you wince as the fabric scraps across your skin.

“You good?” he asks as you drop down on the couch situated in the main room. A quick glance around the room tells you that your suspicions were correct. There is indeed a bedroom. Singular. Fuck, Cobra was right, you definitely would have preferred flesh melting poison over the steady pulse of heat growing between your legs.

There’s no way you’re going to be able to sleep in the same bed as Bakugou tonight--not without doing something you might regret. Already, the urge to reach down and touch yourself is almost unbearable, and it’s hardly been more than twenty minutes since Cobra hit you with his quirk. You can’t imagine that having Bakugou’s tall, muscular frame pressed up against your back would do you any good. Especially when it would be so easy for him to pin you down and rip off your--

“I’m fine,” you lie, struggling to keep your breathing even. If you sound breathier than usual, he doesn’t notice. “You should get some rest. Aren’t you usually asleep by now?” you try teasing him, grinning. Your thighs rub together subtly, arousal pooling low in your belly as you reach into the secret pocket in your thigh-high boots.

He doesn’t take the bait. “What about you?” he asks, crossing his arms skeptically. His eyes rake down your body slowly, and you feel it like a physical touch.

Your mouth is painfully dry.. “I’m going to stay out here for a while,” you tell him, holding up your phone with a hand that trembles just the slightest. “Someone has to report back to Deku and Red Riot and let them know that Cobra got away. And that Diamondback is with him.” You can see the argument in his eyes before he even opens his mouth, and you hurry to continue. “I can’t sleep in strange places anyway.” You really fucking hope your smile is reassuring and not something closer to a needy wince.

Bakugou stares for a little longer before shrugging. “Your loss,” he says, tossing off his gauntlets and gloves. They land on the other end of the couch. Your fingers dig into your palms as you look at them. “See ya in the mornin’, sweetheart.” Your head snaps up just in time for you to see him strip off his shirt and toss it onto the couch as well. The dark fabric peels from his sweat-slicked skin, and your pussy clenches as you get an eyeful of lean muscle and a soft trail of blond hair that disappears beneath his low slung pants. “Fuck, it’s hot in here,” he grumbles, shaking his head as he strolls toward the bedroom.

The door shuts behind him with a loud click.

Phone forgotten on the table, you aren’t sure how long you sit there in silence before your hand moves down between your thighs without your permission, pressing against the seam of your suit. The fabric is thin, and you have to swallow down a moan as your fingers brush over your clit. The light touch has your legs quivering, and your free hand clamps over your mouth. Fuck, you shouldn’t do this.

Your eyes close, exhaling slowly, and tip your head back against the couch cushions. This is enough. You’re definitely not going to start thinking about the man in the bedroom less than a dozen feet away from you. You will not slip the crotch of your suit to the side, letting your fingers drag through the slick already dripping from your slit.

A shudder rips through you as your hips buck against your hand, two of your fingers slipping inside of you easily.

Cobra’s voice echoes in your head. That itch isn’t just gonna go away by itself.

Fuck, it’s going to be a long twenty-four hours.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bnhabookclub #mha smut #bnha smut #mha #bnha #fic: appetence

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votederpycausemufins · 4 years ago

Text

-Smiles widely at the camera that exists somewhere- Ah Grumbot, I’m so glad I remembered to add you in here.

@petrichormeraki

With the arrival of Mumbo and the bots, Grian and Tommy tried to introduce everyone to each other, but another message came in from Scar about doing paperwork with a mention that Iskall was there for the paperwork with Fundy. Immediately Mumbo flew off back towards the shopping district, Tommy barely getting the chance to cover Tubbo’s ears. Tubbee, who had also been brought down from the apiary floor, used Jrumbot as something to hide behind.

“Sorry about that. Iskall is just not the best at reading contracts and Scar likes to hide things in there for fun. If Mumbo hadn’t beat me to it, I would have gone instead since it’s quieter.”

“He forgot Tubbee doesn’t like fireworks.” Jrumbot spoke, petting the mob.

“Exactly. Your dad can be very forgetful in the moment.”

Grumbot looked towards Tubbo and then took a few steps towards him. “You act like Tubbee. You must be President Tubbo. It is nice to meet the whole of you.”

Tubbo, who was trembling a little bit even though the sound had been muffled, looked down at Grumbot. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“I didn’t tell him that part yet.” Tommy quickly explained to his nephew.

“I see. It is something from what your admin did. In creating your ‘canon lives’ he made it so when you lost one, a part of your being would be broken off and cast somewhere else. I am not sure what happened to your other part as I do not have that information, but one did end up within this bee as it first spawned.”

Tubbo looked at the bee in Jrumbots arms and then smiled. “Perfect. Always wanted to be a bee.”

Jrumbot looked between Tubbo, Tommy, Tubbee and Grumbot. “Is Tubbee my uncle then?”

Grian picked Jrumbot up. Grumbot had gotten more of the smarts since he was built to be a computer to answer their questions. Took a little more after Mumbo that way. Jrumbot on the other hand had originally just been made to help sell stuff and was created on the younger side, so he wasn’t as smart. In fact, he was more like Grian if his affinity for shears, especially near his one dad’s mustache was anything to go by.

“Well, Tubbo is your uncle’s friend, maybe even an honorary uncle at that. And Tubbee isn’t quite the same. Besides, I don’t think Tubbee will mind if you don’t call him your uncle.”

Grumbot walked over to Philza. “You are Philza Minecraft. Former king of the Antarctic Empire and my dad’s father, making you my grandfather.” He then looked at Techno. “You are Technoblade, former prince of the Antarctic Empire and also seem to loathe all forms of government. We will not get along.”

Techno looked down at Grumbot with a neutral expression. “Smart kid.”

“Grumbot, how did you know that about your uncle?”

“The mayoral reservoirs of course. He would have been a danger to the mayoral campaign if he appeared.”

Grian stared his son down. “Are you telling me the entire time you knew about Techno.”

“Not his location, but I was aware of his character and other general knowledge.” Grian looked like he was about to blow a gasket. “Of course, you never asked, so I didn’t assume you wanted to know.”

“Grumbot, when we get home, only your brother is getting a diamond.”

Grumbot stared at his dad before saying a single word. “Fuck.”

Tommy smiled. He had taught his nephew well.

With a break in the conversation, Tubbo spoke up. “Well, I mean Philza has sort of been acting as my dad.”

That immediately grabbed Grian’s attention. “Why?”

“Well, I’m not sure exactly what happened. One moment I was in the car with my dad, next thing I know, I’m in a box on the side of the road.”

“Your dad abandoned you?”

“What? No! He would never!”

“Hey G, might be like what happened to you?” Tommy suggested. There was a pause where everything was quiet before suddenly Grian changed to have six purple eyes. “Grian! No!”

Grian closed them and crossed his arms as best as he could while still holding Jrumbot. “What’s the point of being a Watcher if I can’t actually be one.”

“You almost killed everyone a few hours ago.”

“Dad almost killed someone?” Jrumbot asked, looking worried. Grian shifted him to one arm so he could pat his son and comfort him.

“Yeah, things got crazy for a bit. That’s why we wanted you staying in the hobbit tunnels. Did you at least have fun there?”

The question cheered Jrumbot up. “Yeah! We made more tracks for jousting!” Jrumbot continued to talk about what he and Grumbot had been doing when a message came in on the comms “Dad, Daddy wants your help with Scar.”

Grian sighed. “Well, I guess now is as good a time as any to get that paperwork done. Hey Tommy, where’s your nether portal?”

Tommy led everyone down to the second floor and through a nether portal. Though Tubbo had already been there with Fundy, the rest hadn’t and were surprised by the builds that were in the nether.

“How did you do all of this?!” Wilbur asked, surprised. “We barely had stuff like this in the overworld!”

“It’s actually not that big compared to last season. We use the roof more and everyone has their own separate builds.” Grian’s family tried to resist the urge to shake him and or kill him at how normal he was making it sound. “I’ll have to show you the upside down later.”

Though it took a few small bridges here and there, it was rather quick getting them all back to the shopping district. As the portal was right under the town hall, the group was greeted by music as they came through back into the overworld.

“Is he wasting it on paperwork again?!” Grian asked incredulously to no one in particular. “This isn’t going to help us at all!”

“It actually makes sense this time as there is the potential consideration of people from here and the smp moving between each other.” Grumbot explained, making sure to glare down his anarchist uncle the entire time. “All the proper forms would need to be done to keep Hermitcraft safe from people willing to destroy it.”

“I’m going in there.” Tommy spoke up, quickly leaving the others behind. Just a moment later, he walked back out with papers in his hand. “I think these mean he doesn’t want to see us right now.”

“What exactly is going on?” Philza asked.

At the same time, Grian and Tommy gave an answer. “Superfast build mode.”

“What?”

“Scar uses vex magic to help speed himself up to do lots of work in a small amount of time. Usually he uses it for building, but recently he’s also been using it for all his mayor work.”

“I… see.”

“Anyway, Grumbot, can you look at the paperwork?” Grian took the papers from Tommy’s hands and gave them to his son. The robot rapidly read through all the papers at a speed that could potentially rival Scar’s own current speed.

“It’s really bad this time. Paying him diamonds, work clauses, extreme zoning laws for temporary housing. You can only grow wheat and chorus fruit, I’m assuming that’s actually a mistake.”

Tommy smiled. “You wanna go in there and fix it.”

Even if they wouldn’t all admit it, the smp members all had a shiver go down their spines as Grumbot spoke coldly and his screen face turned red. “Very much so.” And then he walked up the stairs to the town hall.

“Is he going to kill your mayor?” Wilbur asked, but Grian shook his head.

“No, he only was that serious the first time they met after we finally built his body. It’s only ever near deaths at most. I’m actually wondering if we have more elections if everyone will let Grumbot run.”

“I certainly won’t be giving him permission.” Came Mumbo’s voice as he exited town hall with Iskall and Fundy behind him. “Artificial life or not, he is still considered a child. And Tommy has given him too many ideas. Scar might be exiled for a few days.”

Techno looked like he was about to speak, but was shushed by Philza.

“Techno, I know you don’t seem to like the government and all, but it works here. I’ve seen hundreds of worlds, so I know how it can all fall apart, but we have literally been doing this for years with not a single problem.”

“Grian.”

“With only one single problem.”

“Grian!”

“Okay, I cause the problems. Mostly. But Tommy helps me with that! But we only very minorly grief and even then it’s extremely rare. And we definitely don’t steal. It’s mainly harmless pranks like chickens everywhere or hiding something in your base that makes noises and you can’t find it.”

“Or secret base bros.” Tommy added in, making Grian look a little confused.

“Yeah, though we stopped doing that ages ago.”

“Or did we?” Tommy asked, somehow looking very racoonish.

Grian looked at his brother. “Okay, concerning, but we can talk about that later.” He turned back to the rest of his family. “In the meantime, I think we should have the discussion I think we’ve all been avoiding a little. Is it just going to be visits, or are you guys actually deciding to move here?”

“What do you mean? You’re not coming with us?” Philza asked, making Grian frown.

“No, of course not. No offense to your home, but it’s a bit of a mess and I’m not sure I could live there without losing my mind. I’m sure that eventually things will calm down, but I’m sure I couldn’t even make half a hobbit hole before it got messed with in some way. Visits are of course on the table, but I’m not going to be staying.”

“But you’ll just be by yourself again.”

“Um…” Tommy started to say, drawing attention over to him. “I’m actually going to mostly stay here. I know Dream is gone and Tubbo’s in charge now, but I just don’t think I can go back there just like that.”

Tubbo hugged Tommy and then Grian pulled the two of them into a hug with his wings. When Philza tried to take a step forward, Grian glared at him. “No. You were part of the problem. You don’t really deserve this right now.”

Mumbo went over to try and comfort Grian, but just ended up making him more agitated. Iskall pulled his fellow redstoner back then tried to change the topic. “So, Fundy, you said you’re Wilbur’s kid. That makes you Grian’s nephew, doesn’t it? That means you have cousins.”

“I do?” The fox hybrid asked before he was tackled by Jrumbot.

“Hi! I’m Jrumbot! Grian and Mumbo are my dads! My brother went in there to talk to Scar, so you may have seen him.”

“Yeah! I did! Wow! This is the best day of my life! I mean, other than the whole going to war part, but everything else was great! New family, hopefully a better server, and I got to hang out with Iskall!”

“That sounds amazing! I got to meet Tubbo! He’s just as fun as Tubbee!” Jurmbot said, happy to share about his day to a new face.

“They seem to get along just fine.” Iskall chuckled. The comment seemed to help Grian relax a bit and he reluctantly released Tommy and Tubbo from his wings.

“Look dad, I’m happy I found you after all these years. But you being my dad doesn’t change the things I saw you do. You sided with people, not ideas, and because of that you would change what you stood for on a moment's notice just to side with someone you cared about. But that hurt others you cared about at the same time. I’ve been hurt enough in my life. Tommy has too. Things here are safe and stable and even then we don’t always have the best days. I don’t normally curse, but it should get the point across. I am terrified of getting close to you right now and you finding a way to fuck up out lives.”

Mumbo and Iskall shared a look. While it might not get through to the newcomers, they had known Grian long enough to know just how serious he was being. They had both seen just how bad it could get for Grian and Tommy and how helpless they felt sometimes when trying to help the brothers.

Philza was quiet for a while before giving a simple understanding nod. “Thanks dad.”

“Well Grian, I’m sure that it’s been a long day for everyone. I’m sure people are tired and hungry and there’s plenty of paperwork to do. How about once Grumbot is finished, we head over to my Hobbit hole for some food.”

Grian smiled at Mumbo. “That sounds nice. Dinner with the whole family!”

Everyone was pleasantly surprised when they saw Mumbo’s hobbit hole. It was a much more reasonable size. They hadn’t seen Mumbo’s real base quite yet though, so they assumed this was it. It was still quite large from the bumbo baggins society expansion, but that meant plenty of room for everyone to sit at for a meal.

While there was plenty of variety, golden carrots were the most plentiful and they were gladly eaten for their high saturation. The visitors from the SMP tried not to stare as the bot children were given bowls of nether quartz and red stone to eat. It was hard to even comprehend how they were eating at all as their heads were just computer monitors yet somehow it just worked.

A cake was placed on the table as a joke for all the birthdays everyone had missed but they ended up actually singing. Following that, the dreaded paperwork began, though it was easier to handle now that everyone had a slice of the delicious treat.

While Philza, Wilbur, Techno and Fundy signed paperwork for simply visiting Hermitcraft, Tubbo signed one for visits and for residency. “Tubbo, are you planning to stay?” Tommy asked when he noticed the papers in front of his friend.

“Well… I would like to. This place seems so nice… but with me being admin now, I need to help the smp. But maybe I can have extended stays in the future.”

Grian looked at Tubbo sympathetically. “Tubbo, you don’t have to be the admin. I’m sure you can find someone you trust enough to move the powers to if you want to stay here.”

“But you made me admin.”

“You were nearby and I knew you probably wouldn’t do anything horrible as admin, but you don’t have to keep them. You are still a kid. You don’t need to keep that responsibility if you want something else.” When Tubbo didn’t look convinced, Grian sighed. “If you want, we can make someone else admin, and if it doesn’t work, you just call me over and I’ll take them away again.”

“Grian, there’s a good chance you could kill someone doing that.”

“And I wouldn’t regret it!”

“Yes you would.”

“Okay maybe.”

Mumbo just gave a very tired sounding sigh.

As dinner was wrapping up, Grian pulled Grumbot over to a side room. “Alright, you were able to help Tommy out with Tubbo and apparently you knew more about Techno than you were going to tell me.”

“That is true.” Grumbot answered. “But you two build me the way you did.”

“I know, and I really regret it.” Grian pulled out a diamond. “Grumbot, do you know anything about Tubbo’s dad?”

Grumbot took the diamond and then processed the question. He was silent for a few long moments, making Grian start to believe that there was nothing Grumbot could find on the man. But just as he was losing hope, Grumbot spoke again.

“He’s called The Captain.”

#hermit!tommy au #hermit!tommy #grian #grian xelqua #tubbo #grumbot #jrumbot #mumbo jumbo #philza #wilbur soot #technoblade #itsfundy #iskall85

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