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kpoptrashlord-007 · 2 years ago

Text

Hell-tel 6;; KKB

Word Count;; 1.3k

Genre;; Fluff, Humour(ish), F2Ls

Pairing;; Kibum x Reader

Summary;;

Your cross-country vacation has come to a grinding halt after an engine malfunction stranded you in the middle of literally nowhere. After spending a few nights in a -1 star motel, you and your best friend, Kibum, are going stir-crazy. All is fair in love and war, and you won’t go down without a fight, not when the most precious commodity is at stake: the frumpy bed and its hard mattress.

Warnings;;

Brief alcohol consumption (literally a sip of beer), playful banter, some flirtatious remarks, slightly suggestive content

Notes;;

Written for @kikisfuneralservice for the @superm-net fic exchange event! [DUDE I AM SO SORRY!! I didn’t realise this was due at the end of June. I thought I still had time. Totally spaced it. But I hope you enjoy it, and I’m glad you’re out here making content for SHINee, you’re a rockstar!!]

Main Masterlist

"It's Saturday night," Kibum groaned, plopping down on the couch beside you. "You're gonna spend the weekend holed up in this tiny motel room?"

"It only feels tiny because it's made for one person, not two."

He rolled his eyes. "Just because it has one bed doesn't mean it's made for one person. Ever heard of couples before?"

You didn't reply, choosing to instead kick your feet up on the coffee table. It shivered and creaked under your weight. Much like everything else inside the room it was on its last leg. In fact, most of the basic necessities were on the fritz. The refrigerator left your drinks warmer than they had been when you put them in, black spots plagued the television screen, and the showerhead pelted you with ice-cold water.

Then there was the air conditioner. Instead of a fresh breeze it pushed out stale air that clung to your clothes, leaving the stench of wet dog in its wake. No matter how much of Kibum's cologne you spritzed throughout the cramped quarters, mildew hung in the air. You'd given up by the second night.

"This might actually be hell," you whined.

"It's not that bad." Kibum's arm slinked around the back of the couch. The tips of his fingers brushed against your shoulders. "At least we're suffering together."

"Looks like someone forgot who's on the couch tonight."

His head lolled back as he groaned, hitting the couch’s stiff headrest with an audible thump. "We're in hell."

After an eternity of the couch trying to swallow you whole, you stretched your arms with a little yawn. Straightening your posture took great effort but you rose to your feet while using Kibum for balance. Tension riddled his shoulder, the muscles taut and tight. Your lips pulled down into a frown. Digging your thumb into the largest knot, you grappled with it, squeezing it between your fingers. Kibum swatted you away with an indignant huff.

“You’re worse than the springs stabbing me in the back.”

“You need a massage.”

“Not from you, not with those hands.”

He chuckled mirthlessly, shaking his head. Throwing your hands up in surrender, you mumbled out a ‘fine’. Once you were back in the big city you would schedule a spa day for the two of you… not that a single session could fix the damage this hell-tel had caused. You would need a vacation from your vacation at this rate. Somewhere free from cars and their woes, perhaps with a king-sized bed, and functioning amenities (would that be too much to ask?). At the very least it should have a working fridge, or an ice machine, or even a convenience store nearby with either a working fridge or ice machine.

Snapping your fingers as you remembered why you had gotten up in the first place, you crossed the room. It didn’t take much – once you sidled past the table, a single step brought you to the mini fridge. The cooling component inside grumbled to life, mocking you and your desires. Taking it a step further, it didn’t budge as you tried to pry the dented door open. Just typical. Gritting your teeth, you put your whole back into it. It shook and rumbled within your sweaty palms but remained sealed.

“Just open already,” you growled, kicking the machine.

“Did you unlock it?”

“It doesn’t have a lock.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m… sure?” Giving the metal box a once-over, a wave of confusion swept over you. Near the bottom on the left side was a glimmering latch. “Huh. That’s new.”

“They installed it yesterday.”

“Really?” you asked, snapping around to face Kibum. Incredulity morphed into irritation once you caught sight of his smirk. “Ha-ha, funny. So glad you can find a way to prank me even here. You’re so clever.”

“Thank you,” he said, unable to hide his triumphant glee. “And you’re pretty cute when you get all worked up like that.”

Warmth tinged your ears. You gave him a dismissive wave before directing your attention back to your initial task. When you unlatched the fridge with a huff, it responded with an obnoxious hum that rolled out into the room. It was bare aside from a six pack of beer and a couple bottles of water. The air inside was warmer than the room’s ambient temperature, and the two cans you grabbed weren’t much cooler. You tossed one to Kibum. Froth spilled out as you flipped the tab. It poured onto the floor, earning you a disapproving look from your temporary roommate. Even so he followed suit. Leaning forward, he cracked it open and soon after the carpet soaked up the suds.

“Now we have to leave a bigger tip for the housekeeper.”

“As if they even have one,” you said with a shudder, looking down at the old stains that littered the carpet. “Anyway, let’s toast! Here's hoping the part arrives tomorrow!"

You raised the can to clink against his. Liquid sloshed against metal as your beers bounced against one another. Bringing the drink to your lips, you took a swig. Your regret was immediate. Warm, flat beer rushed down your throat and you choked. Bitter alcohol stung your nose and burned your throat. Kibum’s eyes widened at your outburst but it was too late, the drink was already slipping past his lips. Throwing his head forward, he unceremoniously spat it back into the can.

Shadows crossed his flawless skin as he glowered at you. "Even if the car isn't fixed tomorrow, I'm out of here. I'll walk if I have to. I never want to see this town again."

Clearing your throat of the vile drink, you scratched your head. "Still want to go out?"

"And drink more of that?” He sighed, discarding the drink on the table. "Let's just go to bed. We have to be well rested so we can count chickens or whatever else they consider entertainment around here."

"The baby chicks were kind of cute though," you said as you walked to the sink, emptying the beer down the drain. Even over the strained glugging of the pipes you heard Kibum scoff. "What? They were!"

"I'm taking the bed tonight."

Dropping the can, you tripped over your feet in your haste to accost him. “Like hell you are!”

He pushed the coffee table into your direct path before you could scramble to the bedroom to stake your claim. Standing with poise and grace, he brushed away not-so-imaginary dust while looking you up and down. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he walked around the table. Now opposite you, he tutted.

“I’m not spending another night on that couch”—you opened your mouth in protest but he pressed a finger to your lips—“but since it’s your turn for the bed, I’m willing to share it with you.”

“Share?” you whined before shoving the table back against the couch. He nodded. “Fine. We can share. Since it’s the last night.”

“Good. It’s about time we slept together, anyway.”

Warmth rushed throughout your veins. You spluttered, looking anywhere but directly at him, until you heard his breathless chuckling. Another of his little jokes. The embarrassment fell from your face, replaced with an exhausted frown. Your gaze looped around from his feet to his million-dollar smile. Immaculate despite the environment, his silky hair framing gleaming eyes.

“Just where did your mind go, huh?”

“Are you going to bed or…?”

“I’m worried that I might not get any sleep,” he teased, stepping into your space. With him came the scent of mint. “Are you going to pounce me in the middle of the night?”

Giving his chest a light nudge, you rolled your eyes in an attempt to dispel the heat blossoming across your cheeks. “As if. Stop playing around.”

“Alright, alright, but”—using the side of his crooked finger, he lifted your chin, the intensity of his stare sending shivers down your spine—“I won’t complain if you change your mind.”

– ♡ – If you enjoyed this, please consider liking, commenting, reblogging, and/or following! Thank you!

#key x reader #key fluff #shinee x reader #shinee fluff #kpop x reader #kpop fluff #kibum x reader #kibum fluff #shinee fanfic #kpop fanfic #supermficexchange

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lesetoilesfous · 3 years ago

Note

Sending you a prompt from the Bad Things Happen Bingo! I'd be interested to see what you do with "Defeated and Trophified", for either a negative Handers OR an Evil M!Hawke. Thank you! <3

Oooh thank you so much, I hope you enjoy!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting @badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Pairing: dark, abusive Handers

Characters: Garrett Hawke, Anders, Alistair Theirin

Tags: post da2, evil Hawke, implied abusive relationship

Rating: Mature

The new viscount of Kirkwall has made changes at the Keep, and indeed in the city in general. No longer are there any mages to be found anywhere, not even in the city-state’s infamous Gallows. Alistair had been struck by how few staves he’d seen anywhere as a result. He realises that he’d just sort of got used to apostates and presumably-legal Circle mages wandering throughout Fereldan. The absence of them here in Kirkwall is, well, stark. But Alistair is a king, and visiting his new trading partner is not the most burdensome of his many, many responsibilities, so he takes a deep breath and tries not to think about Kelton Amell, and climbs the stairs towards the viscount’s personal offices.

A servant who looks pale and frightened and flinches far too easily for Alistair’s comfort dips him a low, low bow and swings the door open on perfectly oiled hinges. Everywhere, the Amell family crest bleeds in red lines beside the emblem of the city of chains. Everything is spotless and silent, and even the air tastes clean, somehow - perfumed with what tastes to Alistair like elfroot and spindleweed. He’s led, with his retainers, into a large room with a long, beautiful dark wooden table. Behind it the Viscount of Kirkwall: muscular, broad, handsome Garrett Hawke, sits in state wearing an iron crown. Behind him, standing demurely with his hands folded and his head lowered, is the apostate who blew up the Chantry.

The first thing Alistair can find to think is that he recognises this man. He remembers gently encouraging Kelton to recruit him, almost a decade ago in Amaranthine. A young, frightened man whose brave face warred with his real horror at what the Templar order wished to do with him.

The second thing Alistair notices is the collar. It’s not ostentatious - of course not, if there’s one thing Alistair has learned from the immaculate Keep and the deathly silent streets, it’s that the man sitting in front of him does not go in for the obvious. But it’s a collar all the same: a thin, beautiful bar of rolled gold which hangs like a necklace around the apostate’s neck, darkened with dozens and dozens of finely engraved runes that makes it look stained black like an antique. Thin gold chains dip below the apostate’s neckline, under the loose, beautiful deep green silk tunic he’s wearing. There are matching, thick gold cuffs wrapped around each of his wrists. Alistair can’t see his feet from where he’s standing, but he doesn’t doubt there are cuffs there too. He swallows his bile, and refocuses his attention.

Hawke doesn’t bother to stand, which is technically a formal insult, but Alistair suspects it won’t be the last thing he tolerates today in the name of preventing open war. Instead he inclines his head, and waves at the frightened servant to pull out a chair. The servant does so, and Alistair thanks them softly, not missing the way Hawke’s mouth turns down in a sneer. The apostate behind the viscount, (the grey warden), says nothing. Alistair can barely believe he’s breathing, for how silent he’s being.

Hawke leans forward. “King Theirin. Such a pleasure to have your company so soon after our...troubles.” Behind Hawke, the apostate flinches, so subtly Alistair can hardly believe he noticed it. But Hawke’s jaw clenches, and the apostate’s already pale skin pales further.

Alistair thinks about facing down a broodmother and sits a little straighter in his chair. “Of course, Viscount. I was sorry to hear the news of your predecessor, and,” Alistair pauses, picking his words as carefully as stepping between landmines, “...confused by Knight-Commander Meredith’s interim occupation.”

Hawke laughs, and again, the apostate flinches. “Yes, well, Stannard always did have delusions of grandeur. But she wasn’t wrong about the mage problem. Worse than a nest of plague-ridden rats in this city and just as rotten. It was poisoning us from the inside out.”

Alistair lets the comment past him, and keeps his features neutral. He’d gotten good at this, as a child, under Isolde’s harassment. He asks, neutrally, as politely as he can, “Is it true, then? That you took part in the annulment personally?”

Again, Hawke laughs. Alistair feels a thorny kind of heat coiling in his chest. Hawke says, “Damned right I did. I was the only one left in the Blighted city with the fucking guts. Got every apostate too - all the criminals and infected children. I lanced the boil that this city had become and I burned out every bit of rot. Except this one,” Hawke gestures to the apostate behind him, then looks back at Alistair with a wide smile of perfect teeth, “But he’s pretty.”

Alistair fantasises about breaking his nose. Instead, he follows Hawke’s gesture to look up at the tall, broad man beside him. He’s older than he was, when Alistair had met him, lines printed across his face in deep crevasses. But he’s clean shaven, and his hair is brushed and soft around his head. Alistair listens to his own racing heartbeat for a moment before he speaks. “I heard he was a Grey Warden.”

Hawke’s eyes narrow, and there’s a flash of something there in the brown and gold of his irises that reminds Alistair terribly of the bird after which his family took its name. Something bloodthirsty, and cruel. “Like you? I told Vael, and the blighted Divine, Anders stays here. He’s mine.”

Alistair raises his hands in surrender and wonders whether Hawke can see that his palms are sweating. “Of course! Wouldn’t dream of separating you. It was only innocent curiosity. Now, I believe you have a Fereldan apostate to deliver to me?”

The blatant threat on Hawke’s face melts into a smirk, and he leans back in his chair. Behind him, Anders, the apostate’s shoulders lower, fractionally. Hawke clicks his fingers at the servant, and a few minutes later there’s the clatter of armour as a pair of templars bring in a wounded, starved looking elvhen girl.

Alistair thinks hard about exactly how much worse war would be for all his people and truly, deeply hates being king. Hawke gets up, circling the table to lift the girl’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. She glares at him, and Alistair hates that he’s heartened by this remaining spirit.

But then Hawke looks at the apostate in the corner and lifts his hand. The gold ring on his wedding finger, similarly blackened with runes, burns red, and Anders flinches as the jewellery on his wrists and neck glow, too. All Hawke says is, “Anders.”

The apostate moves faster than Alistair thinks he could have followed even if he were prepared for it. His hand flicks, and a silent bolt of lightning crosses the space of Hawke’s private quarters and connects with the girl’s skull. Her body slumps almost immediately, shuddering in a death rattle that is all too familiar to Alistair. He makes an effort to close his open mouth, and for the first time gives up the poker face.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Hawke smiles at him, close lipped and shrewd. “A lesson, your majesty. We won’t tolerate apostates in Kirkwall. Try to keep them on your side of the ocean.”

Alistair looks up at the apostate, Anders, but his hands are already folded in front of him again, his head bowed. Alistair swallows past the dryness of his mouth and the thick lump in his throat, and gets to his feet with an agonisingly loud screech of the wooden chair legs on stone.”Well, Viscount. It’s certainly been...educational.”

Alistair turns and tries not to imagine the entire darkspawn horde at his heels. Hawke doesn’t stand, and his pet apostate doesn’t move. But when Alistair gets to the door, Hawke speaks again. “Come back any time, your majesty. Anders can do wonderful things with his hands.”

Alistair doesn’t turn around. The doors swing shut behind them, and both the Keep’s guards and two servants usher them forward. But Alistair hesitates, listening for a moment.

Through the wooden doors, there’s a crack of skin on skin, and a soft cry of pain. Softly, deadly, Alistair hears the Viscount whisper, “Killed her quickly, didn’t you? Any suffering you spared her I’ll deal you, later.”

Alistair doesn’t realised he’s curled his fingers into a fist until one of his guard’s touches his forearm, her eyes wide with either fear or concern. Slowly, Alistair uncurls his hand, listening to the crunch of metal, and follows the soldiers and servants out of the Keep. He makes a mental note to write Zevran, later.

There’s a warden in need, and a state leader in desperate want of assassination.

#dadwc #bad things happen bingo #hawke #anders #handers #da2 #evil hawke #my fic #alistair theirin #hollyand-writes #dragon age 2

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moonbeambucky · 5 years ago

Text

Hey Neighbor (Part 9)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 3827 Warnings: fluff

Summary: You had a plan and then life came along with one of its own. With your future almost derailed you worked hard to get yourself back on track and finally everything seemed to be going right… that is, until your new neighbor moved in.

A/N: A huge thank you to my wonderful beta Sam @buckyofthemyscira Feedback is always appreciated!

PART 8 | HEY NEIGHBOR MASTERLIST

The lobby of Stark Industries is bright and almost blinding compared to the dull grey that looms over the city outside. To make matters worse, the sky would darken into a deep black in just a few hours, a depressing casualty of setting the clocks back.

It was mid-November with winter closing in. You bundle up your coat, adjusting your scarf before daring to step outside. You were having a conversation with Steve, or at least you thought you were.

“He’s been like this all day,” Mr. Lee said, laughing as a confused Steve finally picked his head up from his phone.

Steve apologized as his cheeks turned pink, again. He was texting Peggy and he just couldn’t help the way he felt about her. They had gone on a few dates since they met on Halloween weekend and Steve was one-hundred percent smitten.

“Well anyway, I have to head to Metro-Gen now so you boys have a good afternoon,” you said, saluting them before stepping outside.

Your internship was going well. It had only been a few months but you were very comfortable working in this type of environment. You were familiar with the hospital and some of the ER staff other than Sam. You assisted Elena with her cases and tried not to forget everything you’ve ever learned while under pressure. It was scary but exciting and most of all you were happy to provide assistance and care to those that needed it.

When the weekend finally came you were thrilled to finish up your hours at the hospital. You were cold and tired, and really wanted to take off your bra immediately. Wanda was coming over which was rare since she and Sam became official. Any time he had off they tried to spend together and you understood it, especially with the hours required for his job but you really missed her and were happy to finally hang out after so long.

“So you seriously can’t eat this?” you said, taking a hefty dip of guacamole onto your chip.

“Uh yes I can bitch, don’t hog all the guacamole,” Wanda joked, pushing you aside as she grabbed the dish for herself. “I just can’t eat the chips.”

Wanda was always trying new diets, not that she ever needed to be on one. She was doing the Keto diet now and while you applauded her commitment you could never give up carbs like that.

She sat cross legged on your couch, moving her fork around her bowl absentmindedly as she worked up the courage to speak. “So I wanted to ask you something…”

A pang of anxiety hit your stomach as it tends to do whenever someone says those words, but you tried to remain neutral, wondering what Wanda was going to say.

“I know we usually have Thanksgiving together but Sam happened to be off this year and I know it’s really soon but he invited me for dinner at his parents’ house and I haven’t said yes yet because I wanted to speak with you first because I know it’s our tradition to do something together but– ”

“Wanda!” You had to shout her name so she could stop and take a breath. You smiled at her, letting her know you were okay with her having Thanksgiving with Sam. “I’m really happy for you,” you said against her ear as she leaned over to hug you.

That night you thought about Wanda and Steve, how they both got into a relationship on Halloween. Meanwhile, the only thing you got that night was a blister on your heel.

“Hey neighbor.”

Bucky’s voice echoed from down the hall as he stepped out of the elevator, seeing you locking your door, with a laundry bag at your feet.

With everyone’s new relationships and Natasha prepping for a case no one has gone out since Halloween and things definitely felt a little weird.

“Hey,” you replied shakily, offering an awkward smile in return.

The truth was you were still upset with Bucky on Halloween. Well, not just you but the whole group. It had been weighing on you each day that passed without seeing him. The closer Bucky got to you and his door, the more nervous you felt and you really wanted to get this off your chest.

“Bucky… sorry this is out of the blue but…” You chewed on your lip trying to figure out exactly what to say.

His brows knit together. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a tense smile, wishing you hadn’t said anything in the first place, especially with the way concern filled those ocean blue eyes of his.

“Yeah I just…” With another big sigh you pushed the words out. “I thought it was kind of rude for you to ditch everyone on Halloween without saying goodbye. I know we’re not that close and you don’t owe me or anyone an explanation for wanting to leave or whatever but I don’t know, I just… needed to say that.”

Your lips pressed together firmly, feeling your heart pound rapidly against your chest as you waited to face whatever backlash there was after sharing your feelings.

Bucky sighed, letting his shoulders slump down. “I’m sorry Y/N. Honestly, that’s not how I wanted that night to end. But you were talking with that guy so I didn’t want to interrupt anything and everyone else had each other so I thought I’d do my own thing.”

“Guy? What guy?” You wondered out loud. When Bucky described him you realized he was talking about Bruce. “You thought something was going on with me and that guy? No, no. He’s a friend from work, just a friend.”

“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to block… anything… just in case.” Bucky chuckled, flashing his bright teeth as he smiled. “Still that was a dick move of me so I’m sorry.”

You accepted Bucky’s apology, feeling a little better about why he left the way he did. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t have left with that girl anyway, not that you care, because you don’t. Although now that most of your friends were in relationships you were feeling a little envious. It’s not that you didn’t want to date but you were too focused on work and school at the moment.

“Well I guess I’ll see you later,” you said, picking up your laundry bag.

“Wait!”

Throughout your conversation one thing stuck out the most in Bucky’s mind, when you said you weren’t close. He really thought you were and he’s not sure why it affected him so much but he wanted to change that and make it right.

You’ve definitely become a good friend of his even if you hadn’t gotten off on the right foot. And maybe he’s been a little busy lately, he hasn’t kept up on the group chat and didn’t think about how his lack of communication impacted anyone else. You were his friend, and so were Steve, Sam, Natasha, Clint and Wanda. He wanted to do better and be there for everyone so he might as well start now.

“If you wouldn’t mind the company I actually need to do my laundry too.”

There wasn’t any hesitation as you nodded back to him, your lips pulling into a smile that grew wider when he returned one of his own. Bucky took a few minutes to gather his laundry and together you walked a few blocks to the laundromat.

It wasn’t too crowded for a Sunday afternoon which was a pleasant surprise so the machines were pretty available. Bucky shared his detergent with you which was kind, saving your quarters from buying the single use packs the shop offered.

You sat beside him on uncomfortable chairs, bouncing your leg to keep warm as you shivered. There was some heat circulating through the room, a muggy wet heat that poured out every time someone opened the machines to check on their still damp clothes. Bucky was a good distraction, keeping you focused on your conversation as you caught up on what’s been going on in your lives.

“Thanksgiving’s going to be a little weird this year with Wanda and Steve doing their own thing but it’s alright.”

Bucky heard the disappointment you tried to hide in your tone but your face didn’t mask the emotions as well. He listened as you explained this was your tradition since you moved to New York. Since you couldn’t afford to fly home for both Thanksgiving and the holidays you had to choose, and so every year you spent the day with friends.

“Why don’t you spend it with me?” he asked, watching as the corner of your mouth slowly began to turn upwards into a smile.

“With you? You don’t go to your parent’s house?”

Bucky’s expression softened, “Normally I do but this year they’re flying out to spend Thanksgiving weekend with Rebecca.”

“Where does she live again?”

“It’s ‘they’ and Arizona.” Bucky rubbed the chill from his arms despite wearing a jacket. “Kinda wish I was there right now,” he chuckled.

The machines shook for their final spin cycle and you and Bucky got up in preparation to grab your clothes.

“You didn’t want to go with them?” you wondered.

“I’ve got a lot to work on plus I’ll see Bex soon, they usually come in for Christmas. So… is that a yes? I know I’m not Wanda or Steve but I’m still your friend.”

Bucky’s expression was hopeful as he awaited your answer. A beaming smile spread across your face as you replied, “Yes. I’d love to have Thanksgiving with you!”

If you looked at Bucky’s browser history over the last few weeks you would find a lot of food related searches: How to cook a turkey, how long to cook a turkey, how to cook a turkey fast, easiest way to cook a turkey, simple Thanksgiving dinner, Thanksgiving for 2, best Thanksgiving sides.

He wanted to make your Thanksgiving special but truthfully Bucky wasn’t the best in the kitchen. He could cook a few things but the idea of making a full Thanksgiving dinner was daunting and he couldn’t exactly ask his mother for help.

Since it was going to be just the two of you he finally found his answer– Thanksgiving dinner on a sheet pan. Bucky wrote out the list of groceries he needed, making sure he had everything needed so he could prepare the dinner.

You were working a full day at the hospital so Bucky had extra time to prepare for your arrival. His clothes were folded neatly, placed in his drawers that could now actually close. He made his bed, well he made sure the pillows were straight and draped his comforter over everything neatly. His instruments were gathered together neatly beside his desk and he made sure his bathroom was clean. Bucky spritzed his cologne in the air for good measure to make sure everything smelled nice.

Once that was done it finally dawned on him that he didn’t have a table. “Good job Barnes,” he scolded himself as he cleared away the last remaining clutter on the trunk that served as his coffee table. It would have to make do.

Bucky opened the package he bought at the store, a harvest themed tablecloth that was entirely too big for the trunk but with a few extra folds he made it look alright. It was an extra touch he hoped you would be happy to see. Checking his phone Bucky began to prepare the food, hoping to time it right for when you were coming by.

“No, no, no,” you cried, passing another bakery that was sold out of pies.

You hadn’t planned this properly. Not one bit. With Bucky preparing dinner you offered to bring the dessert and for some reason you thought making pumpkin pie from scratch would be easy. You were very wrong.

By the time you got home last night you were too exhausted to even look at the recipe. You needed sleep and had no shame in going to bed pretty much right away. The fact that it gets dark before five o’clock definitely helped you justify your early bedtime.

The genius idea you had was to wake up a little early so you could make the pie crust which might have worked out if you hadn’t overslept. Yes, despite the extra sleep you got your body wanted more.

Although you made it to work on time you ruined any shot at trying to snag a pie from any bakery along the way. Now you were headed home, defeated and upset with yourself for ruining Thanksgiving.

You trudged through the hallway, sighing heavily as you stood outside of Bucky’s apartment. Your knuckles rapped against the door, waiting for him to answer. Bucky pulled open the door with a smile that dropped the moment he saw your face.

“Y/N, is everything okay?” His hand came upon your shoulder as he offered comfort.

With another deep sigh you shook your head, “No… well yes.” You reconsidered your words, not wanting to worry him. “I ruined Thanksgiving.”

His mouth opened but Bucky didn’t speak, silently wondering why you think you’ve ruined something that hasn’t happened yet.

“I said I would bring dessert and I wanted to bake but I was too exhausted, so I thought I’d get something from the store but everything was sold out and now I feel like a shitty friend.”

Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the way you pouted so seriously over something as insignificant as dessert.

“Hey, c’mere,” he said, opening his arms. You rested your head against Bucky’s chest wrapping your arms around him as he rubbed circles on your back through your jacket. “You didn’t ruin anything, doll, I promise.”

With a few more reassurances from Bucky you pulled away from his embrace, feeling a little better even if part of you was still disappointed. You told him you would be over in a few minutes, desperate to change your clothes.

Bucky’s door was unlocked and you let yourself in, now wearing a loose sweater and black leggings that would allow you to feel comfortable as you stuffed your face, and casual slip-ons your feet thanked you for. Bucky was equally casual, in a dark grey t-shirt and black jeans so you didn’t feel bad for underdressing.

You stepped inside seeing the coffee table set up in a themed tablecloth and a scented pumpkin candle that smelled delicious as it spread throughout the room.

“Dinner should be ready in a minute or so. Can I get you something to drink?” he asked as you set your bag down beside the couch.

“Wine, I guess?” You weren’t really picky to be honest, happily taking the glass of Pinot Noir as Bucky poured for you and himself.

Bucky barely had a chance to take a sip before the alarm on his phone was going off, his reminder to take the food out of the oven.

“I hope this is okay,” he said, pulling out the sheet pan of turkey breasts surrounded by stuffing, green beans and sweet potatoes.

Your mouth was watering as you inhaled the enticing aroma. “Mmmm it looks delicious. Do you need any help?”

Bucky shook his head, telling you to relax. It was hard, because even though you were still pretty tired from the day you felt like you should be doing more than sipping wine on his couch. You stared at Bucky as he stood in the kitchen, dividing the food amongst two plates.

The muscles of his back were entrancing to watch as they moved beneath his shirt. Dropping your gaze you couldn’t help but stare at the way his jeans hugged his butt.

“You like what you see?”

Bucky’s voice seemingly came out of nowhere as you hadn’t realized he was looking over his shoulder.

“What? No, I’m… tired and stuck in a comfortable stare,” you laughed quickly, masking the awkwardness of definitely getting caught staring at his ass.

Bucky chuckled under his breath. He placed both dishes down, proud of the work he had done. Pressing his lips together Bucky had hope written across his face as he waited for your reaction.

Your hand came up to cover your mouth as you tried to chew fast enough so you could tell him how delicious it was. A smile stretched across his face, happy that he made you happy, and then Bucky began to dig in.

There wasn’t much to watch after deciding to skip over all the football games and sitcom reruns but choosing from Netflix wasn’t much better. There were a dozen cheesy, romantic Christmas movies but neither of you wanted to watch any of those.

“Oh how about this?” Bucky asked as he flashed by Nailed It! Your eyes lit up with delight as you nodded your head. If there was one show that made you feel better about your baking skills it was watching these hilarious disasters.

Bucky had the cutest laugh. The sound itself wasn’t anything out of the ordinary but the way that his whole face lit up while he was laughing. The joy reached his eyes first with crinkles pulling at the corners, his nose scrunched up reminding you of a bunny, and that smile… Bucky had one of the nicest smiles you’d ever seen because it had the power to make your own greater just by looking at it.

You were crying with laughter as the contestants revealed their cakes, each one somehow more horrifying than the last. By the third episode you found yourself comfortably resting your head against Bucky. It was nice to have someone to hang out with like this again especially since Steve had rightfully been spending most of his free time with Peggy.

“I hope you don’t get your baking skills from this show. Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t make pie,” Bucky teased. Your immediate response was to playfully smack his leg. “Ow I’m kidding!”

“It would have been good, a thousand times better than this,” you gestured towards the screen.

Bucky cocked his head to face you. “So let’s make it now.”

Your head shook rejecting his suggestion. “It takes too long. The dough needs to rest for a while after you mix it and I don’t want to eat pie at two in the morning. Not when I have to get up early again.”

With another day off from Stark Industries you’d be spending a full day at the hospital, trying to chip away at all those hours you needed to do.

“It’s still early, we can make something right? Cookies? Is that the same dough?” Bucky asked, because even though you had to be up early he still wanted to spend time with you and he could also go for dessert.

“It’s not exactly the same but I have all the ingredients. Do you want to make cookies?”

Bucky’s stomach rumbled as if on cue making both of you laugh.

Since it was easier to bake in your apartment you helped Bucky clean up the dishes you made in his, feeling it was rude to leave things a mess. Bucky didn’t want you to clean but you at least insisted on rinsing the plates clean and since you were at the sink anyway you ended up washing most of them.

You didn’t see the way Bucky smiled while watching you. This was probably the only time he’s felt comfortable having a woman linger in his apartment. His flings all begged to draw out their time, promising him pancakes or the best eggs and bacon he’s ever had. As hard as they tried, he shut them all down ushering them out quickly but things with you were different. You were friends and closer than he would ever be to any of the random names in his phone.

In your apartment Bucky helped gather the ingredients needed. Counter space and New York didn’t exactly go together, not in your price range, but together you cleared space on your kitchen table and set everything up there.

Bucky ignored his phone that rang as he cracked eggs into the large bowl you were using to mix everything together in. He picked up the bag of chocolate chips pouring a generous amount in the dough, not that you minded; the more chocolate the better!

Together you scooped up balls of dough onto a baking sheet and placed them in the oven.

“Bucky!” You turned to find him swiping his finger through the bowl of raw dough and eating it.

“What?”

“You can’t eat that you’ll get sick!” you protested, taking the bowl away from him and washing it before he could risk his chance of getting E. coli any further.

He sucked his finger into his mouth, smiling, “No one has ever gotten sick from eating raw cookie dough.” His comment had you look back, blinking in silence. “Okay well I’m sure someone has but it’s never happened to me.”

“I want you to enjoy these cookies Bucky, not vomit all over the place.”

He brought over the rest of the bowls that needed to be washed, this time taking over and returning the favor since you washed his dishes. “You mean you wouldn’t take care of me if I got sick?” He pouted, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows.

“Not a chance,” you said teasingly, unable to hold back your smile.

Checking your phone you pulled out the cookies just in time for them to be crisp and chewy. After letting them cool you let Bucky take the first bite this time, watching as his eyes rolled back as he let a sinful moan slip.

“So fucking good. You’re amazing.”

This isn’t the first time you’d heard similar praise coming from Bucky, and combined with the orgasmic look on his face it made you turn away with embarrassment, now having a visual of what things might be like at night on the side of the wall. You grabbed a cookie to distract your mind, biting into buttery perfection with a massive amount of chocolate thanks to Bucky’s heavy hand.

“Thanks for a great Thanksgiving Bucky. Tonight was awesome,” you said, kissing him on the cheek before wrapping your arms around him.

“You’re welcome Y/N,” he murmured against you, squeezing back a little tighter, both of you now aware of the friendly kiss you had given him.

Bucky left with a dish containing most of the cookies at your insistence. He couldn’t help but eat a few more when he was back in his apartment. Before getting into bed Bucky listened to the voicemail he received earlier.

“Hi James, it’s Mom. We missed you tonight. I don't know why your deadline was on a holiday but I hope you finished everything. I set aside some leftovers in case you wanted to come over tomorrow. Call me back. I love you.”

PART 10

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes series

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cicada-bones · 4 years ago

Text

The Warrior and the Wildfire

Chapter 2: Foreboding

Im hoping to get a bunch of updates out before i have to get back to school - So here we go! Second chapter already! This one is a little short, but it was the only place that made sense to end it, so I hope you will forgive me.

word count: 2885

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

There was once a male gifted by Hellas. He was born into nothing, was born into dirt and ash and squalor. He ate when he was hungry, took what he wanted, fought, stole, and whored.

Until a queen of darkness found him.

She raised him up from the slums, and turned him into a weapon of war. He gave up everything to serve her, pledged himself to her always. Even loved her.

She scorned him, but the male endured it. For he would lay down his life for her, had already given her his freedom. And what was his dignity by comparison?

The years passed, and time started to become meaningless. Courts rose and fell, warriors grew into power and others’ names were lost to time. The male built a company of soldiers to rival any throughout the land. They suffered loss, betrayal, and battles too numerous to count. But they stood strong through it all.

Until a princess of fire sailed in from across the sea, and stole his brother away.

Now his queen was lost, was blinded by her own desire for power. And for the first time in his long life, the male was unsure of the way.

A choice lay before him, two paths diverged. And time was running short for the decision to be made.

The male closed his eyes, letting his tense shoulders drop.

Both roads were fraught with darkness and difficulty. One would take him across the sea, and label him a betrayer, an oath-breaker. The other would chain him in place, to a throne whose foundation he was worried had already begun to crack. One would take him from his queen forever, but might save her from herself. The other would allow him to stay by her side, but only to watch as her greed slowly destroyed her.

One breath in, one breath out. Slow and even.

Lorcan Salvaterre opened his eyes to examine the golden ring in his palm, those two paths appearing before him, closer than ever.

And he had no more idea of his decision than he had from the beginning.

His feet shifted on the floor, rasping slightly on the stone. The sound was quiet, but it was just enough to cause his queen, asleep across the room, to stir.

Lorcan’s breath caught in his throat.

The moment stretched, twisting and pulling under the pressure. And he knew that his time had come.

But which? Which? Which?

The bedcovers ruffled, a slow sigh escaping his queen’s pink lips. Her face was clear, relaxed. And she was just as beautiful as the first moment he had beheld her. A dark majesty, like black cliffs of stone overlooking the sea, like the violence of dark water tossing itself at their feet.

Lorcan breathed deep, closing the golden ring in his fist.

And he darted from his queen’s chamber, slipping into a run. The fastest of his life.

···

Rowan lifted a spoonful of stew, then let it drip back into the wooden bowl, its soft trickling echoing between his ears.

He had been sitting in the kitchens for what felt like hours, but by the movements of the sun, it couldn’t have been more than a quarter–, or maybe half an hour. If he was being generous. And he was not in a particularly generous mood.

Rowan was exhausted.

Not, in-need-of-a-few-hours-sleep-and-then-he-would-be-fine exhausted. More fall-asleep-standing-up exhausted. Sleep-for-three-days-straight exhausted. And it was only made worse by the fact that he knew he wouldn’t be sleeping well anytime soon.

Today had been a quarry day, and after his morning run, Rowan had spent hours under the baking Wendlyn sun, slowly coaxing rock from the earth. His magic had helped, as with it, he could make blades of ice to cut into the stone, shaping it like clay. It was far quicker, but it was just as exhausting as doing it the normal way, with arms and back and legs.

It had gotten to the point that Rowan was desperately catching minutes of rest here and there, lying awake for hours begging for sleep to come. But the nightmares just wouldn’t leave him be. And both the source of all the trouble and its only antidote was now over a month away. Even if he left that very moment.

He was too tired to even be properly angry with her.

Rowan raised the stew to his lips, swallowing the mouthful somewhat gingerly. It had gone cold. He just sighed, and swallowed another.

It had now been ten days and over two hours since he had last seen Aelin.

Luca rushed into the kitchen, knocking over a chair and causing Rowan to slosh soup all over the wooden table. The boy just grabbed something from the storage area beneath the sinks, and then rushed right out again. Rowan frowned at him.

It took him quite a bit longer than he would’ve ever been willing to admit, but eventually he realized that Emrys, who was scrubbing the stove clean at the other side of the room, was smothering a fit of laughter at his expense. And failing.

Rowan’s frown deepened as he wiped up the mess. Emrys started laughing even louder.

At least the room was nearly empty.

But honestly, he was past caring.

Rowan was patting at his damp shirt when Emrys walked over to him, bearing a washcloth and a fresh bowl of stew, steaming slightly in the light from the open door.

“Here,” he said, already walking back over to the stove. Rowan held in a sigh as he mopped himself up, then gratefully started spooning the warm stew into his mouth.

Rowan and Emrys were the only two people remaining in the kitchen. Now that the rainy season was over, Emrys’ evening storytelling was getting more and more rare. Demi-Fae now spent their evenings out of doors, taking walks through the woods and eating below the stars.

Though he didn’t miss the wet weather, Rowan couldn’t say that he didn’t miss the evenings spent with everyone sprawled in front of the hearth, listening and laughing and crying as Emrys spun his tales. It reminded him of listening to his mother, curled up next to her in bed. The sound of her voice lulling him to sleep.

Something he desperately needed now.

A clatter sounded from the front of the room, startling Rowan from his trance. It was only Emrys, who had now moved on to the dishes, and had dropped a bowl when moving them to their cabinet to be ready for breakfast in the morning.

Once again, the old male didn’t miss Rowan’s reaction. But he didn’t say anything, instead moving to wipe down the counters and tabletops. Another moment passed while Rowan finished his stew, then stood to wash his bowl and put it away with the others.

But Rowan knew Emrys’ silence wasn’t going to last.

And sure enough, just as Rowan put the bowl in the cupboard, the old male spoke up.

“Luca told me he liked training with you the other day.”

The statement was tentative, probing. Rowan didn’t say anything.

Emrys pursed his lips, even as he continued rifling in the store cupboard for some hard-to-reach item. Another breath, then, “He said that you talked about Bas.”

Still, Rowan kept silent.

Emrys sighed. “In the weeks after the battle, Luca…” he trailed off, eyeing the bags of potatoes and onions he was supposed to be counting. “He retreated into himself. He wouldn’t talk to us, to me or Malakai. I know that we aren’t his parents, that we have no right to him. But Luca doesn’t have anyone else. His mortal parents abandoned him, and he never knew his Fae parentage…” he trailed off again.

Rowan found himself nodding to fill the silence. “You care for him,” he said softly. “Anyone could see that.”

Emrys’ eyes met his for a moment, then turned back to the potatoes. “He has become a part of our family. And to have him hide from us in that way…it was hard.”

Rowan nodded again, his brow furrowing as his thoughts began to twist. Where was Emrys going with this?

The male seemed to rally himself. “So I need to know, what happened to Bas? Was – was he really the one who betrayed us to the soldiers?”

Rowan frowned. “Luca didn’t say?”

Emrys scowled. “You weren’t here for those weeks after the battle, you didn’t see. At first, the whole fortress was in chaos, so wrapped up in healing and recovery and relief. And you – you had other things you were paying more attention to.”

Rowan’s face twisted in acknowledgement. He wasn’t sure he’d spent more than five minutes away from Aelin that week.

Emrys continued. “But then, once everything began to calm, Luca went silent. He wouldn’t eat, wasn’t sleeping. Eventually he just came back, like nothing had happened. But it was too delicate. We were afraid to ask him, to push it.”

Rowan nodded. Emrys looked at him expectantly. “What happened to him?”

Rowan steadied himself, then began to explain. By the time he was done, Emrys’ eyes were lined with silver.

“So he killed him?” the male’s voice was soft, heartbroken.

Rowan nodded, and Emrys turned back to the onions and potatoes, cutting off the growths that had sprouted, and tossing away those that looked close to rot. Distracting himself.

“To think, a few months ago I never would’ve thought that I would see you so calm.” Emrys said, almost sardonically. “The state that girl was in this spring – and you two fighting like alley cats. Always at each other’s throats.”

He stood, hauling the discarded vegetables to the compost heap, and moved on to the case of fresher vegetables that had been carted in a few days ago from a nearby farm. “And yet by the end, I thought you two inseparable.”

Rowan averted his gaze just as Emrys glanced up, his eyes sharp. Rowan knew that there was a question there, one that he had no intention of answering.

Emrys voiced it anyways. “And when do you think we will be seeing her again?”

Rowan gritted his teeth. Emrys seemed to sense an uphill battle.

“I – I need to know that she is alright. That she’s going to be alright.”

“No one can know that.”

Emrys frowned. “What will she be facing in Adarlan? Does she seek to confront the king – ”

Rowan cut him off. “Elentiya, has not shared her plans with me. Nor would she have a reason to. I serve another. She is on her own.”

Emrys’ face tightened, but he took it with grace. They were silent for another long moment, or at least until Emrys began tossing sweet peas and lettuce and leeks into a pile, murmuring about old greens and dishonest farmers.

But before Rowan could escape back to his rooms, to see if perhaps he could finally get some rest, Emrys stopped him once again. “In that case, how long do you think you will be with us, Prince?”

Rowan sighed, stalling in the doorway. He’d been avoiding this question too. “I’m not sure.”

Emrys raised his eyebrows. “Won’t your queen be summoning you soon? Now that your training with the girl is done?”

Rowan gritted his teeth. He couldn’t say anything to the old male, no matter how trustworthy he might seem. “Our Queen has ordered me to stay and assist with the repairs around the fortress, and I will stay until she orders me otherwise.”

“And you have no idea when that will be?”

“None.”

“So…” Emrys started, “While you are here…would you consider training Luca?”

Now it was Rowan’s turn to scowl. He should have known that this was where Emrys was heading. And for some reason, the offer set a wave of melancholy though him. Strong enough to take him by surprise.

“I know that the boy is not up to your standard, but when he came back from his run with you yesterday – he was different. Lighter.” When Rowan didn’t say anything, Emrys continued. “You helped him.”

Rowan shook his head, “I didn’t do anything that anybody couldn’t have.”

“Maybe so, but – ” Emrys dusted off his pant legs, making to stand. "You’ve made yourself one of the finest instructors I’ve ever seen come through here. You made that girl into what she is. And Luca was always talking about how much he wanted to go to Doranelle, to escape, and become a great warrior of the land.”

Emrys’ eyes twinkled. Rowan was still shaking his head.

“Just – please consider it. For Luca’s sake.” Emrys threw the remaining vegetable scraps onto the compost heap. “We only want him to be happy.”

“I know, but – ”

“But what, Prince?” Emrys’ eyes seemed to bore into him. “What is keeping you? If you must stay here, might you not be useful, as more than just a workhorse in the quarry?”

Rowan’s breath was tight in this chest. He wanted to say that Luca deserved someone better than him. To say that he would only disappoint, that he could never give the boy what he really wanted. Particularly since he so obviously looked up to Rowan.

But the real reason he was so reticent was because it was exactly what he wanted. In a different time, and in a different place. To settle, and build a home. To rebuild and teach and heal, from a lifetime of hurting.

It was so close.

But there was a massive, impassable cavern between here and there. Because Aelin was not with him. And the world around this fortress was far from peaceful.

War not only threatened, but snapped at their heels. Waiting to strike. Rowan could feel in it his bones. There were far too many storms to weather, and enemies to defeat, before that future could possibly be his.

So Rowan only said, “I will think on it, Emrys. And I will agree to spend time with him in the mornings. But just remember, I have no idea when I might be called away. It could be tomorrow or months from now. I can’t make any promises.”

Emrys nodded. “I didn’t really expect you to, Prince.” And he turned back to the storage cupboards, sealing things up for the night.

Rowan turned to leave, but then paused. “And Emrys – you could see about trying to talk to the boy again. Im not sure – but I think he might this time.”

Emrys gave him a small, but warm, smile. “Thank you, Prince.” And Rowan walked out.

···

Rowan jerked from sleep, his body shuddering uncontrollably. This time, the dream had been different. Had been worse.

Instead of him torturing Aelin, and listening to Lyria’s screaming, he had to watch as Aelin gave up. As she let the grief and pain overwhelm her, and she retreated into that shell of a person she had been when they first met.

Maeve threatened to have Cairn whip him, a punishment he had borne numerous times. Pain that, under the circumstances, he would take gladly. That he would take and be grateful.

But Aelin could not take it.

When Maeve threatened to whip Rowan, Aelin gave in. And she handed over the Wyrdkeys.

And Rowan could only watch as the dark queen laughed and laughed and laughed. And destroyed everything in the world that he loved.

It was knowledge that Rowan kept locked up so tight it could only come out in his dreams. The knowledge that Aelin would hand over the Wyrdkeys for him. It was their greatest weakness, their bond. But Rowan couldn’t see what he could do about it.

They were both weaker, and stronger, together. It was a problem he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to solve.

Rowan breathed, calming his wracked body, then stood up and began pulling on fresh clothes and strapping on his many blades. He shifted, then tore out the window and into the waiting sky.

It had been a few days since his conversation with Emrys, each of them longer than the last. It was like he was walking upstream, fighting against the rushing current. Time flowed around him like molasses, sticky and slow and uncomfortable as all hell. But pass it did.

It had now been nearly two weeks since he had last seen Aelin. It felt like a year.

Each of the past three mornings, Rowan had trained with Luca. Guiding him through the bare bones of his morning routine. Even though it had only been a few days, Rowan could already spot marked improvement in the boy’s endurance and speed. In quiet moments, when laboring around the fortress, Rowan even caught himself planning lessons for the boy. Figuring out what would suit him best.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the sadness that filled him whenever he corrected the boy’s stance, or reminded him to keep his core muscles tense. Nor could he escape the increasing feeling of foreboding whenever he thought about the future.

This tense peace was not going to last much longer, he was sure of it.

And as he shifted his wings to turn back towards Mistward, Rowan’s conviction was all but confirmed.

For wafting towards him on the western wind, was the unmistakable scent of Lorcan Salvaterre.

···

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

···

please let me know if you would like to be added to this taglist!

bolded tags are broken or do not work

@lemonade-coolattas / @morganofthewildfire / @punkassbookjockey26 / @sassys-world / @swankii-art-teacher / @westofmoon / @rockgirl321 / @throneofglassthings / @booknerdproblems / @cityofchelsea16 / @jesstargaryenqueen / @rowanwhitethornisbae / @imaginedhaven / @tiredbutstillreading / @sheharahu / @manonlochan05 / @emilyoftheshadows / @queen-of-glass / @sjmships / @autophobiaxx /

#warrior and the wildfire #rowaelin #rowan pov #rpov #rowaelin fanfiction

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auxiliarydetective · 3 years ago

Note

🔀 mit Jim und Spock, falls du magst, ansonsten Peter und Jelena

Das Ergebnis von meinem Shuffle war... K.Flay - High Enough

Please keep in mind: Ich habe noch nie auch nur eine einzige TOS-Episode gesehen. Ich hab's trotzdem versucht, nur für dich und nur dieses eine Mal. Props if you can figure out what substance/drug is having its effect on poor Spock

Spock’s chest rose and sank shakily. This was a most confusing occurrence. It seemed he was experiencing… emotions. But there was no reason for this. It had started off slowly, then gotten worse and worse. He had managed to hide it to the best of his ability throughout his shift. But now he was simply overwhelmed. He twisted and turned in his bed, trying to fall asleep in the hopes that it would erase these feelings. The feelings by themselves were not painful. It was just that he would prefer it if they would not exist. They interfered with his ability to use logic. However, the most worrisome thing, even more than the nature of these feelings, was who they were about: They were about Jim. He… desired him. More than he had ever thought possible for him to experience. Spock sat up and shook his head aggressively. He clutched his chest. Nothing would help. These feelings simply would not disappear. There had to be something wrong with him. He should go to Sick Bay. But that meant he had to leave his quarters. This thought filled him with yet another emotion: Fear. He feared what would happen, to him and to Jim, if he were to encounter him in the hallway.

#star trek #tos #please don't judge me too hard #spock #spirk #i tried #fanfiction #ask #ask prompt

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jeonstellate · 4 years ago

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classified files: out of time — file viii

reese katherine tells steve rogers how she ended up in peggy carter’s care.

⍟༄ platonic!steve rogers x original character

⍟༄ child abandonment, mentions of adoption and death, depictions of grief

⍟༄ paragraph format — 1K words

masterlist | cf: out of time masterlist | next file

[gif’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]

It was quarter to three o’clock in the afternoon. The sun was more than halfway across the sky, readying to set in an hour or so. The firmament was painted with bright, yet dull, colors with a few scattered clouds. The wind, although it was weak, blew cold against their skin. Nevertheless, Reese Carter and Steve Rogers seemed unbothered.

“Mummy didn’t deserve to have her heart broken twice.” Reese kept her attention at the distance, refusing to let him read her emotions through her facial expression. “Especially not when it was ultimately because of one man.”

Somehow, Steve found it amusing that, amongst the abundant life-changing news he had broken to her, all she worried about was her beloved mother. He looked over her for a moment, but she didn’t give any indication that she could feel his stare. All she did was lean on the railing on her elbows, which coincidentally was the same position Steve decided to go for in an attempt to make himself comfortable, and let out a deep sigh.

“Do you know what persuaded mum to adopt me, Captain Rogers?” Somehow, he found it quite inappropriate to reply, so he just stayed silent. Fortunately, she wasn’t waiting for a reply, either. “It was your eyes, Captain Rogers. It wasn’t even because I reminded her of herself, it was because of you.”

Something broke inside Steve. His chest tightened, as if he was trapped in a shrinking space. His heart, as tough as he had become as a result of his accumulated experiences throughout the years, shattered like fragile glass. He felt himself turn rigid and unable to function. Yet, the worse part was, he didn’t exactly know why.

He didn’t find any strength to say anything, and, as it seemed, Reese took it as an invitation to keep talking; to give him a quick overview of her life. “I was left at the door of Uncle Howard’s east coast property in a basket.“

It was late in the afternoon. Angie Martinelli just came home from an audition on another part of town. She wanted nothing more than to sleep her tiredness away. Between frequent blinks in an effort to fight sleep, a woven basket by the door caught her attention. Thinking it was a gift from some blessed souls, she mindlessly carried it in — not pondering too much on its heaviness.

It was only when Angie drank some water to clench her burning thirst that she bothered inspecting the basket. She completely expected it to hold freshly picked fruits — and almost dropped her glass out of shock when it was something entirely different.

“P-peggy! Oh, my God, Peggy!” She frantically screamed for her housemate, a hand over her racing heart. “Some heartless idiot left a babe at the door!”

Reese looked over Steve and wasn’t even mildly surprised to see him looking back at her. She held his stare for a few more seconds before tilting her head away, then proceeded on her story. “They all thought I was a Stark, until they saw my eyes.”

Upon receiving a frantic call from Peggy Carter (and the audible hyperventilating of Angie Martinelli in the background), Howard Stark arrived with his loyal butler Edwin Jarvis. They all gathered around the kitchen table where Angie had placed the basket with the still sleeping child.

“She looks nothing like me, how can you even think I’m her father?” Howard hovered over the child’s sleeping form before sitting back down to announce his observation. He hadn’t gotten any wink of sleep from the night before, due to a new invention he desperately wanted to perfect as soon as possible, but he tried to look well-rested and attentive.

“She was left outside your property, Howard,” Peggy reasoned.

Angie took her turn to look at the child. Even if she had been staring at her from the moment she saw the basket’s contents, she couldn’t seem to will herself to look away. “She could have also just inherited everything from her mother, Mr. Stark, sir. Does she look a little bit familiar to you, at least?”

Howard’s reply came rather impulsively and without the need for a much deeper thinking, “No, not at all.”

Silence followed, everyone seemed stumped with their only lead coming into a dead end. They all, almost instinctively, looked at the baby’s general direction as they tried to come up with another possible explanation for her presence.

“She quite resemble Ms. Carter from my view,” Jarvis voiced out his input, effectively catching the others’ attention as it break the silence.

“Don’t be silly,” the English agent quickly dismissed the claim, “she can’t be my daughter. I couldn’t possibly be willing to engage myself in compromising situations these past few months if I was.”

Then, just as if she could feel that she was being talked about, the seven-month-old baby fluttered her eyes open. Much to the adults’ surprise, they were greeted by a familiar, sparkling blue eyes.

“Mum adopted me when they ran out of leads that could pinpoint where I came from. She was the one who gave me my name and taught me how to punch.” Reese had a faraway look in her eyes, as if she was reminiscing the memories she was retelling. Although it was small, there was a faint smile forming at the corner of her lips. “I never really cared that I was adopted, partly because mum treated me like her own.”

She then turned to Steve, “Do you think she would’ve treated me differently if she knew? That I was created by the men who took you away from her?”

“No.” He didn’t ponder about his answer and, yet, he said it with absolute certainty. It was quite obvious that there was no ounce of regret in his words, either. “She’ll still love you, anyway.” He only knew her for less than a day, but he already knew that he wouldn’t have any hesitation if it ever comes to sacrificing his life in order for her to keep hers. “Just like I do.”

“You don’t have to,” she shook her head. He could’ve sworn there was a bitter edge in her voice. “I don’t want you to, because everyone who ever loved me either died alone or a horrific death.”

“Reese, it’s not—”

“I’m sorry HYDRA used your blood to supposedly create a merciless super-assassin, Captain Rogers. I’m sorry they created me.”

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darkhymns-fic · 4 years ago

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A Pair of Would-Be Pastry Chefs

Nothing is better than chocolate brownies - just the trick in making it was a bit of a challenge. But for Lloyd and Colette, little miracles can happen.

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters/Pairing: Lloyd Irving/Colette Brunel, Noishe, Dirk Rating: G Mirror Link: AO3 Notes: This was a request fic done for Umbry on twitter! Also wanted to write a quick colloyd for today. Happy Valentine’s Day!

It was Genis who was usually the one making the desserts - so this was entirely new territory for the both of them.

"So is… this the right amount of flour?" Lloyd held out a wooden drinking mug full of the ingredient, practically near to overflowing. Much of it was already on his hands and cheeks, as if he had been recently standing under fresh snowfall. "It said to use a cup but we have a lot of different sized cups here…" Should he have used the smaller ones they had for tea?

Colette turned her head towards Lloyd, her hair tied up in a neat ponytail, though several strands were already loosening from its hold. "Ah, I think that should be okay, if we - uh oh!"

Unfortunately, she had been holding onto the bag of cocoa powder while they were talking.

Noishe was peering at the pair from outside, his head just poking past the front doorway, large ears flicking with each stumble they did throughout their attempt at baking. He whined, keen enough to grab Lloyd's attention as he helped Colette off the floor.

"Can't come in here, Noishe!" he warned. After all, chocolate was bad for dogs! Although Noishe only kept looking at them with worried eyes. But it wasn't like they were going to burn the kitchen down…

All they had really done was heat up the brick oven, and crack a total of one egg into a bowl to whisk with the other ingredients… But two of them, both cocoa powder and flour (Lloyd had to drop his maybe-a-cup to catch a falling Colette) were now spread out all over the floor.

“Ah, I messed up again…” Colette looked down at her white apron where another third of the spilled cocoa powder had decided to decorate it in erratic patterns.

“It’s okay! We still have half a bag left. That’s more than enough.” Lloyd blinked at his dropped cup, quickly retrieving it. “I probably should have used the clay ones anyway. They’re not as big.”

Colette sighed as she clutched at the half-empty bag, looking over at the table full of prep work. A quarter-full carton of eggs that Dirk had gotten from the store at Iselia the previous day, several bags full of sugar, brown sugar, as well as chocolate chips, and also a stick of butter that looked dangerously close to melting…

They had barely started on step one of making the red velvet brownies.

Lloyd guessed the source of Colette’s small pout, and quickly picked up the whisk that was meant for the later stirring, eyes going to the bowl that only had yellow yolk in it. “Don’t worry! We just gotta whip all of these together, right? Then we put it in the oven… Wait, when do we put on the frosting?”

“I’m not sure…” Colette admitted. “I was trying to follow Genis’ directions, but there was so much. Also I think I dropped the directions somewhere when I tripped earlier too.”

“Oh.” Lloyd shrugged, taking the bag of cocoa powder from Colette’s hands. “We can just wing it

then! I kinda remember what Genis did for this...I think.” He was maybe about seventy percent confident on that front.

Both of them were wearing matching aprons that were a few sizes too wide (courtesy of Dirk, who was also lending his kitchen while he went out woodcutting), with the sleeves of their jackets pulled up to their elbows for better movement. There were a few mishaps with some dropped eggs, Colette nearly burning her fingers on a hot cooking tray which Lloyd helped treat quickly, and wondering where exactly the milk was after about twenty minutes of searching through an overstuffed icebox.

Then again, nobody said baking was going to be easy.

“Do you think… we should just buy the chocolate?” Colette suggested, a shy smile on her face. “I’ll just keep messing up…”

“Colette, it’s okay! I told you I wanted to make it with you. We just gotta take it one step at a time.” Lloyd grinned wide, going to the table and practically upturning the rest of the bag of cocoa straight into the bowl. The result was a cloud of chocolatey goodness rolling into the air around them. “Ack!”

Colette coughed as well, and by then Noishe had turned tail and left, as if the chocolate explosion had been another monster. But once the air cleared, Colette looked to Lloyd and started to snicker.

“W-What is it?” Lloyd said, followed by another cough leaving him as some particles of chocolate snuck into his throat.

“Your hair! It looks like chocolate frosting now!” Colette couldn’t stop giggling, looking at Lloyd’s spiky hair like it was the top of a scrumptious ice cream cone. The cocoa powder had given his hair a delicious texture. Even as Lloyd tried to brush it away, it only made his hair look more disheveled and adorable.

“Sounds like you really want some chocolate if that’s the case,” Lloyd reasoned, hands on his hips. “Come on, let’s make the rest! I bet these will be even better than what Genis can come up with.”

“Hehe, you’re right!”

Of course, both didn’t totally believe that statement, but it was fun to dream. And it cheered up Colette instantaneously, letting her hands handle the butter, the chocolate chips, and even more of the eggs to be added to the bowl. But then they also had to boil up some hot water, grease up the cooking tray, and oh, where had they put the vanilla extract?

It was during all of this that Colette suddenly stopped in mid-motion to blink - and it was because Lloyd had plopped a dollop of their new thick chocolate mixture onto her nose with his whisk, making her blink. “Ah!”

“That’s payback for my hair!” Lloyd stated proudly.

“But Lloyd, you were the one who poured the powder like that to get it in your hair!”

“...Oh, right. Well, this is payback for laughing!” But he was chuckling just as much, and then quickly caught onto the bowl before it tumbled all their hard work on the floor.

Colette had caught it as well, their hands meeting, chocolate still on her face. “Let’s keep going!” Because she felt renewed excitement to try again, that and the oven behind her was getting hot. Dirk had warned them to not leave it on for too long…

In all fairness, Dirk had half-expected to see a bit of smoke coming from within his home when he arrived. Lloyd and Colette were not exactly the most talented of pastry chefs, after all.

But after putting down the handles of his hand-drawn cart to the soil, the cut lumber within its confines, all that he was greeted with was the sight of a boy and girl, no worse for wear than typical chefs trapped all day within a hot kitchen, seated on the doorstep just outside. They were feeding each other what looked like blackened brownies, some of the chocolate chips on its very top falling to the ground. They looked as happy as children discovering their new favorite treats.

“And here I was being worried when Noishe ran up to me earlier,” he said. The named dog poked his head from out of the cart, his green fur an oddity among the different shades of brown.

“Told you we’d make our chocolates okay!” Lloyd stated, still half-chewing it as he talked. “And it’s really good, too!”

“Maybe a little burnt though, hehe.” Colette’s hair was now half-untied, her hair also stained with flour and chocolate, but she opened her mouth as Lloyd plopped in another bite of brownie, playfulness in each of their motions. “But, I think it makes it taste better that way,” she said afterwards.

Dirk’s grin could be seen through his beard. “So, I take it that you two are enjoying your Valentine’s then?”

If it had been a few years earlier, before going on their journey together, there may have been a few embarrassed flushes and denials. But Lloyd was grinning wide, reaching to hold on tight to Colette’s hand, neither giving mind to the other’s chocolate-stained fingers. “Yeah, I think it’s been what we needed after everything.” The boy’s face was perfectly alight, the kind of radiance one only got when near something, or someone, precious. It was not a new expression either - it had always been there ever since him and Colette had first met. “Thanks for letting us make it here.”

“And we made some for you too, if you wanted!” Colette said, her smile matching Lloyd’s. It was an ecstatic smile, the kind he would see on her face as a young child, when his son would grab her hand in a game of hide-and-seek.

“You should remember that this is you two’s special day, not mine. But I won’t mind having a small bite later on.”

And as Dirk moved to retrieve the wood from the cart for the fireplace, he tried not to make it too obvious that he could still notice the two of them getting close, to see Lloyd lean in for a quick kiss, and see the flush rise in Colette’s cheeks to match with the red velvet layer of the brownie. Their laughter washed over him like a sun shower. It had really been too long since they had visited last, and was content that they could spend their holiday break here.

He also tried not to show too much outward worry for the smoke he could see building up in the room behind them, the doorway thankfully still open. Only a moment before Colette sensed it, turning around, and for Lloyd to jump up and hurry to get the water from the nearby well.

It didn’t really matter who left the oven on. Dirk had already prepared his home for such accidents long ago. Maybe next time I need to supervise, he thought. But once he had a taste of those chocolate chip brownies himself, long after they had grown cold, he thought he had never had something so sweet before.

It was no surprise. Lloyd and Colette could always make the greatest miracles happen when they were together.

#tales of symphonia #lloyd irving #colette brunel #colloyd #fanfiction #had the wrong link oops

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srsly-messed-up-fruitloop · 4 years ago

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Supper’s Ready

Word Count: 2,033

Summary: A couple of weeks have passed since Danny’s accident with the portal. Fortunately, so far, he hasn’t experienced any symptoms at all, not even ghostly ones. Until one day, he begins throwing up ectoplasm.

Or, my take on Portal!Danny

Warning: Includes depictions of nausea and vomiting so...read at your own discretion

Read on AO3 or under the cut

Danny awoke with a groan. He clutched his stomach and squeezed his eyes together as a wave of nausea hit him. If he could, he would’ve laid there forever, curled up in a ball fighting the sick feeling in his stomach. But it kept getting worse, and worse, until his instincts drove him to blindly stumble to his bathroom. Kneeling before his toilet, he held his mouth open, wishing for whatever he ate earlier to just come out already. It felt like an eternity before his dinner left him. Panting, he laid his cheek against the toilet seat as he felt the nausea starting to subside.

He doesn’t remember the last time he threw up. Probably when he was a kid. It couldn’t have been mom’s cooking, right? He recalled the glass of milk he had before bed. It did taste a bit funky.

He stood up, sparing a glance at his dinner once again. He was just about to flush it away until something caught his eye. A single translucent drop of something that glowed brightly green. Jazz probably did have a point about not keeping the ecto-weenies in the fridge.

A couple of weeks have passed since Danny’s accident with the portal. Unfortunately, the portal remained unfunctional since the brief moment when he had activated it. At first, Jazz and his friends were extremely concerned for him. After all, he was practically electrocuted. But seeing that there were no lasting effects, over time they’ve let go of the incident. Things resumed back to normal, save for Jazz becoming a lot more protective of her little brother.

Danny flushed and rinsed the foul taste from his mouth. He made a mental note to throw out the milk in the morning as he climbed back into his sheets.

A few days later, Danny was sitting at his desk in his bedroom, struggling to understand why he kept getting this one math question wrong. He swears he’s following the same steps in the textbook example. He was just about to give up and move onto the next question when his mouth suddenly felt dry. No, not again.

Ever since that night he puked, Danny’s stomach really wasn’t having it. More and more often the sick feeling would return, except nothing came out of it. He rested his head on his homework, waiting for the nausea to pass. At this point he just wanted whatever bad food, stomach bug, or whatever to leave him already. Maybe he should ask his parents to take him to the doctor.

At that thought, his gut uncomfortably lurched and he barely grabbed his wastebasket in time. It’s a shame those tater tots from the cafeteria had to go to waste. Just when he thought he was finished, he felt a painful jolt in his abdomen and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt something, with an almost slimy-like texture pour out. The sensation of it running up his throat made him feel even sicker than he was.

He took a moment to breathe before opening his eyes again. He almost dropped the bin at what he saw. It was the same glowing green substance he saw that other night. Except this time, it took up three quarters of his wastebasket! He couldn’t even see his lunch from earlier.

Slightly panicked now, he quickly scrambled up from his desk chair to get rid of it. If Jazz saw him now, she’d never let him hear the end of it.

After flushing it away, he turned to the sink to clean himself up. But, the sight of himself in the mirror made him freeze.

He saw that green fluid, staining his white shirt as it steadily dripped from his chin. He almost gagged when he still felt it present in his mouth. But what truly frightened him was his now green irises, glowing brightly in the same intensity as the fluid.

What was wrong with him?

Ectoplasm. That’s what was inside him.

Over dinner, his dad was excitedly explaining how he had extracted the substance from a ghost. His mom joined in, explaining its scientific properties. And while Jazz expressed her disgust at bringing something like that to the dinner table, the whole conversation was lost to Danny’s ears. All he saw was the small vial his dad was showing off, containing the same substance he had been heaving out daily in the last week.

Danny was in the middle of an English test when he felt it. It wasn’t all that painful anymore, and he’s gotten used to holding it down just long enough until he could get to a washroom. Still, it always was very uncomfortable. And inconvenient, especially at times like now. He raised up his hand and cringed as Lancer stared at him suspiciously.

“Yes, Mr. Fenton?”

“Can I—uh...go to the bathroom?”

Lancer sighed as he glanced at the clock. “Fine. Please hurry back though, you only have 20 minutes left for the test.”

“Thanks Mr. Lancer,” Danny mumbled as he got up from his seat. He fought the feeling of Wes glaring a hole in the back of his head, along with the weird stares from some of his other classmates. Sam and Tucker worriedly watched as their friend left the classroom.

Alone, in the bathroom, Danny used his hands to brace himself against both sides of the stall, as he crouched in front of the toilet, wrinkling his nose at the smell. He hated doing this at school.

He counted to three and then let go, expelling the seemingly endless supply of ectoplasm within him. Every time he did this, there was always that little nagging voice at the back of his head, telling him that he really should tell someone about this. His parents should know what to do, right? But, every time he attempts to do so, he just...he can’t go through with it. Hearing them rant about their pure hatred for ghosts and the inventions they’ve created just to torture them makes his stomach lurch for a whole other reason. He knows they love him...but...what if they try to hurt him?

As for Jazz and his friends, he honestly can’t bring himself to burden them more after the portal accident. After all this time, he still occasionally sees the guilt in Sam’s eyes. Besides, who’s to say this won’t go away on its own...right?

He wiped his chin with the back of his hand after he felt nothing else coming up. However, he was greatly mistaken.

The next moment, sheer agony shot through his abdomen, causing him to lose balance and hit his back against the stall’s door. It never hurt this bad before!

His body went rigid when he felt a frightening chill freeze his insides. A burning green—almost yellow light was all that he could see as he was overwhelmed by the brutal sensation of his insides being ripped apart. His mouth was forced open by an invisible force as something else crept up his painfully inflamed throat. It wasn’t ectoplasm this time.

Panting heavily, all Danny could do was lay there against the door as the blinding light and pain gradually faded away. The first thing he saw after regaining his vision was a spectral tail disappearing into the ceiling.

“Good morning, this is Tiffany Snow reporting Amity Park’s latest breaking news. Recently, we have received several reports of ghost sightings. Witnesses have expressed that these ghosts have been trespassing their homes, destroying property, and terrorizing civillians. The Amity Police Depar…”

“Those no good specters!”

“Jack, honey, do you know what this means?”

“Of course Maddie, the town needs us!”

“But the sudden increase in ghost activity, it must mean something…”

“What are you sayin’ Mads?”

“Where would these ghosts be coming from? Natural portals don’t stay open long enough for any significant entities to escape the Ghost Zone. Unless...maybe something is causing them to stay open longer?”

“You might be onto something, gosh Mads you’re so clever! Well, better get right to sealing up those portals for good. Oh, I got the perfect idea for an invention!” Jack exclaimed as ran downstairs into the lab.

“Danny?”

Danny just realized he’d been holding his breath throughout his parents’ conversation. At the sound of his mom’s voice directed at him, he dropped his spoon. “Y-yea mom?” he stuttered as he anxiously gazed at her.

She was holding a silver-gray thermos with metallic green details. “Today, I’m packing your lunch in the Fenton thermos. We’d be horrible parents let you kids go to school defenseless. Just remember to point and push, okay?”

“Um, okay. Thanks mom,” Danny mumbled.

She kissed his head before he could protest and said, “I’m going to help your father out. Have a great day at school sweetie.”

After his mom disappeared downstairs into the lab, Danny morosely glanced at his half-eaten cereal. He’s probably not gonna keep it down anyways. Fenton thermos in hand, he grabbed his backpack and left to catch the school bus.

Danny could almost say he’s gotten used to being nauseous all the time. Now when he threw up, more often than not an actual ghost would come up. But now, the guilt from causing all the recent ghost activity grew with each passing day. Yet, no matter how much he’d tried stopping himself, all he did was make the pain even more unbearable. Something was seriously wrong with him.

One day, he recovered quickly enough to see an octopus-like ghost escape into the school’s hallways. As he exited the washroom, he saw the ghost hurling textbooks at students and scaring anyone that got near.

This was all his fault. He winced as he saw poor Mikey get his glasses knocked off his face by his own math textbook. He had to do something. Wait. Danny reached into his bag, finding the now empty Fenton thermos.

“Just point and push, right?” he muttered to himself as he took aim at the ectopus. A light blue beam shot out the thermos, enveloping the ghost and pulling it inside. Danny blinked as he noticed the small display on the flask read 25% CAPACITY.

“Huh, that was easy.”

Using the Fenton thermos to capture the ghosts really helped ease some of his guilt. However, all too soon the thermos had hit its capacity and Danny had no idea what to do with it.

He’d secretly borrowed another one from his parents and already that one was full too. He needed to figure out something quick.

“Hey dad?”

“What’s up Danno?”

“Uh...how do you get rid of ghosts?”

“Son, I’m so glad to see you taking an interest in the family business! Me and your mom are still finding out a way to get rid of those spooks for good. For now, we’ve got the Fenton Ghost Weasel and the Fenton thermos to catch them.”

“But, what if you run out of space to keep them?”

Danny’s dad scratched his head in thought. “Never really thought much about that. I guess when the time comes, we just gotta send those suckers back where they came from. Maybe by then, we’ll find those portals that are causing us all this trouble.”

Back where they came from?

By now, Danny knows that the accident with his parents’ portal had to have something to do with his...condition. And considering that all the ghosts are coming from inside him...maybe the portal did end up working after all. Except, not in the way he’d expected. He tried not to think too much about it. How an opening to an entirely different dimension was...inside him.

But, he had a more immediate problem to worry about. And as much as the solution grossed him out, he had no choice.

Currently sat on his bed, Danny stared at the two full flasks in front of him. His dad’s words rang in his ears as he unscrewed the cap off one. His stomach turned uncomfortably as he spared a glance at its contents.

Bringing up the thermos to his lips, he squeezed his eyes shut to brace himself for what he was going to do next.

Here goes nothing.

#danny phantom #PLEASE listen to Supper's Ready by Genesis #even though it has nothing to do with this #Danny Phantom Fanfiction #portal!danny #one shot #nausea tw #vomiting tw #i hope i'm not missing any important tw tags #grooveactuallywrites

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aces-to-apples · 4 years ago

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Written for Day 5: Fluff of Codywan Week 2020 @codywanweek

Here on AO3

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Category: Multi Relationship: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi Characters: CC-2224 | Cody, CT-7567 | Rex, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker Additional Tags: Background Padmé Amidala/CT-7567 | Rex/Anakin Skywalker, Implied/Referenced Future Rexsoka, GFY

For best results please look at this Rex and this Cody before reading.

“tribute”

Another one of the local little chompers marched towards the dais with all the solemnity and determination of a verd’ika plucking their first set of whites off the assembly line. Cody met Rex’s eye and they both very carefully avoided grinning at the sight. Not only could it be bad for their relationship with said locals, it wouldn’t do to let their Jedi think they were, in fact, having a good time up there.

When the kid came to a halt a ‘respectful’ distance away, Cody nodded for them to approach and bent his head to receive the kid’s blessing and subsequent gift. He watched Rex do the same.

The celebration had been going for hours, by that point, and they’d amassed a pile of shiny little wearable trinkets to give any sovereign of Naboo a run for their credits and enough blessings to make them holier than most deities. It’d been a relief, at the start of the night, to hear that—aside from the ceremonial outfits they’d been bullied into wearing—he and Rex were free to redistribute the gifts as they saw fit. Something about sharing luck, or good vibes, or what have you.

Said ceremonial outfits, on the other hand, they were obliged to keep and maintain with honor.

Obi-Wan had smoothed over any offense they’d given with their lacklustre reaction to the news but Rex’s general had been less than subtle in his delight at their new possessions. Tano, at least, had just told them they looked nice and kept her own mocking to a bare minimum.

And it wasn’t that they were grateful, Cody had reflected at the start of the celebration, when he and Rex had stepped out under the light of the moons to deafening cheers, but. It wasn’t quite their style, no matter how well the two of them pulled off the intricate, and admittedly beautiful, get-ups.

Rex, by dint of his Torrent paintjob, had been immediately deemed the locals’ Goddess of War come again and draped accordingly in layers of blue fabric. Some of it was dark and blaster-resistant and some of it pale and so sheer as to be almost nonexistent. Bands of silver, often studded with precious blue stones, were wrapped around his wrists, forearms, biceps, and throat, and a silver cap affixed with yet more jewels and a pale blue veil had been placed on his head with much reverence.

After a great deal of muttered debate, they determined that Cody must be their war deity’s twin, the Goddess of Beauty. Not an insult by any means…

The traditional garb he’d been presented with, by contrast, was deep red with a long flowing cape and headdress of heavy twisted fabric. It came with its own set of jewelry, as well, shining gold and polished red stones, bulky and eye-catching around his wrists and throat and slim and delicate around his forearms and biceps. Something about the placement was culturally significant, but hells if Cody was going to ask what.

They’d already lost the battle against: 1) staying for several days to rest and recuperate, 2) accepting the titles of living incarnations of their local deities and all the celebration that entailed, and 3) keeping both the get-ups and the gifts for themselves.

No way was Cody going to invite more conversation about their cultural practices. He could win against droids and bounty-hunters and half-baked Sith, but apparently, he couldn’t convince a bunch of over-awed, Mid Rim locals that he and Rex weren’t tools of War and Beauty.

Tools of the Republic, sure, but nothing divine.

The leader of the city they’d liberated had just smiled gently and reassured them that belief on their part was not necessary, only acceptance of their gratitude. Which came with lots of shiny metal, sparkly rocks, and a pair of gowns that they had to either accept or throw into a sacrificial fire and publicly reject.

Obi-Wan had stepped in at that point.

He’d assured everyone that they had no interest in disrespecting their culture and asked for a debrief about the ceremony.

Wear the outfits, sit on the thrones, and let people fawn over them at least a little bit, had basically been the long and short of it. But, hey, they were comfortably cushioned, well-fed, and kept hydrated throughout the whole thing, so it could have been worse. Sharp-toothed little ankle-biters shyly kissing their foreheads and handing them shiny bits and bobs before scampering off weren’t much of a hardship.

“How’re you fellas doing?” Skywalker asked, strolling up to the dais with a grin that had yet to falter all night. “Getting into the spirit of the thing? Really feeling the divinity flow through you?”

Plenty vode had wandered over to check on them over the course of the night, mostly to heckle, but the Jedi had visited just as frequently. And for similar reasons, too.

The way Rex’s general had been eyeing him all night, Cody was almost worried for Rex’s safety. He’d heard plenty of complaints from Obi-Wan about Skywalker’s willingness to eat damn near anything; who was to say that he hadn’t acquired a taste for Mandalorian-adjacent flesh and wouldn’t gobble poor Rex up in just a few bites.

He was pretty sure Commander Tano was having some kind of intermittent crisis over at their table as well.

It was his responsibility, as both Marshal Commander and ori’vod, to bring his concerns to his superior officer and then ruthlessly mock all three of them. After Skywalker eventually got tired of making Rex blush and wandered away whistling a jaunty tune to a very raunchy cantina song, that was.

“So does that ‘angel’ of his know the two of you have started sharing blankets since your last stop-over on Coruscant or should I start planning your funeral now?” Cody said archly, watching his vod’ika visibly consider punching him. “I’ll be sure to wear this and lie about how smart and good-looking you are, like a proper vod.”

Rex pressed a hand over his eyes and groaned. “Angel knows,” he admitted, darting an unsubtle glance at his general’s shebs. “What I am afraid of, though, is that next time we stop over on Coruscant she’s gonna have a whole new wardrobe just like this one and it will just happen to be in my size.”

“Well, hey, get a full-coverage veil and you’re probably good to step out with them,” Cody said with false sympathy, gleefully imagining the uproar that would cause. “Just make sure they’re made out of that fabric that’s designed to ruin holos. Pakod.”

The ol’ boy made a sound like a malfunctioning mouse-droid.

“Is it too much to believe that I’d like to spend whatever leave I get wearing as few clothes as possible?” he wailed, quietly, with a desperation that made Cody think this was an argument he and the senator had gotten into before. With this revelation in mind, he snapped a few holos of his own while Rex was distracted and vowed to get them to the senator if Skywalker’s brain cell was too lonely to manage it. “Isn’t it enough that I have this already?”

“Oh, dear me,” a low voice said from behind Cody’s left ear, “I can’t imagine how terrible it must be to have two attractive, attentive lovers who wish to shower you with tokens of their affection. Truly, Captain, your misery must be exquisite.”

Cody turned his head to press a sloppy kiss to Obi-Wan’s cheek in gratitude for the pitiful sound his words had drawn out of his favorite brother.

“General,” Rex whined pathetically, “they keep getting me plants. Alive ones, dead ones, prickly ones, poisonous ones. My quarters are being taken over by non-sentient invaders.”

Obi-Wan made a little noise of patently fake sympathy. “My old master’s quarters were like that as well,” he commiserated, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin behind Cody’s ear. The noise of the locals around them changed in pitch, but Cody’d had enough to drink over the course of the evening to not feel worried by the change. If he was lucky, Obi-Wan would be shoved into a pretty outfit like this next. “It drove me mad that he never formally answered, let alone turned down, any of the suits. Just let the poor, smitten beings keep sending him gifts. So uncivilized.”

“Speaking of uncivilized,” Cody said, wondering if he could get away with pulling Obi-Wan down onto his lap.

Rex rolled his eyes. “If I don’t get to canoodle in public with my Jedi then you don’t get to with yours,” he huffed, leaning over to push Obi-Wan a few inches away. “Leave room for the Force, sirs.”

“‘Leave room for the Force’?” Obi-Wan repeated, nonplussed, while Cody found himself hung up on, “Canoodle?”

No longer quite so flustered, Rex shrugged. “Skywalker talks like a scandalized opera singer, sometimes, and Ahsoka says that when she catches the lads giving each other a tune-up. How’s the kid doing, by the way?”

“Well,” Obi-Wan said ruefully, “she’s seventeen and in the middle of a war and puberty. Thus far, I believe she’s coped by placing you all in the ‘dear friends and family whom deserve her utmost respect’ category of her mind, rather than allowing herself to see you as attractive young men. Tonight seems to be causing some kind of breakdown in that line of thinking.”

Cody turned to give Rex his full attention and clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheers, vod’ika, keep it up and you might have a full set soon!”

In response, Rex covered his face with both hands and groaned again.

“Remind me to send the good captain some appropriate literature about age of consent laws, would you, dear?” Obi-Wan murmured into his ear. He most assuredly was not leaving room for the Force between them. “Until then, I believe you mentioned being uncivilized?”

Cody made a mental note to remind him as requested before standing up, bowing at the local assembly, and following Obi-Wan wherever he led.

#star wars #the clone wars #sw fic #by apples #codywanweek2020 #codywanweek #commander cody #captain rex #Obi-Wan Kenobi #anakin skywalker #padmé/rex/anakin #rexsoka #codywan #skyberrex #vod in a dress

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ilonga · 4 years ago

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Mothers

finished another sw fic!! featuring Anakin, Obi-wan, and a discussion of Shmi Skywalker’s death. warnings for mentions of slavery, death, and implied abuse, and a. . . decidedly not generous interpretation of the relationship between Shmi Skywalker and Cliegg Lars.

summary:

Anakin hasn’t said those words with such bitterness, such disgust, since he had first come to the Temple with a detonator still buried in his abdomen.

He takes another swig straight from the bottle, too quickly for Obi-wan to consider stopping him. “His name was Cliegg Lars. A moisture farmer. He took one look at my mother, decided she’d make a good wife, and bought her.”

* * * *

Two years into the Clone Wars, on the anniversary of Shmi Skywalker's death, Obi-wan and Anakin have a conversation.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26069248

mothers

He doesn’t know what draws him to Anakin’s quarters that night. They’re leaving for a campaign tomorrow and it’s the middle of the night; if he doesn’t get enough rest he could put their whole battalion in danger. But the force is humming with a steady pulse of hurt-anger-misery in a way that feels so distinctly Anakin that Obi-wan’s out of his quarters before he’s even considered it.

The door to Anakin’s room is unlocked, which is unusual, to say the least. The freedom of being able to lock his own door had been something Anakin had latched on to with a fervor back when he first joined the Temple–something apparently forbidden to the slaves of Tatooine.

“The Masters don’t want the slaves to lock their doors,” Anakin had said once, then flinched as if expecting a rebuke for using the word “Master” in such away, “it gives us ‘dangerous ideas’” he continued, as if quoting someone, “like we have the right to privacy, or own ourselves,”

Swallowing a feeling of foreboding, Obi-wan knocks on the door. After some time with no response, he slowly inches the door open.

It takes a minute for his eyes to adjust to the light before he finds Anakin in the corner of the room.

He’s bleary eyed and unfocused, with a bitter scowl twisting his features and dark bruise-colored circles under his eyes. His frame is hunched over in one of the chairs off to the side, elbow on the table, head in his hands, and a bottle of what looks like the most disgusting alcohol in the galaxy.

It’s an alarming sight for a number of reasons; for one, Anakin rarely, if ever, drinks, and for another, they’re leaving for a campaign tomorrow and Anakin never lets himself leave for a campaign in anything but top form.

Obi-wan hesitates a bit before asking, “Anakin? Are you alright?”

There’s no response. Anakin deigns to look up with an exhausted glare before putting his head back in his hands.

“Anakin?” says Obi-wan, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him. “You know you can talk to me.” Instead of drinking yourself to death, he doesn’t say, and hopes Anakin doesn’t catch the thought.

The silence stretches so long that Obi-wan’s certain Anakin’s never going to speak, and turns to leave. But then, he twitches minutely and runs his hands through his hair.

“My mom,” he says hoarsely, “she died on this day.”

Oh.

Obi-wan had known, peripherally, that Anakin’s mother was no longer alive. Anakin had never told him directly, but he had picked it up from his various hints and reactions in conversation. He swallows back a rather irrational bout of hurt that Anakin had never talked to him about it–it must have been painful, and it’s not his place to pry. He doesn’t know exactly what happened to her, but a sinking suspicion in his gut had always whispered that it had something to do with the dreams Anakin had been having. The dreams. . . he had dismissed.

Suddenly Shmi Skywalker’s death feels so much more real. He’s disappointed in himself for barely sparing her a thought until now; a part of him had always vaguely believed that she was too kind, too strong, too steady, to be worn down by the desolate sands of Tatooine.

He had only heard about her from the stories Qui-gon shared; how much worse was it for Anakin to bear?

“I. . . I’m so sorry,” he says, taking a seat next to Anakin at the table. “Would you. . . like to talk? About it?”

Anakin looks up, and force, he looks even worse up close. His eyes are bloodshot and glazed, and the circles underneath seem permanently etched into his face. Now that he’s sitting next to him, Obi-wan sees that his hands are shaking.

“What’s there to talk about?” Anakin says, voice slurred and heavy with emotion, the Outer Rim accent he’d worked so hard to rid himself of over the years returning full force. “Just another failure to add to my endless list.”

For a second, Obi-wan wonders what triggered this episode. Shmi’s death was a terrible, terrible thing, but this reaction from Anakin was new. He would have noticed if this had happened to Anakin every year. . .wouldn’t he?

Then he realizes.

Oh. Zygerria.

The Zygerria mission, completed just a few weeks ago, had been miserable for all three of them; Ahsoka, Anakin, and himself. And while Obi-wan might have gotten the brunt of it physically, it had been just another thing to endure, for him. Not like it was for Anakin. Not a return to slavery. And to think, Anakin had to play the role of a slave master.

Obi-wan wonders, not for the first time, what the council was thinking, sending Anakin on that mission. Perhaps it had just been an oversight, but it was exceptionally cruel nevertheless.

“Anakin, was your mother. . . free, when she died?” He had heard something about a Lars family from Padme at some point, but he’s not certain.

Anakin scoffs. A silence drags on again, then he speaks. “No.”

“Padme told me–”

“Told you what?” Anakin interrupts harshly, “that a kind man fell in love with her and freed her, and then they got married in some perfect blaze of romance? That she found herself in love and was swept off her feet by a knight in shining armor?” He laughs brokenly. “That’s just a fairytale the Core Worlders like to tell themselves.”

Core Worlders, Obi-wan thinks dazedly. Anakin hasn’t said those words with such bitterness, such disgust, since he had first come to the Temple with a detonator still buried in his abdomen.

There’s bile rising in the back of his throat, Obi-wan notes distantly.

“A perfect Tatooine love story,” Anakin continues bitterly, voice so jagged it’s almost sinking into Huttese-adjacent tones, “A man sees a pretty female slave and thinks, hey, I’d sure love to have her every morning. But it’s not enough for him to just buy a night with her. No. He wants her all to himself, every day. Day, night, whenever he wants. And to think himself kind, he’ll take her detonator out, tell her she’s free. Then, he’ll say she owes him his freedom. That she has to marry him now, to show that she’s grateful. He gave her freedom, the least she can do is give him a wife.”

Obi-wan tries to swallow back his mounting horror. It doesn’t work. “Are you. . . sure,” he says instead, hesitantly, “that it was like this for your mother?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Anakin says, voice suddenly frighteningly monotone, “It’s the quintessential Tatooine love story. The moisture farmer and the slave.”

He takes a drink from the bottle again. Silence descends upon the two of them for some time, Obi-wan having no idea what to say in response. He might be in shock, he thinks vaguely. He knows, of course, that the galaxy is a vicious place, full of vicious, cruel people, but this has him uncharacteristically unsettled. He’s seen and heard worse, throughout this endless-seeming war. It doesn’t stop him from feeling a bit sick.

He’s reminded, suddenly, of a different type of Master visiting Tatooine and telling a young slave boy he was free, only to tell the boy he would be trained as a Jedi. He wonders how much choice Anakin was given.

“She was taken by Tusken Raiders one night,” Anakin says once the silence has continued for so long Obi-wan felt himself doubting whether he’d ever speak again. “while she was out gathering mushrooms. Isn’t it funny that she was the only one out there, Obi-wan?” His voice is slurring again. “Isn’t it bad enough that he bought her as a wife? Did he have to buy her as a servant too?”

“The Raiders,” Obi-wan asks, finding his voice, “they killed her?”

“Tortured her.” Anakin’s hand shakes so strongly the bottle falls from his grip, Obi-wan catching it before it can shatter into pieces on the floor, “For a month. Beat her, whipped her, broke her bones. . .” his voice suddenly oozes revulsion and rage, “touched her.”

He stares off into the distance, looking past Obi-wan and all in all probably only peripherally aware of his presence. “She died of her injuries. Moments after I found her.”

An image worms its way into his mind, of Anakin bloody and exhausted, holding his mother in his arms as she died. Maybe Anakin would be apologizing over and over in desperate whispers, the same way he did whenever Obi-wan or Ahsoka were injured on the battlefield. Maybe his mother would reach an arm up, caress his face for the last time, and tell him she loved him just before she died. He takes a breath, and tries to swallow back feelings of being woefully inadequate for this conversation, to be the support Anakin needs. “I’m sorry, Anakin. No one deserves that, least of all your mother.”

Anakin’s lips twist into a bitter smile and he murmurs something about “Watto” and “wouldn’t agree” that Obi-wan doesn’t catch the rest of. He pushes strands of hair plastered to his face out of the way with trembling fingers, then reaches for the bottle again.

“Well,” he says dully, “she’s free now.”

Obi-wan thinks of the haunted look in Anakin’s eyes, his hunched posture, the imperceptible twist in his voice whenever he has to call someone “Master”.

Are you? he wants to ask.

He doesn’t.

#star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic #my writing #mothers au #obi-wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #shmi skywalker #clone wars #star wars #tusken raiders #cliegg lars

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degeneratekitten · 4 years ago

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The Horrors of War

!!!WARNING!!! Read tags before continuing, if you don’t like any of the tags you probably wont like it when those things happen in the story.

This story is told by a male MC in the military, its mainly world building and establishing the characteristics of Squadron bitties. It doesn't have torture or abuse but it is still a very horrifying situation to find yourself in. Bitties still die though.

“Squadron Bitties were a normal part of military life, but you were sure there was something special about this one.”

You had met 209, or as you’d taken to calling him, Cigar, first thing after being shipped out to your base. You’d heard about squadron bitties from your father and his stories of his own squadron bitty during his tour, but meeting your personal military bitty was something else.

He sized you up at first, before immediately giving you a salute, his own clothes already stained from dirt and grime. He waited for you to salute back to him before grinning ear-hole to ear-hole, razor sharp teeth glinting in the sun. The teeth gave you a start, but were very helpful in reestablishing how the new bitty was the farthest thing from a pet you could get.

He had on military issued clothing, miniature versions of the uniform everyone wore complete with combat boots and dog tag. His teeth looked clean and his claws sharpened. His dark green eye-lights pierced through you and made you feel lucky that the things were fiercely loyal to their handlers.

Like most Squadrons he didn't summon his ecto flesh unless he was exerting himself, so his clothes seemed a little too baggy for his form, but if he were exerting himself you would be able to see his form bulk up considerable, as his dark green ecto flesh wasn’t just weird flab like normal bitties, he could form ecto-muscle. Furthermore he was massive for a bitty.

Squadron bitties always started out under a foot, but with different assignments they grew to various sizes. As an infantry bitty, he came up to your mid thigh in height, larger than a lot of pure bites. His assignment caused him to grow to a larger size, as it was often necessary for bitties in infantry units to drag full sized soldiers to safety and even handle the smaller firearms. You knew that the bomb squad bitties, and reconnaissance bitties both stayed at minimum size, so they could use their teeth to cut wires more precisely in an emergency and to make them harder to spot.

Every cadet learned about the bitties, how to care for them, and how to assert that you were in charge. They were probably the only bitty that was still manufactured to this day, with no breeding capabilities of their own due to their militaristic nature.

You had exchanged greetings, established your hierarchy, and started on the task of finding your living quarters. During your first month of life you worked on forming a trusting relationship with him, as did the other handlers. You took him on patrols, did physical training together, and overall became a good team. He wasn't easy to get along with at first, as the fresh recruit in you was still uptight about his mannerisms. He was vulgar, making jokes about your dong all the time, punctuating his sentences with curses, laughing at all your misfortune and all around acting normal. He very quickly made sure that your uptight demeanor evaporated though as underneath the vulgar mannerisms he always had your back. He swiped extra cigars and always shared which got him his namesake. He snuck you a porno mag when you confided that you were feeling frustrated. He always acted like a lookout when you and your friends were up to something stupid.

There was still a little divide between the two of you, and while no one had explicitly said it, it was implied that you weren't supposed to get attached to the squadron bitties. They weren't pets, they were dangerous, weapons of war, and tools. They were life-like, but they died a hell of a lot easier than regular soldiers, and you’d heard enough horror stories from other handlers about how they’d had to eat their own bitties to survive that you were determined to not get attached.

It wasn't until one particular instance that that distance disappeared however.

“Why do ya flip that fuckin coin all the time?” Cigar asked you, as you stood there, flipping a commemorative coin around in your hand.

“Huh?” You asked, staring at him dumbly, before you realized what he was talking about. “Oh this. I guess you could say it's my good luck charm.” You stated watching as he seemed to get a pensive look.

“What kind a luck does a fuckin coin give ya. Did yer dad give it to ya or somethin?” He asked, moving closer to you to take a better look at the coin.

You got a bit quiet, before answering. “Yeah actually, he had it with him during his tour, said after rubbing it for good luck he could usually get out of most bad situations.”

The bitty laughed at this, holding out his hand in a gesture for you to give it to him. You complied, letting him take a closer look at it.

“Ya don’t need this fuckin thing while I’m here.” He stated finally, after looking at the coin for a long while. “I’ve got yer back always Nickel Boy.”

To say you were touched was an understatement. You were floored, surely there was something special about this bitty.

“Did you just call me Nickel Boy?” You laughed out, as you took the coin back from your partner.

“That’s right Nickle Boy, yer the fucking idiot who prays to a nickel! So Nickel Boy.”

-----

Well into your tour, you’d gotten well and truly attached to your partner. He’d saved you more times than you could count. He was always able to spot an enemy, had dragged you away from a fight you couldn't handle, and even tore a man to shreds as he snuck up behind you. To say you would be dead without him was an understatement, He became your new lucky charm, and he always pretended that you were some weird sap who always called him Lucky Cigar for no reason.

Then one day luck ran out, and you ended up stranded in the middle of nowhere with just the gear you carried with you. There were enemies all around you, and you and Cigar were forced to hide and fortify with only what you had on your person and what you could scavenge.

Cigar ended up pulling so many of his teeth out to make traps that his regeneration could barely keep up. You warned him that he needed to slow down. He’d scoffed at you and continued to pull his teeth until he passed out.

The two of you stayed low to the ground, quiet and hidden, trying to reach your unit through your com. You couldn't reach them and eventually the rations that the two of you had ended up running out.

Then things turned worse. You knew this would happen if things got bad enough, and at first you simply refused Cigars offerings.

“I’m not gonna fucking eat you!” You shout/whispered, watching Cigar look at you with grim determination.

“Yes you are ya dumb fuck! This is half a what I was made for! I can keep ya alive if ya aren’t so fuckin stubborn!”

“You’re my partner, I’m not gonna cannibalize you! We’ll get back to our unit in no time! Just wait!”

That was easier said than done though, as time went on, Cigar became cutting himself up without your knowledge, and started practically shoving bits of flesh he cut off into your mouth. You spit them out at first, before hunger, and Cigars ranting simply got the best of you.

“Why does your flesh taste like heath bars?” You ended up commenting, as you tried to look away from your partner as you chewed guiltily on a chunk of his thigh. You could see muscle in the flesh, and it unsettled you, but you dealt with it. The magic in his flesh fizzled and popped in your mouth, before spreading throughout your body in healing revitalizing magic. Cigar told you that you were actually starting to bulk up more, and that the magic in his flesh was also like a steroid, as long as the two of you were in danger it would keep you in top physical shape.

“Somethin ta do with how ya see me. The better our relationship the better the taste.” He started to grin at you, teeth no longer gleaming instead crooked and malformed. “Its good ta know ya like me so much Nickel boy!” He laughed, before devolving into a fit of coughs. You pulled him closer and balked when his bones seemed to creak a little under the slightest pressure. Tears started to color your eyes as you realized what was happening.

“What’s that look fer? Ya aint bein a pussy are ya! I’m fine! Don cry ya fuckin pansy!” Cigar tried to put on a brave front for you, but the both of you knew what was happening. He couldn't sustain what he was doing. He couldn't keep up with the amount of regeneration needed to sustain both his teeth and his flesh. He was cutting off too much flesh, and pulling out too many teeth and it was killing him slowly. You’d used up the last of the monster candies the two of you had and he was on his last leg. If you didn't get in touch with your unit soon, he would crumble into dust, painfully and slowly.

---

Another week went by, and although you were hesitant, you knew that Cigar would continue cutting himself up if you continued to refuse to harm him. You started cutting off pieces of him yourself, making sure to make them as small as he would let you. His flesh ended up getting sweeter as time went on and he ingrained himself in your heart even further.

He eventually stopped moving as much as he used to, and took to laying against the wall next to you while he slept for hours a day. You ended up turning back to the coin you had, after months of not bothering with it. Really you hadn’t seen the point with Cigar around, he had kept good on his word that you wouldn't need to rely on it with him around. You ended up rubbing it, praying beyond hope that you would be rescued. Hoping that Cigar wouldn't dissolve into dust before they got there.

Then, as soon as you put the coin away, you heard it, chatter on the radio.

----

Your unit ended up arriving 3 days later, and Cigar had deteriorated quickly. He couldn't move anymore, and although you had refused to eat any part of him for the past three days, he still didn't get better. He stopped regenerating, and his bones were getting more brittle by the hour.

“Don’t you fuckin die on me Cigar.” You’d pleaded, even as your unit arrived. They looked at the two of you, some with glee, while others looked on with green faces as they stared at Cigar and realized what the two of you would have had to do in order for you to survive this long. Either way the two of you were airlifted back to base. You, to get proper non magical nutrition in you, while he was to be seen by a bunch of fluffies and eat some monster candy.

---

Back at base, they ended up having to get you detoxed. As while Squadron flesh seemed nutritious on the surface, it was still magic, and too much foreign magic could interfere with your own natural flow and end up replacing it entirely. Something which could cause problems in motor skills, and if you were a dedicated mage, render you completely unable to do magic.

They ended up keeping you for a few weeks, making sure that your magical flow was intact, they only let you go after making sure that there was no problem with your motor function, and you could discharge small amounts of magic. Not that it mattered too much to you, as during that time when you were confined to the medical ward, you got the worst news possible.

Cigar hadn’t made it. He had been unable to recover, even after a bunch of fluffies went to stabilize him, and monster candy was shoved into his mouth. His own magical flow had been disrupted, and even healing magic was unable to restore its natural flow. He had crumbled to dust after a week of suffering, without you by his side.

Your tears had drenched your pillow, and you cursed yourself for not relying on the coin sooner.

---

Your replacement bitty was given to you as soon as you left the medical ward. 287, you hadn't bothered naming him, and you could only bear to make sure he was well taken care of, you couldn't bear to bond with him in the way you had with cigar.

287 tried, oh he tried to lighten your mood, but his mannerisms and methods were identical to Cigar’s and you felt robbed of something special. You felt as if what you’d had before with Cigar was a lie. This new bitty was exactly like him, attempting to lighten you up with the same jokes, same teases, same training exercises as Cigar. He even looked out for you in the same way as Cigar, stealing extra things for you, and informing you of the higher ups positions that day. It was like salt was being rubbed into your wound and you could barely stand to look at him. Then one thing simply shattered the fond memories you held of Cigar, one instant where you realized that Cigar, no matter how you felt about him, had never been unique, and his death no matter how much it crushed you mattered even less.

“Why do ya flip that fuckin coin all the time?” 287 asked you, as you stood there, flipping your father's coin around. You stopped for only a moment before continuing.

“It's my good luck charm.” You stated watching as he seemed to get a pensive look.

“What kind a luck does a fuckin coin give ya. Did yer dad give it to ya or somethin?” He asked, and a horrible sense of deja vu washed over you

You got quiet, deadly quiet, causing 287 to sweat a little, before you shook it off and with a sense of dread answered. “Yeah. Dad had it with him during his tour, said after rubbing it for good luck he could usually get out of most bad situations… I had it with me before too, after rubbing it my unit finally got in touch, saved me...”

287 laughed at this, holding out his hand in a gesture for you to give it to him. You complied, numbly letting what you saw as a repeat of events occur again.

“Ya don’t need this fuckin thing while I’m here.” He stated finally, after looking at the coin for a long while. “I’ve got yer back always Nickel Boy.”

You got a grim look on your face at the nickname. No one had ever called you Nickel boy except for cigar, and you immediately felt betrayed, anything you thought had been special about Cigar vanished, replaced by a bitter feeling.

They were all the same.

#bitty death #body horror #depictions of war #starvation #mutilation #stranded #Squadron Bitty #worldbuilding

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flowercrown-bucky · 4 years ago

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Loki Takes The Tube

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, fire

Summary: After the cycling incident, you are forced to take Loki on the Tube again. Just about everything that could go wrong, does.

To the delightful individual who sent me an anonymous ask declaring that they think this series is “stupid” and that the titles make them sound like a children’s book - Congratulations! That is, in fact, the idea. Glad the penny finally dropped for you.

This is the third instalment of “Loki Adapts To Modern Life”.

Loki Learns To Cycle | Loki Learns To Cook

Send any other ideas into my askbox or my messages! There are currently two additional chapters under construction.

Loki Adapts To Life taglist is open. Please comment or message me if you’d like to be added.

THE tube was an unusual delight.

Typically English and almost exclusive to the residents of the capital, it provided an affordable rapid-transport system to the wider public both over and underground throughout London, its outer boroughs and into certain areas of Bucks, Essex and Hertfordshire.

Naturally, they hated it.

It was dark, dingy and crammed. It smelled at the best of times, and woe betide any unfortunate soul who wound up travelling the Circle line at quarter-past five on a Thursday evening.

It was a hellish and arduos commute, and every self-respecting Londoner was convinced their daily commute was worse than any other resident of the city.

It was, however, better than the bus.

So, it is stoically endured, full of stiff postures, tight-lipped smiles and curt conversation - but only when absolutely unavoidable - in the way that British people do best.

After all, the English are renowned for their almost painfully polite manner.

Asgardians, however, were not.

You'd taken the Tube almost every day of your adult life, alone. 99.9% of the time, it was relatively hassle free. Unpleasant, but not unbearable.

Loki, had been entirely responsible for the 0.1%.

You had, you were fairly certain, gone quite mad.

Your first trip on the Underground with Loki had been nothing short of terrible, and as you made your way along the pavement to the station, you pondered the two relevant objectively poor decisions you had made.

The first? Taking Loki back on the metro system - although you clung to the futile hope that being on the Overground might change his mind.

The second? Deciding to live in a borough that was famous for its lack of Tube stops.

It was, you had decided, for the better sake of all humanity, that while he adjusted to mortal methods of travel, he did not go unaccompanied.

It had been quite the struggle to persuade him to wear the baseball cap that was currently jammed on his head, or the sunglasses that currently adorned his face. People weren’t, on the whole, that keen on him after the whole New York incident, (Very few countries had bought into the idea that Loki had been acting under the control of a meglomaniac from a distant solar system) and your boyfriend drew enough attention to himself without being contained in a space the size of a beer can.

You approached the turnstile, turning to Loki. You took his hands gently, praying to every god you could think of that this would go hassle-free.

When was anything ever hassle free with Loki in tow?

“Do you remember what to do with your Oyster card?” You asked, holding out the blue piece of plastic to him. You normally used the contactless pay on your phone, but you’d not even breached the concept of a bank account with Loki, let alone smart phones. Plus, you were fairly certain having ‘war criminal’ on your resume exempted you from most high street banks.

“Yes, I’m not a toddler.” He grumbled, snatching the card out of your hand. “Why is it even called an Oyster, anyway? It’s rectangular.”

You rolled your eyes, pulling your phone out of your pocket to swipe the turnstile, leaving your godly boyfriend to ramble about molluscs by himself.

The disdainful look on his face as he walked through the barrier was enough to make the Mona Lisa crack a grin.

“That man touched me.” He screwed his face up in disgust. “Mortals and their mortal germs and their mortal diseases and their mortal....”

“Loki, that’s what happens when you queue. You’re going to have to get used to it.” You squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It’s what we do in England.”

“But why?” He asked. “That cannot be the most efficient way of having lots of people waiting at once.”

“I don’t really know.” You wrinkled your nose. “I’m not sure anyone really does, to be honest.”

“Stupid.” He replied, glaring at the woman next to him on the platform. “I hope you know I’m only doing this to humour you.”

“So you’ve said.” You sighed, more to yourself than anyone else. “Many, many times.”

“And this disguise, is futile.” He gestured to his hat and glasses. “I’m wearing sunglasses underground. I would be less conspicuous with fairy lights strung around my neck.”

“It will work, trust me. Stop complaining.”

You gritted your teeth, rolling your eyes in despair. Of all the fucking days for the train to break down, it just had to be this one.

You turned your gaze to Loki briefly. He’d been holding his limbs in the same stiff position since you’d stepped on the train - fifty two minutes ago.

Being accustomed to the many sudden directional jolts that characterised a ride on the Underground, you had reached up to grab the bright yellow rail above your head, gesturing for him to do the same. He had refused to even touch it, muttering something about bacteria. A sudden left turn had sent him flying, flooring the unfortunate gentleman to his right in the process.

Loki was, as he had reminded you on several occasions, completely incapable of blushing, but if he was, you were fairly certain it would look something like the way he had as he got back to his feet.

Needless to say, he didn’t think it was nearly as funny as you had.

Your mirth was short lived, due to the train promptly stopping for some unapparent reason.

You reached for his hand, smiling at him reassuringly. He’d not said anything in the thirty-four minutes you’d been stationery, opting instead to glower at anyone who made anything remotely resembling eye contact with him.

“Hey, where have I seen you before?” You winced as someone tapped his shoulder. “Have you been on the TV or something?”

He raised his hand to his face, removing his sunglasses before turning to look at you, his face completely deadpan.

“I told you.”

You shifted uncomfortably, feeling the zip of Loki’s trousers pressing rather painfully into the soft flesh of your stomach. Eventually, the train had gotten moving again, only to become extremely, uncomfortably full two stops on. You’d ended up pressed flush against Loki’s broad chest, something you would not normally complain about - although there were normally not so many people present and far less clothes involved.

“Darling.” He hissed.

You raised your eyebrow inquisitively, looking up at him. He’d bitten his lip so hard that you thought he might chew it, his gaze trained on the flaking roof of the carriage.

“What?” You mouthed up at him.

“I can feel someone’s hand.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “On.. On my buttock.”

You bit the inside of your cheeks to stop yourself from laughing. He glared down at you.

“I’ll cut it off.” He hissed.

“Loki.” You warned.

“Fine.” He muttered. “I’ll just make it look like it’s been cut off.”

“Behave.” You growled.

He pulled a face at you, waggling his head from side to side as he imitated you in a mockingly high-pitched tone.

“See? It wasn’t so bad.” You chirped, breathing in the fresh air after just over an hour on a stuffy train carriage.

“Wasn’t so bad?” He turned to you incredulously. “Were we on the same train?”

“I’ve had worse.” You shrugged.

“A twenty five minute journey lasted over an hour, over which time I was felt up by a stranger and fell on my face.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Eh, just a fairly standard commute really.”

[If you have any nasty, rude, or generally unpleasant thoughts and you feel the need to share them with me - before you do, please take my reminder to fuck off and get in the bin.]

#loki x reader #loki laufeyson #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x reader #loki x you #loki smut #loki of asgard #loki (marvel)#loz writes loki

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goodfortune-au · 4 years ago

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Good Fortune (Soulmate AU) Chapter 11: All Alone

She took a bath that night, deciding she was in very dire need of something, anything relaxing to take her mind off the discovery. Her mind races with thoughts as she peels off her clothes, standing naked in the bathroom as she turns the faucet on. The sound of it is therapeutic, a soothing balm to her battered mind as she watches its journey into the basin, loud and boisterous but conversely soothing in its torrent. She’s itching to get in and warm her aching bones, placate her anxiety, but she decides to let it fill for a little longer. She deliberates for a moment, and then adds a liberal splash of lavender-scented bubble bath under the running faucet. When it’s three quarters of the way full she shuts it off, and in the silence of the room all she can hear is the water dripping from the entrance of the spigot accompanied by her racing thoughts. She delicately submerges one foot, savoring the heat that envelops her skin, that spreads throughout her entire body with a titillating shiver. Her other leg follows suit and she finally sits down within the modest confines of the porcelain, the water shifting rhythmically around her naked curves before settling into still tranquility. The steam of the bath is filling the room like a calming, ethereal mist, lulling her into peaceful and steady repose as she allows the stress in her bones to melt away in the water.

As much as Angel didn’t want to admit it, this, all of this, was getting to her. She didn’t know what it meant, to tell the truth. She didn’t truly understand the implications, because all of it was too much for her. She goes over it all in her head, starting with the ghost from the transmission on Channel 27, before the gifts had started. She thinks about how the gifts had shown up not long after that, that she had interpreted them as having been from something protecting her from the ghost or, worse yet, the thing behind the disappearances. She thinks about the concert and about Halloween, about the mysterious figure that had kept trying to help her, how their eyes had been like distant stars calling to her from far away. She thinks of her dreams about Pennywise, and how his eyes had been near the same as those distant stars. All the times she’d been low only to find that her guardian angel was there with her, leaving her gifts in her time of need so she’d know she wasn’t alone. She thinks about the monster that attacked Patrick, that must have taken the shopkeeper of Secondhand Rose. That… Must have taken Georgie too. And she thinks about the doll, that she’d known was a gift intended just for her. She’d known it, she’d felt it. So just what was it doing here? What was it doing here after she’d had that run-in with the shopkeeper, who’d disappeared not long after she’d left the store? What did it all mean?

Some part of her knew what it all meant, or at least she thought she did. She didn’t want to even consider it. Her mind is awash with feelings she can’t escape, feelings of shame, of guilt, despair. She hadn’t wanted to consider it before when the shopkeeper had gone missing, and she wanted even less to consider it now. The implication that… The implication, that her guardian angel… Oh god, she didn’t want to even think of it. What was she supposed to do, how was she supposed to feel, being courted by something potentially responsible for all the disappearances, the deaths, the grim atmosphere perpetually plaguing the town? How was she supposed to deal with that? How’s she supposed to deal with the guilt of being involved with something that made the shopkeeper disappear, and Patrick, and so many others? Georgie… Georgie too... It’s even worse that she’s bonded with them, has grown to love and to trust them, depending on them to bring her solace in her every time of need. If it really was true, she was something of an accomplice, she had empowered them in what they had done, what they will surely continue to do. The worst part of it being that she had no way to speak to them, to know for sure what their identity was, to have any way to know for certain whether or not her suspicions were correct. It was all simply up to speculation, and Angel was the furthest from an effective investigator that a person could possibly be. She didn’t know what to think.

As she stares at the yellow light fixtures above her bathroom sink, her mind starts to wander someplace else, to another train of thought. She needed to stop, needed to stop being so paranoid. She was thinking too hard about all of this. The doll was clearly intended for her by her guardian angel. She’d known it the moment she’d laid eyes on it. She’d felt it. The shopkeeper had gotten in the way of that, but there was absolutely no way to know that they were responsible for the disappearance, or for Patrick’s, or Georgie’s for that matter. She wants so badly to believe that her guardian angel was just that, a guardian protecting her from the menacing nature of Derry, even if she didn’t quite understand their motives in having chosen her. She’d spent so long getting to know this thing, whatever or whoever it was, and she didn’t get the sense that they meant her or anyone else harm. They were sweet, they were thoughtful, they clearly cared about her happiness. How could she sully their good reputation with a few bad thoughts and feelings? How could she? She feels her mind slowing as she continues to rationalize it all, as she feels all the dread seeping away from her in the water, and the yellow lights above the sink are more striking by the second, almost searing, almost blinding. For some reason, she feels like she’s getting sleepy, though she can’t bear the thought of moving now, can’t summon the energy to lift herself from the tub. Her eyes are starting to glaze over; her limbs feel like dead weights in the water, and despite her meek mental objection she starts to drift away into lavender dreams…

Her eyes open when she feels something behind her. The tub feels much bigger, impossibly so, big enough to accommodate someone else and she figures she must be dreaming. The lights above the sink are now the same as they ever were, dim and unassuming and she feels like she’s sitting in something’s lap. There’s the delicious feeling of something like silk pressed up against her naked back and she shivers when it shifts behind her. It tucks a wet lock of hair behind her ear and leans in close.

“Hello, Angel.” It whispers huskily. She knows that voice, it’s him.

“P-Pennywise?” She asks, her voice small.

“Ding-ding-ding, my sweet. When I saw you here I couldn’t resist. You looked so beautiful in here, like a lovely little water nymph…”

She’s speechless and he laughs. It echoes.

“What’s the matter, pet? Are you not pleased to see me?”

“N-no!” She exclaims, flustered. “I just… I didn’t expect-”

“Didn’t expect to find me here? Yes, well, us clowns are full of surprises.” He says. She can hear the twinkle in his eye. “Now you… You’re something else… Look at you, my dear, entirely predictable.” He cups her face from behind, one playful hand on either side of her face. “So cute, so red you are, and you can’t even see my face. Don’t tell me…” He says, leaning in again. “...You’ve got a little crush on ol’ Pennywise?”

She squeaks and he looses a fit of impish giggles. He doesn’t even give her a chance to deny it.

“Yes, yes, I knew it! Pennywise can tell, oh yes he can! Can tell it by your pretty red face, all your cute little noises. Tell me, my sweet, would you like it if I… Did this?”

His hand slides down from her cheek and trails lower, and lower… It dances down her neck, down the curve of her collarbone, and finally settles just above her breast.

“Would you, hmm?” It trails just a little lower, and she whines. “Hmm? Oh, look at you, you can’t even speak. Tell me, pretty girl. Tell me what you want.”

His hand ghosts over her breast, his finger swirling delicately around the tender bud of her nipple. It hardens under his touch.

“Puh-please… I…” She’s weak, can hardly muster the strength. Where had all her composure gone? She was usually much more eloquent than this. But here with him, like this, all she could seem to manage were a few whimpered words.

He cups her breast, massaging it gently with his hand. “Is this what you want?” He breathes into her ear. She throws her head over his shoulder with a mewl.

“Y-yes…” She whines. “Yes...Please…”

He grins. His hand travels lower, over her stomach, caressing her curves. “Is this...What you want? Do you want me… Here?” He tickles her tummy mischievously and she bursts out in laughter.

“Yuh-yes!” She squeals. “Yes!” He laughs with her too, and then he’s silent. His hand is moving again.

“...Is this what you want?”

His hand has gone lower, lower, lower, trailing over the delicate flesh of her thighs and lingering there for a moment before moving again. It finally finds a place in the tender spot between her legs and her breath hitches in her throat. He fondles her down there, one devious finger trailing up and down the lips of her pussy, slowly, deliciously… And then… And then, it dips inside ever so slightly…

She arches her spine, throwing her head back again as a breathy moan escapes her throat.

“P-Pennywise!”

“Is this what you want, my dear?” That finger is moving deeper inside, the rest of his hand resting gently on her mound. She’s squirming in his hold, bucking her hips up into his hand ever so slightly, unconsciously spreading her legs in the tub as far as she was able as he simply continues his ministrations. A second finger has delved inside, rubbing at her clit, and the first simply carries on in its exploration. “Tell me, sweetness…Do you want Pennywise… Here?”

She freezes up when his finger brushes up against it. He tap tap taps on her clit and then, at long last… His finger dips inside.

She wakes up. She jerks suddenly, sitting upright as the water in the tub jostles around her. The sound of the faucet drip drip dripping into the tub is there to ground her, an amiable dialogue to bring her back into reality. It echoes faintly in the silence of the room. Her face is still scarlet even as she towels off and retires to her bedroom, even as she warily regards the doll while she’s getting into her pajamas, that is, a big baggy t-shirt and a pair of panties. When she crawls into bed that night, she’s shaking; not out of fear but, rather, titillation. That dream had been the best one yet by a thousand miles and she still can’t believe everything that had happened, everything she had felt. Forget dreams about Pennywise, she’d… Never had a dream like that before, period. Angel had never been fortunate enough to have wet dreams. Her brain was particularly cruel to her in that regard, choosing to deny her something that would have made sexual frustration of the past much more bearable. But now, just like everything else, things were changing, and for why she had no idea. But that didn’t matter, not at this moment, when she could still feel the lingering sensation of his touch on her skin. She lays in bed, stewing in it all, burning with desire and then she can’t take it anymore. She reaches into her bedside table drawer and extracts something to help soothe, to help scratch the itch that so desperately needed to be scratched. She’d bought it some weeks ago during Christmas, and had only used it once prior to this. But now… Now, she needed to.

She peels her panties from her legs and falls back onto her bed, spreading her thighs as she does so. Breathless, she wastes no time; she positions it between her legs, rubbing it up and down the wetness of her slit and pushing it firmly into the tightness within. When she finally pushes in the tip she hisses in pure, unabated pleasure, pulling it back out and pushing in again, deeper this time. With each movement of the toy she’s rocking into it with her hips, pushing it deeper and deeper with every simulated thrust, until she’s finally worked it all the way in to the hilt. She turns the dial on the end, and delicious vibrations start to work their way through her body until she’s gasping, breathless, panting. And as she f*cks herself on the toy, Pennywise can see, can hear her crying out for him in ecstasy. He can see her, touching herself, letting one hand wander over the most sensitive parts of her body, cupping her own breast, throwing an arm over her face as she squeaks and shudders and shivers in absolute pleasure. Can see, even as she readjusts herself, positioning the toy over her pile of pillows and riding it, the way she arches her back and moans into the emptiness of the room. Rolling her hips with slow, deep, deliberate thrusts, she makes delicate, fragile sounds and keeps her hands firmly on the mattress.

“P-Pennywise…” She mutters under her breath. She continues, even as the vibration of the toy sends dim frissons of pleasure tingling through her loins. Continues, even as those frissons of pleasure build and bubble in her gut until they are ever-present in her mind, until all she can think about is this one simple end. She moves her hips faster now, and her noises grow increasingly more insistent, more frantic. She doesn’t notice the eyes trained on her, never leaving her form. She doesn’t notice the deep rumbling that underscores her own noises, the way the ground beneath Derry seems to tremor with something powerful and beastly. She doesn’t notice any of it, too caught up in her own world of carnal self-indulgence.

“Pennywise, P-Pennywise…! I- Oh god, oh f*ck…” It’s faster and faster. She’s riding the toy with reckless abandon now, bouncing on it, consumed in the way it makes her feel, the way the thought of him touching her makes her feel. All she can see in her mind’s eye is him. All she can see is the two of them together, their bodies pressed together, drinking in each other’s lust and longing. It spurs her on, drives her toward that ultimate end, and she couldn’t stop now even if she’d wanted to. All she can do is keep riding, keep fantasizing, keep thinking of him. She falls forward onto her chest and keeps humping the pillow, caught in a relentless rhythm now, chasing that sweet, sweet bliss that was so close within her grasp until it’s inescapable. It's coming, she can feel it, and as she passes the point of no return she seizes up.

“P-PENNYWIIIISE!” She squeals, letting her orgasm roll over her in deliciously sinful waves. She manages a few more weak thrusts and then she collapses forward into her bed, burying her face into the pillows beneath her.

“P-P-Pennywise… Pennywise…” She mumbles brokenly. The night is still and listening.

Once she’d gotten herself cleaned up and drifted off to sleep, it had been the most peaceful sleep Angel had had in a very long time. She hadn’t dreamt after that, but after something so ridiculously indulgent as the bath she could hardly be disappointed about it when she woke up the next morning. She doesn’t so much roll out of bed as she buoyantly hops out, and as she gets ready for work that morning she has to stop herself grinning ear to ear, fighting back the blush that’s staining her cheeks, that wonderfully lewd feeling blossoming between her legs whenever she recalled the sound of his voice rasping in her ear. She regards the knit doll staring at her from her clown shelf with a cock of her head, thinking on it in silence, and sighs as she picks it up and studies it in her hands. It really was quite adorable. She couldn’t very well resent such a thoughtful offering, and she’d paid for it in the end, after all. She studies its googly eyes and the red yarn hair peeking out of the white cap atop its head, and she starts to smile as she hugs it to her chest. Her. It was a her. She simply felt it in her guts, and she’d even thought of a name. When she places her back on the shelf along with the other clowns, she pauses for a moment as she looks over them, and she’s about to shut the closet door but then she stops. No. She picks her up again and, after a moment of deliberation, turns and deposits her against the center pillow on her bed. She carefully tucks in the doll and pulls her arms out to rest over the covers. Pepper. Her name was Pepper.

Work that day was painless. Angel took her duties in stride, attending to the shelves and putting back returns with relative, quick-footed ease. Quite a few people needed help with book selections that day but she wasn’t fazed by it; she would direct them to where they needed to go and then she would return to what she was doing, passing the hours quickly as she let herself get swallowed up by thoughts of Pennywise and the dream she’d had last night. Thoughts about what he had done, what he would have continued to do if she hadn’t woken up burn in her mind, consuming her like a tepid fever. As she continues her shift she has to stop herself from zoning out too much, knowing better than to invoke the wrath of the looming librarian who always seemed to be one step ahead of her. When she was on break, however, she would go into full-on daydream mode, sighing contentedly with elbows propped on her knees as she let the pictures in her head play out like the most breathtaking movie in existence.

It had been such a long time since she’d had a crush of this magnitude. To be completely and totally frank, she didn’t think she’d ever had a crush of this magnitude period. She’d had fixations on fictional characters in the past (one of the earliest and most memorable being a blue-skinned space prince from an old cartoon about a giant robot), but even they hadn’t been so enchanting to her that she spent this much time thinking about them. Pennywise seemed to be on her mind in some capacity twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Always wandering into the forefront of her mind at the most inopportune times, taking the most precedence in her thoughts whenever he did and distracting her from whatever she happened to be doing at the time. One day when she was grocery shopping she dropped a jar of pickles on the floor simply because she saw someone with near the same color hair. It was a little embarrassing, but Angel could hardly fault herself for coping in the only ways she knew how during these difficult times. She lived in a small town by herself, surrounded by people who either ignored her or had it out for her, she felt excruciatingly lonely, people were dropping like flies around her and there was a very distinct possibility that whoever was making these people disappear was after her, maybe even the kids too. She needed distractions, even if those distractions were copious and unhealthy. It was the only thing keeping her sane.

When she goes home, she’s still in good spirits. The commute is pleasant, and she finds a gift from her guardian angel, the disembodied head of a doll lying in a curb next to a manhole cover at the corner of Jackson and Witcham. Anyone else would have looked on this offering with frozen, abject horror, but not Angel. Angel picks it up with a smile, replacing it with a ticket stub from one of her very first concerts (Bad Brains in 1981, which her parents had somewhat reluctantly driven her to on their way back from a trip after she’d begged them) and idly continues on her way back. When she greets Mayor Jello after she steps through the threshold of the front door, she picks him up and nuzzles him, only stopping to let him down when he fights to break free of her arms. Dinner that night was leftovers from the day before. Angel goes to bed that night stewing in some kind of excitement, vainly hoping that her little hallucination in the bathtub was a signifier of some kind that the dreams had returned. She hadn’t been so lucky after New Years, but who knows, right? She’s still reliving it, still caught in the web of its influence, and it takes her some time to finally drift off to sleep…

She wakes up, groggy and disoriented, and her alarm is particularly jarring on this morning in particular. No Pennywise dream. Par for the course, but something else was strange. She hadn’t had any dreams at all. None. Nada, zip, zilch. It had been quite a while since that happened, and she finds it utterly strange and a little disarming. Nevertheless, she gets dressed and goes about her day. Back to normal, she supposed. Except normal, as it turned out, was turning out to be not so normal. As the days wore on, as January came and went and became February, Angel had continued this strange and unusual pattern. Sleep was a featureless black void from the moment her eyes fluttered shut to the moment they opened again to the sound of her morning alarm and even as she slept in on the weekend. Angel didn’t quite know what to make of it at first, but then something else caught her attention. Slowly but surely, the gifts from her guardian angel were dwindling into nothing. She didn’t notice so much the first week or so; it was not often she found gifts every single day, after all. Usually she would find one every one to two days. She was truthfully thankful for the gaps between gifts, because it gave her time to find something new to offer in return. But now the gaps were just… Getting bigger. The first week she’d only found about three at most. The second, only two. The third she’d only found one gift, and she hadn’t felt that familiar warmth at all when she did.

Angel had found herself growing more in tune to things around town whether she liked it or not, and this, whatever it was, felt like an omen. She couldn’t help herself from feeling those bad, bad feelings, from thinking such bad, bad thoughts, and with the growing absence of her guardian angel she was starting to feel very much unsafe around town now. Whenever she left the house she felt the distinct sense that she wasn’t alone, that she was being watched, and it wasn’t at all pleasant or comforting like it had been before. She was starting to withdraw, she was becoming a recluse, avoiding leaving the house whenever it was physically possible. It was true she wasn’t much for the outdoors before this, but she at least had the confidence to be able to walk over to the local pharmacy and go home with a couple bags full of groceries. Now, she simply didn’t want to chance it. The kids hadn’t stopped by in a while; had been busy with school, and she couldn’t very well blame them for getting caught up in their studies or other such adolescent happenings as it were. No, it was simply Angel by herself, and this was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing in the sense that she didn’t need to put on an act for anybody, but a curse in the sense that she was just so afraid. She was left alone with her own thoughts, and it's not as though she wasn’t already left to her own thoughts on a regular basis, but now that her guardian angel seems to have shuffled off all of a sudden, all she could do was frantically wonder what had happened so suddenly. What had she done, if anything at all, to ward them off?

It’s all she could think about for days going into weeks. What if her guardian angel really had abandoned her? It’s a terrible thought, and one she can hardly stomach. Had they stopped liking her gifts? Were they jealous of her feelings for Pennywise? Did they think she was spurning them for him? Did the monster possibly get the last laugh over them, and now they were no more? All she can feel is fear and guilt. Fear for herself, fear for the children, fear on behalf of her guardian angel, fear that there was nothing to stop the monster from taking her now that they were out of the picture. Guilt for her inadequacy, guilt for her feelings about Pennywise, guilt for some instinctual feeling in her gut that she can’t truly put words to. She is lost and scared and now more than ever she dreads living alone, but still she wouldn’t dare to communicate that to her family. Even if she’d somehow mustered the nerve, how would she even begin to explain why she suddenly wanted to jump ship on this whole thing? She needed to be strong, she needed to commit, even if it was hard. Even if it was getting harder to sleep at night, harder and harder to pretend that she was holding everything together.

Still no dreams. Angel had given up again on that whole business by now and was now concerned mostly with the continued absence of her guardian. Things were… Just so cold now. Before, even when things had been at their worst, there was still the warmth of being, of feeling protected, that she could cherish and hold onto. But now that they were gone, she just felt like she was always trekking through an unforgiving frozen tundra, always sinking knee deep into frigid snow with each step. She wished now more than ever that she could feel that heat, like a warm blanket about her shoulders, keeping her safe and shielded from all that would possibly do her harm but it wasn’t there. There was only the cold, dead nothing, and she didn’t know how she was supposed to cope with it on top of everything else. Everything else, everything that had been eating away at her; Georgie’s disappearance, the death of Patrick, the shopkeeper from Secondhand Rose… Her depression and mood swings, her body issues… Her loneliness… It was all still there, and it was crushing her into the ground.

Her loneliness was especially prominent lately, that’s why Pennywise had become so important to her. It was a very particular and very agonizing pain, and it was one he could alleviate so effortlessly. Whether he did so in dreams or through her TV screen didn’t matter; she just wanted to see him, because seeing him made her forget it all, even if just for a short while. There was something about him that was so innately comforting to her and she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. In a sense, he gave her the same warm feeling that her guardian angel did, and that was remarkable, for she had no way to truly describe the sensation she would feel when she would find those beloved offerings, of knowing in some cosmic way that they were meant just for her. She could hardly question it though, not now. Now, here, in all this uncertainty, in all this fear and apprehension, she desperately craved that warmth in any way that it would come to her, so she gave herself to her most recent obsession in any and every way possible. Would think of him at night while she shivered under the covers and tried to fall asleep, would draw and paint him during the day when there was nothing else to fill the hours; imagined him escorting her to wherever she needed to go when she left the house. She clung to those ever-cherished blocks when the Derry Children’s Hour would come on and she could see him again in the flesh or, as close to in the flesh as he could possibly be anyway. She’d keep her eyes rooted to the television screen, no longer in the doe-eyed adoration of before but rather, in pure need. She needed him, now more than ever.

February was chugging along at a snail’s pace, and every day was uncertain to Angel now. She felt so insecure and so vulnerable that she’d started carrying Pepper around with her wherever she went; wore her pearl heart around the clock, even every night when she crawled into bed and took Pepper with her under the covers. She hoped, she prayed that the protection of her guardian angel didn’t end with their mere presence, and that their gifts were somehow imbued with that security, that they would keep her safe from the monster, from whatever was snatching people up from the town. It was taking everything she had not to cry her eyes out on a daily basis, from calling out of work or even quitting her job, packing up and leaving Derry behind forever. It seemed rash, it seemed unreasonable, but she couldn’t help herself from entertaining these trains of thought nonetheless. The only thing that stopped her was the thought of crawling back to her family, of admitting that she couldn’t handle things on her own like she’d said she could. And though she didn’t want to think about it too hard lest she get her hopes up for nothing, she had the faintest sliver of hope that her guardian angel was still around somehow, was still looking out for her even if she couldn’t feel their presence.

He was watching her throughout all of this. He had never truly stopped watching her, not since the bath. Truth be told, it had been hard to restrain himself during that last dream. He wanted to take her, take her right then and there, in every conceivable sense of the word. He wanted to shove her wet, dripping body up against the plaster wall and make her wail with absolute pleasure, take her back with him to the sewers beneath Derry where she would become his now and forever. But he couldn’t. That wasn’t it, wasn’t the time. He needed to still himself, needed to be patient. It was so close within his grasp that he could feel it, but all the same he needed to keep his composure and continue to dangle the carrot as it were. She was eating right out of the palm of his hand, had been ever since the gifts had started, ever since he’d started appearing on that silly little television show. All his efforts to draw her in were slowly but surely bearing fruit, and it was only a matter of time before the inevitable harvest. It was so close… He salivates at the thought of holding her, of touching her, feeling her fragile skin beneath his merciful claws. No, he wouldn’t hurt her, would never hurt her unless she wanted him to, unless she begged for it. He would always treat her with kindness and consideration, because he knew she would do the same for him.

He watched as she struggled with everything she didn’t understand, everything she didn’t know, watched as she struggled with the morality of possibly developing feelings for a monster. He found it adorable, all of her confusion, her belief that her guardian angel was a force different altogether than that of the eater of worlds, the way some small part of her wondered if they might be one and the same nonetheless. He loved how unsure and uncertain she was of it all, loved how she kept second-guessing everything she was discovering, the way that she would rationalize everything that didn’t quite sit right in an effort to soothe her own battered conscience. It made her all the more vulnerable to his manipulations and he could see the path ahead, could see her morality slowly but surely degrading as a result of him tweaking her strings. He watched as he ceased his attentions, how she had grown to feel defenseless and abandoned in the apparent absence of her protector. He watched as she grew more fearful and reclusive as a result, deciding to flex the might of his dreadful influence on the town now in an effort to shut her off more from the world, all so she would feel unsafe. Watched as she leaned headfirst into her little crush, trying to bury her head in the sand so it all wouldn’t feel so terrible and frightening. Though he loved her and wanted only her happiness, he knew this was necessary to bring them together. It would all be worth it in the end. It was almost time.

Angel could not be less prepared to cope with the arrival of Valentine’s Day, her least favorite holiday of them all by far. It had always been a bitter occasion; even in elementary school, before she’d fully understood the depth or scope of romantic feelings she’d grown up spurned by the majority of her classmates, and things had only worsened as she grew into an adolescent and the kids got colder, more cruel. The growing rumors didn't help matters either. It was true, she had a liking for the aesthetic of the holiday but that was really as far as it went for her. Beyond that, she either couldn’t care less or she would count the seconds until the day was finally over. Most of the time, it was the latter. As much as Angel hated to admit it, this was a vulnerable day for her, with all her insecurities and problems with self worth tending to peak at their highest during this juncture in the year. They would reach an apex, in critical danger of bubbling over, and this was a time that Angel would dive headfirst into her worst coping mechanisms. She would eat her feelings until she felt nothing but numb, and then she would try her best to just forget it. That is, until the next year rolled around.

Seeing Derry all decked out in hearts was a pleasant sight if irritating, and Angel is at least thankfully safe from the emotional peril of the holiday in the confines of the library, where she spends most of the day simply throwing herself into her routine as much as humanly possible. Once her shift is over she takes the quickest route home, still terrified and paranoid as a result of her protector’s recent disappearance, and practically kicks in the door as she rushes inside and slams it behind her. Mayor Jello has been pensive lately, soaking in his owner’s bad vibes, and is often absent from the living room now when she comes in. She doesn’t particularly notice. Once the adrenaline from the walk home has worn off she’s left tired and lethargic, and all she wants to do now is get undressed and watch TV. Once she’s set everything down she strips off her pants right there in the living room (not like there was anyone around that could see her anyway) and peels off her bra from underneath her silk sweater. She discards both articles of clothing into the basket in her room and finally settles into the crook of the couch with the remote. Turning it on, she surveys the channels.

Angel was able to forget it all for a couple hours, finding that today was actually a rather good day in terms of what was available to watch on TV. She’d gone to Channel 27 first and unfortunately hadn’t found anything, so she flipped through the other channels instead. She actually managed to catch an entire episode of the Golden Girls this time rather than stumbling on it in the last five minutes of its runtime, and after that she found a late afternoon block of Family Feud that had just started. Overall impressive considering the track record of Derry’s typical broadcast range. She lingers on that channel for a great while, wasting away the hours and trying to distract herself from dwelling on the godforsaken holiday she dreaded so much. When the Family Feud block comes to an end it transitions into a series of re-runs for a show about a seasoned police officer-turned-attorney and his plucky younger sidekick. Angel had never been too particularly fond of this program so she picks up the remote and sifts through the channels again. It would seem Derry had returned to its routine predictability, offering little more than its usual catalog of tired news broadcasts and sports reruns now. She sighs, thumbing through the list of channels with half-hearted indifference until she cycles back around again. She looks at the clock. It’s later. Maybe… She flips forward on the remote, counting the channels until she gets to 27, and the familiar sight of the quirky town set she’s grown to know and love flickers into view on the screen. It appears to have just started or, at the very least, she seemed to have caught it right after commercial break. Yes!

“Hello, and welcome back to the Derry Children’s Hour!”

She can tell that it’s a recent broadcast, because the set is all decked out with hearts and balloons. It was clearly a Valentine’s Day special of some kind. She’s filled with hope as she watches the hostess speak, wanting more than anything to see him, here in her time of most desperate need. He’s absent for the time being and it's simply the hostess engaging happily with the children and the children engaging back in turn. She asks the children if they know what they’re celebrating today, and they all answer the obvious question in perfect unison. She smiles brightly and continues the conversation, and Angel starts to find herself the slightest bit irritated. He was almost assuredly present for pretty much every conceivable special occasion on the show, so she had almost no doubt in her mind that he would be here. She just needed to wait for her to stop talking and introduce him. Just needed to wait, and be patient. For god’s sake, Angel, it’s just a TV show. It seemed an eternity passed of her simply shooting the breeze with the children, and she’s about to tune out completely, but then-

“Say hello to our special guest, kids! He’s back to tell us all about today’s big topic!”

Her heart skips a beat. He pops up from behind the bleachers as he always does, and she swoons, drunk with delight as she watches him dance into view. He introduces himself to the kids, and the camera fixes on his face as he begins to speak. Angel doesn’t blink. She doesn’t breathe.

“Now, as you know,” He begins. “Today’s big topic is love. Tell me kids, do you love anyone? Your friends, your family? Tell ol' Pennywise- who makes you feel special?"

The kids speak in scattered discordance, all giving their own answer to his question at the same time.

"Wonderful, wonderful! He's so happy to hear it! The world is filled with love, you know. Even ol' Pennywise feels it..." He pantomimes a beating heart over his chest. "Riiiiiight here."

"You love someone too, Pennywise?" A girl in pigtails asks, leaning forward in apparent interest. "Who?"

He pauses and points to himself quizzically. The kids nod their heads enthusiastically. "Oh, me? Someone very special, kids. Very special."

"Who is it?"

"Yeah, who?"

She swallows hard, her eyes glued to the screen, her heart pounding restlessly in her chest.

"A very special person indeed, Pennywise has. Someone meant just for him. Have you ever had anyone like that, kids? Someone who you know that makes you super happy inside, just thinking about them? Someone who, when you think of a smile on their face, you can't help smiling too?"

Some agree, some shake their heads.

"Oh, well, you'll all find someone kids! Every one of you! My special person, see, she doesn't know yet just how special she is. She's out there waiting for me, right now."

"She is?"

"Yes, yes indeed! And Pennywise is so happy when he thinks of her, and he can't wait to be with her, more than anything."

She’s staring at him bashfully from behind a pillow now, her face beet red. All she can think about is… The thought of being that special person, of being the person he speaks about so fondly. It’s a fantasy she can’t help but indulge, the pang of something familiar sending butterflies fluttering in her stomach again as she stares unblinkingly at the screen. She feels so warm as she watches him continue, talking about just how beautiful she was, the person in question, how many talents she had (cooking, making art and playing music, as he listed off the top of his head), how it was almost time for him to be with her. She can’t stop herself from imagining herself in that position, projecting herself onto the person he describes and finding that she fit almost every descriptor to some varying degree. All of it, well...

Except for the beautiful part maybe.

"How long will she have to wait Pennywise?"

"It's not long now, kids." He says with a warm smile. His eyes are dazzlingly blue, and there's a lighthearted twinkle in them. "Pennywise just has to be patient a little bit longer, has to wait for the right moment."

"There's a right moment?"

"Oh yes. It's important to know when that is, kids, it makes a world of difference. Have to think, have to see, feel. You have to trust your instincts, that feeling down, deep doooowwwwn in your gut."

"You think so?"

"I know so, kids."

The host then comes in to announce a commercial break and the clown says his cordial goodbye to all the children.

"Now don't worry, kids. Pennywise will be back, real real soon, okay?" He tells them. His eyes flicker toward the center of the screen, and he winks, blowing a playful kiss.

“Promise promise.”

The show cuts out and she can do nothing but stare, slackjawed and enchanted at the screen. She’s still caught in the throes of the fantasy, like a fly caught in gossamer strands of spider silk, caught up in thoughts of him taking her in his arms, telling her how lovely and special and talented she was; praising her, validating her, loving her. Thoughts of her being with him, being his special person… She replays the broadcast in her mind, replays everything that he said and her memory harkens back to the dream she’d had in the bath, the way he had spoken to her and everything that he had done to make her feel just that, special. She buries her face in the pillow and muffles a squeak, letting that wanton tingle gently wash over her body again at the thought of it. She lays on the couch for quite some time, having turned off the TV now. She didn’t care about the rest of it. She’d gotten what she’d wanted, she’d gotten to see him, and on a day where she truly needed him. It was all that she wanted.

The euphoria is still fresh and vivid in her mind, but as time goes on it starts to wear and suddenly before she can process her emotions she’s blinking back tears in her eyes. And then, those tears roll down her cheeks, and when she drags herself off the couch and into her bedroom she’s weeping. When she numbly crawls into bed she’s sobbing inconsolably, and she can hardly breathe as she cries into her pillows. She wants the dreams back, she wants to feel like she can be with him. Anything was better than nothing. She just… Wanted to see him… She hugs her mound of pillows in desperation, clinging to them for dear life as she dampens them with her misery. She imagines him there, holding her, consoling her, comforting her as she bawls her eyes out. She wanted to feel loved, she wanted to feel safe, she wanted to feel anything but this. Her sobbing is momentarily placated when she finally falls asleep, thinking of him all the while in the hopes of finding him in her dreams. There is nothing but black, and she stirs uncomfortably in her sleep as the hours pass. She doesn’t feel him, she doesn’t see him. Doesn’t see anything. She wanders through the blank ether for an impossible amount of time, and then, when her eyes flutter open again in the darkness, she finds herself turned away from her pillows. No dream, no sign of him anywhere, not even in the vacant recesses of her thoughts. With a helpless whimper, she’s about to loose a frustrated scream in the darkness but she’s rendered mute, petrified by the sensation of something drawing its way up the skin of her thigh from behind. Something leans down to snuffle into the pulse of her throat, and from there it plants soft, wet kisses from her neck all the way up to her cheek. There’s hot breath as he whispers in her ear, and she shivers at the sound of his voice.

“I’m here now, my darling.”

#pennywise #daddywise #chapter eleven #all alone #it 2017 #it chapter one #pennywise x oc #pennywise x angel #good fortune #smut #oh boy here we go

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