#and maybe they can strap me in the backseat of their car afterwards | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

king-finnigan · 4 years ago

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these four walls (supposed to save you from yourself)

part 1, part 2, part 3. also on AO3. requested by @dibsonsmth

When Jaskier gets invited to play a few songs for the patients of the mental health ward his best friend Triss works at, he doesn't expect much of it. After all, he's just a music teacher with a guitar, the most he can do for these people is to entertain them for a short while.

But then he finds out about Geralt, who's spent the past few months in the ward without even leaving his room, and Jaskier realizes that he might still be able to make a difference, after all.

“It’s not too late to turn back, Jask,” Triss says softly, big, brown eyes regarding him with concern.

He sighs, carding his hands through his hair as he looks in the rearview mirror, trying to fix the tangled mess at least a little bit. Eventually, he gives up and leans back, hands falling limply into his lap where his fingers start drumming a quick staccato on his thighs.

“I know,” he says with a nervous smile. “But it’s just a little bit of stage fright. Nothing to worry about.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to.” He opens the passenger door, getting out of the car and retrieving his guitar from the backseat, carding his sweaty hand through his hair one last time.

It had been Triss’ idea to begin with. At the time, he’d wholeheartedly said yes. Now, though… now he’s not so sure anymore. After all, he doesn’t really know what he can do for these people. They’re all here because they form a danger to either themselves or others. And Jaskier? Well, Jaskier’s just a guy with a guitar.

But Triss takes care of these patients day in day out, surely she wouldn’t have invited Jaskier to come sing for them if she didn’t think it would help.

He sighs again and takes a leap of faith.

The mental health ward occupies the top floor of the hospital, and the lift ride up is quiet and uneventful, though the nervous twang in Jaskier’s stomach only grows as he fiddles with the strap of his guitar case.

Finally, the lift doors open and he and Triss step out into a bright yellow hall, two closed sliding doors separating them from the actual ward. He watches as Triss scans her badge and types in a code, and hurries forward when the doors slide open and she ushers him inside. He watches again when she closes the doors right away.

“Safety precautions,” she clarifies when she sees him looking. “To make sure no one who’s not allowed to leave actually leaves.”

“Ah,” he says sheepishly, shifting from one foot to the other as he turns around to look at the room.

It’s a large, round space, the walls painted yellow and white, large windows letting in the bright sunlight from outside, spilling over the grey linoleum floor and the green couches and chairs that litter the room in small groups, gathered around low coffee tables. There are people sitting here and there, some sharing a table and playing a board game together, others sharing a table as well but sitting in silence – merely enjoying each other’s company, and others sitting all alone, but seemingly content in their solitude. Some are younger, some are older.

And it’s… peaceful. Quiet. Comforting.

He knows that the image people have of mental health wards is quite different from reality, but still, it catches him off-guard.

“It’s still quite early.” He startles at Triss’ voice behind him, breaking the soft lull in the room. “The group therapy sessions start in a few hours, so you’ve got their attention for now.”

He turns back to the room. “And this is everyone?”

She crosses her arms, leaning her shoulder against his. “No, but it is almost everyone. There’s three people missing. Ciri, who’s been restrained because she keeps scratching open her wounds and we don’t have enough staff to keep an eye on her all day. Dara, her best friend – he won’t leave her side, so he’s in her room as well. And Geralt.”

“Right, I’ll pay them a visit as well afterwards.”

She smiles at him. “I’m sure Ciri and Dara would love it, but don’t waste your breath on Geralt, buttercup. Don’t take it personally, he’s not fond of people in general. And he’s quite stubborn in his hatred of others.”

“Really?”

“Hmm. He’s been here a few months already and he’s yet to join a single group therapy session.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do.” He nudges her, giving her an overexaggerated wink. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll be the one to melt his frosty exterior.”

“Doubt it,” she deadpans. “Now go on, get ready for your performance, maestro. We’re wasting valuable time here.”

---

It goes surprisingly well, the whole thing. Some of the people gather around him as he sings, others content to just stay where they are and listen. He gets a few requests, even, which he is very happy to fulfil.

And before he knows it, two hours have passed, and people start to file out of the room to attend the group therapy sessions.

He doesn’t put his guitar back in its case just yet, though, as he remembers the promise he made to Triss to check up on Ciri and Dara and the ever-grumpy Geralt.

“Knock, knock,” he says, quickly rapping his knuckles against the doorframe, a big smile plastered on his face as he carefully inches into the room. “Am I interrupting?”

There’s a boy and a girl there. The girl is half-lying in bed, her back propped up with several pillows, blonde hair fanning out over the white linen. Her lower arms are wrapped in bandages, the restraints around her wrist binding her to the sides of the bed. The boy is sitting in the chair next to the bed, playing with the sleeves of his too-big shirt, face slightly sunken. Jaskier can’t help but notice how thin his wrists are, and he doesn’t doubt for a second that he could easily fit his thumb and forefinger around them.

Their eyes turn to Jaskier.

“No, it’s fine.” The girl – Ciri, presumably – is the first one to speak. “Are you a new nurse?”

He shakes his head. “I’m Jaskier, I’m…” he lifts his guitar “…I suppose ‘entertainment’ is the word that fits best here. I just played a few songs in the common room, but I didn’t want to leave you guys bereft. If you want, I can sing something for you.”

Ciri’s smile widens. “Sure! I would love that.” She turns to the boy. “Dara, is that alright with you?” The boy nods.

Jaskier pulls a folding chair from the wardrobe – something Triss told him he would find there – and sits down, gently strumming his guitar once to make sure it’s still in tune. “And what would you like to hear?”

She grins at him. “Happy Together by the Turtles!” she says gleefully, and God, she’s truly precious. Jaskier gets the sneaking suspicion he won’t ever be able to say no to her.

He starts playing.

---

Half an hour later, he finds himself in front of another doorway, this time leading to a darkened room, the sunblind pulled down completely to shroud the space in darkness, casting thin strips of sunlight across the walls and floor. Still, Jaskier can see well enough to spot the man sitting at the far end of the room, in front of a table with a chess board.

“Knock, knock,” Jaskier calls, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe. “You must be Geralt, right?”

The man doesn’t look up but simply lifts his hand to move a chess piece, slowly turning the board around afterwards.

Jaskier clears his throat to break the awkward silence, taking a few steps into the room. “I’m Jaskier. I’m uh… entertainment. I’ve got my guitar with me and I can sing a few songs for you if you want. You just need to ask.”

Now that he’s a bit closer, he can see that Geralt has stark white hair, falling in soft, barely-there waves down to his shoulders, tied back into a half-ponytail. Jaskier resists the urge to check if it’s as soft as it looks.

But from here, he can also see that the man doesn’t even grant him a sideways glance. Quite the opposite; Geralt even seems to turn away from Jaskier the closer he gets, giving him the cold shoulder.

“Are you sure there’s no song you want to hear? If you can’t decide, I can pick out something for you, perhaps.”

There’s no movement from Geralt, he’s as still as a statue as his eyes keep drilling holes into the chess board. It’s too dark for Jaskier to see the colour of those irises, but they’re certainly light, and in the back of his mind he ponders how splendid they would probably look in the sunlight.

The silence stretches on. Geralt moves a chess piece. Turns the board.

“As uh… charming as you are, my dearest Geralt, I do wanna know what type of music you like, so I can sing something for you.”

Geralt balls his hands into tight fists on the table. His shoulders grow tense.

He still doesn’t say a word, but Jaskier gets the message: Fuck off.

He laughs nervously, fingers drumming on the wood of the guitar. “Right!” he says, forcibly bright. “I see you’re busy, so I won’t continue to disturb you. I’ll be back next week.” He takes a few steps backwards. Geralt still doesn’t acknowledge his presence. “Alright… Bye, then.”

He turns around and walks out of the room, letting out a long breath once he’s back in the bright hallway. That really didn’t go well – but then again, Triss already warned him it wouldn’t.

Doesn’t matter. If Geralt wants to be a grumpy boor, then who is Jaskier to stop him?

But, as he teaches one of his students how to strum a few chords correctly that afternoon, he can’t help but let his mind wander back to that mysterious man with white hair, sitting all alone in that darkened room, playing chess against himself.

---

He’s back two days later. He knows the deal with Triss was that he’d be there once a week, but something draws him back to the place – whether it’s his captive audience, Ciri’s bright smile, Dara’s quiet gratitude, or Geralt’s unreadable silence, Jaskier doesn’t know. He supposes it doesn’t matter.

He takes the elevator back up, shooting Triss a quick text to ask her to open the door for him as he fiddles with the strap of his guitar case, letting his nail dig a path in the soft leather.

Triss greets him the second he steps out of the lift, arms crossed in front of her chest, eyebrow pulled up, eyes glinting with something annoyed and fond she saves especially for Jaskier.

“You know you’re not expected until next week, right?”

He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “I know, but I don’t have any plans for the morning, so I figured why not, you know?”

She purses her lips, narrowing her eyes at him before she sighs and relents, waving him inside. “Come on, mister Impatient. Let’s go, then.”

---

“Knock, knock.” He quickly raps on the doorframe, taking a tentative step into the darkened room.

Geralt is sitting at the table again, hunched in on himself as his eyes remain fixed on the chess board. Slowly, he lifts a hand, moving a piece before he slowly turns the board around, propping a fist under his chin, the other arm laid across his lap. Jaskier knows that, were he a drawer or artist of sorts, he would draw Geralt exactly the way he is now: sitting in a dark and empty room, still as a statue in front of the chess board as the sunlight filters through the blinds, painting him in black and white, casting dark shadows and yellow highlights on his face.

But he’s not. He’s a musician, and though he likes to consider himself quite good at what he does, he knows he could never do this image justice.

For now, though, he takes in every little detail and commits it to memory, imprinting it on his mind.

He takes another few steps forward. He’s halfway across the room now. “I know I said I’d be back next week,” he says softly – his normal volume too loud for the stillness of this room. “But I’m back now. Did you think of any songs for me to sing to you?”

Geralt ignores him. He moves a chess piece. Turns the board.

Jaskier sighs, leaning against the wall, idly plucking a few random notes. “Well,” he muses, “if you can’t decide, I suppose I’ll have to decide for you.”

Geralt’s hands ball into fists, his shoulders grow tense. Once again, he’s telling Jaskier to piss off without really saying anything.

This time, though, Jaskier decides to ignore it. If it angers Geralt more, then so be it – as long as he doesn’t outright tell Jaskier to go away, he’s not going anywhere.

He strums a few chords. “How do you feel about ‘Big Yellow Taxi’?” The man on the other side of the room doesn’t answer, doesn’t even deign him worthy of a sideways glance.

So Jaskier starts to sing.

And still, throughout it all, Geralt doesn’t say a word. He moves a chess piece once or twice, turning the board right afterwards, but his head doesn’t even incline towards Jaskier. He doesn’t give him any acknowledgement, any sign that he’s aware Jaskier is there at all.

Jaskier keeps on singing as if Geralt isn’t there, either.

And then the song ends. Jaskier strums the last chord on his guitar, eyes glued to Geralt’s silhouette, tracing the line of every highlight and shadow, following the movement of his muscles and tendons as Geralt lifts a hand, sliding a chess piece across the wood before turning the board again. His face is still, oh so still, the dim light and the bright rays of sunshine streaming through the blinds making it seem as if he’s been hewn from marble, as if he’s a work of art come to life, an ancient Greek statue from the hands of the old masters themselves that’s been granted a beating heart by the gods.

Jaskier could drown in the vision before him.

Light eyes quickly dart to him, the first acknowledgement of his existence since he stepped foot into the room, and suddenly his mind slams back into his body. He’s hyper-aware of every single little thing – of the frantic pounding of his heart, the rushing of blood in his ears, the breath that catches in his lungs when their gazes meet for a split second, the twitching of his muscles as his body desperately tries to tap out his nervousness on his guitar.

For only a second, the world stops spinning.

Geralt looks away again and Jaskier takes a few steps backwards, heat rising to his cheeks and ears as he swallows around the lump in his throat.

“R- right, then,” he stammers. “See you around, Geralt.”

He practically flees from the hospital room.

---

Hours later, his fingers are still trembling with the sheer force and weight of Geralt’s eyes on him, even if it was just for a second or so.

He retrieves the old, square box from the attic of the house his parents left him – it’s still where he remembers stashing it, years ago. He opens it on his desk, shaky hands setting up the pieces before he types the question on his phone.

How to play chess.

---

He’s back on Sunday.

Triss snorts when she greets him at the doors, rolling her eyes at him. “You know,” she says, “I won’t always be around to let you in, if you’re going to keep showing up all the time.”

He smiles sheepishly. “What can I say? I just really like it here.”

She narrows her eyes at him, smiling mischievously. “You like Geralt, you mean. I could see you last time, coming out of his room while blushing like a comely maiden. What happened?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. I just sang a song for him.”

“And he let you?” She huffs out a laugh. “Well, who could’ve seen that one coming? Come on, let’s get you inside, lover boy.”

He sputters a bit, but follows her through the doors all the same.

---

“Knock, knock,” he says, tapping on the doorframe a few times before he takes a few steps inside the dark room. “I’m uh… I’m back.”

He fiddles with the strap of his guitar case for a few seconds before pulling it over his head, setting the instrument against the wall.

Geralt is once again sitting on the other side of the room, still as a statue, eyes drilling holes into the chess board as he completely ignores Jaskier. But he won’t be able to much longer – Jaskier will make sure of that.

Whether his actions will anger Geralt enough for the man to start yelling at him, he doesn’t know. But as he looks at Geralt’s face, at the way the sunlight peeking through the blinds makes parts his hair shine in a white-golden halo around his head, he decides that it’s a risk he’s willing to take. If only so that Geralt will at least look at him.

He crosses the room in a few steps and snatches two pawns off the board.

And that does catch Geralt’s attention.

Light eyes flicker up to look at him, making his breath catch in his lungs with the intensity of that gaze, with the anger slowly budding on Geralt’s face. But Jaskier doesn’t step back or turn away. He simply puts his hands behind his back, switching the pieces around a few times before holding out his fists, a pawn in each one.

“Choose,” he says. Geralt’s eyes stay glued to his face, eyebrows slowly drawing together, hands curling into fists.

Jaskier sighs. “I’m getting tired of having to see you play chess all by yourself. It’s quite sad to watch, really. So, pick a colour and we’ll play together.”

The silence in the room is almost palpable, unmoving to the point where Jaskier can almost taste it on his tongue. His head grows light, dizziness setting in as he keeps holding his breath – his lungs won’t cooperate as long as Geralt’s still looking at him.

And slowly, ever so slowly, the man in front of him lifts a hand, eyes never leaving Jaskier’s face as he softly taps a finger on Jaskier’s left fist.

He opens it, presenting the white pawn to Geralt.

He sits down on the other side of the table, setting the pawns on the board, rearranging the black pieces into two neat, little rows. Geralt does the same, although more slowly, as though he doesn’t quite believe what’s going on. Jaskier watches the man move the pieces, watches sure and strong hands delicately hold those little, fragile things and put them on their assigned square. He imagines how Geralt’s fingers would twitch slightly as Jaskier would hold his hand palm-up, trailing his finger over his skin lightly. He imagines how those scarred fingers would curl around his, hand warm in Jaskier’s.

And then Geralt’s done. Light eyes look up at Jaskier, catching the sunlight streaming through the blinds, and suddenly he can see that they’re amber. A rich, deep amber that holds soft golden and brown flecks, the colour of sunflowers in a summer field, the colour of honey dripping down a finger before it’s licked up, the colour of ambrosia and the nectar of the gods.

It’s a colour Jaskier would gladly lose himself in.

“All yours,” he says breathlessly, feeling as though the words have been punched from his chest.

Golden eyes flicker down to the chess board and a strong, scarred hand moves up to slide a pawn across the wood. Geralt’s gaze shifts back up to him, and for a second, it feels like Jaskier might die from the intensity of it.

He swallows thickly, quickly looking at the board and moving his own pawn. He barely even remembers the things he learned about chess the past few days – hell, he barely even remembers his own name, as if Jaskier’s entire life threatens to wash away whenever those golden eyes look at him, as if every moment has been meaningless up until this point.

Geralt moves a chess piece. Jaskier follows suit.

Slowly, as the minutes tick by one at a time, Jaskier starts to relax bit by bit. His focus shifts from the man in front of him to the chess board and the soft melody that’s starting to build at the back of his mind.

After a while of having it stuck in his head, he starts humming it.

Golden eyes meet his.

“Oh, you don’t mind, do you?” he asks, concern knitting his eyebrows together. Because as much as he loves music and loves making it, he doesn’t want to risk shattering the fragile bond he has with Geralt, doesn’t want to lose this just yet.

Geralt’s gaze drifts back to the board. He moves another piece. He doesn’t say anything.

Jaskier takes that as encouragement and starts humming again.

He loses the game in thirteen more moves.

He grins up at Geralt as they both move the pieces back into place. “Well, that was a disaster. Forgive me, I’m not really that familiar with the game yet, but maybe I’ll learn if you give me a chance?”

He phrases it as a question, a gentle hope igniting in his chest. He probably won’t coax Geralt into talking just yet, but if he can just get a reaction – anything other than silent glances – it will make everything worth it.

Please give me a chance.

Geralt looks up at him, face as perfectly still and unreadable as ever as the silence stretches on between them. Eventually, he looks back down again.

He lifts a hand and moves a pawn forward, starting a new game.

Jaskier can’t help the grin that spreads across his face.

---

“Jesus, buttercup. Back again, already?” Triss asks him on Tuesday, furrowing her brows at him. “I think I’ll put in a request with the admin to get you your own badge. I really can’t be here to let you in all the time, you know.”

“I know.” He smiles at her before slipping inside the ward, blowing her a kiss as he walks backwards towards the hallway that leads to Geralt’s room. “I owe you one!”

“You owe me several, buttercup!” she shouts back at him.

---

“Hmm, what do you think is better, Geralt? ‘Gorgeous garrotter’, or ‘lovely garrotter’?”

Golden eyes flicker up to his, before looking back at the board. Geralt moves his bishop.

“Yeah, you’re right. Just ‘garrotter’ would work best,” Jaskier mumbles as he uses his knight to take Geralt’s bishop. He continues humming the melody, muttering lyric ideas under his breath, trying to find a good rhythm to the words.

Geralt moves his queen. Jaskier blanches as he realizes he’s been lured into a trap yet again, and knocks over his king.

“You win,” he sighs. “Again.”

He doesn’t miss it when the corners of Geralt’s mouth pull up in self-satisfaction as he starts to reset the board.

“Again, I suppose?” Jaskier asks. Geralt moves his pawn forward. “I assume that’s a ‘yes’,” he mutters.

---

What was supposed to be a once-a-week thing turns into an everyday thing as soon as Jaskier gets his badge from the hospital. Most days he doesn’t even play for the other patients – though he does reserve an hour for them at least twice a week and obliges whenever they ask him for a song – but spends his time in Geralt’s room, chess board in front of him, guitar in his lap.

He doesn’t know what it is about the room, but something there calms his mind down, makes him see things clearer and from a different angle, gives him the quiet and peace and inspiration he needs to finish the songs he’s been working on for years, now, and gives him the spark he needs to write new songs.

He supposes that the ‘something’ might be Geralt himself, but there’s a part of him that fears that if he admits that out loud, even to himself, it will become too serious – that it will become a riptide that will sweep him off his feet and push him under water.

He looks at Geralt, at the man sitting in the sunlight, the white halo around his head making him look ethereal, the bright light highlighting the scars and birthmarks and freckles on his skin – the tiny imperfections Jaskier commits to memory every time he gets the chance to see them. The past few days, Geralt’s begun to lift the sunblind up a little bit, the room suddenly not so dark anymore. It’s probably to see the chess board better, Jaskier supposes.

“So,” he says from the doorway an hour later, his guitar put back into its case and slung onto his back. “See you tomorrow, then?” It’s the same thing he says every day, and just like yesterday and the day before that and the day before that, he doesn’t expect an answer.

Geralt never answers.

He’s halfway out the door when he hears a soft “hmm” behind him.

He looks over his shoulder, golden eyes glancing away when he meets them, and he has to try his very hardest not to cry out his joy for the entire world to hear. Because Geralt just gave him an answer.

He nods once, and heads to the lifts.

---

“Young man.”

He startles slightly when he’s greeted at the doors by a woman in a doctor’s coat, her raven hair falling in waves over her shoulders, her violet eyes drilling into his.

He swallows thickly, fiddling with the strap of his guitar case, nail digging into the leather. “Yes?”

“I’m doctor Vengerberg,” she says, extending her hand for him to shake. He obliges before quickly letting go, wiping his sweaty palm on his jeans. “You’re the man that sings songs, are you not?”

He nods once. “That would be me, yes,” he mumbles, going over everything he’s done in the past week, trying to find what might have sparked her ire.

But her face softens, causing Jaskier to frown in confusion. “And you’re the one who keeps visiting Mr. Rivia, are you not?” He nods again. “What is it that you do in there all the time?” she asks him.

He swallows thickly. “Oh, we just play chess. And I sing to him. We don’t… don’t do anything… inappropriate, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Her lips curl upwards. “It is not, but thanks for clearing that up anyways-“ she squints at his badge “-Julian. But… is that really all you do in there? Play chess and sing songs?”

“Yes, doctor.”

Her brows knit together slightly. “Huh. Who would’ve thought?” With that, she pushes past him, out of the doors to the ward, leaving him confused in the common room.

He shrugs it away and turns around, heading to Geralt’s room.

The blinds are halfway up, but today there is no sun to illuminate the side of Geralt’s face as Jaskier goes to sit on the other side of the set chessboard. The rain patters against the window, the dim light outside projecting the rivulets onto Geralt’s skin – it’s a sight to behold, and Jaskier finds himself following every drop as its projection slides down Geralt’s cheek.

Amber eyes flicker up to his and Jaskier is shaken out of his reverie, plucking two pawns off the board, switching them a couple of times behind his back before he holds his fists out. Geralt’s gaze never leaves his as he lifts a hand, a single finger tapping Jaskier’s left fist.

He opens it. It’s the black pawn. He hands it to Geralt, before setting his own white pawn where it belongs, turning the board so that the right side is facing him. He waits until Geralt’s set his piece down before he makes the first move.

As Geralt contemplates his, Jaskier picks up his guitar case, taking out the instrument and setting it in his lap.

Geralt moves a pawn. Jaskier moves his knight. He leans back and idly starts plucking a melody, muttering lyrics under his breath. Golden eyes meet his.

“Oh, you don’t mind, do you?” It’s the same question he asks every day. Usually, Geralt will just ignore it and turn back to the game, but this time, as golden eyes flicker down to the chess board, he lets out a soft hum.

“Wh- what?” Jaskier stammers, guitar strings twanging messily as his hand goes limp.

“Hmm,” Geralt hums again as he moves a pawn.

“R- right. Of course, thank you,” Jaskier mumbles, excited blush rising up to his cheeks as he starts plucking the melody again.

---

He startles when he’s greeted by a mop of brown curls and two arms throwing themselves around his neck the second he opens the door to the ward. He laughs in confusion, returning the hug Triss gives him quickly.

“What did I do to deserve that?” he asks her. “Not that I mind, of course, but still…”

She holds him at an arm’s length, smile bright enough to light up the whole room even more than it already is, rivalling the sunshine streaming in through the windows. “Thank you,” she says. “I don’t know what it is that you do in there every day, but please keep doing it.”

“Wh- what are you talking about?”

“Geralt, of course!” she says, as if it’s completely obvious. “I don’t know how you manage, buttercup, but…” She shakes her head, and he doesn’t miss the light sheen over her eyes as she smiles at him. “He slept six hours last night.”

He blinks. “And… that’s not normal?”

She grins, her curls bouncing around her face as she shakes her head. “No, it really is not. Most nights he doesn’t sleep at all, and if he does, well… it’s only for a short while.”

She pulls him closer, rubbing their noses together playfully, just like they’ve always done since they were little kids. It makes him giggle, a wave of nostalgia washing over him.

“Thank you,” she whispers to him. “Whatever it is you do, please don’t stop.”

“Not planning on it. Speaking of, I should probably go now, he’s expecting me.”

“Alright. Oh, are you up for drinks this weekend?”

He nods. “Sure. The Kingfisher?” he asks as he starts walking backwards to the hallway that leads to Geralt’s room.

“Meet me at ten!” Triss half-shouts at him, making a few patients look up in annoyance.

Jaskier gives her a thumbs-up and turns around, practically skipping his way to Geralt’s room.

The blinds are halfway up and Jaskier takes a few moments to look at Geralt as he sits in the sunlight, hands folded in his lap, golden eyes drilling holes into the chess board. Now that Triss has mentioned it, Jaskier does think he notices that Geralt looks a little less tired – the shadows under his eyes aren’t as deep, his shoulders aren’t as slumped, his cheeks even hold a slight dusting of pink, their usual pallidness suddenly lost.

Golden eyes flicker to him, and Geralt lifts his left eyebrow slightly; he’s getting impatient with Jaskier standing in the doorway and staring at him.

Jaskier shakes himself out of his reverie and shrugs his guitar case off his shoulder as he crosses the room, quickly performing their little pick-the-pawn ritual – where Jaskier ends up with white – before he makes the first move, unpacking his guitar as Geralt stares at the board, the heel of his hand under his chin, his fingers resting against his lips.

He sets his instrument in his lap as Geralt makes his first move. Jaskier counteracts it by moving his knight, before he starts plucking at his guitar.

“Are you sure there aren’t any songs you want to hear?” he asks softly, afraid to break the peace and silence in the room by talking too loud.

Geralt moves a pawn. Shakes his head minutely.

Jaskier half-shrugs. “Right, guess I’ll have to pick something.” He sighs. “Don’t feel particularly inspired today, so I don’t think I’m gonna be composing much.”

He moves his bishop. Plucks a few notes. He looks out the window, at the trees in the parking lot and the city park that lies beyond, at the small, green buds on the branches and the crisp green-white of the grass as the night’s frost begins to thaw in the sunshine. He looks at the children playing in the field, at the man throwing a stick for his dog to fetch, at the young couple that sits on the bench, one of them getting up to pick a budding flower from the bushes, handing it to the other.

He imagines what it would be like to sit there in that park, to have the remnants of last night’s cold nip at his fingers and nose, to bask in the sunshine as it warms his back, to pick a flower from the bushes to hand to his lover. His lover, whose hair resembles the frost that coats the grass, whose eyes rival the brightness of the sun, who gives him a crooked grin as he takes the flower without a word-

“How do you feel about ‘La vie en rose’?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt quickly looks up at him before he looks back down at the board. “Hmm.”

He can’t help but smile softly at that, strumming his guitar a few times as he starts to sing. “Hold me close and hold me fast. The magic spell you cast. This is la vie en rose.”

Geralt moves a pawn. Jaskier moves his bishop.

“When you kiss me, heaven sighs, and though I close my eyes, I see la vie en rose.”

The couple outside stands up from the bench, holding hands as they walk through the park, disappearing from Jaskier’s view as they turn a corner.

“When you press me to your heart, I’m in a world apart, a world where roses bloom.”

Golden eyes meet his for half a second, and his breath catches in his lungs, heart beating in his throat painfully. He looks away, Geralt’s gaze too much to bear.

“And when you speak, angels sing from above. Everyday words seem to turn into love songs.”

He wonders what Geralt’s voice sounds like. Sure, he’s already heard him hum out a reply a few times, but it’s never loud enough for Jaskier to get a proper idea of what he might sound like. Maybe one day, he’ll hear Geralt speak. Or maybe he won’t. It doesn’t matter to him – as long as Geralt allows him to stay by his side, Jaskier’s content.

“Give your heart and soul to me, and life will always be la vie en rose.”

He finishes the last few chords of the song, his voice trailing into nothingness. Geralt moves a pawn.

Jaskier clears his throat, setting his guitar against the chair, leaning his forearms on the table. He moves his knight. Geralt moves his queen. Checkmate.

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Christ, how do you always manage to beat me at this? One day, Geralt, I swear that I’ll win one day.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth quirks up ever so slightly. He might as well be rolling his eyes at this point.

“Alright, fine, you’re right, I probably won’t. But that won’t stop me from trying.”

He starts moving the chess pieces back into place, Geralt following suit. Jaskier reaches for a black pawn that’s halfway across the board at the same time Geralt reaches for the white one right next to it.

Their hands brush.

Jaskier’s breath catches in his lungs, head spinning as the side of his hand grows hot, even as he jerks it back – as if Geralt’s touch has burned him, has left an everlasting mark on him whose heat Jaskier will feel for years to come, his touch a brand that’ll claim Jaskier for the rest of his life.

He clears his throat and ignores it.

“I, uh…” he says softly. “I won’t be able to be here on Sunday. I’m going out for drinks with Triss on Saturday so I will probably be too hungover to drive. And I can’t be here on Monday, either, since I’ve got a couple of older students who have class in the morning. But I’ll come back on Tuesday, if that’s alright?”

He looks up. Golden eyes drill holes into the chess board as Geralt moves a pawn. He doesn’t hum a response.

Jaskier sighs and turns back to the game.

---

“Thank God you’re here, buttercup.”

He stops right inside the doors to the ward on Tuesday, clutching the strap of his guitar case as Triss hurries towards him, eyes wide and filled with something he’s too scared to identify.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Geralt.” She grabs him by his arm, dragging him across the common room before he can even think to protest.

“W- wait, what? What’s wrong with Geralt?”

“He’s having an episode. A bad one.”

“An episode- Triss, what are you talking about?”

She sighs, suddenly stopping, pulling him to a halt as well, her hand around his upper arm like a vice. “The past few days, his mental health has been declining. Badly. He hasn’t slept, he’s barely eaten anything, and he just… sits there. Or he paces. It’s really not going well, buttercup.”

He feels something ugly and fearful claw at the inside of his chest. “Triss, I have to ask, what exactly is he having an episode of?”

“He’s got PTSD, buttercup. Hasn’t he told you?”

He shrugs, scratching at the back of his neck. “Well, no. We don’t exactly… talk a lot. But is there anything I can do to help?”

She sighs again. “I don’t know. Maybe. He’s been doing a bit better the past two weeks, ever since you showed up, so I don’t know what you do when you’re around him, but maybe it’ll help today as well. As long as he can get some sleep, buttercup – he really needs to sleep, he can’t go on like this much longer.”

He nods once. “Right. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” she says softly, pulling him into a quick hug before letting go. “Press the alarm button if anything happens.”

He snorts incredulously. “Like what?”

She levels him with a look, her eyes flat and tired. “There’s a reason why he’s here, buttercup.”

The words settle in his stomach like stones – even though he has a hard time deciphering what exactly she meant by them – but he nods again, turning around and setting off to Geralt’s room, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

The blinds are pulled down completely and he has to stand in the doorway for a while to let his eyes get adjusted to the darkness, slowly blinking as he starts to distinguish shapes and silhouettes.

Unlike all the other times Jaskier’s been in this room, Geralt’s not sitting at the table by the window, looking at the chess board. No, this time he’s sitting at the foot of his bed, hands resting loosely in his lap, eyes wide and unseeing as they stare at the wall in front of him – glassy and flat yet full of something Jaskier can’t bring himself to recognize.

Geralt’s hands ball into tight fists, blunt fingernails undoubtedly pressing crescent-shaped bruises into his palms, before they let go, uncurling until they’re relaxed again. And then it repeats. And repeats. And repeats.

Like waves rhythmically lapping at the shores, Geralt’s hands curl and uncurl, tighten and loosen, tense and relax. Over and over again, as his eyes never leave the wall in front of him, as his face remains perfectly still – but not still in the same way as it was when Jaskier first met him. Geralt’s face is not a perfectly sculpted mask he put on himself, not carefully blank and even as to hide any emotional response he’s having at that moment.

No, the best way Jaskier can describe Geralt’s face right now is slack. As if he’s not even aware he has a face to control, as if he’s far, far away from his own body, reliving things that are already in the distant past. As if there is no emotional response to hide.

He sets his guitar against the wall gently, kneeling by the foot of the bed, bringing his hands up to ghost over Geralt’s face – he can’t touch, he can’t. Geralt hasn’t said he’s allowed yet and Jaskier’s afraid he’ll never be able to let go if he does.

“Geralt?” he says softly. “Geralt, it’s me. Jaskier.” Golden eyes stare at the wall blankly, looking right over his head as if he’s not there at all. It’s exactly like the first time he met Geralt, except now it feels worse, because it doesn’t feel like Geralt’s doing this on purpose. It feels like he really doesn’t realize that Jaskier’s there.

“Geralt? Can you hear me?”

His hands curl into fists. Unfurl. Curl again.

He gets up slowly, walking over to the chess board and snatching two pieces from it, switching them behind his back before he goes to stand in front of Geralt, fists outstretched.

“Choose,” he says, ignoring the way his voice wobbles slightly.

Golden eyes stare right through him, unmoving, unseeing.

“Choose.”

Hands curl into fists. Unfurl. Curl again.

Jaskier puts the pieces back where they belong, opting to unpack his guitar instead. If he can’t coax Geralt back into his body with chess, he’ll annoy him into coming back.

He leans against the wall, a little bit to the left of Geralt, where the golden eyes don’t look right through him, but from where he still has a good view of Geralt and his blank expression. And he starts playing.

He plays everything that comes to mind, from half-finished songs to old lullabies to pop hits from the eighties. If it drifts into his head, it drifts into the room. He plays, and plays, and plays, until his fingers are aching and painful, until the callouses on his skin start wearing away, until his voice becomes raw and his throat dry.

He plays, as seconds turn to minutes turn to hours. It slowly grows darker outside, bit by bit, and he takes a five-minute break to drink some water for his parched throat and to lift the blinds. It’s raining. Big, heavy buckets of it pouring from the skies, fat droplets pitter-pattering against the glass.

Jaskier moves back to stand against the wall. He starts playing again.

And bit by agonizing bit, ever so slowly, almost imperceptibly, Geralt’s face turns from slack and empty to something entirely different, something Jaskier’s never seen before. He looks… peaceful. Calm. Content.

Golden eyes slip closed.

Jaskier keeps on playing. He remembers the park outside the window, remembers the couple and the flower one of them picked for the other, remembers the children playing and the man throwing the stick for his dog.

“I see trees of green,” he sings softly, smiling to himself as he remembers the song he used to hear on his nan’s old radio, back when he was a kid. “Red roses, too.”

He looks up to cast a glance at Geralt. He’s still sitting at the foot of his bed, hands limp in his lap – but they don’t curl and uncurl anymore. They just lay there, calm and peaceful like the rest of him.

“I see them bloom for me and you.” He grins, looking down at his guitar as he strums the chords. “And I think to myself: what a wonderful world.”

There’s a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and before he can lift his eyes to look at it, his head hits the wall painfully, dizzying him, making him drop his guitar – which lands with a loud and dissonant twang – and he’s sure he would’ve fallen over if something wasn’t holding up.

Something is holding him up.

He blinks the fog out of his eyes, Geralt’s face growing into focus. Golden eyes – angry golden eyes boring into his, intense in a way Jaskier’s never seen on anyone before. The word feral shoots through his head at the snarl that bears Geralt’s fangs, at the quiet growl being pushed from the back of his throat.

Throat. Jaskier’s throat hurts.

There are two hands around it, blinding pressure pushing him against the wall – the thing, the thing holding him up.

And suddenly everything snaps into focus.

He gasps for breath, trying and failing to get air into his lungs as Geralt’s hands squeeze his throat shut, furious eyes glaring at him as Jaskier’s hands come up to pull at Geralt’s wrists, feet kicking uselessly against the wall.

“G-“ He gasps, wheezes as he tastes blood at the back of his tongue, heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Geralt-“

The golden eyes don’t recognize him.

“P- please, Geralt-“

He gasps and pants and coughs, a useless sob wracking through his useless chest, dark spots dancing across his vision, obscuring all but golden eyes as oxygen runs out. His hands abandon their attempts at pulling that merciless grip away from his throat and slap against the wall.

His fingertip hits something plastic, jutting out of the drywall. The emergency button.

He stretches his arm as far as he can, muscles aching and joints creaking in protest as his fingertips graze uselessly against the button and he’s running out of air and it won’t be long until his lifeless body hangs limply in Geralt’s hands and all he can see is angry, golden, unseeing eyes and the button the button the button the button the button.

He stretches his fingers as far as he can. He smashes the emergency button.

Nothing happens.

He cries out his frustration, though it’s nothing more than a pathetic, little whimper by now, and he smashes the button again. And again. And again. And again.

His head grows fuzzy. His heartbeat thumps in his ears. He can’t feel his fingers anymore. All he sees is golden eyes.

Shouting.

Screaming and shouting and someone is calling for help. Geralt’s hands jostle him around like a cantankerous child with a ragdoll as people try to pull his arms away from Jaskier.

Golden eyes. Golden eyes and Jaskier goes limp, hands hanging by his side uselessly as Geralt’s merciless hands around his throat hurtle him towards death with each passing second.

A needle glints in the light shining in from the hallway.

Geralt’s hands grow looser, bit by bit, and Jaskier desperately gulps in every bit of air his abused throat allows him to. He sobs. He can sob. The fact that he can makes him cry more loudly, face contorting as he grimaces, tears streaming down his burning cheeks. Parts of his world come into view again.

Golden eyes. Confused, golden eyes as eyebrows knit together slightly. Golden eyes, holding a glimpse of recognition.

Golden eyes, rolling into the back of Geralt’s head.

Geralt drops. Jaskier drops with him. Several panicked voices fill the room and there are hands on his body, turning him around, feeling his neck, his pulse and he lets them.

He closes his eyes as consciousness slips from his grasp.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #tw violence #requested #king writes #overuse of the words 'golden eyes'#also one or two very pretentious descriptions that i'm very proud of

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jjmaebank · 4 years ago

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Wildflower 🌼 - JJ Maybank

a/n: yes it’s me, Nikki, back with another 5sos song fic and I'm not mad about it. @aron-pipers-whore inspired me to write this so this one’s for u !! (also ik the flowers r rlly big idk why Tumblr has done this)

I loved this because the whole basis behind the lyrics of this song are parts in the chorus are left out so the listener can actually fill them in with whatever they feel fits best. so here I've filled in the missing lyrics with my interpretation !!

Words: 1.5k

[GIF NOT MINE]

❀

I hear you callin’ out my name I love the sound, I love the taste

❀

You were at a typical beach party with the pogues, the beach was littered with tourons and even some kooks that dared to mingle on the other side of the island. The music was loud, deafening even, but the mood was perfect. You were pretty drunk, but just the right amount thanks to JJ’s mixing skills. You were convinced he’d been a bartender in his previous life; he knew how to concoct the perfect drink that tasted like pure ecstasy but that would have you wishing you’d never taken a sip the next morning. But that was what you were feeling right now, pure ecstasy, and you certainly were not complaining about it.

JJ admired you dancing as he sat in the sand, sipping his beer. He swore his heart would stop every time he saw your hair flip from side to side as you moved your head to the music. He felt butterflies erupt throughout his whole body as he watched you sway your hips, your bare skin glistening in the moonlight. But hearing you call his name? There was only one word to describe it, euphoric.

“JJ! Come dance!” You yelled over the music, sticking your index finger out and motioning for him to come to you.

That was all you had to say, his name, and he would obey. You owned him, and you had no idea. The way his name rolled off your tongue made him swear that if the letters ‘J’ weren't coming from your lips, he didn’t want to hear it. JJ was absolutely mesmerised by you.

You’d hooked up a few times over the summer, every time being after another one of these wild parties, the both of you drunk out of your minds. But you would never mention it afterwards, you'd simply go back to being your normal selves, acting as if it had never even happened.

But after every drunk hook up you had, JJ would long for you more. At first, he thought it was simply a sexual attraction he couldn’t control, but soon enough it became so much more than that. His lust for you was insatiable. You were constantly on his mind, from the moment you left his bed to the moment you fell back in drunkenly. Pretty soon JJ realised what he had for you wasn’t just lust, it was love. He was in love with you.

❀

And I can see it in your face You’ve got a side you can’t explain

❀

You were an enigma. JJ couldn’t figure you out no matter how long he spent trying to decipher your body language, your words, your facial expressions. He was completely in the dark as to whether you reciprocated any sort of feelings towards him. But that was part of what excited him so much about you. You were unreachable, despite the countless times he’d had you.

You had this wild side to you that made you completely unpredictable and he loved it. He’d never had to experience chasing after a girl as they’d usually chase after him, he’d never had to work for it. But with you? It was like a game he had no idea if you were even participating in, and it drove him crazy.

He could see you wanted him from the look in your eyes as you called him over. He knew you were trying to entice him by wearing those low rise shorts and by moving your hips like that. But did you want him the same way he wanted you?

❀

You’re tellin’ me, tellin’ me, tellin’ me you wanna come over You wanna be, wanna be, wanna be, wanna be closer I love it when you wear your hair down over your shoulder ‘Cause I wanna hold ya ‘Cause I know where tonight is going

❀

“So, yours or mine tonight?” You asked, slurring your words, continuing to move in unison with the music.

“It’s gonna have to be yours tonight,” JJ smirked, wrapping his arms around your waist.

You slapped his hands away jokingly, “not quite yet you don’t”

The things you did to this boy. All night he’d been gawking over you, longing to touch you, but you were having your fun teasing him. JJ would even go as far to say tormenting, that’s how bad he wanted you.

You started dancing closer to him, close enough so that your skin was almost touching his. JJ bit his lip as he looked you up and down, exhaling shakily as he tried his hardest not to throw you over his shoulder and carry you to his car just to do it in the backseat. You began to trace your fingers over his biceps causing the hairs on his arms to stick up...but they weren't all that were planning on sticking up that night.

You moved your shoulders side to side as you lowered your body closer to the floor, never breaking eye contact with him. You knew exactly what you were doing. JJ looked down at you, trying so hard not to imagine what else he wished you were doing or else he’d have to cross his legs for the remainder of the night.

“Fuck, (Y/N),” he gasped. You had barely touched him and he was out of breath.

You ran your fingers up your body as you rose up to eye level with him and you saw his eyes widen as you played with the strap of your top. But before he could say anything, you flashed a quick grin before turning around and flipping your hair over your shoulder. You walked away, giving him one quick look over the shoulder before going to sit with Kie who seemed to be lecturing some poor touron on leaving beer cans on the beach.

❀

You’re the only one who makes me feel alive Every time we touch I’ll tell you what I like My wildflower

❀

Later that night, you ended up in bed with JJ as expected. JJ laid there speechless and out of breath, his skin on fire from every where you’d touched him. You seemed so innocent but every time you got intimate with one another you exposed more and more of your wild side. You had made JJ, JJ the notorious player and ladies man, feel things he’d never felt before. You had made him feel more alive than he’d ever felt before.

You had fallen asleep next to him for the first time ever. Usually you or him would leave almost immediately after finishing, despite the countless times JJ had wanted to stay and hold you.

JJ admired your beautiful features as you slept. Your previous erratic self was now at peace, and he revelled in the fact you were lying next to him. He hesitated at first, but he began to trace his fingers across your jawline, moving his finger tips gently up the side of your face and then back down the bridge of your nose, the sound of your exhales putting him in a trance.

JJ leant over your body carefully, making sure not to wake you, and placed a kiss on your lips. It was a long, sensual kiss and much calmer than any the two of you had shared before. JJ almost laughed at the fact that you were asleep and wouldn’t ever know about it; but he wanted you to.

He wanted the two of you to be closer, he wanted to tell you how he felt, but his fear of rejection was too powerful for him to ever reveal it. Having whatever it was you had now was better than not having you at all.

❀

You know you are my favourite fantasy A fatal love song Waterfall is overflowin’

❀

The next day you were all hanging out at the Chateau, telling funny stories about the night before.

“And he just threw his beer can on the sand! I had to tell him off, it’s like...it’s not that hard to care about the environment,” Kie ranted, making you all chuckle a bit.

JJ had hardly been paying attention, he’d been staring at you the whole time, not being able to stop thinking about you. He’d told himself last night that he could never tell you how he felt, how he wanted you to be more than a fantasy. He was scared that confessing his love for you might end in disaster, but seeing you again in a sober state just made his longing for you grow more intense.

He wanted to be able to hold you and kiss you in front of his friends, in front of the world. He wanted to be able to call you his. His love for you had reached breaking point; his fear had acted like a dam, stopping the water from overflowing, and he couldn’t contain it anymore.

The lot of you had decided to go for a boat trip and John B, Kie and Pope were packing up the van, leaving you and JJ in John B’s kitchen, alone.

“I’m gonna go help them load the van,” you smiled at JJ before getting up from your chair.

“Wait...” JJ responded immediately, his heart rate going through the roof.

You stood still and looked down at the blonde haired boy who had grabbed your arm instinctively to stop you from leaving.

“What’s up?” You frowned, you could feel the clamminess of his hands on your arm. He was nervous.

“I have to tell you something...” JJ said, looking up at you.

a/n: tagging some lovely people as I haven’t come up w a full taglist yet : @maybe-maybanks , @baby-bearie , @obx-sos , @drewtruly , @spilledtee , @outerpogues , @languorlust , @thebutterflyonhischest , @poguemacking , @drewstarkey , @outrbank , @drew-starkey , @jjtheangel

#jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank imagine #jj obx #jj x reader #obx #outer banks #outerbanks #outer banks imagine #rudy pankow #rudy pankow x reader #obx netflix #outer banks netflix #obx fic #jj Maybank fic

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coldflame96 · 4 years ago

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Girl look at that body (I work out)

Prompt: During her time in high school, Pearl got majorly into sports and exercise in general, discovering that she was incredibly good at it. Even her spiritual training started to take a backseat to working out and playing sports to the point that by the time of her graduation, she was a powerhouse of muscle stronger than anyone else in her school.

Of course, in her downtime, she still often hangs around at the Wright Anything Agency. One day, she learns that Athena plans to go out to her favourite gym right after work, and so Pearl goes along with her. At the gym, Athena is shocked beyond words to discover the incredible physique that her quiet medium friend's channeling robes have been concealing.

Workout junkie that Athena is, she's also highly embarrassed to realize that she finds it incredibly attractive.

Rated: G

Can also be read on AO3

Athena was 14 when she discovered that working out was a very effective way of curbing her anxiety and stress. It had been 5 am and she'd woken up from a particularly crappy nightmare and she was buzzing with energy. So she strapped on her sneakers and went for a jog around the block, feeling surprisingly better afterwards and even managing to fall back asleep. So she started doing it more. After rough days at school, she would take a run, feeling significantly more relaxed by the time she got home to her empty apartment. When she was 16, she applied for a gym membership and had been a loyal member ever since, going atleast once, sometimes twice a week, to let off steam. It was only after she started working under Mr. Wright that she found herself going to the gym almost every day. She loved her job, she did, but man were some of the people she had to deal with a handful. Boss and Apollo never seemed to question where she went until a case that Apollo took the lead on that she swore caused them both to age atleast 10 years. "Well, that was fun!" she exclaimed cheerily after it was all over, "See you tomorrow, Apollo." Apollo gave her a funny look and she frowned. "What?”

"How the hell are you always so cheery?" he accused. "I feel like I'm one step closer to having a heart attack the longer I do this." She shrugged. "Maybe you need a different stress management." "Well what do you do?" She gave him a steady look. "I work out." He gave her a skeptical look. "Wouldn't that just stress you out more?" "Nah, I've been doing it for years and it's worked out pretty well." He seemed to ponder on that for a minute, his thinking face fully on. "Is that where you go every day?" She grinned. "Yep! You're more than welcome to come, if you want." She saw him wrinkle his nose at the prospect and suppressed a giggle. Her coworker was definitely that kid in school who had his nose in books constantly and got winded over running laps in gym class. But she couldn't help but be a little excited at his sudden interest. Maybe she would have a gym buddy. Those hopes were very short lived as by the end of her usual session, Apollo swore up and down he was never doing this again unless he wanted to keel over by 25. Drama queen. So she accepted that she was the only one who liked this sort of thing. She offered for Boss to join her once and he just grimaced and made up a lie about dinner with the Chief Prosecutor or whatever, so she just kept going on as normal. Atleast until that day... Pearly was visiting again, likely due to loneliness from not having Ms. Fey around, atleast according to her expert ears when she asked about it. She felt bad for her friend. It must be excruciating being alone on a mountain for most of your life. The spirit medium was just sitting on the couch with a cup of tea when Athena poked her head into her boss's part of the office. "I'm heading out for the day, Boss," she informed, "See ya tomorrow." "Got it," he waved lazily. "Have fun at the gym." In her peripheral vision, she saw Pearly straighten up on the couch. "You're going to the gym?" the girl asked her in interest. "Yeah, it's on the way to my place." She raised an eyebrow. "Why?" Pearly's eyes practically sparkled with determination as the girl flew off the couch. "Can I come with you?" And then she tacked on, "Please?" She blinked in shock. Pearly was so small and polite, soft-spoken even. She wondered if the other girl knew what she was getting into, or if she just wanted an excuse to hang out with someone her own age. Either way was fine with her. So she nodded. Whatever Athena had been expecting from her medium friend as a gym buddy got completely shattered into pieces almost as soon as they came out of the locker room. Objectively, she knew Pearly was tougher than she looked. But she wasn't prepared for the tiny girl to have abs. And well-defined ones. And not just abs, either. Also some back muscles that flexed under her tight tank top and arms that were hard with what was no doubt years of care. This wasn't the body of a girl only going to a gym to hang out with a friend. She was a pro! And she could probably kick Athena's ass and the knowledge of this made her fall just a tiny bit in love. "Athena?" The other girl asked. "Are you alright? Your face is really red." Athena felt a palm on her forehead. "You're not ill, are you?" "Please marry me," she blurted out stupidly. Pearly froze, face turning beat red. "What?" she squeaked. Good going, Athena, you gay disaster. "Nothing!" she tried to correct. "I'm fine. Let's just go stretch." Pearly put her thumb to her lip, biting her nail nervously. "If you're sure..."

Athena had never been less sure of anything in her life. She thought Pearly hiding that physique in the first place was bad enough, but actually seeing it in action was a new brand of torture. Between the way her shirt rode up to tease the abs Athena had seen earlier in the locker room and the way her shoulders and biceps bulged with every movement, it was looking less and less likely she would survive this session. Death by hot girl. A fitting but tragic end. Pearly was a foot shorter. She was tiny! And she could probably lift Athena with ease and pin her to a wall. That would be nice.. It was only when she was suitably distracted by her own pace (faster than usual because she refused to let Pearly beat her) that she was able to muster the braincells to ask, "Do they have a gym in Kurain?" She heard a steady breathing and then a "No, not yet. I was gonna ask Mystic Maya about it when she came back from her training." "So, then," she started, trying not to let on how she was checking her out, "How have you been keeping in shape?" Pearly, none the wiser at Athena's plight, smiled, quickening the pace again (Athena was really starting to feel it), and said, "I joined the sports club at school. Mystic Maya thought it would be a good way for me to make friends. I ended up having a lot of fun." She wanted to ask about it more, but her breaths were becoming more ragged, so she allowed a comfortable silence to fall, the only sounds being the whirring of the machines and their even breathing.

By the end of the hour, Athena felt more exhausted and sore than she had ever remembered being. "That was fun!" Pearly said, back in those deceptive robes that Athena couldn't help but resent a little now, "We should do that again sometime!" "Haha," she chuckled nervously, every step she took towards her car stiff with overuse, "Maybe." It was only when she saw the girl flounce out of her car into Boss's apartment, the insane workout they both got clearly not affecting her at all (was she even human?), that Athena allowed herself to rest her head on the steering wheel. She could not take Pearly to the gym with her again. Not if she wanted to live.

#phoenix wright kink meme #athena cykes #pearl fey #ace attorney #pearlthena #i heard that pearl fey had an 8 pack #that pearl fey was SHREDDED

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onthesandsofdreams · 5 years ago

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Valentine’s Gifts

Fandom: Sherlock Pairing: Molly x Greg Rating: T Summary: Once they were ready to go home, Molly invited Greg in. “Why don’t you come in, it’s not too late. If you’re not busy, of course.”

“I’m not,” Greg smiled at Molly. “I can stay a while. And, I got you two little things, they’re on the backseat. But I’ll give them to you at your place.” Words: 1017 Notes: A late entry for the Molly Hooper Appreciation Week Bing. Prompts: Valentine’s Day & Jewelry. Tagging: @mollyappreciationweek

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Molly liked the stars.

It was something that she had mentioned to Greg once, never did it occur to her that he would actually pay attention to such a little detail. Greg proved her wrong very quickly. Their first date was a picnic under the stars (it was summer, fortunately!). Then he took her to a gallery that was showcasing art based on the stars. Then a show that projected the stars under a dome, complete with canapés and champagne.

Molly had been touched, no one had done such sweet things for her. To take her favorite thing and turn it to romantic outings. But she supposed that Greg was different, oh he took her into other places too, but he would sprinkle her love of stars here and there.

Once, he had gifted her with a star plushie and a matching one for Toby. Molly loved the plushie and kept it on her bed.

They had made plans for Valentine’s Day. Greg had made reservations for dinner and they were also planning on watching a movie afterwards. Molly couldn’t wait. Greg had said it was a new restaurant that he had found, nothing fancy, he’d said, but full of excellent French food. And what better way to dine on Valentine’s Day, but to dine authentic French food in a bistro this side of the Channel.

Molly had left work early, she wanted to change from her usual work stuff to something nicer. She still remembered Greg’s face on that fateful Christmas party at Sherlock’s flat. And she wanted to dress nicely for him. She took a shower, changed into a nice green dress and comfortable heels, did her hair and make-up. Fed Toby before Greg showed up to pick her up.

Not so long after, her doorbell rang. Molly quickly gave herself a once over, making sure she looked nice, grabbed her purse and jacket and opened the door. “Hi Greg.”

Greg’s face lit up upon seeing her. “Molly, you look lovely, ready to go?”

“Yes.”

Greg opened the door of his car and let her in, she strapped herself in and waited for him to be ready. Once he was, they made their way into the bistro, it was a cozy spot, Molly decided. Low lights above them, with roses and candles lit on the tables. They ordered and chatted while their food arrived.

They shared their meals, Molly and Greg occasionally feeding each other bites of their plates. They shared a dessert, a rich chocolate tart that was too decadent to eat by either of them alone.

The movie was also good, it was comedy and both of them spent the entirety of it holding hands and laughing. Once they were ready to go home, Molly invited Greg in. “Why don’t you come in, it’s not too late. If you’re not busy, of course.”

“I’m not,” Greg smiled at Molly. “I can stay a while. And, I got you two little things, they’re on the backseat. But I’ll give them to you at your place.”

“Oh,” Molly turned towards Greg, her curiosity had been spiked. Greg was an excellent gift giver. He was an observant man, his long career having helped him develop a good eye and good at remembering small details. That had been something she had discovered by herself. She would sometimes make a comment, and Greg would remember it, maybe not exactly as she said it, but her point, and she was thankful. “I am curious now.”

“I know you are,” Greg teased. “But you’ll have to wait a little longer.”

Molly gave him a mock pout and batted her eyelashes at him. Greg laughed, then turned back to watch the road. “Oh no,” Greg joked. “Not saying anything until we’re at your flat. And you open the presents. Gifts are supposed to be surprises.”

“I know,” Molly laughed. “I’m just very curious.”

“I know you are, that’s why I told you.”

“Oh that is mean!” Molly laughed out loud. “Greg Lestrade, that is incredibly mean of you.”

“Of course I am. I’m an inspector, in case you forgot, I have a mean streak in me.”

Molly shook her head. “Only at work.”

“And when Sherlock pushes it too much.”

“That too is acceptable.”

Once they arrived back at her flat, Molly made her way to her door, Greg grabbed a pair of things off the backseat and walked towards her. One box was larger and the other was smaller. Molly arched her eyebrow, Greg smiled and shook his head.

Once inside, both of them took off their jackets, placing them on a corner of the sofa. Then they sat down side by side. “Here you go miss curiosity, a Valentine’s Day gift. Well, gifts.”

Molly took the offered gifts and placed the smaller one on her side, opening the larger one, she found a book of the cosmos. It was beautiful, it had photographs of stars, planets and everything else. A smile bloomed on her face. “It’s beautiful.”

“Figured you’d like it.”

Then Molly set the book down and carefully opened the second, smaller gift. It was a black velvet box, and when she opened, she gasped. Inside of it, laid a shooting star necklace. “Oh, Greg, it’s so pretty!”

Greg’s face lit up with joy. “I’m glad you like it. I wasn’t sure if I should get a necklace or bracelet, but as you can see, I opted for the necklace.”

“I can wear this everyday,” Molly lifted the necklace to inspect it. It was yellow gold and delicate, it wasn’t something bulky, instead, it was something that she could wear every single day without worrying. “I love it, thank you so much!”

Molly set it down on its box and grabbed Greg’s face in her hands. She gently placed a kiss on his lips, one that he returned with the softness and tenderness that his usual gruff exterior hid. “Stay with me tonight?” She asked against his lips.

“Yeah.”

It was the best Valentine’s Day she’d ever gotten. And she was thankful that Greg made it so special.

#mhawfebruarybingo #Molly x Lestrade #mollstrade #Molly Hooper #greg lestrade #sherlock fic #established relationship #au: canon divergence #post canon fic

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oldloveatz · 6 years ago

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mommy and me | hongjoong

— TYPE: one shot, super fluff, uncle!hongjoong

— WORD COUNT: 1.6k

— SYNOPSIS: hongjoong was sent to a mommy and me class with his niece, and he finds a beautiful girl with a little boy in the same class as he was.

— AUTHOR’S MESSAGE: i also,, got this idea from fuller house and bc i don’t really have anything for hongjoong yet so here it is!!

— WARNING: not a md/lb fic

“hongjoong! please, can you take goeun to the mommy and me class?” hongjoong’s sister asked, a small sparkly backpack in hand and a small little girl in another. hongjoong came down to visit for a few days, but maybe relaxing isn’t an option for the day. he got up, no questions asked and took goeun and her pink sparkly backpack from his sister’s hand. “i’ll text you the address, she’s almost late!”

“what’s the rush?” hongjoong asked, leading goeun to the front door. goeun, however, had been silent the entire time as her frantic mother snatched her shoes from the drawer by the door. “gayoung, is it work?”

“yes! it’s work,” she responded in an exclamatory way. “i’m so sorry, sweetheart, i forgot that mommy has work today. is it okay if uncle hongjoong takes you instead?”

goeun nodded and hugged gayoung before she fled for work. hongjoong followed soon after, goeun’s small hand in hongjoong’s bigger hand. he opened the door and assisted his niece in the backseat, making sure she was in the carseat safe and sound with her backpack right next to her. he stopped for a moment, turning to goeun to have a small chat with her. “this is uncle’s first time attending a mommy and me class, and you’re gonna have to help uncle with what to do. okay? ah, you’re so cute.”

his phone vibrated, and it was a text from his sister about the address. hongjoong shut the door and made his way around the car, silently cursing in his head that he couldn’t relax for the day.

and they were on the road to the class. music blasting from the radio, and to his surprise goeun wasn’t crying in the back. maybe she woke up on the good side of her small little bed this morning. the thought of goeun waking up from her cute little bed made hongjoong’s insides go fuzzy, he loved his niece.

“ah, is this it?” he asked himself, eyes squinting through his glasses to make sure that he was in the right place, otherwise it would have been embarrassing. “okay, this is it.” hongjoong went ahead to find himself a parking lot, he was beginning to feel nervous about coming to a stranger’s house for a said mommy and me class. what do they even do? is he going to be the only guy? “alright, goeun, are you ready?”

“i’m ready!” she chimed, a wide smile on her face that became the reason why hongjoong’s heart melted. he got out of the car and assisted goeun yet again to get out of her carseat and out of the car. “my backpack!”

“oh, right! your backpack,” hongjoong said in a forgetful manner. he reached in and grabbed the pink sparkly backpack and slung it on his shoulder, closing the door and locking it before fixing goeun’s little black dress and taking her hand. “you know the kids here, right?”

“yes,” she simply replied.

he nodded, feeling assured that maybe he won’t be as lost as he thought he would be. he knocked on the door, greeted immediately by a woman who looked rather surprised that a young man showed up at her door. “who are you.. exactly?”

“oh! i’m um- h-hongjoong, i’m goeun’s uncle,” he stammered, plastering a nervous smile. “my sister had to go to work- she forgot she had work.”

“oh! welcome back, goeun!” the woman greeted, and goeun was gone in an instant. hongjoong watched her little figure run inside the quaint house. he smiled and bowed his head, walking in the house after goeun. “my name is ahseong, i hold all of the mommy and me classes here.”

hongjoong’s eyes travelled from the floor to the ceiling of the house, nodding to what ahseong was telling him. he took in all of the pieces and furnitures of the house, from the bigger pieces to the smaller ones. he took note of how the living room had a number of family pictures, either on tables or the walls. it was nearly similar to his home.

ahseong led him to the backyard, where a group of female adults gathered with children running around the garden. he stepped out, eyes blinded by the sun now coming out. the ladies all turned to him, and he froze for a second. ahseong followed after him, introducing him to the ladies with such delight.

“this is hongjoong! gayoung’s uncle,” ahseong said, her hand resting on hongjoong’s shoulder. the ladies smiled and waved at him, saying their hi’s and hello’s. hongjoong went to walk himself to where they were, already feeling a bit awkward knowing he was the only guy there.

“gayoung is such a delight,” one of the ladies said, a few of them agreeing. hongjoong found himself conversing comfortably about his niece, laughing and complimenting the children. he got to know the five ladies in the group, although one girl showed up with a little boy in the garden.

“i am so sorry, we’re late!” she huffed, placing the boy’s blue and red backpack on the table with the rest of the backpacks. she made her way to the group, dusting her hoodie and composing herself.

hongjoong found himself not being able to take his eyes off of her.

she looked about his age, and she was cute- that he knows. he was genuinely interested in the girl. ahseong did the honors and introduced her to hongjoong, bowing his head and nodding in acknowledgment. “hongjoong, this is y/n. she’s the same age as you so, i bet both of you can relate on something!”

“i bet we can,” hongjoong said, chuckling right afterwards and praying to god that he wasn’t making anything or everything awkward. he was already mentally slapping himself for even letting such chuckle. ahseong left both hongjoong and y/n alone, busying herself with the kids. of course, this left hongjoong in quite a panic. “so.. is the little boy yours..?”

she laughed upon hearing hongjoong’s question, which made him want to bury himself to the ground. at the same time, his heart skipped a few beats when he heard her laugh, it was adorable. if he had the chance to tell her that her laugh was cute, he would even if she says she hates it and that it sounds like a dying whale (don’t even try me we’ve all said that phrase at least once in our life). is this what falling in love feels like?

“no, he’s my nephew, actually,” she said, her lips pulling into a smile after her fit of laughter. hongjoong nodded, taking in the information that she also has a nephew like him, except hongjoong has a niece. “his name is andrew. i know, very typical.”

hongjoong watched the little boy she came in with, how he and goeun played with each other during the mommy and me class. maybe he’d learn a lot of things regarding child care in this class, and maybe he’d learn a lot of things about y/n.

the class were fine, hongjoong obviously had to engage in something he had never done before. goeun was there to help him, and she got a lot of laughs from her uncle hongjoong. and before he knew it, the class was already over.

“uncle hongjoongie,” goeun’s little voice called from his side. he adjusted the hot pink strap of her sparkly backpack on his shoulder and held her small hand, looking down at her with a hum as a response. “i want mcdonald’s.”

“we’ll buy mcdonald’s on the way home, how’s that?” hongjoong suggested, opening the front door for goeun to exit. to his surprise, he ended up holding it for all of the mommies- even y/n. she let andrew walk out with goeun for extra play time, and hongjoong’s heart started beating madly. “oh, hey!”

“thank you all for coming!” ahseong exclaimed, arms spread out as she ushered hongjoong and y/n out of her house and walk them to their cars. hongjoong really wanted to ask y/n for her number, in case there’s another mommy and me class and she would be attending. “have a safe trip!”

“hey,” y/n said, walking to the car parked right next to hongjoong’s. “goeun is a delightful girl. and she’s adorable!”

hongjoong smiled at her kind words, debating whether or not he asks for her number now or when the topic of goeun passes over. oh, what the hell. “thanks, i’ll let gayoung know you guys said that. actually.. i- uhm.. m-may i have your number?”

she paused, staring at his face and this fueled hongjoong’s embarrassment. out of all the places he could’ve asked for her number, it’s a mommy and me class. hongjoong looked away, feeling a tad bit humiliated that she asked a girl for her phone number. he doesn’t even know if she’s single!

“okay,” she said, and hongjoong’s body was washed with relief.

“hang on one second,” hongjoong excused himself, opening the door to buckle goeun in her car seat before he forgets. y/n, on the other hand, watched and observed him. she watched how he communicated with his niece as he made sure she was secured in the car seat. hongjoong pulled away and shut the door, turning back to y/n who was leaning against his car this time. he handed her his phone, unlocked and everything.

“you’re very willing to give your phone to me,” she said as she input her number into his contacts. while she was at it, she named her contact in her own accord and even chose a picture from his gallery. he didn’t seem too fazed by it. “what if i run off with it?”

“why would you, though?” hongjoong said. she returned his phone with the contact info on the screen, and he chuckled at the picture she chose. “thank you for putting in your name.”

“no problem,” she said, pulling away from his car and heading to get into hers. she turned one last time to him, “i’ll expect a text?”

“you will.”

#ateez #kq fellaz #ateez imagines #boyfriend #cute #kpop scenarios #imagines #kpop boyfriend #kpop fluffy #kpop imagines #ateez hongjoong #ateez kim hongjoong #hongjoong #kim hongjoong #fullerhouse #inspired #uncle

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vodkabite · 6 years ago

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Dirty Mind - last chapter preview

The party is finally over. After several long and tumultuous hours, the gallery finally came to a much needed close that left a very hollow sensation at the back of her throat. Holding on to that face splitting smile for all she was worth in the face of her sisters’ questioning gazes.

“I honestly have no idea what you were doing back there,” Waverly says.

They’re in the Lamborghini now; Waverly with her hands folded neatly over the seatbelt across her lap and staring out the tinted window, patiently waiting for Nicole to start the car. For Nicole to respond and explain to her why the things that happened did. Instead, there is nothing but silence, and Waverly focuses on the dress of the woman standing in the space in front of them. Short cocktail dress designed with heavy amounts of lace, crew neckline, strapless illusion with long sleeves and ostrich feather bell cuffs.

A taxi pulls up and the woman hurries in, Waverly wonders what the woman was going to do now. Probably either head home and unwind or someplace else to keep the night going. Waverly checks her phone, with only thirty percent battery life left, it’s ten after midnight. The woman leaves, and behind them, in the side view mirror some ways away, she spots Bobo helping her sisters into this giant monstrosity of a vehicle (a Hummer with a godawful banana yellow paint job). Willa first, pausing only to whisper something to each other before Bobo helps Wynonna into the back. The confusion and occasional whipping of her hair as she peers down both sides of the sidewalk is indicative that she’s looking for her baby sister. But can’t find her. The Hummer’s massive headlights turn on and as soon as it leaves, the Lamborghini does too.

The drive out of the city is nice; hundreds of people in and out of vehicles are busy bustling through the night, like amorphous blurs speeding around beneath the streetlights until Waverly takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Resting her head against the cool glass of the window and letting herself melt into the seat. Silence, and the stillness that follows, is something powerful and easily taken for granted. The ability to drown out the entire world within a matter of a few minutes is one Waverly will always appreciate.

Living the majority of her life in a house that was constantly on the verge of imploding because her sisters weren’t familiar with the concept of inside voices, she lives for these quiet moments. The soft hum of the car and the small rev of the engine serving as white noise, constant and stable. That anchor keeping her tethered to the ground as it does give her enough rope to float away aimlessly with. Drifting with the current beneath fingertips and towards something, somewhere for that little bit of peace.

But, like most things, it isn’t meant to last very long. Her eyes open and she pulls away from the window, facing forward, fingers fiddling with the seatbelt strapped across her chest.

“Nicole.”

“Yeah?”

“What were you thinking?”

The alpha shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.” And then a moment later, softly, “Can you tell me something you do know?”

A beat.

“Can I deflect?”

Waverly doesn’t say yes, and she doesn’t say no either. She just turns her attention back to the window.

“Your sister and Bobo are mates.”

There’s a pause and Waverly takes another deep breath. “Are you sure?”

Nicole nods. “They just met recently, right? It’ll be awhile before they notice if they haven’t already.”

Waverly nods. She figures something was up because Willa has a very specific brand of affection that doesn’t put much of an emphasis on showcasing love in a blatantly obvious way. Physically, it’s a bit of a run-on joke in the family that Willa would be quick to burn from a hug as she would stepping into a church, so to see the way she so naturally accepted Bobo wrap his arms around her and lean against her in a very public manner was disarming as it was warming.

“How can you tell that they’re mates if they don’t even know?” Waverly asks, just to be sure.

“From the how they didn’t want to be apart.”

“I read that it’s common for mates who have just found each other to be extremely close, like they’re in the honeymoon phase or something.”

“It helps that they’re older and have a good dynamic, makes everything much easier.”

As they head out of the city and onto the highway, the bright lights fade away. Replaced by occasional lamp post, the tail lights of cars in front of them and the darkened trees stretched along the sides of the road.

She checks her phone again, 12:30 PM. The contract is over, the expiration date written at the bottom of foot has been erased and she is no longer bound by it anymore. She’s done what was asked of her, pliant and willing, she saw through the alpha’s rut without a single grievance. Fulfilling her end of the bargain, it’ll only be a matter of time until she receives that invoice in the mail, that illustrious golden receipt saying the words: debt and tuition paid, estimated remaining charge, $0.00.

And yet, she isn’t happy. That hollow sensation burning a hole in the back of her throat multiplies. Like a cancerous little tumor ravaging her body, it doesn’t stop until Nicole pulls the sportscar off the highway and onto a regular road and the limestone walls of Remus Pointe are on the horizon. Very quickly, almost like a pair of hands forcing down that she sinks beneath the surface and her entire body is consumed with this hollowness. She feels empty. Half empty, and half whole. She can’t see beyond whatever black hole has formed in the center of her chest and sucked her in, but she knows that she isn’t alone within it.

There’s someone else here too.

The limestone pillars come into view and soon the Lamborghini sits in front of the wrought-iron gates as Nicole’s driver side window rolls down and she greets the security guard outside. They exchange a couple of lines, casual chit-chat, before the guard opens the gates and lets them through.

It’s interesting to see just how relatively quiet the gated community on a Friday night. She notes how some of the houses, the castle-like mansions, still have the lights on. Some have bicycles, skateboards, rollerblades and what have you on the front lawn, she can hear dogs barking and children playing happily. Waverly wonders how what an average day looks like in the lives of the residents.

She wonders if she’ll ever have a life like them and in the back of her mind, she wonders if she’ll ever be in this position again.

When they arrive the first thing Waverly looks to is her jeep, her precious cherry red jeep with all its scratches and dents. In a few short hours she’ll back behind the wheel with her duffel bag in the backseat, driving out of the gated community and to her ordinary, simple life.

“D-Did you enjoy the gallery, at least?”

Waverly nods, not saying a word.

“I’m glad you did.” Nicole takes it for what it is as they get out of the car. Everything that follows afterward is very rigid and mechanical.

“Are you heading straight to bed?”

“Uh no, I’m going to change and then maybe get some work done in the office.” Nicole doesn’t even look at Waverly as she unlocks the front door, step inside, and set up the security system.

“I-I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.”

Nicole nods and waves a hand. “I’ll be downstairs if you want anything.”

#wearp #wayhaught #fic series: dirty mind/kiss land #fic: dirty mind #preview #mine #*fic

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supercasey · 6 years ago

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The Perfect Child

Description: Michael Peterson was raised to be the perfect child. Perfect grades, perfect manners, perfect actions... unfortunately, his little brother wasn't. When all you've ever known is perfection, how can you possibly handle average?

A/N: So this is my first “creepypasta”, although I’ve been writing for about six years now. I really love reading creepypastas, so I finally gathered the energy to write one of my own. It’s not as scary as it could be, so it’s more an allegory for my own insecurities. Constructive criticism is appreciated, but please refrain from being too harsh (I’m a huge wimp lmao). With that said, I hope you enjoy this piece!

Hello, my name is Michael. I am a seventeen year old boy, and I’m a perfect child. Please, allow me to explain:

I was born mid March, 2002, in Kansas. I was born on a hundred acre property, settled out of the public eye. When I was young, I saw nothing wrong with this. My life, as far as I could tell, was like any other child’s. From the moment I was able to walk, I was surrounded by other children, and for the most part, we were left to our own devices. The land we lived on held numerous barns, which were our room and board. We spent many a day running in the open fields, catching bugs, and playing small games together. We didn’t have names; we didn’t know what a name was. We didn’t talk either… no one had ever heard a word. No one screamed; those who screamed would be gone the next morning.

Three times a day, a siren would go off in all of the barns. Instinctively, we would all return to our beds (beds we had never once thought to move or not sleep in), and we’d find bowls of food waiting for us. It wasn’t sludge or nasty garbage either; we had steamed vegetables, baked chicken, eggs of all varieties, and much, much more. We didn’t know where it came from, it was always just there, waiting for us. No one had ever taught us to eat, but we ate in a dignified manner nonetheless, never spitting out our food or opening our mouths midway. After we ate, we would go right back outside to play in the sunshine.

It never rained. It never snowed. We had never seen a cloud in the sky before. The sun would rise and set indefinitely, and we never bothered keeping the time. We only played. Sometime when I was around four, my life changed. That day had been like any other; I slept, played, and ate. But that night… I went to bed, but I couldn’t fall asleep. This had never happened before. When I sat up and looked around, I saw a few other kids weren’t sleeping either. They were just as confused as me. Everyone else was out cold, unable to wake up, not that we tried to wake them. Suddenly, a group of adults filtered into the room, dressed in full body hazmat suits.

No one said a word- again, we had no concept of language- and we didn’t move either. We just let them approach us (an adult for each conscious child), pick us up, and carry us out of the barn. Once outside, they took us towards a building I had somehow never noticed before. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was easily three stories tall, and was painted white with a lovely blue trim. The adults took us inside, and in there, everything about my life was drastically changed. After being tucked into a brand new bed (though it looked no different from my old one) and falling asleep, my mind adapted.

When I awoke, I could speak. I spoke fluently, something no normal four year old could do. The other children could do the same. We could also read, write, and draw, things that were improved upon throughout the next year. For one year, the adults, who never once removed their hazmat suits, tutored and taught us within that house. We weren’t allowed outside anymore; that was for the little kids. I excelled at everything they told me to do. I washed the dishes best, was the most creative artist, spoke the most clearly, and was reading at a high school level by the time I was five.

The day before I turned five years old, I was pulled aside from the other children, and taken into the basement. I had never been in the basement before. It was nothing like any basement I had ever heard of, either. The walls were a beautiful redwood, and the carpeting wasn’t the least bit cold, even though I wasn’t wearing socks. Quickly, I was led into a small office, where I finally met an unmasked adult for the first time in my life. Behind the ivory desk sat a plump, mid aged woman with greying hair, dark brown eyes, and saggy skin. In front of the desk sat two women, both young and beautiful, decked out in their finest attire.

As soon as we walked in, one of the young women cooed at me- something I had never heard before, but I knew what it was from reading of it- and held her arms out to me. Without missing a beat, I smiled at her, and obediently walked up and hugged her. I had never given, or received, a hug before. Both women were ecstatic, and for the rest of the meeting, I was traded from lap to lap, both women taking turns cuddling me. The meeting was more of a business transaction than anything else; the lady behind the desk showed the two women a binder, filled to the brim with information on me. She listed my traits, my mannerisms, and health record. All perfect, just as ordered.

At the end of the meeting, the older woman- who I learned was called The Provider- seemed happy, and with a big smile, took a sheet of paper out of a drawer and laid it on the desk, presenting it to the young couple. It was an adoption form. The two ladies gladly filled it out, giving me my first and only name; Michael Damian Peterson. Afterwards, the employee who had brought me in scooped me up, took me out of the room, and got me ready. I was given a long bath, dressed in a red sweater with blue overalls, had my hair cut to be shaggy but short, and was fitted with a pair of white socks and black sneakers.

Once ready, I was returned to the young couple, who gasped and cooed at what I was wearing. Again, I was never set down, and they swiftly completed the transaction- handing The Provider a check for ten million dollars- and left. Internally, I wanted to run around the moment we stepped outside, as I hadn’t been outside in a year, but it was dark out and I was very tired, so I didn’t fuss. The couple took me to a sleek, brand new black minivan, complete with a hot rod flame design on the sides. When they opened the backseat, I was greeted with the sight of a large booster seat, and was strapped in immediately.

We left soon after, driving down a seemingly endless road. The windows were darkened, and with it being nighttime, I couldn't see a thing. It was then that the couple explained what was happening. Their names, to me, were Mama and Mommy, and I was to be their new son. They had always wanted a child, but due to their professions, they were unable to have or even adopt one through legal means. It was then that they were approached by a friend, who raved to them about the incredible work Perfect Children did. They then learned about a remote farm, out in the backend of Kansas, that specializing in producing ‘perfect’ children.

I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was bred to be perfect, but they admitted that not every child bred by Perfect Children was that way. In fact, more than ninety percent of them weren’t even close to perfect. So… what happened to the ones who weren’t perfect? I was told that they were picked out early in the program- around five to six months of age- and placed into the Bad House. A little ways away from the main buildings, sat a large, decaying barn, that was overflowing with needy, loud children that simply weren’t good. Sometimes they got better, Mama admitted, but those were very rare.

Again, I was confused. What happened in the Bad House? Mommy filled me in. “Those children… who simply aren’t perfect,” She had actually sighed, clearly disappointed. At the time, I thought it was with the company. It was only when I got older did I learn that she was upset with the children themselves. “Those children are for slaughter.”

“There are people in this world- and especially in our profession- that also want children. But not for raising,” Mama had seemed… hesitant to tell me these things, but after getting a nod from Mommy, she swallowed, then continued. “Sometimes, people want to have an imperfect child for… leisure. Maybe when you’re a little older, I’ll tell you more, but for now,” She put on the warmest smile I had ever seen, and before I could react, a little screen emerged from the roof of the van. “How about some TV, sweetie?”

I don’t remember the rest of the car ride. In fact, most of my memories of the farm have faded. Most of what I know now was learned later in life, but I do, somehow, remember my fifth birthday. When we arrived at our destination, the sun was rising, and I could finally see out the windows. What I saw… was incredible. Just on the horizon, I could see a massive, luxurious mansion. Even from a distance, I could see the first bits of the garden, surrounding the mansion in a field of different flowers. Mama must’ve noticed my gawking, because as I was looking, she cheerfully told me that the mansion I saw was OUR house… my new home.

When we arrived, there were already people waiting. Mommy and Mama’s friends. None of them had children of their own, but they cheered as Mommy parked the car, and came running once Mama had me in her arms. The party was spectacular. Everyone brought me at least five presents each, and they all gushed over me, telling my mothers how precious I looked. My manners were impeccable, and I never once acted out. I allowed the adults to pass me around, and even when they weren’t hovering around me, I still kept up my manners. I even offered to clean the dishes, something my mothers assured I could do later.

That night, I was brought to my bedroom. The room was painted baby blue, and despite having unwrapped enough toys to last me a lifetime during the party, my room was already filled with plenty of toys for me. I was promptly tucked into bed, read a bedtime story, and given two goodnight kisses. I fell asleep immediately.

From then on, I was the perfect child. Once enrolled in school, I was the best of my class. I never once got anything lower than 100% on all my assignments and tests, I was friendly with everyone in my grade, and I volunteered to help my teachers at every occasion. My mothers always beamed at the praise my teachers gave, and when pressed for how I could possibly be so good, my mothers would exchange a knowing smile, and happily tell my teachers the same answer each and every time: “Love.”

When I was six, my mothers wanted another child. I was unable to feel any form of jealousy. A week after my birthday, I was left with a babysitter, and when my mothers returned home, they brought me a brother. He was five when he arrived, just like I was, but he was… different. Where I was well behaved and honest, my brother- named Kyle- was good… to a point. He was ecstatic the first few weeks, clearly happy to be living with me and my mothers, but he soon began to make mischief.

I remember his first big prank. It had been a few weeks after he arrived, and while we were playing quietly in the living room, he asked me for a cup of water. I did as told. As soon as I opened the fridge, a jug of Kool-Aid spilled on me. I didn't cry. I didn’t get angry. I cleaned up the mess, approached Mama, and told her what had happened. When she questioned Kyle about it, he burst out laughing at the sight of me, still drenched in Kool-Aid. Mama laughed too, at least a little, before sentencing him to a time out. He took it calmly, and afterwards, it was water under the bridge… or rather, Kool-Aid under the fridge. Mama never could get the stain out.

Not a week later, and another prank occurred, this time getting Mommy. Kyle had taken the liberty of collecting every grasshopper he could find and hiding them in Mommy’s purse. The scream she let out when it opened was incredibly loud, and instinctively, I fixed her up a mug of hot chocolate while she went about punishing Kyle. He got another time out, and was made to write an apology letter to Mommy. He did so, though his handwriting was sloppy, and the incident was again forgiven.

But his misdemeanors continued. It quickly occurred to me that Kyle was one for mischief, but wasn’t outright malicious. He just liked to frighten folks, and wanted to make us all laugh, though he didn’t understand why no one else found him funny. Things soon got worse. He too was enrolled in school, but he took it badly. While I continued to excel, he barely passed anything, and routinely got into fights and arguments with his classmates and teachers. I tried to help him; I took a few punches for trying to end fights, and even if I ended up getting on the other student’s good side, my brother would get right back into it the moment I stepped away.

While my mothers had taken Kyle’s pranks and misbehavior somewhat well beforehand, they didn’t care for his school troubles. They routinely lectured him as to why he needed to get better grades, treat others better, etcetera. But he refused to behave. By the time I was seven, my mothers had reached their limit.

It was June when Kyle was returned. I was woken up at three in the morning by a frazzled Mama, who I obeyed to the letter. I dressed myself in my clothes and followed her out the door, and into the waiting minivan. Kyle was already there, screaming and biting at his carseat’s buckle. Mommy was in the driver’s seat, panting and angry, but with determination in her eyes. Mama turned up the radio several times on the way there, but Kyle’s screeching was hard to drown out. I tried giving him kisses and hugs, but he only bit and hit at me. When we arrived at the farm… I felt an icy chill up my spine. I stood beside Mommy and Mama outside the car, the sound of Kyle’s sobbing almost deafening.

There were no children in sight, and The Provider was waiting outside the farmhouse for us. She greeted my mothers kindly, and asked what they were there for.

“A return.” Mommy had said, her voice chillingly calm.

“Oh?” The Provider had appeared confused at first. She turned to me, head tilted. “And here I thought this one was one of our best products… was there a malfunction?”

“Oh no, not with Michael. He’s just as perfect as we’d hoped,” Mama explained, all of her usual kindness and love on display. However, it seemed to slip away- like a mask- the moment she brought up my little brother. “No, the problem is with Kyle.”

They was an audible sigh from The Provider. “I should have known… yes, I hate to say ‘I told you so’, but I did warn you about that one. I must ask; what else did you expect from an imperfect child from the slaughterhouse? Yes, they’re plenty fine for some, but when you’ve only ever had perfection,” She smiled at me as she said that, patting me endearingly on the head. “It’s hard to deal with normal children after you’ve had a taste of perfect.”

“That’s why we’re here, ma’am. We’d like to make… a return,” There was hesitation in Mommy’s words, and even at seven years old, I could tell she was second guessing herself. “We won’t have to see it happen, will we?”

“Heavens no! No no no… we’ll take it from here,” Suddenly, a few men approached the car, opening the side door and pulling out Kyle. They weren’t the least bit gentle with him. “In fact, we have a customer coming today for a ‘leisure’ child… I’m sure he’ll adore this one.”

“MOMMY! PLEASE, DON’T GO!” Kyle’s screaming turned to begging, the terror on his face apparent. I’ll admit, some part of me was confused; life here had only ever been kind to me, if not a bit boring. What was he so scared of? “I PROMISE TO BE GOOD! I’LL BE PERFECT! PLEASE!”

“Please hurry with him; I can’t stand that racket anymore…” Mommy rubbed at her head, a clear headache coming on.

Immediately, I retrieved a bottle of water alongside some Advil for her from her purse, holding the items up to her. “Here you go, Mommy. I love you.” I said, not even aware I was doing so. I was rarely aware of my actions.

The Provider grinned at me, chuckling to herself. “You see how much easier a perfect child is? So attentive, always willing to fulfill your needs,” She suddenly came closer, leaning in as if she had some big secret only available for my mothers. “You know, we have a few new ones that are ready for adoption… if you’d like, I’ll give you a good bargain for a replacement for the inconvenience. Perhaps a daughter? We have some precious little girls that are raring to go.”

It seemed to do the trick, as Mommy and Mama brightened at the news. Kyle didn’t. “NO! PLEASE! MAMA, MOMMY, I LOVE YOU! I’LL BE PERFECT! I’LL BE PERFECT! PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME HERE!”

“Can we see them?” Mama had entirely ignored Kyle, more interested in the little girls that were available. “A daughter sounds absolutely lovely.”

“Right this way then,” The Provider was quick to lead us inside, away from Kyle and the security guards holding him. “I have the most perfect little girls ready for you.”

I’ll be honest with you… my memory of Kyle is weak. Sometimes I think he was a dream. Other times, when I close my eyes, I can still see the smile he’d give me when he ate anything sweet, or played with me in the garden, or managed to get a laugh out of someone. That day, when we came back out to the car, a little girl in Mommy’s arms, Kyle was gone. I never saw him again. My mothers named my sister Scarlett, and just as promised, she was perfect. Together, we were perfect siblings. If one fell, the other helped them up. We played games together, but never roughly. We never once fought. We hugged and loved each other, all while strangers swooned over the ‘precious siblings’.

Scarlett also got perfect grades, was friendly with everyone in her class, and went out of her way to help her teachers. Again, my mothers were flooded with praise, and they grinned as though it was all their doing.

When Kyle’s old teachers asked about him, Mommy provided the news: “He passed away. Tragic, really.”

When I was fifteen, my life changed… again. Scarlett was thirteen. We had been at school, both at lunch together, when we were approached by two men in police uniforms. We cooperated entirely, and were led out of the school, into the parking lot, and into separate police cruisers. We didn’t cry. We didn’t ask questions. We obeyed. Once we arrived at the police station and sat down with the sheriff, we were given the news; Perfect Children had been discovered by the FBI, and promptly shut down. Inside the farmhouse, they had found all the records on every child that had been sold on the property. We weren’t allowed to see our mothers anymore.

Again, we didn’t cry. We didn’t ask questions. I held my sister’s hand under the table and we obeyed.

It’s been two years, and I’m only just beginning to become my own person. I’m still not sure exactly what Perfect Children did to make me the way I am… the FBI agent who lets me call her Mom says it was a lot of things; the food, the water, the subliminal messages that they played while I was sleeping, the chip on the back of my neck… but I’m getting better. We all are.

I’m living in a hospital for right now, living with all the other kids they could track down involved with the company… Mom told me it’s because we’re all too impressionable to be around regular people. We’re too inclined to obey, and now that people know what happened… they’re looking for us. They want perfection.

Scarlett handles things better than me. She can laugh on her own now, something she’s really proud of. She managed to prank me a few weeks ago. It wasn’t much, just switched my pillow for her’s, but it reminded me of Kyle. I told my therapist about him, and she says that I’m getting better, too. I can speak, sometimes, without being prompted. It’s not much, but it’s better than before. Yesterday, one of the boys yelled after someone stepped on his foot. We all got very quiet, but one of the supervisors started cheering, and pretty soon, other kids yelled, too. I can’t do that yet, but that’s okay. I’ll get better.

I don’t know where my mothers are… Mom says that they’re in prison, and not just because they bought me and Scarlett. I thought of asking what else they were in for- something that made me feel very, very wrong- but I didn’t. I’m not sure I want to know.

Someday, I’m going to get better. It’s hard to imagine not being perfect, but it’s also… nice. It’s freeing. I want to yell. I want to pull pranks. I want to laugh. Someday I’ll get there, and when I do, I’ll get out of this hospital and be a normal person. Scarlett wants to get an apartment with me, and I think I’d like that. It won’t be perfect- nothing ever will be again- but you know what? I’m excited. I’m happy. I’m getting better.

The kids they pulled out of the Bad House are doing better than any of us. Most of them are older- averaging in their mid twenties- so they act a lot like older siblings to all of us. They’re trying to help us yell, and think for ourselves, and take things. None of them are Kyle. I tried looking around, but I can’t find him. Deep down, where I’ve secretly always felt things, I knew I was never going to see him again, but… I had always hoped I could. One of the imperfect boys let’s me call him Kyle sometimes. He likes the name, and he reminds me of him, so we’re going with that for now. Scarlett won’t comment on it, but I hope she will someday. Any reaction is a good reaction around here.

For their hard work as tutors to us, some of the other perfect kids have tried to return the favor. We give them names, like how I named Kyle. They don’t always stick- Duncan didn’t like Lauren’s first suggestion of ‘Dragon Slayer’- but some do. We also help with handwriting, since almost none of them have ever written before, or read for that matter. Now when I go into the cafeteria, I can see a group of imperfects learning basic table manners, while a perfect girl tries to chew with her mouth open. Mom is proud of me- of all of us- and I think I am too. I’m not perfect anymore… maybe I never was. Oh well. I’m learning to not care.

Thanks for listening to my story… stay imperfect.

A/N: There! I hope you all at least liked it. If not, why not tell me why? BTW, the reason I gave the main character two moms wasn’t to try and be like “having two moms is bad”, I just want to normalize queer relationships, and if I can do it through my writing I like to do so. Have a great day!

#creepypasta #supercasey writes shit

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willsimpforazula · 3 years ago

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Fate/Cold War : Chapter 2

Because surprise surprise, I'm not just a full time ATLA person. Anyways, enjoy [or not, I'm not your mom/dad/parental figure/legal guardian]

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Laying in the back seat of the car, Artoria briefly closed her eyes and sighed. This wasn't how it was supposed to go down. If things went according to plan, they would have been safely ensconced in the Berliner Dom, out of reach of any interfering magi or Stasi. Ideally, of course.

Unfortunately, the addition of a listening bug threw everything into the nearby river. Which is how she ended up laying in the back seat of his car, pulling out the crossguard and hilt of her Black Key from a nondescript, wrinkled, brown paper bag.

"There's a car that has been tailing us for the past five minutes, correct? Just hum once for yes, twice for no." her almost bored voice asked.

"Mhm." Shirou hummed as the car drew up next to him. Moving her boot against the manual window crank, she slowly wound the window down, the squeakiness evident. Peeking a glance at his passenger, twin orbs of jade glared back at him as if to say Stop looking, you're going to draw attention to us and secondly, you should at least oil it every once in a while. Shaking his head and sighing, he turned his attention to the road ahead. While it was not out of the ordinary to be out at this time of night, not many had cars and thus, ran the risk of attracting the attention of the Stasi or worse, their KGB masters.

Hearing the sound of another car pull up beside them, Artoria whispered "She's pulled up beside us, hasn't she?"

"Mhm."

"She's got only one hand on the steering wheel, am I correct?"

"Mhm."

"There's only one of them, correct?"

"Mhm."

Muttering something to herself, she readied her Black Key. It was an awkward throwing angle to be sure, but Artoria had been in much more stickier situations.

"When you hear something that sounds like glass breaking, drive."

With a deep breath, her arm tensed, before she let fly on the exhale and pierced the window with her Black Key, which sliced the glass and shore one of the occupant's pigtails before sailing out the other side and into an alleyway. Taking it as his cue to move, Shirou floored the gas and sped off.

"Did you get her?"

"Let's hope she doesn't drive as quickly as she moves."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Shut up and drive, you carrot."

"Fuck you."

Manifesting another Black Key, she pointed it at him and replied "Keep talking and see if I don't cut your tongue off. Now take a right."

"Then an immediate left."

"Do you know where we're going?!"

"Yes, now-oomph!" Artoria whined as their stalker smashed her against theirs, causing her to be jostled around in the backseat. Fighting to keep level, both of them tried to ram the other off the road. Almost instinctively, the redhead and the pigtailed lady sized up the situation and yanked the handbrakes, pulling a handbrake turn that left her car careening into a pile of rubble.

Shaking her head, the pigtailed pursuer cursed and immediately reversed out, quickly resuming the high speed chase through the narrow streets of East Berlin. Thinking on his feet, Shirou quickly pulled into another handbrake turn, sliding his car neatly between two other vehicles and killing the lights when he heard a familiar sputter. Coincidently, his face ended up right next to Artoria when he reclined, who was none too pleased about getting this close to the redhead.

"Is he gone yet?"

"I don't think so. If I think she is who I think she is, I highly doubt she'll fall for such a trick."

"So what do we do?" Shirou hissed.

"Shut up and let me think!" she hissed back.

Glancing at the rear view mirror, they saw the car briefly stop and the brake lights flash red. With time running out, Artoria decided to take a gamble and told Shirou to reverse down the sidewalk and drive around the block.

"What are you trying to do?"

"Just trust me on this one. Meet me here afterwards." Though not her most favourite tool, she was glad she had Carnwennan with her on this specific mission. Using Shirou as bait, she stepped out of the car and strapped the small dagger to her belt before pulling out three Black Keys.

This time, she would make damn sure their pursuer would not be chasing them for a long while. Cloaked in the shadows, she waited until her car drove past the parking spot, before stepping out from behind one of the parked cars and hurling the Black Keys at where she assumed her head and shoulders were. Not something that was particularly pleasant, but extreme times called for extreme measures. As it stood, she knew she was bound to get an earful from her handler about the commotion tonight.

Seeing the way the car careen into the sidewalk, Artoria was about to head over and pick up the Keys when something in her gut told her that it was probably a good idea to whip out one more Black Key.

Just in case.

Laying in the car, Rin was angry.

Very, very angry.

Not because of the fact that her opponent almost killed her twice in the span of 10 minutes, but she ruined her outfit for one and secondly, shorn off half of her pigtail. Thirdly, she was forced to use whip out her offensive gems, something that she absolutely loathed as though she was well off, gems didn't exactly grow on trees, high quality cut pieces even more so.

Still, now was not the time to sulk but strategize and think of a way to outwit her opponent. Unwittingly, her mind flashed back to her briefing by Waver Velvet, also known as El-Melloi II about her counterpart.

----

"So, who's this lucky girl?"

"Her name is Artoria. Artoria Pendragon. A unique one, she is."

"How so?"

"Well, she's what one might call a demi-Servant."

"Demi-Servant?"

"Details are hazy but what we do know is that Artoria Pendragon is hosting the heroic spirit of King Arthur."

"Wouldn't her identity and soul be eventually consumed by the heroic spirit?"

"Typically yes, but I believe that due to her ancestry, she is the exception rather than the rule."

"So how did she end up working for the Agency?"

"You can thank some of our less than ethical compatriots in the Spiritual Evocation department. After many attempts at kidnapping her to study, someone from the Agency caught wind and offered her protection."

"The Church does not simply hand such offers out without a steep payment."

"Indeed. The price of their protection would be service as an Executor for an unspecified length of time, in addition to handling some of their more secular covert activities. No doubt it was an offer she couldn't refuse, not after they came perilously close to ending up in one of the labs here in the Clock Tower against her will."

"What's stopping her from killing me on site then, given her past history with mages?"

"Not if you kill her first."

Easier said than done, Waver, Rin thought to herself just as she burst out of the wreck the same time Shirou pulled up to meet back with Artoria.

Timing her shot, she hurled a small gem at them,which slid under their tyre and she uttered the words "Bersten!"

Immediately, the rear left tyre burst open, sending sparks careening every which way. Having little choice, she swallowed one of the gems and reinforced her legs, before taking after the car.

From the rear view mirror, Shirou gulped and yelled at Artoria "I thought you killed her?!"

"I thought so too!"

A sudden bump turned their attention back towards the rear just as they were about to enter a screaming match.

"You can't be serious." Artoria mumbled in disbelief as Rin reinforced her arms and latched onto the car, which was struggling to get up to speed.

"Now you've got your chance, do whatever it is you-you magicians do!"

"First off, I'm not a magician and secondly, it just doesn't seem right." Artoria replied, a little hint of admiration in her voice at the tenacity of their pursuer to continue the chase. Finally, the almost comical scene ended with a crunch of metal shearing, earning Artoria another set of dirty looks.

"Do you know how much time it took to get all the pieces to build this car!"

"I'm sorry!"

"You better be. Maybe you could make some gold appear out of thin air for me or something for compensation, how bout that?"

"Whatever, carrot man." she replied with an eyeroll.

"Stop calling me that!"

"Now take a left and then an immediate right." she ordered as sirens were now wailing in the distance.

"This is a dead end."

"No it's not, trust me."

"Are you for real?!"

"Just trust me."

"Considering you failed to kill her twice, somehow I doubt that."

"I'm hurt." she sarcastically replied, while putting on her best kicked kitten impression. Unable to withstand the pressure of those shimmering emerald orbs and quivering lips, not to mention her ahoge twitching, Shirou smacked his fist on the wheel and grumbled. Predictably, the car got stuck in between two narrow buildings, mere feet away from the Berlin Wall.

"Now all we have to do is just vault over two 20 foot walls, a couple of machine gun towers, a pack of angry dogs and a minefield. Are you sure?"

Not even bothering to entertain his outbursts, she leant over him and rolled down the window, the scent of fresh flowers and vanilla filling Shirou's personal space, making him blush at their close proximity. With the window wound down, she merely pointed at the window and said "Take a left."

#fate #artoria #rin tohsaka #shirou emiya #AU #chapter 2

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b-beeprichie · 7 years ago

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A Ghost Of You

Title: A Ghost Of You [1/?]

Paring: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier

Rating: M

Summary: When sixteen year-old Richie Tozier moves to Derry, Maine, he’s convinced nothing can change how much he hates it. His parents don’t care, his only friends are out of state, and the boy living next door definitely isn’t helping.

Word Count: 2,516

Warnings: Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Character Death, AU

A/N’s: Hey Tumblr! Welcome to my first Reddie fic. I haven’t written in years but I couldn’t get this Ghost!Eddie prompt out of my head. This will be posted in chapters. Hope you like it! Shout out to @gazeboseddie & @second-fannypack for offering up their time to do Beta work.

Clouds blocked off the rising sun, the town of Derry cast in the soft blue of early morning fog. They had been on the road for hours now, skipping through shades of black until the sun peeked over the rolling hills of Maine. It was early enough that the roads through town were still empty, and the streetlights reflected orange off the glare of Richie's glasses from where he sat in the backseat. He was crowded in by boxes, face pressed against the cool window glass. It was really the only thing keeping him calm - watching the way his breath fogged up the glass, wiping it away with jittery fingers, and starting over again. Breathe, wipe, repeat. It wasn’t easy to be in the car for so long. He had already been yelled at more times than he could count for his constant chatter, having only his walkman now to keep him company for the remainder of the drive. He didn’t want to talk to his parents anyway, and he never wanted to move to Derry, Maine. What kind of town was called Derry anyway? It sounded like a fucking cow town, small and simple, not at all what Richie was used to back home in New York.

The car came to a full stop, Richie too busy sketching finger drawings of dicks against the glass to notice. It wasn’t until his mom began shouting over the music spilling from his walkman that Richie jumped, simultaneously wiping the glass free of graffiti.

“What?!” He shouted and turned to look at his parents, annoyed with being interrupted from what was obviously going to be a beautiful work of art.

“We’re here, Richard, get out the car and don’t talk to your mother that way.” His father chastised from the driver seat, causing Richie to roll his eyes when neither of them were looking.

Not that they would have cared either way. They weren’t particularly good parents, and not only from a sixteen year-old’s stand on things. It’s not that they didn’t try, but alcohol wasn’t exactly a good solution for solving problems, and his parents tended to insist on finishing bottle after bottle. They didn’t care about much of anything unless they were drunk, and that never ended well. Richie touched a fading scar on the back of his hand from a particularly bad argument that had ended with his mother flinging a bottle across the room, and him having to clean it up. She apologized for days afterward, and as a result his dad had even bought him a new bike, which now sat strapped to the top of the car.

“Whatever.” Richie grumbled to himself, climbing out of the back seat to stretch his long legs while he took in the surrounding neighborhood.

It’s just as he had imagined, old colonial homes fitting into the perfect image of a suburban neighborhood. Richie had only seen the house in pictures, after his parents had made the purchase and announced that they were moving. It’s nicer than their old place, he honestly couldn’t complain about that part. However, he was still miles away from his school, from best friends, and from his life. At least they didn’t move in the middle of the school year, but the summer had just started and now all his summer plans were gone down the drain.

The movers had gotten there days before, setting things up while the Toziers made their ten hour drive into town. There wasn’t much left to do at this point, aside from unpacking the few boxes that were strictly left for them, like most of Richie's room, his dad’s dental equipment, and family photos. You know, the important stuff. It was barely past 8am, leaving the whole day to unpack what was left and settle into cheese town. With a loud groan and the cracking of his knuckles, Richie grabbed a box. Better to get started now before his parents began bitching at him. He was in the process of fighting to get a box out the backseat when he noticed the house next door, the tall grass catching his eye. The downstairs windows were boarded up, there was no car in the driveway, and the lawn looked as if it hadn’t been cut in ages. It was the only house in the neighborhood that didn’t quite fit, and Richie would’ve assumed it was abandoned, had it not been for the kid he saw staring out at him from the upstairs window. Even with the aid of Richie's coke bottle glasses, the kid was hard to see, but it was obvious that he was staring.

“Jesus Christ.” Richie swore under his breath and nearly dropped the box in his hands that was clearly labeled as fragile.

He caught it quickly, the glass inside producing an alarming clinking sound. Richie glared at the kid who clearly had a fucking staring problem. Responding without thought, he shifted the box in his hands to give the guy the finger, waving it around angrily in front of his face. He would have shouted if his mom weren’t right on the porch, already bickering with his dad about something. The rude gesture did its job, though, as the kid snapped out of his one-sided staring contest. He even had the audacity to look shocked, quickly followed by annoyed. He had been the one staring, watching Richie as if he were some sort of freak. He disappeared after that, the spot he once stood empty and dark as his shadow retreated in the background. What an asshole.

For the rest of the day, unpacking was an easy, albeit exhausting, distraction. Between dealing with his parents and the summer sun rising high in the sky, Richie was sweaty and gross by the end of the day, and ready to lie down in his new room. There were only a few finishing touches needed before room was actually his, and the sixteen year-old bopped around while he stuck posters to the wall and hung up pictures of friends from back home. He hadn’t had many friends, but the ones he did have were like family, always there for Richie when he needed them. He definitely wouldn’t have that here in Derry, not with the milk town simpletons he was sure made up most of the town's population. Richie grumbled just thinking about the kid he saw earlier, and cautiously peeked out his window to see if he could spot any movement next door. The house had been strangely silent, with not so much as a light turning on or a door opening all day. Not that Richie cared or anything, it was just weird. The kid was weird, too, with his snooty face and judgmental stare. Everyone here was probably like that.

Now Richie barely made out the shape of something moving in the window across from his, before the light turned on and the kid was suddenly right there, staring again as if he hadn’t gotten a good enough look the first time. Richie nearly jumped out of his skin with fright, letting out a loud shout and instantly growing annoyed. Seriously - who did this guy think he was?

His mouth moved but Richie couldn't make out what he was saying. Probably something bratty, from the looks of him. He looked like more of a dweeb than Richie did, and that was really saying something. At least Richie dressed his age, while this kid looked like someone's dad, even in pajamas. Richie frowned and stepped forward to open the window, propping up the screen so he could lean half way out and really get his point across. The distance between both houses is far enough that it couldn't be jumped, but close enough to get away with talking if they both stood there. It was quiet in the neighborhood, late enough that everyone is asleep aside from the insects living in the tall grass.

“Hey!” Richie shouted and reached for the first thing he could get his hands on which happened to be an eraser.

He flung it outside, a satisfied smirk curled his lips as it hit the window across from his home with an audible thud. The kid rolled his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, looking longingly at something before he opened the window. The kid still looked a bit off, pale despite the fact it was summer and the heat in Maine was outrageous, and he definitely still looked like a prude but holy hell Richie found him kind of adorable. Richie almost felt bad for flipping him off earlier - keyword: almost. Sure, he was adorable but it didn’t change the fact that he was obviously a stalker.

“Can you maybe not throw things at my window?” This fucking kid had the nerve to say as he whispered angrily out the window.

“I don’t know,” Richie responded sarcastically, already reaching for something else to throw. “can you maybe not stare into my bedroom window at night? I mean I know I’m hot stuff but if you want to see me naked you could at last ask instead of staring like some sort of pervert!”

The kid gasped and sputtered in frustration,his face flushing an angry pink. In hindsight, maybe Richie should’ve stopped calling him a kid, since he didn’t look that young, just a lot smaller. Maybe even the same age, if Richie was being generous. But anyone shorter than him was a kid if he had any say.

“W-What? I was not...I am NOT a pervert!” He huffed and all but leaned out the window, finger pointed in Richie’s direction. “You were looking in my window, and you were looking in my window first !”

Richie rolled his eyes, made a face and mocked the other boy in a high pitched voice, a hand moving along with his mouth to enhance the performance. It was a pretty great impersonation in his own personal opinion, and definitely did not warrant the baseball that flew through the window and hit him square in the face. Richie had no time to react; he barely registered the kid, shaking with rage and swinging his arm back, until something hit him hard enough to knock him to the floor, throwing his glasses from his face.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry!” Richie could hear over the sound of his own groaning as he rolled around on the floor, nose held in his hands. He could smell blood. Jesus fuck, that kid had an arm on him.

“Oh what the fuck!” Richie groaned and sat up, ready to jump out the window and take this kid down. “A baseball?!” Richie grabbed the object, a smear of his own blood on it. “A baseball, you hit me in the face with a fucking baseball!”

Richie full on shouted, blood dripping down his chin. The fact it was well past midnight never crossed his mind, as Richie’s parents had learned quickly to sleep through their child's antics. They never stirred while their son was shouting curse words just down the hall.

As for the kid, he looked genuinely apologetic. He turned the strangest shade of pink Richie had ever seen while he fidgeted with the front of his faded oversized sleepshirt.

“I’m sorry!” He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice back down to a whisper. “I didn’t mean to I just-I got mad, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. Oh god you’re bleeding, you need to go to the doctor.” The kid paced back and forth in front of the window, muttered to himself about hospitals, plastic surgery, and possibly having a panic attack.

The kid’s reaction was intense, but despite the blood and the gnarly bruise Richie would have in the morning, it didn’t hurt that bad. Richie pulled the hem of his shirt up to stop the bleeding, wiping it away the best he could.

“Hey kid.” Richie spit blood out the window. “Take a fucking breather, it’s fine, look.”

Richie turned to the side to show off his nose, bloody but not broken. The kid gagged dramatically but managed to pull himself together.

“It’s Eddie, my name is Eddie.” The kid - Eddie, still looked flustered and in shock, but he breathed deeply to calm down while he stood with his hands on his hips.

“Well Ed’s, I’m Richie, nice to you know...meet or whatever. If you call stalking and assault a nice meeting.”

“It’s Eddie, not Ed’s, just Eddie.”

“Excuse me, Eddie.” Richie leaned against the windowsill, he pointed at the drying blood on his face. “You almost broke my nose, I’m pretty sure that means I can call you whatever the fuck I want, seeing the last person to take balls that hard to the face was your mother.”

Eddie paled noticeably from his already unhealthy shade of white. He looked almost afraid, not at all the reaction Richie was looking to get out of him. This startled Richie, and he became even more unsettled when he spoke Eddie's name and got no response other than a fearful look in the other boy’s eyes. Was there something behind him? Richie took a deep breath and quickly turned around expecting to see someone standing behind him in his bedroom, to explain the suffocating sensation that had washed over him.

There was nothing, just a few empty boxes, a lamp, and the clock on his nightstand reading 1:32am. Still, Richie couldn't shake the eerie sensation. Goosebumps had risen on his arms and he visibly shivered.

Richie turned back around, ready to bitch at Eddie for freaking him the fuck out, but the light was now off and the window was closed, blinds entirely still as if no one had been standing there in the first place. Richie squinted, but tried not to think too hard about it. It was late, maybe Eddie’s parents had woken up. They were probably good, unlike his own, the type to care if their son stayed up too late and shouted swear words at the neighbor.

Richie waited a minute before he shrugged it off and went to the bathroom. He still had blood on his face, it had started to dry and crust over. In the mirror he could see the bruise that had started to form. He should ice it. Richie turned his head from side to side, noting that it wasn’t the worst he'd ever had. Richie had actually broken his nose once before and that was awful, a fight at school that ended with him in the hospital for a broken nose and bruised ribs. With the rest of the blood cleaned off, Richie stared at himself in the mirror. His mind went back to the boy next door, that dark feeling that someone had been watching them. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, instead focusing on how easy it had been to get under Eddie’s skin. Richie smirked to himself. The summer had just begun, after all, and he had new plans to spend it annoying his new neighbor.

#richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #reddie #ghost au #ghost!eddie #a ghost of you #my fanfiction #tw: child abuse #tw: child neglect #tw: death

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little-sundays · 7 years ago

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Ube

Street racers!AU

warnings: There’s always a beginning even before the beginning.

playlist: 1, 2, 3, 4

Jonghyun kicked hard on the gas pedal before hitting the clutch to shift the gear to a five. He then took a left turn before doing a drift to avoid the other vehicle behind him. Consequently, he grabbed his pistol from the compartment when the people behind him started shooting at his direction. He was about to pull the trigger of his gun until a bullet penetrated his skin.

“Fuck.” The male reacted quickly and in effect, he had dropped the gun. Instead of struggling to get a hold of the gun, he hit on the brake causing the car to move to the side until it was beside his. However, Jonghyun had a different plan in mind; he kicked on the clutch to do a reversal drift and drive the other way. This startled the other racers as they struggled to follow the male; however, before they even got to reach him, Jonghyun had already escaped.

Jonghyun drove back to the city; afterwards, he switched cars at a parking lot before heading towards a nearby convenience store. Once he entered the store, he walked to the emergency section until he glanced at the concave mirror atop him. He observed the girl turn her head to the side as if to check her surroundings before putting the chips in her bag. However, as she was about to add another item Jonghyun tugged the bag away from her. She demanded rather than asked, “What do you want?”

He was silent when he brought the bag to the counter. Instead of telling her off to the manager of the store, he paid for the food she tried to steal--and he questioned himself why. He turned his head only to see her leaving through the doors. He eyed her as she stood under the roof of the building while watching the rain pour lightly outside.

After getting the goods, he exited the store then handed the bag back to her before standing beside the female. The drizzle had stopped after a few minutes; consequently, she was about to leave when he spoke up abruptly. The male didn’t know what to ask her and instead followed whatever thought ended up in his mind. He asked, “Are your parents at home?”

Jonghyun watched her as she turned around to face him and say, “They’re away for vacation.”

The female then tilted her head even more and eventually caught a glimpse of the severe injury on his right hand. The bleeding was continuous, so some of his blood was already coloring the wet pavement. Her eyes widened at the sight before stating, “Holy shit.”

The male added; although, he was unsure why, “I need to crash in your place.”

She instantly replied horrified by his sudden request, “No, you might kill me.”

He mocked whilst shrugging his arms nonchalantly at her, “I can actually, but I’ll have to delay it for another time.”

The female ignored this and persistently grabbed his injured hand after she dropped her bag on the wet pavement. Jonghyun watched her as she fished out a pocket knife from a compartment of her bag before tearing a strip of cloth and wrapping it around his hand. His heart beat increased a little at the way she carefully rolled the piece of cloth and the feel of her nails brushing against his knuckles. However, when she looked up at him, he couldn’t avert his gaze from her as if he was bounded to her. Yet, he forced himself to distract himself from her by clenching his fist, although it was still painful.

Once he released the pressure in his hand, he stated, “Thought you would be afraid of me after what I have said.”

The female shook her head as she placed the blade back in the compartment. She said, “I could’ve killed you if I wanted to either.”

Unconsciously, his lips curled into a smile while he stared at the ground to avoid her gaze on him. Although she knew, he still pointed out, “Your bag’s wet.”

“I’m very aware of that.” She uttered in a frank tone before picking her bag from the wet ground. Unexpectedly, Jonghyun pulled the strap away from her grasp, thus dragged her towards the stolen car until she blurted out, “I’m not trying to sell my body nor do I want to die a virgin.”

Jonghyun was taken aback by her outburst, but it seemed to curious him. He asked, “A virgin? How old are you?”

Instead of getting an answer, the female threw him a question of her own. “Who are you?”

Feisty, he thought. He raised his brow at her before letting out a soft laugh, “Kim Jonghyun.”

Jonghyun noticed the female reach out for her bag, so he pulled her to his chest where he got to see her features even more. He was dazed, because the girl was someone he saw years ago. He knew her, she was Kim Matcha. Even if he knew her, he wanted her to introduce herself to him. He repeated his question again, “How old are you?”

The female shifted her eyes away from his, thus answered, “I’m seventeen.”

He smiled when she finally turned to him, he then asked, “Your name then?”

Without any delays or hesitations, she truthfully answered him, “Kim Matcha.”

Jonghyun’s grip on her waist loosened, and afterwards he whispered in a low voice, “You grew up beautifully.”

Thereafter, he pleaded, “Let me crash into your place just once.”

“Fine. Just once,” Matcha replied. He smirked at her; however, he debated within his thoughts. He was afraid if the other mafia would use her against him or if Kang Daniel would. He could tell she was trying to read his eyes, but he was already used to masking his expressions. He was already used to holding back his desires in fear of losing her. He’s oppressed it for years, and finally—he thought—finally did you two cross paths.

Walking towards the vehicle, he settled the bag at the backseat before opening the door for her. Thus, he sat down on the driver’s seat and asked as he turned to face Matcha, “Where do you live?”

However, when looked back at the road, he noticed the same gang following him this morning. He barely listened to her answer when he lowered both of their heads and hid under where they couldn’t be seen. Matcha was about to speak up when Jonghyun begged her with his eyes, and in effect she reserved it for later. Thereafter, the two heard a voice from outside, “He isn’t here.”

“You?” Matcha asked in a soft voice only for the both of them to hear. The male leaned closer to her and explained, “They’ll kill both of us if you call out to them.”

Afterwards, he peered at the front and sat back on his seat when the place was clear. Matcha followed and seated herself on the passenger’s seat. Hence, the drive to her apartment was silent. Once they finally reached her complex, Jonghyun noticed the building beside hers. It was the Building of Pierre which was rumoured to be a venue of President Seo’s welcoming party.

After parking the car nearby, the two entered Matcha’s room. She dropped her bag on the floor before walking into the kitchen. Jonghyun followed suit and waited in front of the sink for her. When she finally came back with the aid kit, she cleaned the stains on his hand while he bit back a growl from escaping his lips. He stared at her as she gently applied a small amount of iodopovidone around the wound before rolling the bandage around and securing it tightly.

“How did you get this?” She asked whilst gesturing to the hole on his hand. He decided against telling her, so instead he said, “That’s an invalid question.”

“My house, my rules.” She returned to which Jonghyun habitually licked his lips. He said forgetting about his former decision, “Remember the gang that was after me, they’re after me, because I’m part of Kang Daniel’s mafia—the 101.”

After he finished his sentence, he watched Matcha toss the bloody cloth and cotton in the bin before turning back to him. He leaned back until his back hit the edge of the counter. She observed, “You like to stare, don’t you?”

He admitted selflessly, “You seem interesting for a seventeen year old girl.”

Matcha rolled her eyes at him before shoving the fresh clothes to his chest. Yet, when she stood closer to him, he realized she was memorizing every part of his face. He wanted to kiss her, but he chose to smile widely at her instead. Consequently, she laughed at the way his nose widened when he grinned. Embarrassed, he said afterwards, “I should really wash up and change.”

He sauntered towards the wash room and closed the door behind him before dumping the fresh clothes on top of the sink while the bloodied clothes were lying on the tiled floor. He got under the shower where he released all of his thoughts; he had to leave and go back to the headquarters to discuss the issue with Kang Daniel. But he also needed to make sure that she wasn’t involved with the mafia.

The next day, Jonghyun prepared a cup of coffee for himself and waited for Matcha to wake up. He tapped his foot lightly on the wooden floor to distract himself whilst he waited. His attention shifted from the girl to his mug, she was only wearing a plain shirt paired with shorts, but it managed to make him nervous.

He slowly sipped his mug before looking at her once more and greeted, “Hey.”

Matcha fished out a bar of butter from the refrigerator and the loaf of bread resting on the basket, thus grabbed a plate and placed it on the table. She dropped the bread and butter on the table after taking the butter knife. Finally, she replied, “Morning.”

Jonghyun automatically reached for a bread, thus questioned her, “What time does your class start?”

“Around nine, usually the teacher’s late, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“I’ll drive you to school, it’s the least I can do.” Jonghyun reasoned out, so he could be with her for a little while. Maybe even see her wear her uniform. Creep, Jonghyun thought, that’s just perverted.

He pushed away his own thoughts and said, “For a high school student, you’re still able to change both the present and future. I envy that.”

The male knew he was going to risk his whole life when he joined the mob. He considered it several times, at some point he even wanted to leave. Kang’s id was filled with hatred and insanity, yet he couldn’t leave the mafia easily. They would be on his tail as well.

Jonghyun was brought back to reality when Matcha chucked a piece of bread to him. She was the complete opposite of him; although, they fairly had a share of similarities. She was still different compared to him.

“For an adult, you think so lowly of yourself.” Matcha replied which earned her a shrug from Jonghyun. He admitted honestly, “I’d like to live a happier life, but I chose to side with the mafia, because I needed money. Wouldn’t you do the same if you were insatiable?”

She said before changing into her uniform, “But I’m not, and that’s our difference.”

When they finally got in front of the gate of her school, Matcha in a pensive state turned to him. Jonghyun’s thoughts wandered when she kissed him. He wanted to press himself closer to her when she pulled away, but he held back the urge to do so.

Rather he drove back to the mafia’s headquarters where he met Min Gi and Dongho waiting outside the club. The three entered the building and joined the meeting inside.

Daniel threw the files on the table; hence, he explained, “We’re losing a lot of money, due to Jun’s gang stealing our dealers.”

He added, “President Seo is holding an event at the Building of Pierre for his speech. I need an ample amount of time for distraction and someone to kill the surveillance cameras before I go in the surveillance control room. I already ordered Ha Minho to hack into the systems and steal the hard disk before we burn the place.”

Jonghyun read the files until he stopped at Agent Seo’s profile. He muttered, “Kang, you’re going to make a bigger conflict if you proceed with this plan. We can’t just involve the president or even the government as freely as we want.”

Daniel eyed Jonghyun suspiciously, he spat, “Why are you even in the mafia? Isn’t it, because you need money?”

When Jonghyun couldn’t answer his questions, Daniel assumed the answer and ordered, “Then do your job.”

Jonghyun walked into Matcha’s bedroom that afternoon of January. He watched her pull her shirt off of her body. Unconsciously, Jonghyun’s feet dragged him towards the female, yet he stayed a meter away from her just to prevent himself from pushing her against the wall. He whispered softly, “You’re painfully beautiful.”

He restrained himself from running his palm against her back until she faced him. Fuck it, he thought. Jonghyun pressed his lips against hers almost bruising both of their lips, but he couldn’t really care much. He just wanted to drown himself in her taste.

His hands roamed every part of her body as if he was trying to paint it into a memory. Finally settling his palms on the curve of her hips, he led them towards her bed. He let her straddle him, just because he’d like to have her on top.

Slowly he pulled away from her lips to let his teeth scrape the side of her neck. The sigh she released made his grip on her hips tighter and his head spin.

“Jonghyun,” she sighed. The male held his groan back and instead let out an approving hum before he let his hands brush the inside of her thighs. Trailing his lips on her shoulder blade, he bit on the juncture enough to form a visible hickey.

She added after her long pause, “Are we seriously going to have sex with you fully clothed?”

Out of his own desperation, he swiftly threw away all his remaining clothes and savored the feeling of his skin against hers. He teased, despite him being impatient, “Didn’t you say you were a virgin?”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t know how to seduce a man, I’m not that naïve.” She replied making him raise both of his hands in surrender. He then shifted her hips in his lap which resorted to him biting back his own moan. Rather, he traced his fingernail around her skin before digging them slowly into her back.

“Are you certain about this?” He suddenly asked which was ironic, because he was getting quite impatient over the slow intimacy between the two. But he was nervous and afraid that she might not be in love with him.

He was frightened over the idea of losing her, because of Kang’s plan. He thought it over and over again, she’s only seventeen.

“Jonghyun, make me forget the whole world.” Matcha demanded which helped Jonghyun forget about his worries.

He became greedy for once in his life, finally forgot about the people around him and only focused on her. And he blamed himself, because of that--he became too selfish.

The morning after, Jonghyun awoke to the feathery tracing on his arm. He let out a groan before turning to the girl, he said smirking whilst rubbing his eyes, “You in for round two?”

“Do you have anything better to do?” Matcha questioned frankly before staring at the ceiling above them. The male sat up and while looking at her, he uttered, “Probably comply with Kang’s orders.”

Unexpectedly, she threw him the question he wanted least to hear, “Are you ever going to leave the mafia?”

He didn’t mask his guilty expression when he noticed the way her eyes wavered across his gaze. She was upset, he said to himself.

“You’re so selfish,” she stated, “you’re insatiable. You can’t take a risk, because you’re afraid. What are you even afraid of?”

“I’m taking a risk for the both of us, because I’m not terrified. I know why I’m here and why I’m in love with you.”

Jonghyun couldn’t give her an answer, because she was right; he was afraid. He lived in fear his entire life and somehow the mafia couldn’t even give him a sense of security. He wanted this relationship, he really did; however, he knew he would also be the cause of her pain and cries.

Jonghyun hated himself for that.

“What the fuck, Kim!” Daniel exclaimed rather than questioned. Jonghyun had tried to shoot the other male, but instead got shot in the right hip by Ha Minho.

Jonghyun was about to pull on his trigger once again when he inhaled the smoke coming from control room. Consequently, Jonghyun rushed to the ballroom until he saw Matcha coughing through the smoke.

He pulled her back by the waist; however, she elbowed him in the stomach making him stumble backwards and was punched in the face afterwards. Yet, he still managed to speak up despite his injuries, “We need to leave now. The place is going to explode after eight minutes.”

She wrapped his arm around her shoulder ad helped him out the building before the blast. He held her tightly to his chest to shield her from the explosion. He expected her to slap him, rather she checked him if there were more wounds or cuts.

Thereafter, she called for the ambulance to stitch up his arm and pull the bullet out of his hip. He was brought to the hospital and was being monitored before he got out of his room to talk to the female.

“Forgive me.”

“Forgive me,” Jonghyun said in almost a whisper, “I became greedy over you.”

He added, “I wanted you all to myself, then I remembered you aren’t my property.”

“I needed you most,” he said while sobbing silently, “I ruined both of us, didn’t I?”

He hit his lap several times and even hit the back of his head against the wall. He didn’t expect her to forgive him so easily, so he drowned himself in his own tears for the moment. He believed that she hated him. He believed he was insane for doing such things for the mafia and for her.

He blurted out, “I love you.”

“I love you,” he repeated as he let his tears fall. Matcha enveloped him in an embrace while they sat there in their own silence. He listened to her heartbeat to ease him. Thus breaking the silence, she repeated his words.

Dedicated to: @stanstal, @gwikimchi, @coolheartbeatmusic, @uni-yuto, @starlightstitxh, @101mess, @wannabl, @jamlesswritings, @dreaminglee, @wannaonescenarios, @anonymous101s2

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kane-and-griffin · 7 years ago

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“I Put a Spell On You,” Part 2

A Kabby Halloween fic in three parts for the AU The Woman That Fell From the Sky, in honor of @brittanias‘ birthday!

Part 1 here

PART 2: “Fox-Trot Time” (Halloween 2009)

“The problem with putting two and two together is that sometimes you get four, and sometimes you get twenty-two.” -- Dashiell Hammett, from The Thin Man

When Abby left New York nine years ago, she left it for good.

She and Jake had built a life there, one they’d believed would last. She’d moved there young and made it her home and loved it with the same fervent intensity as all the city’s Midwestern expatriates. But all of that meant nothing without Jake.

There was nowhere she could run to escape the crushing sorrow of loss. Every bodega, every hole-in-the-wall wine bar, every bench in Central Park, every subway station, Jake was there. The bank where he’d been shot was on her way to work. The hospital cafeteria on the third floor looked out over the police station where she’d sat, cold and numb and dry-eyed, filling out form after form while Marcus attempted to comfort the confused and tearful Clarke on the bench in the hallway outside.

She could not stay in this place.

The job in Massachusetts had been offered to her a month before Jake’s death, and she had declined it. They were New Yorkers, she’d explained to the hospital recruiter. Their daughter would be a New Yorker too. The city was their home, and they couldn’t imagine leaving it.

The job was still open six weeks later, something that seemed to Abby to be a kind of miracle; they couldn’t find any other surgeons of her caliber willing to move out to the middle of nowhere – leaving behind every modern amenity, from Korean barbecue to decent theatre – to take a job in a small sleepy town with only a few thousand residents.

But Jake had never set foot in that town. She had never even told him its name. It felt, in that moment, like the one place in the world she could go to escape.

So she packed up her car, strapped Clarke into the backseat, and off they went.

And she never went back.

Nine years ago, watching the New York skyline disappear in her rearview mirror as steel buildings turned into green forests, she hadn’t been able to imagine ever returning. She hadn’t thought the pain would ever fade.

But Clarke is a freshman in high school now, and they’ve made a life for themselves, and it doesn’t hurt to remember Jake the way that it used to. She’s changed. Marcus has changed her. She’s older and sadder than she was when she and Jake were reckless urban twentysomethings together, but she’s also steadier on her feet.

It’s because Marcus knows this – because Marcus can sense this – that he even dares to ask her the question.

It starts with a senior citizens’ cruise to the Bahamas.

Abby’s parents come to Massachusetts for Christmas every year, to flagrantly spoil their granddaughter. But this year, they have, improbably, entered some grocery store sweepstakes and actually won, which means they will be spending the latter half of December aboard what Marcus describes as “an unfathomably enormous maritime shrine to capitalism, with liquor”, thus depriving them of their best opportunity to buy fourteen-year-old Clarke hundreds of dollars’ worth of things she doesn’t need. Abby suggests Thanksgiving as a compromise, privately hoping they’ll decline it; her parents have very particular views on proper Thanksgiving food, and with her mother there to appraise it she will never be able to relax about the turkey, even though Marcus has never messed it up once.

But they have an entirely different solution in mind. They want to take Clarke to Disneyland for Halloween.

Clarke, of course, is over the moon, and says yes immediately, only afterwards pausing to realize that Marcus – now the fall festival’s most devoted attendee – will be crushed. It’s quietly become a tradition over the past few years, and if his fans have noticed that he never takes Halloween concert gigs, no matter how good the money, they’ve certainly never put two and two together. He would never dream of missing a Halloween with Clarke and Abby, and Clarke is afraid she’ll hurt his feelings if she tells him that this year, she’ll be the one who isn’t coming home.

Like a chicken, she makes Abby break the bad news to him. Ordinarily her mother would protest this uncharacteristic abdication of responsibility, but the tradeoff is a promise to clean her room without being reminded every day from now until the trip, an offer Abby can’t refuse. She approaches the topic gingerly, and Marcus is predictably disappointed, but brightens almost immediately, that endearing lift in his voice she knows means he’s just had a great idea.

“Come to New York with me,” he says, startling her into silence.

“What?”

“For Halloween. Come to New York this year.”

Abby has always thought she would never go back. But she loves the fall festival because Clarke and Marcus love it and she can’t imagine enjoying herself there without them; so, surprising both of them, she says yes.

“You used to love throwing Halloween parties with Jake,” he says, his voice gentle, cautious. “Do you think maybe . . . we could have one?”

She pauses for a long moment before responding, the magnitude of the thing hovering between them apparent to both. It sounds like such a small thing, but it isn’t. It’s massive. It’s a real question. It’s a decisive relationship step. Can she not only return to the city she left behind, the city where she was Jake’s friend and then lover and then wife, but return there for the purpose of being a couple in public with somebody else?

The last time she did this, it was in the tiny Brooklyn apartment she’d shared with Jake since they were college students. He’d stood on the kitchen table to drape orange and black crepe paper along the ceiling and replace the bulbs in the light fixture with ones that glowed green, and they’d handed out gummy snakes and spiders to all the trick-or-treating kids in the building. Clarke had been three and told her parents she wanted to dress up for Halloween as a cup, a bizarre notion from which they could not dissuade her (“Clarke, why do you want to dress up as a cup?” “I like cups.” “We could go to the store and look at other costumes –“ “NO A CUP A CUP A CUP”), so Jake had sighed and gone down to the basement and dug through the piles of recycling in the trash room to find a cardboard box, which he cut into a cylinder and covered with a red plastic tablecloth, pleated at the top and edged in white, like a red Solo cup. He had written “DO NOT DRINK” on it in black Sharpie, which Clarke found hilarious.

The last time she’d experienced Halloween in the city, she’d been a wife and the mom of a toddler and a big-shot surgeon on the rise, shooting up through the ranks at Sloan-Kettering, destined for greatness.

The last time she and Marcus were alone together in New York, they were drinking coffee and flirting and very nearly holding hands while Jake was being raced in an ambulance to the hospital where she worked.

It’s not just about the party.

She thinks for a long time, and he waits patiently, quiet at the other end of the line, letting her have her space. She turns it over and over in her mind before finally speaking.

“Can we compromise?” she finally asks. “Yes to New York, and yes to a party, as long as it’s very small and you can promise I won’t get my face in a magazine or something. I don’t . . .” She pauses, unsure how to say what she wants to say without hurting him.

“You don’t want to go out in public with me in the city,” he finishes for her, and the sadness in his voice isn’t directed at her, but she feels it anyway.

“I can’t,” she says heavily. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Abby.”

“I’m just not quite ready to end up on a Worst-Dressed List,” she jokes weakly, but neither of them laugh. It’s just a little too close to being true.

Marcus is very careful about deflecting attention away from Abby and her town. He’s friends with a lot of beautiful women and he usually takes one of them to the red carpet events Abby finds too terrifying to even consider. He has a nice comfortable arrangement with a young actress friend of his named Lexa, a rising young romantic comedy star whose agents have been very blunt with her about not coming out as a lesbian until she’s “more reliably bankable,” so she and Marcus are often each other’s red carpet safety net. Abby likes Lexa. They had lunch once when Abby was in L.A. for work. Every time an awards thing comes up, Marcus always asks Abby if she’d like to go, and she always suggests he take Lexa instead. All it would take, she reminds him, is one sharp-eyed music journalist, and the whole house of cards would come tumbling down. Which is everybody’s nightmare.

So Marcus goes on appearing in public with scores of different lovely women and journalists keep breathlessly speculating about who “The Woman” might be and Abby continues living the calm, quiet life she built for herself, which Marcus gets to share when he comes to visit.

But it doesn’t go both ways.

Abby’s town will always protect her. New York City never will.

“I’ll come,” she tells him, “if we can be normal people for the weekend. If you can be Marcus, and not Marcus Kane.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” he tells her, but then she hears that little lift in his voice again.

“What?” she demands. “What are you plotting?”

“A small private party,” he insists, and she can hear him grinning through the phone. “Just like you asked. I promise.”

Jake never liked black-and-white movies.

This was a fight they had many times. “Casablanca is a classic!” Abby would insist, causing Jake to roll his eyes.

“No, Rocky is a classic,” was his inevitable rebuttal. “Casablanca is just old.”

“It’s considered one of the greatest films of all time.”

Jake would dismiss this with a handwave. “It doesn’t even have any explosions in it.”

“It’s a war movie, of course it has explosions,” Abby would retort, though she had not seen it in so many years she could not always reliably remember whether or not this was true. And so on and so forth, ad infinitum, until Jake would smack her on the ass and make her laugh and they’d forget what they were arguing about because kissing was a much better use of the couch than watching a movie anyway.

But Marcus loves old movies as much as she does. Just one of the many small constant reminders that this relationship is profoundly different from her last one. Not better or worse, not more or less, but endlessly, constantly, impossibly different, in ways she is still discovering.

They’d watched The Thin Man together on the couch one night, three or four days after he’d first arrived on her doorstep, the whole world still reeling. He’d been clicking through the cable channels, trying to find something that wasn’t another replay of the same sickening footage of the plane smashing into the towers, and had landed on a marathon of Myrna Loy films on one of the classic movie networks, The Thin Man just starting. “I love this movie,” he’d said absently, almost to himself more than to her, and Abby turned from where she sat beside him to rest her forehead against the soft blue cotton of his sweater, and began to cry. He cupped her cheek in his hand and tilted her face up to regard her with confusion and a degree of worry that teetered on the edge of panic. But through the tears she was smiling.

“You sounded like you,” she said softly. “Just now. When you said that. It was the first time since you’ve gotten here that you sounded like yourself again.”

He didn’t say anything. He knew exactly what she meant.

So she rested her head on his shoulder, curled up into the cradle of his arm, and they watched Nick and Nora Charles quip and banter and toss back oceans of champagne and solve murders in glamorous 1920’s New York, along with their faithful dog Asta, and for an hour and a half they forgot about everything that wasn’t the movie and each other, and Abby fell asleep in bed that night with her head pillowed on his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat and thinking to herself that maybe such a thing as happiness was really possible.

They’ve watched it dozens of times in the intervening years, and it has lost none of its charm, which makes it perhaps inevitable as Marcus’ suggestion for their Halloween costume.

“Why are we dressing up? I thought we were just having a small, casual party,” she asks suspiciously, when he calls to make the suggestion, and she hears him hesitate on the other end of the line for just a moment before carefully answering, “ . . . You never said ‘casual.’”

“I definitely did.”

“Small. I agreed to small.”

“Marcus – “

“Clarke will never forgive me if I don’t make you wear a costume this year.”

“Marcus –”

“Is that Marcus?” asks Clarke, strolling in from the other room as if on cue (which she might be; it’s entirely possible that he texted her). “He showed me your costumes and they’re so cool.”

So that, of course, is the end of that. Nick and Nora it is. (He’s even managed to locate a stuffed wire fox terrier.)

Marcus has opted for the costumes from the Christmas party scene, with Nora in a floaty tiered confection of black-and-white striped chiffon, hair curled into sleek Marcelle waves, and Nick in a dapper pinstriped suit and white pocket square, hair slicked back, beard shaved off once again into a perfect tiny handlebar mustache. (“You could just recycle your Gomez costume,” she’d pointed out when he sent the photos, which he rebutted with indignation. “Abby, this is a completely different suit.”)

He’s also decided the party should be held in one of the private banquet rooms at the old Sutton Club Hotel, where Dashiell Hammett wrote The Thin Man, a decision he plays off to Abby as merely aggressive commitment to the theme, but she knows better. It’s to protect her, and their guests, from being seen coming in or out of his apartment, which is never free from the watchful eyes of paparazzi.

If they’d had the party at Marcus’ apartment, Abby would never be able to let down her guard, too worried about being spotted.

But anyone can enter a hotel and get into an elevator and go up to the sixth floor and give their name to the pair of unsmiling security guards (incognito in hotel uniforms) outside Event Room C, and close the door behind them, without People Magazine being any the wiser.

They spend the nights before and after the party in the hotel. It feels like a sinful indulgence to share a king-sized bed with Marcus after so many nights curled up together in the center of the full-sized mattress she’d bought for a house she thought she would always live in alone, and which she has always felt superstitious about trading in for a roomier one now that an extremely tall man who sometimes hogs the covers is sharing her bed on a semi-regular basis. It feels too much like tempting fate. So they’ve simply gotten used to it, sleeping tangled up together in the center of the only-just-big-enough mattress. The gleaming white linens and pillow-top at the Sutton Place are an unimaginable luxury. Though they still sleep tangled up together in the center anyway. Old habits.

Marcus will not let Abby help with, or even see, the decorations until it’s time for the party. He has not even shown her the guest list. It’s impossible to shake the worry that he has perhaps adhered too strictly to the letter of the law (“small”) while entirely discarding the spirit of it (will they be drinking thousand-dollar champagne? Is she going to have to make small talk with Sting again?). She dresses alone in their room (he put his suit on hours ago and is downstairs with the caterers), and realizes she feels oddly vulnerable without Clarke. It’s only Halloween, it’s not Thanksgiving or Christmas, she knows that, but it’s the first holiday they’ve ever spent apart. She would feel safer walking into a room full of strangers in a 1920’s movie costume if her daughter was there to zip up her dress and pin up the back of her hair and hold her hand.

But Clarke’s not here, she’s at Mickey’s Halloween Ball with her grandparents, wearing a pair of orange neon light-up ears and beaming with joy and texting her mother picture after picture of the parade and the rides and the alarming number of shopping bags slowly accruing in her Cinderella-themed hotel room, which means Abby has to make an entrance on her own into a room full of famous strangers, which is basically her nightmare.

Her heart pounds in her chest as she puts the finishing touches on her bright red lipstick, closes the hotel room door behind her, takes the elevator down two floors, says hello to Marcus’ security guards, who wave her past, and then opens the white and gold door.

“Surprise!” says Marcus, and Abby’s heart stops when she realizes she knows everyone in the room.

Marcus didn’t throw a fancy Halloween party for all his famous friends to meet his girlfriend and shove her uncomfortably into a spotlight she doesn’t want.

He threw a fancy Halloween party as a gift for her, and filled it with all the friends she left behind when she moved out of the city.

He kept his promise; by Marcus standards, 30 people counts as “small”, so she’s willing to allow it. Because every single one of them is a person that she loves and misses and thought she’d never see again. The elderly Italian couple who lived next door to her and Jake for six years, who babysat Clarke when the daycare was closed and brought pans of meatballs in Sunday gravy over every week so the broke young parents could eat at least one home-cooked meal. The two nurses who worked under her the whole time she was at Sloan-Kettering, who’d become her right and left hand, and who had been devastated when she left. The priest who’d married them and said Jake’s funeral. The parents of Clarke’s best friends from day care. And more than a dozen others, friends of hers, friends of Jake’s, people she has missed since the day she left but couldn’t quite bear to face again for fear of reopening old wounds. People she’d thought, so often, about calling, or visiting, or emailing, but hadn’t, because what if it turned out she wasn’t ready to spend time with anyone who had their own memories of Jake?

But they’re here, they’re all here, and they’re mingling with friends of Marcus’ who she actually likes, the ones who don’t terrify her. No Cynthia Nixon, no Thelonious J. But she recognizes his drummer and bass player and road crew, she recognizes his old roommates from the shitty Queens apartment he was living in when she first met him, she recognizes the bartender from the East Village dive where he used to play every Thursday and who always snuck him a free beer when Marcus was too broke to pay for it himself.

These are their real people. These are their real friends. This is Marcus Kane’s real New York.

She’s so overwhelmed by the sea of smiling faces in front of her that she doesn’t notice until a few minutes have passed and she’s been hugged by everyone in the room how perfect everything else is. The decorations, simple and elegant in black and white and gold. The food, indulgent but not so expensive that it makes Abby uncomfortable, and no pretentious hotel waiters; just trays heaped with crab cakes and spinach tartlets and chocolate truffles all over the room, for everyone to graze to their heart’s content.

No bartender, either; Marcus has taken on this job himself.

“’The important thing is the rhythm,’” she hears him quoting Nick Charles cheerfully to her old neighbors as she approaches the bar. “’Always have rhythm in your shaking. Now a Manhattan you shake to fox-trot time, a Bronx to two-step time, a dry martini you always shake to waltz time.’”

The neighbors are unimpressed enough with Marcus Kane’s fame and fortune to roll their eyes at this ever so faintly as they take their dry martini, and Abby feels the tension in her spine unknit for the first time since Marcus said the words “Come to New York with me” a month ago.

Her friends are talking to Marcus Kane as though he is a normal person. As though he is simply the man Abby loves. A man wearing the costume of a film noir detective, a man who cut decorations out of gold paper himself and taught himself how to shake a Manhattan to fox-trot time and who has spent so many years listening so carefully to everything Abby has ever said to him that he knew every single person she would want to see in that room. Marcus is already a star by now, Marcus has opened for U2 all over Europe and “The Girl Inside the Mountain” is already piling up an awful lot of zeroes in that bank account that will pay Clarke’s way to college in a few short years. But nobody mentions this. They let him leave all of that on the other side of the door for tonight.

And none of them have forgotten Jake.

On the contrary, he’s everywhere, everyone mentions him, everyone tells stories about him, everyone asks if Clarke still has his eyes. Does Abby remember the year she tried to make Jake hand out raisins instead of candy because it was healthier, so he retaliated by purchasing an industrial-sized bag of king-sized Snickers bars. Or the time they’d made a green Jello mold full of gummy eyeballs and it had worked flawlessly as a Halloween decoration but looked too weird to eat, sitting untouched in the center of the snack table until everyone went home and Jake threw it away, but left one gummy eyeball in the bottom of Abby’s coffee mug to make her scream the next morning.

It has never occurred to Abby how deeply it would heal her heart to talk about Jake, to hear other people’s stories about him, to know how much he was missed by people who weren’t her lover or her child.

She needed this, and she didn’t even know it.

But Marcus did.

She’s wondered, from time to time, whether her old friends, the people who shared her life when she shared it with Jake, would look on her relationship with Marcus as a betrayal. Perhaps it’s this, in part, that’s kept her from coming back to the city.

But she needn’t have worried.

All of them see it.

When they look over at Marcus in the corner, brushing a loose curl out of Abby’s eyes, they smile, every one of them.

“Good for her,” they’ll all say to their spouses in the taxis on the way home. “I’m glad she’s happy.”

#kabby #marcus kane #abby griffin #kabby fic #kabby fan fiction #the 100 fic #au: the woman that fell from the sky #happy birthday b #brittany #oh btw #if you read the original fic and all the headcanons #the part that is lexa here was originally callie #i mentioned that somewhere #but a) i like callie better as abby's town friend #and b) lexa fits better #so just like retcon that in your head k thnx

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