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sisitrip · 2 years ago

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Welp, I missed day 28 of A.U.gust 2023 (the one day I was excited to do), but life/drama/the humidity that made me enemies with my hair lol kept me from it. But, since ill editing and reading for a bit, my brain wouldn't let me do that until I posted this one. I want to thank @gallavichthings for hosting A.U.gust once again. I only got in two days, but I had fun nonetheless.

With that said, I'm offering "Will Do" with no expectations. (2,082k words)

Housekeeping:

Da: Yes (Russian)

Spasibo: Thank you (Russian)

TW: Mention of scare tactics used against a small child by our most hated sperm donor.

_______________________________

Ian pads into the dining room grappling with a helplessness he hates.

Silent and distressed, Mickey is huddled on their bed recovering from yet another nightmare and there’s nothing he can do to stop them. Nothing.

He paces, futility ushering him to do something, anything to erase the memory of Mickey crying in his arms, scared and curling his toes hard enough to turn them white. Desperate, he’d come out to heat some milk, the only thing he could think to do and it kills him that he can’t do more.

He takes a few angry swings in the dark, hissing “fuck you, fuck you, fuck you” with each jab. He didn’t think his hate for Terry could grow.

“Bad dreams again?”

Ian jumps when Svet seems to materialize out of the shadows of the sparsely lit kitchen. He laughingly sags into a dining room chair, hand on his chest as orange sparks prickle his vision.

“Christ, Svet. You need a bell,” he says, unsteady. “Yeah, third nightmare this month. Night sleeping is still new for him.”

He blinks a few times and the sputtering orange lights finally fade. He needs sleep. He always sees dumb stuff when he’s this tired.

“You fixing Yevvy a bottle?” he asks.

“Da. He will shit again, but we must feed the bottomless pit.”

Ian laughs softly. Yev’s appetite was legendary, a trait Mickey was proud of.

“I’ll go get him. I just came to warm some milk for Mick,” he says, rising.

“Wait!”

He stills at Svet’s sharp tone. The delicate detente they’d reached was fresh and he’s always careful not to upset that balance.

“Did … did I do something, Svet? I know this situation isn’t, I don’t know, ideal. But, we … me and Mickey, we could stay at my place if it makes you-”

“No, that part is okay. It’s just Yevgeny. He sleeps. I thought I would move before air raid alarm,” she jokes, sounding anything but amused as she waves him back into his seat. “I heat milk for the enfant terrible too.”

Ian smiles, relieved he hasn't clumsily ruined the truce he’s fought hard for and won. He takes a deep breath and wrinkles his nose against a warm electric smell he can’t quite place. Like burning metal maybe.

“You were always sweet, Ian. Too sweet for this world you’d lived in with Mickey,” Svet says, rueful and quiet. A stove burner alights with a blue flame as she twists a knob. “But, it was that sweetness that let you accept Yev. What I didn’t know at the time was that you would come to love Yev like I did.”

Ian pauses in rubbing his sleepy eyes. Her past tense is throwing him off, making this moment weirdly surreal. Like an echo from a remembered conversation.

He corrects her gently. “Like you do. Love Yevvy like you do. Here we say “do” for present and “did” for past.”

“What do you say for the future?” she asks.

“Will do.”

“Spasibo.” Svet opens the refrigerator with her back to him. “You took good care of Yev. You were a better caretaker than either of us and I failed him when he’d needed me most. But, you never did. Even when you didn’t know yourself, you made sure he was safe. I’m betting that you'll do it again when he comes looking for you.”

There it is again. The odd use of the past tense. And did her accent just drop entirely?

Despite those disturbing anomalies, Ian’s too distracted by her clothing to focus on them. She’s not dressed in the robe and nightgown she usually favors. Instead she’s wearing some sort of reflective leggings that look metallic and uncomfortable. Her shape is different too. Softer, fuller.

“Failed Yevvy how? And what do you mean when he comes looking for me?" he asks, watching her move slowly to the stove, like her limbs couldn’t respond fast enough.

“Nevermind that.” She sets a milk filled pot on the flames then leans carefully against the refrigerator. “I have to tell you about my Yev. You need to be there for him.”

The dark is doing something strange to her voice. It sounds otherworldly with a slight echo or reverb that gives it a tinny sound. Like a radio playing at night in a distant neighbor's yard. He doesn't know why, but it's freaking him out.

They both jump when a bedroom door opens and they hear Mickey’s footsteps approaching. Jesus, the whole house is spooking him tonight.

“Don’t tell him I’m awake. He’ll get embarrassed,” Svet whispers, slipping to the side of the refrigerator shrouded in darkness.

Mickey pads over, naked save his socks.

His heart aches at the sight of those socks. Tonight is the first time Mickey’s told him why he always needs socks after a nightmare. Ian couldn’t imagine waking up from sleep as a four year old with your father gibbering like a monster under your bed and grabbing your naked toes in the dark. He finally understands why Mickey prefers sleeping during the day and it breaks his heart.

“You comin’ back to bed?” Mickey steps between his legs, squeezing his shoulders.

Ian’s about to warn him that Svet is up, but thinks better of it. She’s seen him naked before.

“Just warming up some milk. You want cinnamon this time?”

He pulls Mickey close by the hips and kisses his sleep warm belly.

“Yeah. But, I’ll make it.”

Ian presses his face into Mickey’s stomach and runs his hands up and down the back of his thighs. He's not quite over Mickey screaming awake like he did. His protective caveman had surfaced with a vengeance.

“No, baby, I got it. Go back to bed. I’ll bring it in,” he mumbles, blowing warm puffs of air into Mickey’s navel, making him chuckle.

“Baby.” Mickey’s soft snort is affectionate as he strokes the back of Ian’s neck. “You only call me that after a nightmare.”

“That’s the only time you’ll let me.” In the dim glow of the streetlight, Mickey’s face is still marked by his dream. Vulnerable and stricken. “I could call you that when we’re in the supermarket if you want.”

Mickey sucks his teeth and runs his fingers through Ian’s hair.

“Let’s try it around here first, alright?” Mickey kisses him. Sweet, precious. “Hurry up. Hate layin’ in there without you.”

Ian lets him go after giving his hips a squeeze.

“I’m right behind you … baby.”

Mickey huffs a soft laugh and kisses his forehead before padding off, leaving him smiling. Yeah. He's going to call him baby everyday.

The clink of a pot against a mug brings him back down to reality. Svet’s pouring the heated milk and he flushes. He’d forgotten about her. Mickey, like always, eclipsed everything around him.

“You teach him to love. That’s good. Needed,” she says, pulling the cinnamon from their meager rack of spices. “Yev will need both of you to know love.”

“He’s taught me a few things too,” he says through a yawn, wanting their Mickey scented bed now more than ever.

“Da. How to be a father without actually being a father. I will be grateful for that later.”

Svet sets the mug on the dining room table and he has a mild shock. She looks … tired. There are lines in her face and her hair must be catching the light weird because it looks silver in some places. And her pajamas. They’re definitely reflective and have panels in the chest and along the arms, almost like protective plating. Crazier still, they’re pulsing with a warm orange light. He blinks hard, leaning forward to get a better look, but she steps back into the gloom of the kitchen.

“Svet, what the hell are you wear-”

“Oh fuck, no. It’s too soon. The cycle’s started. I was supposed to have more time,” she says fast, accent completely gone as she backs up. A warm copper scent begins to suffuse the room. “Listen. Yevvy’s going to come to you, Ian. When he’s 14, he’ll find you. Take him in. Even if Mickey doesn’t want to. Take him in.”

Ian’s heart begins to trip as tiny orange lights flicker around the kitchen. They fizzle to life between him and Svetlana, only to wink out as soon as they appear and are replaced by more. The hot copper smell is strong now, overpowering.

“Svet, what are you talking about? Holy shit, are we having an electrical fire?!” Ian stands and takes a step forward as more sparks of orange light swirls around her. Despite the violence of their appearance, they make no sound.

“Stop! Stay there! The intake will kill you,” Svet warns, backing into a dark corner. “Just take Yev in. He will have no one but you and Mickey until I’m released. Promise me!”

There’s a horde of orange lights swirling along Svet’s body now, illuminating her. What he sees takes his breath away.

Svet’s older. At least 60. Her face is wrinkled and her hair is gray. She’s aged 40 years since yesterday and that’s impossible.

“I agreed to do this only if I could change Yev’s trajectory and this is the moment that triggers you to remember later. We found that your hippocampal storage will retain this specific memory and I need you to hold onto it! Yev needs you to!”

The orange lights surge now, filling the kitchen with an unearthly glow and an odd warmth. Frozen, Ian watches Svetlana fight against an invisible current that seems to be pulling her inward. She speaks rapidly now, as if racing against some unknowable deadline.

“Take him in. His life changes for the better because you do. He won’t get radicalized. I will get to see him again if I survive this. Just help him Ian! Promise me you’ll do it! Say you will do-”

She winks out into a cloud of orange sparks, leaving behind a strong smell of heated copper.

In shock, he responds to her pleas while they still echo in this empty space.

“Will do.”

The air in the kitchen crackles in the silent aftermath and Ian can’t move, sure that what he just witnessed wasn’t real. He’s been under so much stress - living with Mickey and Svet, running out of money, dancing at the club. Add to that the coke he hadn’t told Mickey about, but had needed lately to keep moving. Maybe he needed to cut back like he told Fiona because no fucking way that happened.

“Ian.”

Mickey’s standing in the dining room holding the steaming mug of milk. “What are you doing?”

With a start, he turns away from the dark kitchen. It wasn’t real. It didn’t happen.

“I-I couldn’t remember if I turned off the stove,” he says, soft and uncertain.

“Doesn’t look like it. Turn it off now, it smells a little burnt in here,” Mickey whispers. “C’mon. Let’s go back to bed before you wake Svet.”

Ian turns off the stove and follows him, slowing past Svet’s room. He peeks in and she’s sleeping on the bed holding Yevgeny. He lets out a shaky breath. He’d sleepwalked. It’s happened before. That’s all. Nothing more than that.

“Ian, you better get in here before I finish this milk or you ain’t gettin’ any,” Mickey teases from their bedroom doorway.

He hiccups a disjointed laugh and follows Mickey inside, shaking off the last of whatever that waking dream had been.

In bed, he loses himself in Mickey’s body, emptying him twice, until he’s wet, gaping and emotional. Still unsettled by his waking dream, he seeks stability and an outlet for his need to fix. He finds both in every moan, gasp and soft cry Mickey gives him until he no longer feels adrift. Satiated, they curl around each other and Mickey presses his feet atop Ian’s, body relaxing with this anchor he seems to need. Ian holds him tight and falls asleep, allowing the dream of Svetlana to fade into memory.

He won’t think about this night again.

For exactly fourteen years, he doesn’t even have the vaguest memory of it. But, the day there’s a knock on their Westside apartment door and a blond teenager with Mickey’s eyes says his name is Yev, he instinctively lets him inside.

Later, after they decide Yev should stay, Mickey asks him to make up the couch. Ian smells warm copper before he speaks without thinking.

“Will do.”

#gallavich #gallavich fanfiction #my fic #gallavich fanfic #AUgust 2023

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xwing-baby · 4 years ago

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The Guide: Chapter 1/? (Ezra x f!Reader)

gif from @spectroscopes

word count: 5.2k

chapter warnings: reluctant saviour to lovers, injury to reader, one mention of rape, little angst, world building :)

summary: The Guide to Everything Ever is expanding, you are sent out to the furthest reaches of Nowhere to catalogue the planets there. What should have been a quick research mission quickly turns to disaster when you crash on a small forest moon. Injured, with no means of communication, you have to rely on the good will of a mysterious stranger...

a/n: first ever Ezra fic lets gooo!! i am super hyped for this i hope you all enjoy it as much as i do <3

masterlist // asks are always open :)

While The Guide to Everything Ever did cover everything ever, it was a little misleading in the boundaries of everything. History was no issue, there was even a large section of the book on prophecy, millions of consequences mapped out on a fold out flow chart. No, the issue was with physical boundaries of everything.

A long time ago the boundaries of the civilised universe were drawn up. From Eden to Xion-5, trillions of stars and quadrillions of planets all included inside the red line separating us from the somehow even more vast expanse of Nothing. There was nothing in Nothing, that much was well known. That was until a group of explorers did what explorers do and found Something. Something in Nothing makes Nothing impossible so the leaders of this great universe came together and decided The Guide to Everything Ever had to include this new Something in their Everything.

That is where you come in.

The Guide to Everything Ever has always relied on first-hand experience. The first edition was a disaster. It only contained the things everybody knew: how to fold a bedsheet and how to get your dog to not hump the postman. The only vaguely interesting part of the Guide was the planetary comments. Even those could send the most interested scientist to sleep! They tried using robots for the first edition, a mere collection of data from far away planets. This was not successful and The Guide only sold four copies.

The next edition was more ambitious. The editors worked out people were a lot more interested in different planets than they were in barbarian fortifications but they did not want to read reams of boring data from a robot called Steve. They wanted a real Steve to give his experience on these new planets. Honest, often humorous, and yet entirely educational extracts of missions across the stars. It didn’t matter that space travel was accessible to everyone. It saved everyone a lot of time waiting in those cold and boring shuttles to get from one side of the universe to another. They could sit in the comfort of their own homes and learn about the man-sized carnivorous plants of Ereta, the beautiful fabrics created on Lii, or which drinks to avoid if you ever find yourself in a Beetjing bar.

The Guide was a success from that point onwards and expanded each year. Soon the job of researcher became a coveted occupation. You were lucky to get into the academy. Only ten new researchers were added each century. You worked your entire life to get in and it paid off, you were off on your first mission into the furthest reaches of Nothing to report back on the wild ‘verse that filled it.

A long time ago space travel was thought of as the most exciting thing anyone could ever do. It was for a few decades but two centuries later it was commonplace. A lot like the London Underground, you just stuck your headphones on and let that distract you until you reached your far more interesting destination.

For your trip you had chosen to watch Anzarch Hospital. A rather cheesy Martian holovid show, it had been going for years. You were on season 85, with only ten episodes left until you were entirely caught up ready for the season finale which was due to air when you returned from this trip. You would rather be at home watching the episodes but this trip to the end of the line was necessary. It wouldn’t take long, a few rotations at least and then you could go to Annie’s party and watch everyone’s favourite doctor finally find out who killed her robot nurse wife.

Nobody ever said Martian holovids were high class, but they were fun.

The computer interrupted your binge, alerting you with a ding that you were within range of your destination and would be stepping out of hyperspace. You pressed a few buttons, accepted the action, and went back to the episode.

It wasn’t until a few moments later when the lower pitch dong did not sound to let you know you had dropped out. Confused, you switched off the holovid and moved back to the cockpit. It was a new ship, it shouldn't have hyperdrive issues yet. But well versed as you were with glitchy hyperdrives you knew what to do. You pressed some buttons, pulled a lever, dragged the ship out of autopilot and twisted one final knob to drop out safely and without panic.

Your routine was correct. The ship dropped out of hyperspace but as the darkness cleared so did any sense of calm. You were already in the thermosphere, hurtling down to the forest covered grounds at electric speeds. Alarms blared as soon as the devices registered the new atmosphere and severe lack of control.

“Please slow down, your destination is ahead at 750 km,” The computer said cheerfully.

“Stupid thing! You’re going to kill me!” You yelled over the alarms.

“That’s not very nice,” The computer replied, “It’s not my fault the hyperdrive isn’t working,”

“You knew?” You shouted. The sides of the ship rumbled and rattled as the change in air density dragged along the surface. The holoprojector vibrated off the table, crashing to the ground and smashing into pieces. There goes all your holovid downloads, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Destination in 400km,” Every minute of your training was coming back as you worked through every combination of buttons and levers on your dash. Nothing was working.

“Computer? Is there still a parachute in this model?” It was archaic but you prayed that your ship was old enough to still be fitted with one. If it, wasn’t you were never going to slow down fast enough?

“Yes, would you like me to deploy it?” The computer asked.

“Yes!” You shouted at the machine.

“Deploying parachute,”

The parachute erupted from the back of the ship with a loud hiss and pop as it opened into the air. The sudden draw backward lurched you forward, smacking your head onto the metal dash in front of you.

You groaned, holding your hand to the injury immediately. A good splattering of blood now set across the screen and was dripping down your face into your eyes.

“Destiable approach im one minu,” The computer said. You frowned, trying to concrete over the throbbing pain in your head. “Systeeee affectabed,”

“Please tell me I’m not having a stroke,” You pleaded. You were not. You could speak and understand language perfectly. The computer, however, was not okay.

Computers are all well and good, very helpful things to have around that is until their processors are catapulted out by a poorly fitted fabric parachute.

You didn’t have time to worry about the broken computer as the trees below were coming closer and closer.

“Fourteenth millennia remaaaa,” The computer slurred. You ignored it. You didn’t need a reminder of how closer to being impaled by a huge tree you were. Instead of panicking you did the only thing you could, strap in and hope that it was all over quickly.

You pulled the straps of the pilot’s seat down tight over your arms, gripped the armrest tight and shut your eyes. The ship whistled through the air, the drag of the parachute doing very little to slow it down. You screwed your eyes shut, cursing every god you have ever known at your terrible luck. You would never see your family again, never see your friends again, and even more importantly you would never find out who killed the nurse in Anzarch Hospital!

The first contact with forest sent the ship off its course, spinning wildly out of control as the craft hit branch after branch. You screamed as the ship tumbled to the ground.

Finally, you came to a stop. Upside down, hanging from a tree, your ship rocked from side to side. You groaned, aching all over from the rough treatment of your descent. You spat out the blood that had pooled in your mouth and tried to think of a plan. Much like the now dead computer you couldn’t really think in words. More drawled sentences drowned out by pain.

The smell of fuel was the thing to get you moving. You gently unbuckled yourself from the seat, careful to not drop yourself on the ceiling and injure yourself anymore. You climbed around the small circular pod to reach the door.

Inhospitable atmosphere. Air unfit for external respiration, respirator advised.

You grumbled and cursed as that warning meant you’d have to climb up the wall of the still swaying pod to reach your kit. It was heavy and difficult to put on at the best of times, this was quite possibly the worst of times.

With a sharp tug the suit and helmet fell out of the cupboard above your head, narrowly missing you as it fell. Carefully, so as not to trip on the steel beams of the ceiling at your feet or cause the ship to swing and fall any further, you pulled the suit on. It was soft, having never been worn before, lightweight and fit you well. The helmet was heavy, a seal at the bottom to prevent any toxins leaking in and the filter was attached to the back of the dome. It was not ideal but you hoped you could find civilization quickly and would be able to take it off fast.

Helmet on. Bag on. Boots tied. Out the door.

In the small amount of luck, you still held, the ship was only six feet above the ground. You sat on the top of the door and jumped out, landing gracefully on your feet in a large patch of unusual plants. The air filter quietly hummed as it set to work cleaning the air around you and you inspected your surroundings. That was where your luck ran out, as you gathered yourself together you looked to your wrist, to the screen of your watch to look at a map to discover the direction you should go, only to find it smashed beyond repair. You had no guidance.

Dark forest was all you could see in any direction. The canopy was so dense only a small sprinkle of light made its way to the floor. Bouncing off the particles in the air, the space around you glittered in the light. It was silent, only the wind rustling through the grass and twigs under your boots made any noise. You picked a direction and walked, hoping you would come across someone soon.

You found a single well-trodden path after an hour of walking through waist high grass, the pollen of which had now covered your suit in a green blue film that made your hands itch terribly when you touched it, bringing up red rashes almost immediately.

The path made its way through the trees, more light coming through as you made it to the edge of the forest. You couldn’t make out much beyond the break in the trees as the contrast between the darker interior showed the outside in white light. You smiled; open space probably meant civilisation!

As you approached the light your eyes began to strain. Sharp pain cut into your eyes, you groaned and squinted bringing your hands to your helmet to cover them automatically. It was no use as a migraine was quickly taking hold. You continued forward, finally breaking the tree line, feeling the heat of the sun through the thin fabric of your suit.

Then everything went black

“What a curious creature,” A low voice woke you. Slowly you gained consciousness, immediately aware of the throbbing pain throughout your body, you pushed to sit up only to feel a heavy weight on your shoulder, “Careful now,” The stranger warned you. You peeled your eyes open and looked up at the creature that spoke. Dome headed in a yellowed fabric suit, Light reflecting off his head obscured his face. The creature spoke kindly and you would have believed the tone too if it weren’t for the pressure of his foot on your forearm and gun in your face. “What’s a thing like you doing in these parts?”

“I-I’m injured,” You tried to speak confidently but your pain overtook your tone as you opened your mouth, “My ship crashed not far from here,”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” The creature mused.

“Please,” You choked out as darkness threatened your vision once more, “Help me,”

The creature frowned, contemplating his decision as if he were choosing a candy bar at a corner store. You tried to move from under him but the effort was too much and you fell into unconsciousness again.

As your eyes closed and breathing softened, the stranger released his foot from your shoulder. His boot left a muddy footprint on the white material that covered your arm. He watched you for a few more seconds, then presuming you were dead he stepped over your body to the blue rucksack that had fallen just behind you. He was in desperate need of medical supplies and clean clothes wouldn’t hurt either.

The stranger rooted through the rucksack, pulling all kinds of things out. Clothes and food, writing equipment and a flip up device that he did not recognise as anything useful. There were no weapons, and no survival equipment of any kind. You were packed for a Sunday stroll, not a trip to the Green. Whoever you were, you were not like the usual people who came here.

The stranger’s cool demeanour changed when he saw your identification card. A gold card, approximately the size of his palm fell out of the bag and into his lap with a soft tap. He picked it up and inspected it, instantly knowing he was screwed. The Guide’s golden emblem was easy to recognise, while he couldn’t read the language that inscribed the card, he could make assumptions. You were a researcher. It was a well-known fact that Guide researchers were protected. If anyone found out you were dead, he would be convicted no matter what he said. There would be no planet in the entire universe he could hide on from the Guide.

Begrudgingly, he had to save you.

Without any other option, he shoved the contents of your bag back inside its original case and threw it over his shoulder. Then came the difficult task of moving you. It wasn’t for lack of strength that the stranger had difficulty with this task, more to do with the fact he had only one arm. He knew it wasn’t far to his camp, he had only been walking for five minutes before you fell into his path.

He couldn’t carry you. With only one arm it didn’t matter how strong the man was he could never hold you up well enough. He tried to wake you first, it would be far more helpful to him if you could walk. He shook your shoulders to try and rouse you but you were out cold. He had no choice but to drag you.

A quick assessment of your body told him you were not injured too badly, apart from the sores developing on your hands from exposure to pollen and a wound on your forehead inside your helmet. He checked your pulse again, feeling it strong through his gloves he was happy that you were not dead and would not be wasting his time. He grabbed the fabric around your shoulders and pulled you back to his camp.

It took a while but he made it there safely without cracking your helmet or injuring you anymore. He set you down on the floor of his tent, pulled his helmet off for comfort, then got to setting up a recovery bed for you.

The stranger pulled a rolled-up mat from under his cot and placed it on the ground and finally rolled your body in its final place on top and he waited for you to wake up again. It wouldn’t take long, he heard you mutter something as he carried you back and even in the low light of his tent, he could see your eyes moving behind your eyelids. The stranger sat on the edge of his cot, watching you carefully with his weapon in hand in case you woke up violent.

After a few moments, you began to stir. The first thing you noticed as you gained consciousness was the pain in your body. Every inch of your body throbbed but nothing more than your head. You felt hard ground beneath you, but no leaves or dirt, it was cold to touch. You peeled your eyes open, met with a low orange light bouncing off dark tent like material.

“Do not be alarmed,” A man said from across the room. You immediately turned your head to see but saw nothing more than a dark blob, “You are safe,”

You found it very hard not to be alarmed. The last thing you remembered was getting out of your ship into a forest, now you were in a small dark tent lit by one single golden lightbulb with a strange blob sat across from you.

Carefully, you pushed yourself up to sit up from your position on the floor. Noticing the blob was more of a man, and without a helmet, you figured it was probably safe to remove yours. With a sharp tug and a hiss from the oxygen tank you were open to the air and you set the helmet down next you. You rubbed your hand across the back of your neck, screwing your eyes shut as a headache shot through your skull.

You studied the man in the soft light. You could not guess his age, simultaneously old and young, you guessed he was a little older than you. He had tanned skin and dark hair with a curious white, blonde streak in the front. A surprisingly well-kept moustache and a spattered beard covered his lower face and a white scar on his left cheek all together created an intriguing character.

“Are you comfortable?” He asked. You nodded. His kindness was unsettling. There was a gentle tone to his voice and a kindness in his eyes but everything outside of that was the complete opposite. You could not remember how you got here; all you knew was the pain your body was in. Had he attacked you? Had he saved you from something else? He could have killed you, but he didn’t. Something must have enticed him to save you and bring you here. Then you saw it.

In the stranger’s hand, he held a gold card. Your identification card. The golden emblem projecting from the card flickered in the poor light, showing your name and number and rank.

“Should I be asking for an autograph?” The stranger looked back up at you, a smirk on his lips, “I’ve always wanted to meet an author,”

“I-I am not an author,” You coughed, clearing your throat before speaking, “I’m a researcher,”

“You pen those books though, don't you? The Guide?” He asked, “There’s not that much literature being produced this day and age,”

“Technically, but we like to think it’s a team effort,” You shrugged, “I just collect the data and write preliminary reports,”

“Does your team know you’re lost here?” The stranger asked.

“No, I… I don’t know,” You said sadly. The computer had broken before you could send a distress call. With no way to get a message to them from the outer ‘verse it would take weeks for anyone to realise anything was wrong, “I would have to find a signal strong enough to send a distress message but the only way I could do that was with my ship,” You thought aloud. You paused for a moment, trying to remember what actually happened when you fell from the sky, “Where is my ship? Where are we?”

“I never saw your transport I’m afraid,” The stranger said, “You must have walked a considerable distance before crossing paths with me,” You frowned, without your ship you were stuck, “I brought your backpack, if that's of any aid to you,”

You immediately lit up. Taking that as a yes, the stranger reached over the cot and pulled up your rucksack. It was caked in mud and a lot less full than you know it should have been, but you ignored his looting and grabbed the bag from his hands.

The only things left inside were your underwear and a hygiene kit. Your stomach twisted at the thought that you had lost the most important item in the bag. Dumping the contents on the floor you searched through every pocket. The Stranger watched you, one brow raised, wondering what you were looking for.

“Did you take it?” You asked, “It won’t work for anyone but me, you might as well give it back,”

“I do not understand,” The stranger looked puzzled, looking down at the things on the floor to see what had upset you.

“My Guide, where is it? I don’t care about the other things, I need that back,”

“There were no books in there,”

“That is Federation property,”

“You’re going to have to explain what it is you’re so agitated about; I do not know what your Guide is,”

“You do, because you stole it!” You exclaimed. Raising your voice made your head hurt more, you flinched and screwed your eyes shut again.

“I am many things but I am not a thief,” The Stranger was offended by your accusation. You scowled at him. He was a liar and a thief, “I took the food from your bag as payment for my saving you,”

“The Guide uses my biometrics, it won’t be of any use to you or anyone you could sell it to,”

“Hold on, do you mean the flip device?”

“Yes!”

“That thing’s important?” He seemed genuinely surprised, “You can have it, it’s no use to me,”

The stranger stood up and walked the two steps to the other side of the small space. From a cluttered table he picked up the black computer. You sighed in relief, there could be some hope for you yet. He passed you the gadget which to your amazement was still in working order. It had got a little scratched in the crash but you pressed your thumb to the lock and it opened it instantly.

Every researcher had their own personal guide. Similar to an ancient flip phone, used commonly on Earth in the early 2000’s, each Guide was a little bigger than your palm. Though small, it was very mighty. Not only did it store every piece of information a researcher collected, but it also allowed communication through text, audio and holo. Through the System there was unlimited access to other researchers' files, yet unpublished information and access to the ‘verse's existing records. There were maps and history of every planet, and more importantly to you at that moment, census records.

As you had expected, you had no signal on the surface of the moon to send a message to headquarters for a rescue. Instead you focused on what you could find out.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed the man’s suit. Though a little hard to read in the dim light you could make out what looked to be an ID number. You had to know who your captor (or saviour) really was. 875-162.

You typed in the worn black ink digits and waited. Nothing was notorious for its poor reception. The stranger was no longer interested in you know you were engrossed in the computer and not trying to attack him, he got up and was rustling around out of view.

Finally, the page loaded. A photo matching the stranger, though a little younger looking, flashed up in holo. You quickly covered the beam with your finger so as not to alert the man with you. You swiped down to read the information.

“Ezra,” You said under your breath as you read the page.

“I don’t remember giving you my name,” Ezra spoke, making you jump. You looked up, cheeks growing hot as you realised you had said it out loud.

“I searched your ID number,” you said, embarrassed you’d been caught, you told the truth. Ezra frowned, looking around him to see where you had seen it. You pointed to the suit piled up on the floor. The numbers were faded and hard to make out from the distance but you had worked it out. Ezra followed your finger and chuckled lightly.

“I forgot such identification exists,” He said, “You have good eyes to make it out from there,” He added.

You hummed in agreement. You were in perfect condition, had to be for the work. Perfect condition except for the concussion and various bruises on your body.

“Well now you know my name, can I enquire as to yours? I doubt that everyone calls you Researcher 42,” Ezra read your name from the ID card beforehand. Leant against the shelves next to him, he looked down at you.

“Some do,” You said plainly.

“That ‘some’ includes me, does it,” He raised an eyebrow, not expecting you to become so cold.

“Seems like it,”

“42 seems a little impersonal considering I just saved your life,”

“I’m meant to stay separated from my subjects. Anonymity helps with objectivity,” You explained. That wasn’t entirely true. You had always made friends with at least one person in every planet or city you researched. It was how you got the inside scoop, the local knowledge that made your articles so popular. Guide Guidance said that researchers stay anonymous for objectivity, but your popularity said otherwise. You just didn’t want to get any closer to Ezra, even just a quick glance at his record told you that he was not someone you wanted to be friends with.

As he had already shown you, he was a thief. He had been convicted of fraud, arson and two counts of murder. No wonder he was here. Most of the places in Nothing were hot beds for criminals like him. Nowhere in Everywhere would hire him, you expected that he had been hired by a contractor to come here and work for his freedom. There wasn’t much freedom stuck on the green though.

“Whether you give me your name or not, you’ve not got much choice in staying separated. A helpless thing like you will need protection here,”

“And you’ll offer that for free, will you?” You asked sarcastically, immediately knowing he would want something from you in return. You were already indebted to him for saving your life.

“There are a few things I desire,” He looked over your body, smirk twitching on his lips. You curled your lip and moved away from him.

“If you’re going to rape me, I’d rather try my luck out there by myself,”

“Oh no! No, little mouse I would never. I have done some felonious acts but I am not a savage!” He exclaimed quickly covering for himself. You regarded him sceptically. He had supposedly killed two people; he’d already crossed a line most people would not. You didn’t believe he wouldn’t step over that line too. “No, The Guide will want you back, I imagine anyone who returned you would be well rewarded,”

“Possibly,”

“Here’s my offer. I provide protection and shelter whilst you are here, and come that fateful day your deliverance arrives, you will negotiate considerable compensation for me,”

“What compensation would you want?”

“Enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my days free of obligation, a ship to get me off this rock and a clear record,”

“And if I say no?”

“Then you can see how well you fare in the forest alone. Food is pretty scarce this time of year and I wouldn’t put it past a few of them to push some more… basic human morals,” Ezra smirked as your eyes double in size. In all your travels you had never encountered cannibals, not human cannibals anyway.

“I- I can’t promise anything,” You stumbled over your worlds as you accepted faster than you should have. You didn’t know there was anyone other than Ezra on this planet, but you were not in the mood to find out.

“We will discuss details when the time comes,” He said. You nodded. “Now we have all that out the way,” He stood up from the floor, “I have to get to work,”

“What about me?”

“You aren’t coming with me,” He said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“But you just said-,” you started to protest until Ezra pulled a gun from seemingly nowhere, you immediately shut your mouth and flinched, “What is that?”

“Protection,” He held the gun out, waiting for you to take it.

“No, no, no! You said-“

“Until your people come to your aid, and give me my money, I’ve got to keep working. Any time wasted is money lost out here,” He explained impatiently. He stepped back closer to you and dropped the gun in your lap, “I assume you do know how to use that even if you don’t carry one yourself?”

You looked at the gun, assessing it properly. It wasn’t complicated, a barrel you assumed was already full of bullets and a trigger. Nothing you hadn’t seen before, apart from the electrical tape that was holding it together. With no more protest from you, Ezra assumed it was fine and stepped away, resuming his routine.

“I will be back at sundown. Help yourself to some food,” He told you.

“My food,” You corrected him.

“Remember who is dependent on who here, 42,” He said scornfully. With that he put his helmet back on to his head and left the tent leaving you all alone.

You waited a few moments to make sure he was gone before making your move. You couldn’t stay with a murderer. You were safer in your ship, wherever it was. You could make a distress call and be rescued. Ezra would never know.

You pushed the gun from your lap onto the floor and tried to stand up. Sat down you could feel how sore your limbs were, your back ached from just sitting up for a few minutes and you were pretty sure you could feel every bone in your feet. A light touch to the forehead told you there was a sizable egg growing on top.

Standing up the pain was worse. You immediately became dizzy, gripping onto the metal shelf quickly to stop yourself from falling. You cursed under your breath and took a deep breath. You could do it.

Or maybe you couldn’t.

You took one step towards the table of things Ezra kept, and fell back on your ass. You were lucky not to pull the shelves down with you as it rocked forward slightly. A few items fell off, narrowly missing you. You dodged the heavy items, cringing as the metal thumped to the ground.

Listening to your screaming body, you gave up. You shuffled back to your previously comfortable position against the wall of the tent and looked around you for something to keep yourself occupied.

There at your feet lay a small book. Ezra wasn’t lying when he said he wanted to meet an author, he apparently was a bibliophile. You picked the paper up, stretching to reach it over your bruised and aching legs. It was well worn, obviously water damaged as the pages curled and the image on the front as warped beyond recognition. The title: “Welcome to the Green”.

You were not going anywhere.

sooo what do you think? i had so much fun writing this fic, i hope you guys enjoyed it too. let me know if you want to be tagged in the next part :D

TAGGING usuals and interested people :): @hunters-heathen @peterssweetpea @beskarbabs @wille-zarr @fandom-blackhole @writeforfandoms @dindja @amneris21 @yespolkadotkitty

#ezra (prospect) x reader #ezra x f!reader #ezra x reader #ezra prospect #x reader #ezra prospect angst #enemies to lovers #prospect movie #ezra #pedro pascal character x reader #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal #the guide #molly writes

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pixxiesdust · 5 years ago

Text

Carrying Atlas • Dabi

Summary • Dabi has shouldered a heavy burden for years and years, with no one to carry it with him. When he stumbles into his neighbor’s apartment in the middle of the night, you give him kind words and treat him with gentle hands. It’s only a few grains of sand out of the world he has to bear, but you’ve helped to carry more than anyone else ever has.

Pairing • Dabi x Reader

Word Count • 8.7k

Tags and Warnings • Blood and injuries, suturing wounds, fluff, slightly suggestive comments, swearing.

Note • This is my first time writing for Dabi, and is my third entry for @bnhabookclub’s hero camp bingo event! The prompt is girl next door. I have absolutely no medical experience, and everything I write about suturing a wound is from WikiHow. Thank you to @sugacookiies and @savagetrickster for betaing, and a huge thank you to @prismaroyal for betaing and for helping me since the beginning! Also shout out to @wesparklebitch who I love very, very much, for coming up with a wonderful title that I unfortunately didn’t end up using, I’m sorry!!

–

The pressure Dabi is putting on his stomach wound isn’t enough to stop it from bleeding profusely, and thick, red blood seeps through his coat and fingers. There’s another injury on his shoulder: a knife wound from a small-fry villain who dared to stab him.

He normally wouldn’t have gotten so severely hurt from a group of no-name villains, but they had ambushed him in a small alley. One managed to get a blade into his shoulder before he could react, and another had retractable claws that swiped across his abdomen before Dabi fried them all to a crisp.

So that’s why he stumbles down this narrow, musty-smelling corridor to get to his small, overpriced apartment.

Darkness hovers at the edges of his vision, waiting to pounce, but Dabi refuses to succumb to it until he’s in his apartment and has patched up his wounds. A throb of pain emanates from his stomach wound, and he grimaces. Maybe he’ll have to cauterize it if his vision gets any worse.

He reaches a door in the hallway, and falls against it, his uninjured shoulder pressing into the wood. One bloody, calloused hand reaches for the doorknob, smearing red over the tarnished brass.

Dabi twists.

It doesn’t open.

He tries again, knowing for certain that he didn’t lock his apartment door behind him this morning—because one, who the hell would try and rob such a run-down place like this; and two, if anyone did try to rob him, he’d hunt them down and dispose of them in less than twenty-four hours.

So he twists the doorknob again, hard, and when the door still doesn’t open, he starts to heat up his hand in preparation to burn the door down.

But then–

–the door swings open, and Dabi falls through, colliding with another body that lets out a soft squeak of surprise.

–

You’re jolted out of sleep at three o’clock in the morning by a bang against your apartment door. It’s loud enough for you to hear it even though you’re in your bedroom. But then again, the apartment isn’t very big, and the walls aren’t very soundproof.

You groan and roll over in bed, and are about to try and fall back asleep, when the doorknob rattles too.

Fear shoots through your veins at the thought of someone trying to break in. You just knew it wasn’t a good idea to buy an apartment in such a sketchy part of the city—even though you didn’t have enough money to afford a better place.

The doorknob is shaken again, so you leap out of bed, running as quietly as you can for the kitchen. You pick up the closest thing that you can swing at the intruder, a pan off the stove, and hurry to the door as the doorknob rattles for the third time.

You breathe in deeply.

Then you unlock the door, twist the knob, and pull it open toward you.

You can’t even lift up the pan to swing it before a body falls through the doorway and knocks into you. The pan flies from your grasp, clattering across the apartment floor. A squeak escapes your lips before you stumble backward, and the body hits you with enough force to knock you onto your knees, which collide against the wooden boards with a sharp crack.

The body groans, and you shove it off of you, scrambling out from underneath it. It lands hard on the ground and hisses, “Fuck!”

The voice is raspy and deep, one that would have sent shivers down your spine if you had heard it in any other situation. But you’re more focused on the wetness that coats your hands after you shoved the body aside, and your eyes widen in horror as you realize that they’re sticky and stained with a dark liquid.

Though the lights are off and you can barely see any color, you know there are very few substances that feel like this and fill the air with a sharp, metallic smell.

It’s blood.

Which means the person who woke you up in the middle of the night is badly injured, and likely needs help.

You get to your feet and rush toward the light switch, flicking it on with the back of your wrist, so you don’t get blood all over it.

The lightbulbs flicker once—the electricity in this apartment isn’t stellar either—and turn on, dim light shining on the body on the ground.

There’s metal embedded in the man’s skin, seeming to prevent the patches of scars from cracking and peeling away from smooth, unblemished parts. He wears an odd, dark blue coat with a collar that is high around his neck.

But the main thing you focus on is the dark splotches on his coat that seem to grow bigger right before your eyes. There’s one spot on his shoulder and another on his stomach, though his hands are pressed against it in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

You grimace, and your lips pull together in a thin line, but you kneel down beside the man who blinks his eyes hard as if he tries to clear his vision.

“The hell are you doing in my apartment?” he manages to force out.

It’s your turn to blink. “This is my apartment, thank you very much. Number 302.”

His eyes roll back in his head, and he shuts them for a long moment, breathing deeply. “Three. Oh. One,” he says, then pushes himself to sit up.

You hover over him worriedly, hands fluttering in the air since you’re unsure where you can touch without hurting him even more. “So you’re my neighbor?” you ask, finally deciding on resting a hand on his lower back to keep him up.

He only grunts in response. Placing his blood-covered hands on the wooden floorboards, he pushes himself onto his feet and sways unsteadily.

You rise with him, holding onto his uninjured arm with another hand on his back. He takes a step toward your front door, and your eyes widen.

“Wait, wait, wait! Where do you think you’re going?”

He looks at you with brilliant blue eyes that narrow into slits. “To my apartment,” he answers.

You move in front of him, preventing him from taking another step forward. “And what do you expect to do when you get there, huh? Fall over and bleed out over your apartment floor?”

The man exhales sharply and steps forward, disregarding that it makes him push closer against you. “Fuck off, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

You sputter for a moment, and he takes the opportunity to move even closer toward your door. Finally, you find the words you want to say, and stand in front of your doorway, stretching your arms across the frame. “You’re not going anywhere. Do you think I can just let my neighbor, who has probably lost half his blood, go into his apartment on his own and expect that he’ll be alright?”

“Yes,” your neighbor says.

You ignore him. “If you die, the police are going to come and investigate, and you know who the first suspect will be? Me! Because you decided to barge in here and wipe your bloody hands all over the place! So you’re going to turn around, sit down on the table, and let me patch you up.”

He stops moving forward and glowers at you. If he isn’t so terribly injured, the look would make you step to the side and allow him to take care of it all on his own. But he is hurt, and he’s unsteady on his feet, so it’s very unlikely that he can do anything to you.

It seems like he won’t let you patch him up without a fight, though. Because he pushes his face in front of yours, and hisses, “Do you realize that I’m dangerous, doll? I could kill you where you stand.”

The threat makes your muscles tense, and a smirk spreads across his face when he thinks you’ll give in. But then you straighten up, and say, “In this condition? Not likely.”

Then you jab a finger at his shoulder wound, hiding a grimace when more blood coats your finger. Triumph lights your eyes as he flinches slightly and pulls back, moving away from your door.

You motion to poke him again in his wound, and he shuffles another step backward. It’s nearly a game of sheepherding now. You threaten to jab at his injuries, and he moves further into your apartment, spitting half-hearted curses in your direction.

“Sit.” You gesture at the small wooden table that rests in front of your living room couch.

He raises an eyebrow.

“If you sit on the couch, I’ll never get the blood out of it. I don’t have the money to buy another one, so you get to sit on the table.”

“Fun,” he says drily, but sits down anyway. He hits the wood heavily, and lets out a groan as the impact seems to aggravate his wounds even more.

You nod at him once, then hurry toward your bathroom, tossing a “Stay there!” over your shoulder.

–

Dabi rolls his eyes as you hurry away. “As if I can go anywhere,” he mutters, wincing as he presses down even harder on his stomach wound.

He can’t believe that you just let him into your apartment, even though he threatened you for trying to get him to stay here. He also can’t believe that you literally poked at his wounds until he gave up and let you treat him. Why you were so persistent about it, he has no idea.

Maybe you’re one of those corrupt hero-types that wants to help him, so he’ll have to owe you a favor. You did say that you wouldn’t be able to afford a new couch if his blood got in it. A sneer stretches across his face. If you really are one of those types, then he’s more than happy to burn you to a crisp as soon as you finish treating him.

Dabi eyes your couch. There’s one simple way for him to find out.

–

Turning on the sink with the back of your wrist, you scrub your hands with soap until all of your neighbor’s blood is washed away. Then you open up the single cabinet under your sink, and pull out the red box shoved in the back corner.

Armed with the first aid kit, you return to your small living room. You stop short when you don’t see him on the table in front of your couch.

Then a hand rises up from the couch, and fingers wiggle at you. “I’m here, doll,” your neighbor drawls.

“You just had to go where I asked you not to, huh?” You walk around the couch so you can see him lying across the furniture, and let out a resigned sigh. “I suppose it is more comfortable than the table.”

Placing the first aid kit on the part of the table that doesn’t have his blood on it, you pop open the lid to display all kinds of simple medical equipment. “Let’s get started. Stomach wound first, that seems to be the worst one.”

Your hands hover over the different disinfectants, gauze pads, and bandages. Then you look at your neighbor with large eyes. “Do you think you’ll need stitches?”

“Why?” he asks, “You squeamish?”

Your lips pull into a thin line. “No. It’s been a while, that’s all.”

He scoffs out a laugh as you pull out a clean cloth, spread it on the table, and start placing the necessary tools on it. “I’m in great hands, then.”

“Yes, you are,” you say, more to boost your confidence than to reassure him. “I didn’t sew up my coworker’s cut on our school’s camping field trip for nothing. It didn’t even leave any scars!”

“Scars clearly aren’t an issue.” His voice is scathing, tone harsh.

You look at him over your shoulder. You blink once, then twice. “Oh. Oh! I didn’t mean to insult you or anything, um, not that there isn’t any problem with scars; in fact, you look really good-” you cut yourself off with a shake of your head. “Let’s just sew you up before you lose any more blood.”

You pick up the needle holder from the table, opening and closing the scissor-like tool once before using it to pull out the sterile needle and thread from its package. The tissue forceps—basically tweezers to hold onto his skin as you work—go in your other hand. After a second of getting used to the tools, you set them back down on the cloth.

You turn around to face him, then pause when you take in the odd expression on his face. “You okay?” you ask nervously. “Are you squeamish?”

His eyes move off yours, and he stares up at the ceiling. “Not at all. Just didn’t know you think that I look ‘really good,’” he mocks.

You duck your head in embarrassment for a moment, but lift it back up as you move to his side. “Here’s a tip: don’t insult the person about to poke you with a needle. Lift up your coat and shirt, please. Let’s see what we’re working with here.”

As usual, he does as you ask, but he shoots another retort, intent on making you flustered. “I normally require dinner before I take my shirt off, but I’ll make an exception for you, doll.”

The comment does make you a bit flustered, but you try to hide it by raising an eyebrow. “Again, I’m the one with the needle.”

You fall silent when you get a good look at his wound. It’s more like four separate slashes that cut into his well-defined stomach, and each slash oozes blood. Only two seem deep enough to warrant stitches. You look at Dabi. “Animal quirk or something?”

“More like retractable claws.”

“Well, it does seem like you got out of the way quickly to avoid the claws cutting deep enough to hit an organ. I’ll rinse out the wounds with water—it’s going to hurt—and stitch up two of them. The other two will be fine with pads and bandages. Do you want something for the pain?”

“You think I can’t handle a bit of heat? I can deal with it.”

Your expression softens the slightest bit at his words, though you try to pull in the sympathy so you won’t offend him. It sounds like he’s had to bear pain all on his own for a very long time.

Even though you just met him, your chest aches at the thought of that.

“I’m not saying that you can’t handle it. But you don’t have to.” You turn back to the first aid kit and pull out a foil sheet of pain medication, popping out two tablets as the instructions say to.

“Take these.” Grabbing onto your neighbor’s hand that is closest to you, you pause, and your eyes widen when you flip it over, so his palm faces up.

It’s coated in blood.

There’s no way you’re putting the pills on that hand, and you’re sure his other hand will be just as dirty, so you move over to his head. When you slip your free hand under his head to prop him up, his blue eyes study you, expression unreadable.

You hold one of the tablets in your thumb and forefinger and put it to his lips. He leans forward slightly to take it into his mouth, the skin of his lips brushing against your fingertips.

Your heart beats just a little faster, but your hand is steady as you hold the other pill between your fingers. This time, his tongue flicks out to pick it up from your fingers, and it also touches lightly across your skin.

A shiver runs down your spine. He smirks.

You get to your feet and brush your hands down your pants. “Right. I’m going to- to get some water to clean your wound with.”

You scrub your hands clean in your kitchen sink, grab a bowl from a cabinet, wash it out with copious amounts of soap, and fill it up with water. Carrying the bowl back to the living room, you set it down at the table and look at your neighbor again.

“Before I begin,” you say, “Can I get your name? It’s a bit of a mouthful calling you ‘my neighbor’ every time I try to refer to you.”

He chuckles. “You’re thinking about me a lot, doll?”

You pout and turn your back on him, pulling out another clean cloth from the first aid kit. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Just thought it would make things a bit easier.”

He sighs and shifts a little as you turn back around with the cloth and the bowl of water. “Call me Dabi.”

The corners of your lips turn up in a smile. “Okay, Dabi,” you say, savoring the way his name feels as it rolls off your tongue. “I’ll clean out your wounds now, then I’ll start stitching it up. The pain meds should be kicking in, but let me know if we need to pause for a bit, okay?”

“You’re too soft.” The words are an insult, but Dabi can’t seem to make his tone harsh enough for the words to sound like one. “I’ll be fine.”

With his confirmation, you nod and pull out a pair of blue, rubber gloves from the first aid kit. As soon as the elastic snaps them tight around your wrist, you start working to clean up Dabi’s wounds.

–

Your temple throbs with pain, and your eyes ache from staring at little stitches, but you’re finally done with closing Dabi’s wounds. White bandages wrap around his stomach, keeping cloth pads on the two claw slashes that didn’t need stitches. You had cleaned up the knife wound in his shoulder too, though now the dirtiest part of him are his hands and clothes.

“You can’t get your stitches wet just yet, but do you want to use my bathroom and wipe yourself down? I can try and see if I have anything you can wear if you want to get out of your bloody clothes.”

You put one hand on your wooden table and use it to push yourself to your feet, groaning when your knees pop from the strain of kneeling down for so long. It’s past five o’clock in the morning, which means you’ve been tending to Dabi for over two hours. You’ve barely had any sleep, and you still need to go to work tomorrow—today, actually—at the middle school.

But even though Dabi’s wounds are stitched and have mostly stopped bleeding, you still need to make sure that he’s okay and doesn’t pull them open again.

“Pass on the clothes, but I’ll use your bathroom.”

He starts to push himself off the couch, and you slip his uninjured arm over your shoulders, leading him down the short hall to your bathroom. Leaving him there, you open up the closet in the hallway and pull out an unused towel before returning to the bathroom.

“Here,” you say, flipping down the toilet lid and placing the towel on it. “You can wet this and wipe the blood off as best you can.”

Dabi nods, then starts taking off his jacket. You’re about to turn away, but notice the way he’s more careful about moving his injured shoulder. You hesitate for a second, then reach out to grab onto the jacket, and help him slip it off.

Blue eyes trace your form that is reflected in the mirror, but you don’t notice Dabi’s gaze.

When the jacket is off, you hold it up and study it. There’s a lot of blood, and some of it is ripped, but you probably can throw it in the washing machine for a bit and get some of the blood out.

His shirt, though, is an entirely different matter. The cloth near his abdomen is in tatters from the claws that sliced him and is soaked in blood. There’s a hole at the shoulder where the knife went through. “I don’t think you’ll be able to save your shirt,” you muse.

Dabi says nothing. He only gives you a look, then glances down at his shirt, as if he’s demanding you to help him take it off too.

It’s just a shirt. It’s just skin. Nothing more. You try to hide your nerves when you nod and bend to place his coat on the ground. As you straighten back up, you look into his eyes, which seem to glint with smug amusement. Maybe you aren’t hiding your awkwardness very well at all.

“Okay. Um, could you sit on the toilet? It would be easier for me to get your shirt off.”

He does as you ask, but smirks and throws out a comment that makes your face feel hot. “Since you’re the one taking off my clothes, I think it’s about two dinners that you owe me now.”

You roll your eyes and grab onto the hem of his shirt, averting your eyes from the skin that it reveals as you lift it up. You lightly touch his uninjured arm, and he raises it up, allowing you to get his arm through the sleeve and over his head, before you finally work the rest of the shirt down his wounded arm.

“There,” you say, and straighten up with the shirt in your hands.

You make the mistake of looking at him.

He’s muscles and scars and metal piercings, a story of pain and betrayal embedded into his skin. He’s beauty and anguish, strength and despair, shoulders heavy with the weight of the world, and no one is there to bear it with him.

Your heart aches.

“What?” he sneers, voice harsh and eyes scorching. “Not pretty enough for you?”

You blink in surprise, then clench your hands tightly around his ruined shirt as you softly say, “No. Too pretty.”

Then you scoop up his jacket from the ground, turn on your heels, and flee the bathroom, feeling the burning gaze on your retreating back.

You miss Dabi’s slackened jaw and curious eyes. His shoulders relax just a little. You’ve taken a bit of weight off him, and though it’s maybe only a few grains of sand out of the entire world he has to carry, it’s a significant difference to him—because you’re the only one that has ever done that for him.

–

You’ve washed Dabi’s blood off your hands, thrown his coat into the washing machine, and tossed his shirt into the trash can. There’s still blood on the couch and table in the living room, on your door, and the floor of the entryway. You haven’t cleaned up the first aid kit either, but your eyelids are heavy, and you need a break.

Dabi is still washing up in the bathroom, so you knock on the door twice before you start speaking. “I threw your coat into the washing machine, and it’ll take a bit of time to get cleaned, so I’m going to my room, and I’ll take a quick nap. Wake me up if you need anything, though, you won’t be a bother! I’ll need to get back up to finish cleaning everything anyways.”

You only hear a grunt of acknowledgement through the wood, but that’s enough for you.

So you go into your bedroom, change into a fresh set of clothes, and collapse onto your bed. You barely have the energy to set an alarm on your phone for half an hour from now before your head hits the pillow, and you slip off into sleep.

It doesn’t bother you at all that there’s a stranger in your apartment.

–

The shrill ringing of your alarm is what wakes you, and you groan. You stretch an arm out toward your phone and jab at the screen until the alarm stops ringing.

There’s an ache in your body that comes from a lack of sleep, and your eyelids are heavy. But you need to get up to get Dabi’s coat out of your washing machine, and–

–it’s six-thirty in the morning, so you’ve definitely been asleep for longer than half an hour, your apartment is completely silent, and you’re going to be late for work.

You throw the blankets off you and leap out of bed, wincing as joints crack and pop. You quickly change into clothes that are appropriate for a science teacher at a local middle school. Swiping your phone off the nightstand by your bed, you tuck it into your back pocket and hurry out into your apartment, intent on letting Dabi know that you have to leave.

But your apartment is empty.

The living room is spotless; the first aid kit is gone from the table, and no blood is there either, though there are some faint stains on your couch where Dabi had laid down. The wooden floorboards by your door are completely clean too.

It’s as if you dreamed up the whole encounter that happened earlier this morning, but your knees still hurt from kneeling down for so long, and as you hurry into your kitchen, a pile of cash rests on top of a white scrap of paper right on your kitchen counter.

Your eyes grow wide at the stack of bills, but you are more focused on the note beneath them. Pulling it out, your eyes trace over the somehow elegantly scrawled words.

Doll,

The cash is for your couch. I could have had a much shittier neighbor, but you aren’t half bad. Your stitches aren’t bad either for “it’s been a while.” Don’t go around letting other strange men into your house in the middle of the night. If you need anything, I’m just next door.

Your neighbor

If your heart pounds a little faster and your fingers tremble the slightest bit at the way he signed off on the letter, you don’t acknowledge it. You just place the letter back on the counter and turn to the fridge, popping a piece of bread into the toaster.

There’s not enough time to make a full breakfast and lunch, but a slice of toast and some fruit can tide you over until your lunch break, where you’ll be able to go to a fast food place near the school to grab something to eat.

When the toaster lets out a ding, you pick up the toast, not flinching at the heat that warms your fingers. Your quirk has a bit of use after all—heat tolerance on your hands being the main benefit.

Picking out fruit from the bowl on your counter, you hurry to your doorway and sling your work bag over your shoulder. After stuffing your feet into your shoes, you pull open the door and leave your apartment, taking one last look at the spotless entryway.

Although you only had four hours of sleep at the most, a warm feeling fills your chest as you walk down the hallway and pass apartment 301.

–

It seems like this first incident causes you to interact with Dabi pretty regularly around the apartment building.

When you go to work after tending to Dabi in the middle of the night, you order an extra meal at the restaurant you get lunch at. You return home after work and drop the boxed meal in front of his door, leaving a note that says, one out of two meals I owe you for stripping you.

Your face was hot the entire time you were writing it.

Later that evening, you find a couple bills slipped under your door—the exact cost for the lunch you had bought Dabi. There’s a note, too, and it reads, I said you owe me two dinners, doll, not lunch. I’ll be waiting.

–

About a week later, you manage to cook something up after work. With the meal hot, you knock on your neighbor’s door, fiddling with your fingers until he opens it. You extend your offer for dinner by using his stitches as an excuse—you’ll check and remove them after eating. He chuckles, steps out into the hallway, and shuts his door behind him.

Dinner goes well. Although you’re the one talking most of the time, Dabi’s eyes are always on you, and he occasionally interjects with a dry and witty comment that makes you laugh.

When you finish eating, he compliments your cooking by saying, “If I knew you could make food like this, doll, I wouldn’t have asked for only two meals.” He gives you a sly look, blue eyes glinting as his fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, lifting it just a bit to show a sliver of skin. “If I strip for you again, will you add on another dinner to the tab?”

Flustered, you stand up from the dining table, grab your empty plate, and punch his uninjured shoulder as you walk past him to the kitchen. “Try it, and you won’t get any food from me at all.”

His laugh is low and raspy, and the sound of genuine amusement fills your chest with warmth and sends tingles down your spine.

You turn on the water at the sink to start washing your plate, but a large hand grabs it out of your hands, and Dabi nudges you to the side with his hip.

“I’ll wash, you go and get ready to take these stitches out. They itch like hell,” he complains. But you know that he hasn’t scratched them at all since you knocked on his door this evening, so it’s more likely that he feels the need to wash things up for you—even though he’d never admit it.

You nod anyway, and retreat from the kitchen. Grabbing the first aid kit from under the sink, you stop by your bedroom and pick up a thick envelope from the drawer in your nightstand.

Removing the stitches goes by quickly, and you keep Dabi distracted by telling him about the middle schoolers that you teach.

“They’re a handful,” you say, “just like someone I’ve gotten to know. But they’re worth the time and energy.” You pull out the last bit of thread and look Dabi in the eyes. “You’re worth it.”

He holds your gaze for what seems like hours, but is only a couple of seconds. Then he blinks and looks away. “I don’t deserve it.” His voice is flat and lifeless, as if he states an irrefutable fact.

You wonder what had happened in his life for him to believe this to be true. You set down the tweezers you were using and take off your gloves, tossing them onto the wooden table.

In one smooth movement, you swing one leg over the lower half of Dabi’s body, and push that knee into the cushions of your couch. Leaning over him, you cup a hand on his cheek. He lets you tilt his head so his eyes look into yours, and his eyes widen just a bit when he sees the wet sheen in your own.

“You deserve the world, Dabi. You deserve happiness, companionship, love. I’d give you all that I could.” Your eyes turn hard and angry, and Dabi is enchanted by the transformation. “And I’d burn anyone that told you otherwise.”

He nearly laughs at your choice of words. His lips twitch, and you catch sight of the movement, then seem to come to your senses all at once. You scramble off him, making Dabi grunt when your knee knocks into his thigh as you nearly throw yourself to the ground.

“Sorry, sorry!” you repeatedly say, not looking at him while you clean up the first aid kit and throw the little scraps of thread away.

Dabi lets his expression soften when your back is to him, and he rubs a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he whispers.

“Doll,” he says, loud enough so you should be able to hear. But you keep apologizing as you rush around your apartment, putting things away.

When you finally get back into the living room, Dabi calls you by your nickname again. “Doll!”

You startle and look at him with wide eyes.

He lets a smirk form on his face. “Don’t stress so much about it, yeah? But now you’ve taken off my clothes and have gotten to sit on my lap. I think I should get another dinner for that, don’t you?”

That comment gets you to roll your eyes. “Damn,” you say. “At this rate, I’ll never be free from debt.”

Dabi turns serious. He sits up on the sofa and stretches an arm out to you. When you take it, he draws you close and motions for you to take a seat.

Once you settle down, he says, “If you don’t want to do any of this with me, I’m not forcing you to. Just say the word, got it?”

You nod to show him that you understand what he’s saying, but your voice is light and playful when you respond. “You’re not going to get rid of me that easily. If the price of being in your company is a dinner or two, I’ll take it.”

Dabi can’t quite figure out what to say, but you don’t give him a chance when you reach to the table and pick up the thick envelope you had gotten from your room. You push it into his hand. He curls his fingers around it and looks at you, asking a question with his eyes.

“It’s the money you left behind. I don’t need to get a new couch; I got the blood out of this one just fine. But even if I did need to get a new one, I wouldn’t use your money to pay for it. Keep it and do something good with it, okay?”

His breath catches in his throat. How the hell did he mislabel you so badly the first time he met you? Looking down at the cushion below him, Dabi doesn’t notice any blood stains. But the fabric of the couch is a little fuzzier. His lips thin at the thought of you spending hours scrubbing the blood out of it, all because he decided to test and see what your intentions truly were toward him.

“Okay, doll,” he says, voice thick. “Okay.”

Since you won’t accept his cash, he’ll just have to figure out more creative ways to pay you back.

–

When Dabi thought about repaying you in creative ways, he never meant for this to happen. In fact, this only puts him more in your debt.

The pressure Dabi is putting on the wound isn’t enough to stop blood from seeping out from between his fingers. It just flows, and flows, and flows, draining life with every drop that is lost. There’s a crimson trail leading from the elevator down the entire apartment hallway, and Dabi once again finds himself scrabbling at the door of an apartment.

But the apartment isn’t his own.

Neither is the blood.

–

Dabi says that it happened because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time—although you insist that you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

You’re on your way home from school, and are getting close to your house, when you hear angry yelling from an alleyway. You normally would just take quicker steps and hurry away from there, but a familiar drawl freezes you in place.

“Dabi?” His name leaves your lips in a soft whisper. What was he doing here? Was he in trouble? The other voices sound harsh and threatening, and there are so many of them. Your blood grows cold at the thought of villains trying to harm him.

You know Dabi is dangerous, that he’s a force to be reckoned with. He told you himself the first time you met by threatening to kill you without any hesitation in his voice. He can take care of himself.

But what if–

You know you’d never be able to live with yourself if he got hurt, and you didn’t do anything to help him when you could. So you peek around the corner of the alley, eyes widening when you catch sight of a dozen people in a semicircle, surrounding Dabi, who has his back against one of the walls.

His posture is relaxed, and he doesn’t seem worried at all.

But some of these villains are visibly armed—with dangerous mutation quirks, or with various weapons probably obtained through unlawful means.

Your own quirk will never let you fight all of them, even if Dabi took on half or more. However, you can create enough of a distraction for both of you to run away.

Even though your heartbeat echoes in your ears, a fast tempo that betrays your nerves, you straighten up and take a deep breath. You force a smile on your face, then walk around the corner with light, bouncy steps, and let out a squeal of delight.

“Heyy, Hot Stuff! You’ve been keeping me waiting; what happened to our date?” You make your voice flirty, dripping with sweetness, despite all the villains’ eyes snapping to you. Since you have their attention, you dip your head in a small nod, greeting them as if nothing is wrong. “Hello gentlemen, I hope you don’t mind if I steal my boyfriend, we’re supposed to watch a movie!”

They’re all too dumbfounded to stop you from skipping around them and moving to Dabi’s side, hugging his arm. His eyes are wide, and if this is any other situation, you would laugh.

“Doll,” he hisses, “What the hell–”

“C’mon, let’s go!” You cut him off and tug on his arm, forcing him to take a couple steps with you toward the entrance of the alley.

Then one of the villains steps in front of you, large and looming. “Fuck off, you meddlesome shit. You’re not wanted here.”

You pout. “But my date–”

“You think I give a fuck about your date?” he roars, the sound echoing off the walls of the alley. “You’re really stupid if you can’t tell that your boyfriend and I have some business to deal with.”

Dabi bristles in anger, and you can tell that he’s about to say something inflammatory, so you squeeze his arm tightly in warning.

“Aww, are you sure you won’t let us go?” You let go of Dabi’s arm and step toward the villain. Raising your hands, you wave them slightly, so the villain’s eyes focus on them. “Then, I’m afraid I’ll have to make you.”

You activate your quirk, clapping your hands together with a loud smack. Sparks of orange and gold shoot out of your hands at the impact, blinding the villain and searing his skin at the same time.

The villain curses and stumbles back, but you don’t let him off that easily. You kick your leg out, your foot aiming for a particular spot of the male anatomy. It makes contact, and a triumphant smirk forms on your face at the howl that leaves the villain’s throat.

With the villain out of the way, you reach back and grab onto Dabi’s hand, pulling him out of the alleyway. Other villains try to chase after you, but Dabi waves a hand, and a wall of bright blue fire covers the entrance of the alley.

Since the rest of the villains are trapped, you and Dabi aren’t in any rush to hurry home.

“Hot Stuff?” Dabi asks, unable to hide the amusement and amazement in his voice. He can’t believe that you pulled that off, and can’t believe you even tried it at all.

“It’s because of your body temperature. You’re always like a heater, you know? And I know you have a- a fire related quirk too… Dabi? I- I don’t– It hurts–” A sharp cry leaves your lips, and you stumble as you put your weight on your left leg, blinding pain shooting up from your thigh.

Dabi’s eyes immediately snap to yours, and his blood goes cold when he takes in the agony on your face. His eyes move further down. Blood leaks out from a huge gash on your outer thigh, soaking and staining your clothes. It’s so much for such a short amount of time, and fear seeps into his bones.

Your breaths sound more like harsh gasps, and you clutch tightly to his arm. “Dabi,” you whimper.

He scans the street. There’s a serrated dagger not too far from the both of you, dark red coating the blade. He recalls one of the villains in the group that surrounded him in the alley—even though he would have burned them all if it wasn’t for your showing up—that had multiple knives strapped to his body.

Dabi’s body heats in anger. Smoke wafts from his hands. If you weren’t so badly injured, if he didn’t have to help you get home to take care of your wound, he would have stormed back to the alley and destroyed them all.

But you’re losing strength with every second, so Dabi moves your arm to rest on his shoulders, and slides his own arm around the back of your waist. He pushes one hand on top of your own, forcing you to keep pressure on your thigh.

“C’mon, doll, you’ll be alright. Stay strong for me, yeah? We’ll get you home.”

–

“Doll, keep your eyes open for me, okay? You gotta tell me how to put you back together and make you alright, got it?” Dabi forces your key into the lock, twisting as hard as he can to unlock it.

As soon as the doorknob turns, he’s pushing the door wide open and helps you into your apartment.

Your place is as familiar to him as his own apartment is now—he’s basically here a couple hours every day or two, just spending time with you at dinner, or looking over your shoulder as you grade your students’ papers. So he leads you straight to the living room, and eases you onto the couch.

His chest aches when you moan in pain.

“Stay here, doll. Stay awake, and keep pushing down on that wound, okay? I know it hurts, but I need you to do this for me. You won’t let me down, right?” Dabi lets the words spill from his mouth as he moves around your apartment, gathering the first aid kit from your bathroom and getting a bowl of clean water from your kitchen.

You just groan and press your head into the cushions of your couch, as if it can help you escape from the burning pain flaring out from your thigh.

Dabi takes out the foil sheet of pain medication, pops two of them out, and presses the pills against your lips until you open your mouth and swallow the pills.

Your vision is blurry, and you can’t keep your eyes open for long, but Dabi’s figure disappears from your sight. A worried cry leaves your lips.

“I’ll wash my hands, and I’ll be right back, okay? Keep that pressure on your leg, doll, you’re doing great.” Dabi doesn’t know how his voice sounds unaffected, when his heart is fluttering with nerves, with fear, and when his hands tremble as tap water runs over them.

It’s his fault. It’s all his fault.

But the blame he feels will do nothing to stop your bleeding, so he gets his hands clean and strides back into the living room.

The gloves go on his hands, elastic snapping against scarred skin. He pulls out the needle holder and uses it to take the sterile needle and thread out of its packaging, and places them onto a clean towel. He removes tissue forceps and a pair of large scissors out of the kit too, and grabs another clean towel before turning around to you.

Your eyes are shut, and your breathing is shallow, but you flinch when he touches your shoulder with the back of his wrist.

“Hey, doll, I need you to talk me through the steps, okay? I can’t have you falling asleep on me.” Dabi does know what to do—and he’s not looking forward to it—but he doesn’t know what would happen if you drifted off into sleep while losing so much blood.

“I’ll need to cut your pants to see what we have to work with. Don’t move as I do this. We- I don’t want you getting hurt any worse.”

With the large scissors, he starts cutting at the cloth of your pants, from the waistband down, until he can peel away the fabric to reveal a deep cut on your thigh.

“Fuck,” he hisses. Though it’s only one cut, Dabi thinks it’s worse than the scratches he received on his abdomen. And it probably hurts you more than his own did—a serrated knife that tore through you was worse than sharp claws could ever be.

You crack open your eyes again, taking in the distraught expression on Dabi’s face. You want to comfort him, so even though your voice sounds more like a croak, you say, “Looks like you owe me dinner now, for taking off my pants.”

“Anytime, anywhere, doll. You name it. Just let me stitch you up, alright?”

You let out a quiet “mhm,” and Dabi takes it as a sign that you’re ready. He takes one last look at your face and gets started on cleaning up your wound.

–

Dabi is done with the stitches, and you’re completely passed out on the couch, exhausted and still in pain. He’s still on adrenaline; he never felt that much fear for someone before. He hasn’t cared so much in years.

If he hadn’t been able to save you–

–then all of Japan would cower in fear under the oppression of his flames.

No hero would be able to stop his rampage. He’d wipe the filth off the face of the Earth, and–

You groan and shift, tilting your head toward the wooden table, where Dabi is sitting, and slowly crack open your eyes. He looks murderous about something, but there’s also some sadness in his eyes. Your heart aches for him, even overpowering the throb of your thigh.

“Dabi?” you call his name softly, reaching out a hand to touch his knee.

His anger immediately vanishes. “Hey, doll.”

“Are you okay?”

He moves his hand to rest on top of yours, fingers hot against your skin. “I should be the one to ask that—I’m not the one that got a huge ass gash across my thigh. But yes, I’m fine.”

A small smile forms on your face. “I know you didn’t get injured, Dabi. But how are you feeling? You looked upset just now, and I think you’re feeling guilty, but none of it was your fault.”

“Of course I’m fucking angry.” Though he says he’s angry, his voice is cold and level. “You threw yourself into a dangerous situation to try and help me. I would have been fine on my own. Then you got hurt because I couldn’t put up the wall of fire in time to stop that piece of shit from throwing that knife.”

His hands clench into fists on his lap, and smoke rises from the gaps between his fingers. You pull your hand out from under his fist and curl your fingers on top of his. The smoke stops.

“And you were bleeding, doll, and it was too much too fast. I should have–”

“Dabi,” you say, “as soon as I saw you in that alleyway, there was no way I could have continued on by myself. I know you can handle yourself, but there was the possibility of you getting hurt, and I would not stand for it.

The pads of your fingertips brush over his knuckles in a gentle caress. “You would have done the same for me, I know you would. So please don’t be upset, okay? You saved me. You did exactly what you needed to do, and you saved me. I’m right here, and I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

He picks up your hand in his and brings it up, so resting his forehead on it. Weight seems to slip off his shoulders, his guilt easing. You know it won’t be gone completely—it wouldn’t be gone for you had your roles been switched—but at least it has lessened.

“I was thinking,” Dabi says, his voice raspy as his warm breaths brush across the skin of your arm, “that I’d be willing to burn the whole world down if I lost you.”

“Ah,” you say in response, but you don’t address it further. You tug on his hand, grabbing his attention, and motion to the couch. “Come sit. I want- I want to be close to you.”

A smirk tilts up his lips. “How could I refuse that, doll?”

He does as you command, helping you sit up, so your back is against his chest, but your legs are still stretched out on the couch. He’s careful to avoid moving your injured leg, so you barely feel any pain at all. Dabi’s arms wrap around you, a warm weight of comfort, telling you that you’re safe and you are home.

When you finish settling down, you speak again. “Remember what I told you when I removed your stitches? You deserve the world, Dabi, and I’d burn anyone who told you otherwise.”

“Ah,” he says, repeating your response to him. His chest is tight and warm, and he knows it’s not because of his quirk.

“That’s a cute sentiment, doll, but are you sure you can burn anyone with those tiny sparks of yours?”

You pout, and poke him in the side. He flinches, and you laugh. “They’re not that tiny, they’d at least scorch someone’s skin.”

“Yeah, right, it’s more like they’ll warm you up a bit in the winter.”

“Dabi! No more dinner for you!”

“Oh, but you forget that it’s my turn now. I’m the one who got you out of your pants.”

You look down at yourself—at your bare legs—and let out a squeak, grabbing one of the pillows on the couch to cover up your legs. “What the heck!”

He laughs at your embarrassment. When he calms, he raises one of his hands to brush against your cheek, his touch seeming to burn a trail of warmth down the side of your face. You look at him curiously, your eyes meeting the heated blue of his own.

“I’m glad you’re okay, doll.”

“I’m glad you’re okay too.”

He leans toward you. Your breath catches in your throat as his face gets even closer, and you shut your eyes. Warmth presses against your forehead for a moment, then leaves as quickly as it appears.

It takes you a second to realize what it is, but your eyes fly open, and you take in Dabi’s smirk, as well as the slight vulnerability in his eyes.

So you tug on his shirt until he moves his head back toward yours, and you press your lips against his cheek. Metal staples are slightly cool under your mouth, and his scars are rougher than his skin, but you don’t care.

You let your lips linger longer than Dabi’s did, and slowly pull back, affection gleaming in your eyes.

He stares at you, and you hold his gaze, not hiding the emotions that well up within you. You haven’t even known him for two weeks—certainly not enough time to fall in love, but you feel something between you.

You want to explore it further.

“So,” you say, tilting your head slightly. “Dinner?”

Dabi smiles at you. “As I said, anytime, anywhere, doll. If it’s with you, I don’t care about the rest.”

–

Tag List • @dragonhrte @knifeewifee @ererokii

#boku no hero academia #dabi x reader #dabi #bnha x reader #my hero academia #bnhabookclub #my writing #my writing: fic #type: anime #anime: boku no hero academia #ch: dabi #type: fanfic #fanfic: reader insert #fanfic: cannon verse

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luninosity · 5 years ago

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Catching up on some @whumptober2020 prompts! Here’s a Cherik one - there had to be one, right? For the theme:

No 16. A TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY Forced to Beg | Hallucinations | Shoot the Hostage

Warnings / tags: nothing too much, here! Hallucinations, some mention of anti-mutant sentiment, some vague allusions to Charles’ terrible family in hallucinations, happy ending (of course)

Charles is hallucinating. Erik knows this because the world is hallucinating: improbable pink-striped tigers walk in and out of the walls of the house, Charles Darwin’s having a casual conversation with a young woman in a flowing nineteenth-century gown—Ada Lovelace?—near the stairs, and a thunderstorm’s raging but the lightning strikes cause no damage to the floor or walls. The house they’ve built here in Genosha is in part a replica of the Xavier mansion, the familiar, the good memories; it’s in part new and improved. Right now it’s under siege.

He holds the antidote in one hand. Hank had promised it’d work.

Charles’ telepathy shrieks and shudders. A rocket-ship, all pulp-fiction chrome and swooping wings, manifests itself in the doorway to the kitchen. It’s not real—even Charles can’t make something out of nothing—but it looks and feels and even smells and tastes real: the billow of smoke, the rush of heat. Erik’s senses believe it, for a moment, until it vanishes.

He runs for the stairs, dodging a particularly inquisitive tumble of vines and flowers out of some prehistoric period.

He’s not wearing the helmet, no protection; he doesn’t bother much these days, no secrets from his other half, but Hank had wondered if it’d give him more of a shield against telepathy gone haywire. But he can’t, because he needs to reach Charles, because he’s the one who can reach Charles. Because—

He stops as a wave of black rolls over him, heavy and billowing; he can’t see the top of the steps, the hallway. He can’t see, can’t hear.

But he knows the home inside and out. And his own power thrums in response: reaching out to metal and magnetic fields, to the bones of this house’s construction, from the complicated whirr of infirmary machines to the knobs of the dresser drawers in Charles’ bedroom—

He turns that way. Lets familiarity pull him on.

He calls, Charles? There’s no answer, but the blackness feels faintly surprised, for a moment.

The hallway’s hot. Sticky. Erik’s forehead’s warm. Charles is feverish, he knows: whatever that anti-mutant mad scientist had managed to infect him with, it’s come with delirium, pain, waves of heat and chills. Erik for a moment hates all humanity and all mad scientists; but, then, Charles would no doubt laugh and tell him not to think that way. That not all humans are bad, just as not all humans are good. All people, really: mutant and not.

Erik would not have believed that, once.

But he believes in Charles. And—after everything, the ways they’ve fought each other and torn each other’s hearts apart and found each other again, over and over—he knows that Charles believes in him.

He calls Charles’ name again. A flicker of awareness pauses to look at him. Good.

A tall dark shape or two stroll out of a doorway. A vicious flare of memory: the cruel glint in the face of Charles’ stepfather, the fists of his stepbrother. They aren’t real but Erik knows they were, once; his anger sears like electric fields, snapping and sizzling.

No one should ever hurt Charles. Never again. Not while Erik’s here.

Charles has saved him in every way one person can save another, has saved him and held onto hope for him and looked at him with such joy, another half of soul and self and matching love. Erik’s own love burns white-hot and fierce and unflinching. He’ll make the world new and clean and safe for Charles, if he has to; he’ll give Charles everything, up to and including surrender, a laying down of arms, if Charles asks.

Right now Charles needs him. Even in dazed cacophonous mazes, Charles recognizes him: nothing’s tried to harm Erik. A welcome presence, not a threat.

Some part of his instincts grumbles at this—he’s always a threat, he’s dangerous, Charles of all people ought to know—but he also knows that Charles isn’t naïve. Charles trusts Erik not because Charles believes Erik’s harmless; Charles trusts Erik because they both know Erik doesn’t want to harm him. A choice, over and over. On both sides.

Erik, says Charles’ voice. Unfocused, dreaming, weak and disoriented. Erik…

I’m here. He still can’t see, but that’s all right; that’s just his perceptions, the same way his shirt-sleeves twist and turn and coil into feathers and then peel away over his arms, the same way the floor drops out beneath him though he knows it’s there. Charles, he knows, doesn’t feel real to himself at the moment, doesn’t have a good grasp on the world; the projections hide reality in turn.

He finds the bed through memory and touch. Through anchors of power and love and heat. Charles is crying softly, wreathed by flame, writhing amid sheets and tongues of fire.

Erik steps into the fire. Walks to his side, clutching the antidote. And sinks down beside him.

Every motion’s drenched in pain, skin melting and hair sparking. But it isn’t happening, it isn’t physical, they’re both alive somewhere back in the reality where Erik’s body’s whole and no disquieting violet wormholes keep opening up in the windows…

The pain is agonizing, of course. It doesn’t stop. But Erik knows how to live with pain. Besides, he’ll walk through hell if it’ll bring Charles peace. I’m here. Right here. Just a moment, just one moment—

You’re not, Charles moans. You’re not—you’re not real, this isn’t real, I can’t tell—Erik, please, please be here—

I am. I promise you I am. This will hurt for a moment, but it will be better, Charles, I swear—

Love you—Erik—

I love you, Erik tells him with entire honesty, with the truth of everything he is; and does not look at the blurry mess of his own hand as he moves, as he injects Hank’s antidote, as he presses it to Charles’s skin.

Charles screams. It does hurt—Hank had warned of that—and it’s effective but brutal, countermeasures burning the virus away, chasing it down, killing it.

Charles screams and screams, and the world implodes: a ravine opening up in the bedroom floor and walls crumbling in, fire dropping out of the sky, a horde of ancient tortoises stampeding through the background, chess pieces tumbling over across a rug, men in suits walking in and shaking their heads as flavors of smoke and scotch and burnt sugar burst over Erik’s senses, until it all vanishes in a final all-encompassing crash of blank white brilliance that doesn’t even register as pain any longer…

He wakes up to discover that he’s lying in Charles’ bed. He’s wrapped around Charles, in fact: clinging to the man he loves. Some medical equipment chirps and hovers: some sensors’re attached, which means Hank at least has been and gone, leaving them privacy. Charles, exhausted and drowsy, is stroking his hair. My Erik.

Erik thinks wordless devotion at him, not bothering to move. Charles feels tender in all the senses of the word: wrung out, healing, gently touching him.

Yes, Charles murmurs tiredly. I’m here. I’m recovering. As are you.

I’m fine. He says it aloud for good measure: “I’m fine, Charles. I’m not hurt.”

“Apparently we’ve both been asleep for six hours. There was some talk of moving us to the infirmary, but the bed trembled any time anyone tried.” You were hurt, though. I apologize, love. Charles means this: sincerity in weary rueful blue eyes, in the way he’s holding Erik like something precious.

Erik recognizes that impulse: he touches Charles sometimes that way too, with an emotion like awe. Right now he takes issue with Charles’ statement about guilt. It’s not your fault! He did this to you!

Erik—

You did not hurt me, Charles. Not in any way I would not face, for you. “I believe I promised to keep you safe.”

“You do.” Charles strokes his hair again, touches his cheek; Erik turns his face into the touch. Charles is his anchor, as well: the place that’s warm and softer and candlelit, the place he’d never thought he’d find again, until he had.

Charles says lightly, but with meaning, You found me. Through it all, everything that wasn’t real…

“I’ll always find you,” Erik tells him. “I’ll always be real.” I love you.

“Yes,” Charles says, simple and clear and also real. “And I love you, Erik. And we should rest. Both of us. Right here, like this…” Here. Together. Yes.

#whumptober2020 #no.16 #a terrible horrible no good very bad day #hallucinations #x-men #xmfc #cherik #fic #my fic #erik/charles

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prurientpuddlejumper · 5 years ago

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A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 6

K!nktober 2020 Kink Bingo!: Mirror Sex

<- Chapter 5 | Chapter 7 ->

Summary: The night Dr. Chilton asked you to marry him was nothing like either of you expected. (Have a little domestic fluff smut flashback. As a treat.)

For @thatesqcrush’s Kink Bingo challenge! (Can be read as a oneshot if you’re just here for smut)

2,083 words

“Marry me?”

You inhaled your water and started choking on it, hacking and beating your chest to clear your lungs. “W-what?” you coughed, eyes widening at him where he stood in the bathroom door. You’d been expecting him to propose the entire time you were in Paris—a grand, dramatic, Frederick Chilton gesture, dripping with tasteless opulence. Not in your bedroom as you were unpacking suitcases and getting ready for bed.

“Marry me,” he repeated with more conviction, puffing out his chest, though his voice then wavered and he quickly said, “If you want to. Please?” He kicked himself for the pathetic addition and wondered if he shouldn’t just crawl on his belly and beg.

“Frederick,” you beamed, leaping over the bed to cross the room to him directly. Cupping his cheeks, you felt the stubble of his jaw scratch under your palms, letting your fingertips plunge into his hair as your thumbs caressed over his ears. You drew him into a kiss. Tender but brief. He was still waiting on an answer, hands twitching impatiently as they took up their usual place around your hips. You cocked your head. “You’re not going to get down on one knee or something?”

His cheeks heated beneath your hands. “I… do not have a—a ring to…” he stammered and swallowed.

“Really? How many rings do you own? You couldn’t spare one?”

“That is not the same! An engagement ring is—” His exasperated explanation halted abruptly as he realized you were tormenting him to amuse yourself. The corners of your eyes crinkled mischievously. He grumbled and lightly swatted your behind. “I saw you sipping a glass of water beside the bed, and I suddenly could not imagine my life without you. Is that foolish?”

“Frederick H. Chilton, was this was a spontaneous proposal?”

His ears turned red and he looked aghast. “You are right. This is not how it is done. Forget I said anything, and I shall arrange for something more romantic, and—”

Your lips crashed hot and passionate against his, your heart nearly bursting. He moaned with surprise into your mouth, stumbling back against the door frame as you pressed more of your weight against him. “Shut up. That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” you panted inches from his face, breathing in his air.

“It is?” He tipped his head to press his lips to your again. You closed your eyes, humming in the affirmative.

“I’ve rubbed off on you,” you teased.

He made a disgusted face. “Vicious lies.” You were low class. A mess. Utterly hopeless when it came to fashion without his help. And warm, kind, and clever. Appealing to others instantly in a way he could never comprehend. “Do you think so?” he asked, and this time meant it with nothing but admiration.

“Yes,” you said softly, kissing along his jaw. He nuzzled into you, curling his hand around the nape of your neck.

“I suppose I have had an influence on you, as well. You dress better, at least.”

You kissed over his ear—he shuddered, fingers tightening, as you sighed into it and nibbled on the lobe—and down his neck. “I mean yes,” you murmured against his salty skin, sucking lightly at his pulse point. “That’s my answer.”

He drew in a long, unsteady breath, and blew it back out in one reverent huff. You were trailing kisses down to his partially-unbuttoned neckline when he caught your chin and ducked down to capture your lips. “I want to please you tonight,” he whispered low and huskily. An electric jolt shivered down your spine and pulsed between your legs.

He unbuttoned the silky shirt he gave you and kissed down your chest, sucking little marks into your skin, tracing a nipple with his pointed tongue. You gasped and coiled your fingers through his hair.

“Bleh!” he pulled back suddenly, smacking his tongue over the roof of his mouth. “Darling,” he said very seriously. “You taste like travel sweat and airplane. I was about to shower… would you care to join me?”

You took his hand and followed him into the bathroom. “Absolutely, fiancé.”

***

With a twist of the knobs, both luxuriant shower heads started to fill the room with steam. Having your own water streams so no one was ever left shivering waiting their turn made showering together much more enjoyable—another perk of a rich partner.

Chilton stood in front of the vanity taking out his contact lens and prosthetic teeth. A long, raised scar ran up his abdomen all the way to the base of his sternum. As one side of his mouth sagged under a foggy, unseeing eye, he thought about how much less he had become. He had finally found somebody who wanted to spend their life with him, who loved him, and all he had left to offer in return were the grotesque remains of Frederick Chilton.

“Are you being wistful out there?” your voice chided from behind the shower curtain.

“I am not being wistful!” he insisted.

“You better not.” You joined him in front of the mirror, wrapping your arms around his chest and leaning your head over his shoulder. “Look at that beautiful face,” you said, and kissed his cheek, watching him through the glass. He grumbled softly, but his eyes closed and he nuzzled against your lips.

You loved being able to see yourself kissing him. The sight of the two of you together, naked, sent a wave of—not just arousal, joy—washing over you. “What a handsome couple, huh? Look at us.”

He opened his eyes and looked. He didn’t like himself naked. You, he loved to see in any state of undress. You were always perfect. Even when you weren’t.

You drew your hand up and down through his soft chest hair, enjoying the texture. Like a teddy bear. Then you smoothed down over his abdominal scar, following it to its end, just above his hardening cock. You watched the reflection of your fingers close around it. Got a perfect view of his face going slack as you gently pulled back the foreskin and stroked the excited pink head.

Chilton tried to apply his usual sense of superiority to watching his body being used by you in the mirror, but all of his usual pride was in his clothing. In his flawless hair, and status-elevating cuff links. The polished figure he presented to the world. Not this. These were the ugly raw materials he had to work with. He criticized his stomach, too soft thanks to his sweet tooth, too scarred. His face…

But you loved him naked. It was difficult to keep drowning in his own thoughts with your chest vibrating at his back, your hand sweetly and insistently working him into arousal. You loved what was underneath his clothes most of all, and that puzzled him, hurt him, and pulled him to you with the deepest, warmest gravity.

You stroked his cock until he was rigid and thick, his pulse strong under your hand. Your other hand reached between his thighs, two fingers pressing into the skin behind his balls. He inhaled sharply and writhed beneath you as you massaged him, rubbing your fingers in slow spiraling circles.

“Th-that is… very good,” he gasped in approval. His eyes met yours in the mirror, and he watched your lips curl devilishly into a smirk before you sank your teeth into his shoulder, your hips starting to grind against him lustfully.

His heart was pounding in time with your movements, and he whimpered softly at each touch. You were going to send him over the edge too fast rubbing his ass like that. He pulled open a vanity drawer and grabbed a bottle of lube. “Switch,” he said. “I want to come inside you… not make a mess on the counter.”

The marble sink counter top was cold beneath your hands as he bent you over and rubbed his cock over your entrance. He moved quickly into position, missing the stimulating contact of your hands, but he worked you open slowly until he knew you were ready—until you pushed your hips back against his, sliding him deeper inside you, and begged him to fuck you—then set a firm, steady pace. The sound of smacking flesh filled the tiled bathroom.

“I love you,” he choked out, breath catching in his throat.

“F-Frederick—oh god,” you cried, looking up the man you were going to spend the rest of your life with claiming you from behind. “I-I love you, too.” His eyes were clouded with lust as his hips snapped rhythmically into you, drawing a moan with each sinfully deep thrust. The pace hitched as he noticed you watching him through the mirror, his mouth tightening, for a moment, into a crooked, self-conscious smirk. Then you grabbed his hand and tugged it between your legs to your aching sex, and your moans as he worked to get you off took up all of his attention.

He bent low over your back, his hot, ragged breath tickling the shell of your ear. His breathing was louder, almost sobbing with each hard exhale as his pleasure grew too much to bear, and his undisguised arousal drove the throb between your legs into a frenzy. In one sudden wave he broke, an oath of love for you trembling in his throat as he filled you with his hot seed.

He wrapped his arms around you, watching your face in the mirror, smiling back at him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, burying his sweaty face in your back. “I said I wanted to please you.”

“I am pleased.”

“You did not even finish, you terrible liar. Is the bar for my performance that low?”

“Frederick...”

“I see,” he continued, lifting his head, “Not ten minutes ago you agreed to marry me, and already you have resigned yourself to a lifetime of disappointing sex. How dull.”

Laughing, you pulled out so you could swivel around and face him. “Make it up to me in the shower,” you kissed him, sucking his lower lip, raking it between your teeth before it snapped wetly back to him. “We can put that feisty tongue of yours to work.”

He shuddered with pleasure. “Yes, dear.”

***

The tile walls were already dripping with steam from the shower you had wastefully left running. It reminded you of your vacation to a Virgin Islands resort. A destination wedding, maybe, you thought, stepping into the shower. Frederick was already chatting away about the ring he would buy you. You rolled your eyes and groaned.

“How big is the diamond going to be?”

“Enormous,” he growled, smiling against your lips as he joined you under the hot stream of water. He watched you shake your head in wry amusement, and thoughtfully ran his fingers along your temple and down your jaw, gently taking your chin. “That is not what you want… is it?”

“I was thinking something simple. Matching bands.”

He sighed heavily. “That is what wedding bands are for.”

“In a lot of cultures it’s the same ring, and you just switch what finger it’s on after the wedding.” You held up your hand, fingers splayed, to demonstrate. “Which makes sense—I mean, why buy two rings to mean the same thing?”

He snatched your hand from the air and nipped at your knuckles. “Every day, you surprise with how remarkably unsophisticated you are.” His brow was low and chiding, but his eyes were soft, and the curve of his lips turned upward at the corners. “You will never let me spoil you, will you?” He took a nibble of your thumb.

“All I want is you,” you answered, and brushed back the dark hair plastered to his forehead. Then you added with a grin, pumping your eyebrows, “And that clever mouth.”

His chest rumbled with appreciation as you pushed his shoulders. He held your eyes as he sank to his knees, his hands sliding down your wet sides. Your aching sex throbbed in anticipation.

“Maybe I’ll get you a flashy engagement ring. It’s more your style.”

He hummed in consideration. He liked the sound of that, actually. He liked being treated. “But I get to pick it out. Your taste can be… questionable.”

“We’ll go togeth—ah!” you yelped, back arching with an electric fire as Frederick’s mouth closed around your heat and began consuming you like a man starved.

#Frederick Chilton x reader #frederick chilton #Raúl Esparza #Kinktober #Smut #Hannibal #thatesqcrush kink bingo #my writing #Expanding a scene from A Punchable Face I Want to Kiss

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harringtonstudios · 6 years ago

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space cake.

plot: being machine gun kelly’s personal assistant comes with some interesting experiences.

A/N: NON-CON DRUG USE!! this was loosely based off something irl LMAO, enjoy ;) v long oops

please send in any prompts!

taglist: @iamdorka @no-shxt-sherl @bakerkells

Being Machine Gun Kelly’s personal assistant was a unique job. There wasn’t a clear line of duties, and often you would find yourself driving around aimlessly, waiting on a text from the man himself. You’d been hired a few months ago, and it had been so easy to fall into a routine with Colson. He was surprisingly cool for a talented musician, and you’d soon learned that he was looking for more of a chill vibe than the other artists you had worked for.

In past jobs, you were required to constantly attend to any needs. With Colson, it was more of having your phone on and being in the area in case of emergencies. There were always those days where he would send you a grocery list, and then an hour later, you’d be standing in his kitchen with a mixture of vegetables making dinner. Other days, he’d send you an address, and you would pick up his weed for the week. Sometimes, he’d ask for your help with his room, but you would always grimace and he’d wave it off, knowing that his room was a disaster zone.

A couple of times he had hit you up to just sit on his couch while he played new songs on his speakers. Those days were your favorite, because you’d both sit in silence, him blowing smoke from his joint and you sipping on whatever drink you’d created in his bar. He would always wait for the song to finish, and then look over at you and raise an eyebrow. You relished in his music, and it was easy for you to tell him any opinions you had. He’d always take them seriously, scribbling notes down. After a good music session, you always felt a little bit closer to Colson, slow electricity building in the air. But you would always remind yourself to shake it off, bringing back distance between the two of you. This was a job, and even if he couldn’t tell, you needed this and you weren’t going to risk it for just anything.

You were standing in line for hot dogs when your phone buzzed twice. Both messages were from Colson, the first one had a list of ingredients and the second one had an address with a few leaf emojis. You sent him back a thumbs up before ordering your food and googling the random address he sent. It was a ten minute drive from the grocery store and you climbed into your car, eating one of the best hot dogs they offered in LA.

Grabbing the ingredients Colson had sent you, you pieced together his plans for the night. He was gonna bake a cake? He wanted a shit-ton of eggs, a few tubs of frosting, and boxes of cake mix. A part of you wanted to try and see if you could bake with him, but professional boundaries existed and you needed to maintain them.

A few minutes later, you knocked on the door of the other address, “Hey, here for Kells,” you said to the man standing there. He nodded over at you before walking into his house. You stayed in the doorway as he walked back up to you, giving you a large cardboard box. The box was heavy, and you huffed as you balanced it in one hand before getting in your car, driving off.

Parking in Colson’s driveway was difficult. There were cars filling up the space, and you could already hear the music coming from inside. Sighing, you decided to open the cardboard box to try and put some of the groceries inside of it. Right off, you regretted opening it. Packets of weed stared right up at you, and your eyes widened at the amount of drugs you’d been carrying. You quickly closed it back up and stacked a few cake mix boxes on top of it. Grabbing everything in your hands, you tried to efficiently close the door, determined not to make a second trip.

Kicking the front door open, you waddled over to the kitchen counter. It was already covered with solo cups and alcohol bottles and you grew more confused about why anyone wanted to bake in the middle of what seemed to be a party.

“Hey, Y/N! You’re back,” Colson shouted from across the room.

You waved him over and started moving all the empty cups into the trash. Coming up behind you, he grabbed the box over your head.

“Fuck yeah. This is gonna be the best night ever,” he muttered as you turned around to face him.

“What’s all this even for?” you questioned as he giddily moved around the ingredients on the counter.

“Don’t worry about it, you’re good to leave if you wanna,” he waved it off and you side stepped as he tried to move closer to the counter. Giving him full access, you grabbed your jacket and turned around to view the scene unfolding in front of you.

The guys were all in various states of drunk, fumbling around the living room. Slim and Rook were assembling the frosting tubs in a line and you could tell it was going to be a night full of antics. A part of you desperately wanted to stay, to play along with the guys, knock a couple of drinks back and help them bake this disaster of a cake, but messing around with your employer’s friends wasn’t going to do you any favors, so you waved goodbye and walked out for the night.

Two hours later, you were sitting in a bar. Your friends had set you up on a blind date, eager to get you back on the playing field. You didn’t have time in your randomized schedule to go out and dates always made you a little uneasy.

A few minutes later, you felt a tap on your shoulder. “Y/N? Hey, nice to meet you,” the guy reached his hand out. You shook his hand, but already could feel yourself grimacing internally. It wasn’t that this guy was unattractive, it was more like he just wasn’t your type. He was dressed in a button down and khakis at a bar, it just didn’t work for you. You braced yourself for an evening of careless small talk and grabbed your drink as he led you to a table.

Half an hour into the date, which was as boring as you’d anticipated, your phone buzzed. At first, you reached for it, but your date threw an unkind glance, so you brushed the notification off. A few minutes later, you got a few more buzzes and then a phone call. Your date threw another look at you. You smiled sweetly before picking up the phone.

“Y/N! I need you to come over now,” Colson shouted over the noise through the phone. You pulled it back from your ear, before bringing it back.

“Is everything okay?” you mumbled into the phone.

“Yeah. Nooo. We’re out of alcohol,” he whined on the other end.

You rolled your eyes, and spared a glance at your date who was picking at his teeth. Maybe this was a good thing, an excuse to leave this terrible date.

“Sorry, something’s come up at work and I gotta head over,” you reached for your bag. Not particularly waiting for a response, you pushed in your chair and walked out of the bar.

Walking to the corner store, you purchased a few bottles of Jameson and ordered a Lyft to Colson’s house.

People were dancing all around, and you spotted Colson sitting on his kitchen counter. There was an impressive looking cake placed next to him, covered in different colors of frosting. You placed the new bottles next to the cake.

“Fuck yeahhhh!” Colson fist bumped you as you hid your purse under the counter. Grabbing a cup you decided to get a little more drunk tonight. Honestly, you deserved it after sitting through that hellish date.

Rook cut the cake into pieces to much celebration and soon enough, you had a fork in your hand. Reaching over to share with Colson, he snatched his plate away.

“Hey no, I wanted that,” you grabbed for it.

“No cake for you,” he responded and walked away. You stuck your tongue out behind his back before taking your fork and reaching into someone else's plate.

Taking a few bites, it hit you that the cake tasted terrible. The flavor profile was just off. Everyone still seemed to be eating it, so you brushed it off and took a couple more bites for good measure.

Half an hour later, you bumped into Colson as you walked up the stairway. He looked over at you, grinning until he caught sight of your face. “Y/N? Oh fuck, did you eat the cake,” he rushed out as he grabbed hold of your wrists.

“Yeah, haha. What gave it away?” you responded as you swayed a little. He cursed under his breath before looking around at the swarm of people moving around his house.

“Is there frosting on my mouth? What,” you started as he pulled you along. Following him upstairs, you smiled at the people dancing alongside his walls. Tripping over your own feet, you snatched back your wrists from his grip.

“Dude, where are we going?” you asked as he moved people in front of him.

“My room,” he answered and you hadn’t been this confused in a while. Colson knew you hated going into his room. He looked a little frantic, so you brushed your disgust off and stood behind him as he pulled the key out from his pocket.

Moving into his room, you heard the music muffle itself as the door closed. There were clothes strewn everywhere, and you could see his luggage opened in a corner, things spilling out of it. Grimacing, you kicked a couple of things aside as you walked over to his bathroom. You didn’t feel too good.

Splashing your face with cold water, you gasped. Everything around you was looking sharper, and you felt your heartbeat rabbiting as you gripped the sink. Your mind was racing, and you tried to take a deep breath as the world tilted just a little.

“What the fuck, what the fuck,” you breathed out as you closed your eyes.

“Y/N, you okay?” Colson called out from behind the door. You looked back up in the mirror as your heart continued thudding against your chest.

“I don’t know,” you mumbled out. Your eyes looked hazy, and you touched your cheek, trying to feel your face.

“Hey, it’s going to be fine. Open the door yeah?” you heard him say and you closed your eyes again. You couldn’t really walk, so you sat down on the floor. You shifted yourself to the door and reached up to turn the knob. He stumbled in and saw you on the floor, eyes shut.

He sat across from you, legs crossed and you could feel his fingers run over your hands. “Hey, hey I’m here,” he murmured.

“Colson, what’s going on?” you whispered.

“So, um that cake you ate? It was laced. We wanted to make a space cake,” he responded and you opened your eyes.

“A space cake, what the fuck is that,” you bit your tongue as your hands shook a little.

“Weed. A shit-ton of weed in that cake. I know you don’t smoke, it probably hit hard,” he explained.You exhaled, and took your hands out of his. Placing them on your thighs, you pushed down a little.

“Let me get this straight, you made a cake edible, which I ate. And now I am high,” you muttered out, staring at his hands across from you.

“Yeah, basically,” his hands twitched and you reached over for them again. Your heart seemed to relax when you could feel the weight of his fingers with yours.

“I don’t smoke because the last time I did, I got crazy paranoid. Bad trip,” you whispered as you played with his hand. Continuing, you blurted out, “I didn’t want you to see all that.”

“If it makes you feel better, I am really high right now,” he whispered back and you laughed a little. It did help, Colson could handle his weed better than you, but at least you weren’t the only one tripping.

“Can I hold you,” he murmured, “you’re shaking.”

You looked up at his face and he looked so sincere. Nodding, you leaned in closer as he scooted over to where you were. You turned around, facing the wall as he wrapped his arms around you. His heartbeat was steady, calming, and you felt it against your back.

“I didn’t want this to ever happen,” you mumbled as you stared at the chipping paint on the corner.

“I can leave,” he started and you felt his arms move from around you.

“No!” you shouted a little, and he paused.

“Shit, I- okay look. I just didn’t want to get this close to you. You’re my boss and I need this job and I can’t actually like you,” you stumbled out.

He was quiet for a beat and then he whispered, “You like me?”

The tone in his voice was softer than you’d expected and his arms relaxed against you.

“No, never pfft. Why would I? You’re annoying and you never actually eat any fruits and you’re just terrible,” you rambled on and you could feel him laughing behind you.

“Oh, you totally have a crush on me,” he barked out between his laughs.

“Shut up,” you felt hot all of a sudden and you closed your eyes again.

“It’s all good. Honestly, I might like you too. There’s just something about you. It’s why I always wanna hear your thoughts on my stuff. You matter to me,” he said as he moved his thumbs over the back of your hand.

You didn’t respond. Trying to get his words out of your head, you focused on the feeling of his thumb. After a few minutes of silence, you spoke out.

“Is there anyway I can sleep here tonight?”

“In my messy bed? I thought you hated this room,” he said, leaning his head against the back of yours.

“It’s disgusting here. I just- I don’t wanna go back out there,” you sighed out.

“Yeah, of course you can stay here Y/N,” and you turned around to see his grin.

Even though you were tripping on some serious space cake, you found yourself smiling back. You’d deal with this in the morning, right now all you wanted was a warm bed and Colson Baker’s arms around you.

#seratonin....please GOD #machine gun kelly imagine #machine gun kelly x reader #machine gun kelly fanfiction #machine gun kelly fanfic #mgk imagine #mgk x reader #mgk fanfiction #mgk fanfic #colson baker x reader #colson baker fanfiction #colson baker imagine #colson baker fanfic #rookxx #slimxx #m writes 4 mgk #m-writes-4-mgk

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theclownandtheflame · 5 years ago

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AIGHT FELLAS it's me ya slut writing a Gaius x MC fic so if you don't like Gaius or feel grossed out by the idea of a ship then DON'T READ IT haaaa no seriously don't read it. Also don't shame those who like it. PEACE! 🧚🏻‍♀️

Btw I didn't quite finish it bc idk my imagination gets dry sometimes and stuff. BUT if any of you want me to keep writing, then ask so and I'll do it! I'll do it either way but oh well ksksksks here we go!

Victim, Victim, Monster

A Gaius Augustine x MC drabble/fic

Written by @theclownandtheflame

DISCLAIMER: Some NSFW, slight mentions of PTSD (not romanticized tho!! ew!!)

Characters used &/or mentioned belong to Pixelberry!!! All rights to them even if they take ours on a daily basis

My mother language is Portuguese so please excuse my grammar should it be necessary!

MC's name is Athena because,, :)

Final warning for Gaius' haters: don't. read. below. the line !!!!!!!!

_________________________________________

"Athena, I did terrible things to you. I abducted you. I raided your mind. I tortured your friends. I killed you."

Funny how stating the obvious got him stuck in her mind the whole night. Fragile, the bloodkeeper clutched her pillow and busied herself with happier thoughts. As if there were any at times like these.

They had just escaped the island when its effects fully wore out. She couldn't blame "grandpa" for her restlessness, as much as she wanted to. So much to consider after trekking across the ugly truth and all she could think about was Gaius. Gaius Augustine.

She heaved a dramatic sigh before changing positions. Now, laying on her back, Athena realized this was probably the best night of sleep she's had in a while. Even if there was, like, absolutely no sleeping involved.

What kept her up wasn't the nightmares this time. Something about their talk, as eerie as it went, helped her conceal the fact his face would haunt her forever. Because, oh, it would.

"You can't sleep, can you?"

The agony, crawling under her skin, hit so deep she could hear his voice at any given time. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she stared at the ceiling, counting sheeps for a change. No nightmares, no daydreams, but absolutely not a hint of tranquility.

"... Athena."

She huffed. If she knew coming to good terms with the enemy would bring him inside her head, she wouldn't have taken the high road. Her lips still tingled from the kiss she pressed to his cheek. The electric warmth shared upon breaking a boundary she would've never have crossed days prior.

If only her friends could see her now. Touching her lips with her fingertips. Thinking fondly of a monster they swore to kill.

"Are you asleep? Do you actually sleep with your eyes open? You are one strange woman."

"Leave, demon!" She hissed, forcing herself up to sit by the edge of the bed. Both hands rubbed at her temples as she whispered words of discouragement, praying to have her brain raided by better thoughts. A psych vampire who can't watch after her own mind was most likely a joke.

Until she glanced towards the door, slowly, blushing deeply at the owner of her inner voices who simply stared back in awe. So it wasn't her imagination playing tricks, huh?

He blinked. Fast.

"... Did you think I—"

"Shut up." She lisped. Her hands continued to cradle her head even as he walked in, eyebrows arched.

"I was hoping you'd be less fussy after our conversation."

Without expecting an invitation, he crossed the distance between them and leaned into the wall across from her.

Surprisingly she didn't budge. Not until her body flinched at the cold breeze that entered freely from the gap he left by keeping the door open.

"Yeah, so was I." The woman closed her eyes and took a deep breath to keep herself from shaking.

Once aware of the situation, Gaius snatched her pillow and tossed it on the door. It slammed closed from the impact, but it wasn't loud enough to startle the others.

"Hey!" She gasped, watching the scene with eyes wide. "Couldn't you just go and close it manually? Like, running for it? You're a powerful vampire, dude."

Entertained by her fright, he smirked.

"I'm also way too comfortable standing right here... dude."

Gaius Augustine was a monster. Is a monster. She couldn't really tell. Decades of cruelty couldn't be wiped out so easily, as Kamilah strongly suggested whenever she mentioned his name. Yet, the way he looked at her with a mixture of sorrow and regret proved it true: Rheya broke him whole.

He stood still, stiffening once their eyes met, and suddenly all she could see was a wounded hound looking for shelter.

"Why are you here?" She asked at last. A simple question that sent him looking for scrappers of answers he couldn't quite provide.

Why was he there, really? Because she's the only one who didn't give him a hard time? Because she knew how his mind worked, and therefore they had a reliable bond?

Because she's the only good thing left of the Rheya he once loved?

He needn't consider any further. That last possibility drained all colors from his face. Staring blankly ahead, his mouth slightly ajar, Gaius ignored her altogether and hurried towards the door.

"Wait!" She called out. Without further ado, Athena leaped to her feet and approached the man to lay a hand on his as it reached for the knob.

The look he gave her was a haunting one. Desperate. He couldn't bear looking at her face without feeling himself break further.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

He was terrified of her.

"I must leave." He blurted out, but his body remained unmoving. The gentle touch he felt on his hand moved on to his cheek, and suddenly he found himself leaning into it.

What the hell, Athena? What are you doing?, She thought. He abducted you, raided your mind, tortured your friends, killed you!

Their eyes met once more, and this time they didn't go astray. They glared at each other's hues while their heads swirmed with questions of where they stood and what they meant.

Victim, victim, monster.

Both experiencing a strong attraction that most likely came to life due to their shared fear:

To lose a purpose without making it right.

Pulling away out of a sudden, Athena turned on her heels and walked in front of a mirror. He followed short after, magnetized, his hands yearning to grasp her hips but resting on his belt instead. His towering figure could be easily seen behind her as a smile crept on her rosy lips.

"What?" He frowned. "What's so amusing to you that clearly isn't to me?"

Biting on her bottom lip, she gestured towards their reflections, believing it would be enough. By the way his lips puckered, it wasn't.

"We're vampires. Yet we can see ourselves on the mirror. Hollywood's fishy, isn't it?"

Sighing sharply not to roll his eyes at her foolishness, he leaned into her to touch the mirror's surface. The way his chest pressed into her back so that his palm could reach the glass made her heartbeats quicken.

The funny look he gave her through a squint was enough to say he heard them loud and clear. And enjoyed being the cause of it.

"You don't believe Vlad's tales, do you? It's outrageous. The man is a buffoon." He quirked an eyebrow. Looking at the mirror at the same time, the two shot each other challenging glares until she burst into laughter.

"Nah. He's not that great, by the way. I don't see the appeal... and I've certainly had better."

Wiggling her eyebrows, Athena fist-bumped the air upon spotting a crimson shade spread on his cheeks. He'd have pulled away to adjust his posture if she hadn't laid her hand upon his.

Her fingers grazed his until curling around them, her touch so gentle he could barely feel it. He closed his eyes when she laid her head back on his shoulder, and his arm slowly slithered around her waist in return.

Humming to herself, Athena shrunk into his arms and cherished the warmth of his hold. Then, the touch of his lips on her ear, of his breath tickling her skin.

"I do see the appeal in this." He growled, softly, making her body shiver from goosebumps. "Of holding you close to me instead of hunting you down. Of saving you instead of dragging you to harm's way."

The hand he had holding on her waist moved up to her breasts, hovering over her cleavage as he reached for a necklace as an excuse to his gestures. Her heart was entirely out of control at this point, beating faster by the minute – but she didn't care. She wanted him to be aware of his effects. Tilting her head, she brushed her lips across his jawline and smirked at the hiss she got in response.

"Well, there is a saying for that, y'know? Make love, not war."

Having distracted him with an array of kisses on his jaw, she reached back around her neck to unclip the necklace and toss it away. He needn't an excuse. Not anymore.

"So which one's gonna be? I'm warning you though, I'm great at waging war."

"You are infuriating." Without further notice, his hands clutched her hips to flip her around.

Once she could face him properly, Athena inched forth to try his lips for the first time, but he made sure to keep her at arm's length. His eyes, dark with lust, studied her frame before locking on her features. It's like he was seeing her for the first time, savoring the sight of something he craved despite unaware.

He took it in without a wish to kill but to touch, appraise, caress. Taste.

"Kiss me." She ordered, her voice but a whisper as his thumbs drew circles around her hips.

"No, Bloodkeeper..." He hummed, his nose brushing hers as he fought the urge to give it in. "I'm not so sure I am worthy of your lips."

Dodging temptation, he pressed a kiss to her cheek instead. A warm reminder that there's still good in this world as much as there could be in him.

"Goodnight, Athena."

She shook her head. He couldn't leave now, not when she found a way around the sharp edges of his heart. However, he was too determined to cut it short before it was too late. Even if something told him they were way past that.

Averting his gaze not to meet her hungry eyes, he planted one last kiss on her forehead and left with haste.

"Great..." She mumbled, more restless than ever. "Now I definitely can't sleep."

-//-

#bloodbound #bloodbound choices #bloodbound book 3 #bloodbound fic #bloodbound drabble #gaius augustine #gaius x mc #yes it is real the cursed ship mwah #bb choices #bb pb #theclownandtheflame : victim victim monster

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ahatintimestorybook · 5 years ago

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A Royal Problem Chap.7- Train Trouble 2.0 Electric Boogaloo

Evening or Morning! Depending where you are in the world!

Here is the next chapter or basically, Chapter 6 part 2. Yes this here was supposed to be part of Chapter 6, but I had too many ideas that I needed to cut the chapter into two parts.

However, the good news of this chapter craziness ensues as well as two kids fighting the Nyakuza.

Also thank my good friend, ReaderDragon for the title of this chapter! Well we both did. I came up with the first half and they added the second half, which made me like the title even more. Thanks buddy !!

Anyways, enjoy !!!

Panic was happening aboard the Owl Express, the Nyakuza held everyone on the train up, taking all their stuff or turning everyone into pons. Some of the birds hid under their seats to avoid the vicious cats, some tried to run as far away from the Nyakuza as possible, but that was hard as they were on a moving train. Conductor was hiding with a few owls shaking in fear. He tried to stop the cats with his knives, but no luck.

The Conductor had to wait for the Nyakuza to go to another part of the train so he could make an emergency call for help. The Nyakuza gathered the last of the stuff they needed to steal, and headed on to the next kart. Finally, Conductor had his chance and made it towards the emergency phone.

Back at Dead Bird Studios, Hat Kid, DJ, and every bird that was there were looking high and low for Snatcher and Vanessa. Hat Kid was worried at what could have happened to the Royal Kids; she hoped they were fine, and didn’t separate. Hat Kid really hoped Snatcher and Vanessa didn’t split up because she’d give the kids one peck of a scolding.

“We looked everywhere kid!” An owl exclaimed as he and DJ Grooves came towards Hat Kid. “We checked Conductor’s quarters.”

“And we checked my part of the studio too.” DJ Grooves added.

Hat Kid sighed. “Where can they be?!” She groaned. DJ frowned seeing the young girl in distress, and put his flipper on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry darling, we’ll find them.” DJ reassures her. Hat Kid gave a small smile, hoping she could find the royal kids before they could get themselves into trouble. As everyone kept looking, a phone rang, stopping everyone in their search.

The owls started mumbling wondering who would get the phone. “It’s not me.” One owl said.

“Well, I’m not going to answer it either!” The other owl said back.

“W-what’s going on?” Hat Kid asked.

One of the owls, who looked like a scientist turned towards the hat wearing child. “That’s Conductor’s emergency call. Something’s happening on his train.” He explained.

This clicked in Hat Kid’s brain. If Snatcher and Vanessa weren’t here, they would be on Conductor’s train. Hat Kid was relieved, but also concerned that if something was going on Conductor’s train it’s not good news. Hat Kid went over to the phone and answered it, “H-hello.”

“La-lassie?”

“Conductor! What’s going on?” Hat Kid asked.

Hat Kid heard Conductor sigh on the phone as well as the screams of passengers on board the train. “It's a disaster, lassie!” He shouted. “These peck neck cats, snuck on board me train and are causing a ruckus!”

“Peck neck cats?” Hat Kid asked. She only knew of two cats who caused her trouble: The Nyakuza, which she hoped wasn’t the case or the Lazy Paw gang. “Which peck neck cats?” She asked again. If Conductor were here, he’d be frightened over the glare that was on Hat Kid’s face. DJ Grooves was horrified tha Hat Kid said peck neck twice.

“Well their black cats, and wear masks.” Conductor explained, giving the description of the Nyakuza. “Why?” He asked.

Hat Kid sighed rubbing her temple. “Called it.” She mumbled. Now she had to ask Conductor the next question, the one she should have asked first. “Okay, did you see two little kids get on board the train?”

“Two kids?” Conductor asked. “No, what do they look like?”

“There is a boy and a girl. The boy looks like me, but has short hair and golden eyes. The girl has long blonde hair and has blue eyes like me.” She explained giving detail on Snatcher and Vanessa. “I brought them with me to the studio hoping to see you and DJ, but now they're gone. We think they board the train.”

Conductor was about to answer, but heard banging on the door. He turned and saw a little boy locked in one of the karts of the train. Conductor chuckled nervously.

Hat Kid heard the chuckle and glared. Conductor found them, and what’s worse the Nyakuza was on that train. “Conductor, if the Nyakuza gets a hold of these kids I swear I’m gonna-“

Conductor froze as he heard Hat Kid shout lots of profanity at him, then DJ Grooves and some birds holding the kid down to keep her calm. “Lassie! Lassie calm down! I’ll keep the lad and lassie safe!”

“You better Conductor!” Hat Kid shouted back. “Because if anything happens to them I’m so going to-“

“Okay okay lassie! Sheesh you sound like my ma.” Conductor replied, cutting the young child off to keep her from being a big mouth like him. He hung up the phone and sighed knowing he got an earful from a child. He stood there for a few minutes to calm down, and once he decided to unlock the royal kids from the room. However, Conductor paused seeing the door was destroyed and the kids were nowhere to be seen.

“Oh peck.” He whispered, knowing Hat Kid would not be happy that he lost the kids.

While Hat Kid was on the call with Conductor, Snatcher was still trying to get the door open. Vanessa, crosses her arms leaning on the wall watching the former soul snatching ghost trying to break open the door. The former ghost was tired trying to break the door down, but had to stop the Nyakuza from wreaking havoc and to escape the train.

After what appeared to be the hundredth time of trying to break the door, Snatcher turned towards Vanessa with a glare. “Vanessa, stop standing there and give me a hand!” Snatcher shouted.

Vanessa smirked. “Did I hear that correctly?” She asked. “My prince, the soul stealing ghost, Snatcher asking his princess for help?” She continued in a smug tone.

Snatcher glared at the young princess. “Quit it and help me!” He snapped back. Vanessa giggled and soon put her hands on the door and tried to use her ice magic on it. As she did small ice crystals started to form on the door knob. A loud crack was heard and the door knob fell.

Vanessa stepped back, horrified that she made things worse. “Sorry.” She apologized, now frightened Snatcher would snap on her.

“Why are you sorry?” He questioned. Vanessa was confused. “This is what I needed you to do.” He stated. Soon he rammed the door once more and it opened. “See.”

Vanessa blinked and looked at Snatcher. She gave a small smile seeing her ice magic did some good for once. Vanessa then felt Snatcher grab her hand and started to drag her to the next cart.

“Where are we going?” Vanessa asked.

“Fighting the Nyakuza!” Snatcher revealed.

“What!?” Vanessa shouted as she released her hand from Snatcher’s. “Are you crazy! Those cats are dangerous!”

Snatcher chuckled. “I know.” He revealed.

“So why are we fighting them if they are dangerous?”

Snatcher pointed to the window of the train. Vanessa looked out the window and saw the train was moving, moving far away from the studio. Vanessa gulped knowing Hat Kid would or is having an aneurysm by now.

“Either we stay on this train and do nothing, or we do something.” Snatcher told her.

To keep herself calm she sighed and faced Snatcher with her arms crossed. “So how are we going to fight them?” She asked.

Snatcher smiled seeing his ex following his plans. “Well for how, that’s easy.” He said snapping his fingers showing a small blue flame. “We have powers Vanessa, we can use them against those felines.”

Vanessa looked at her hands and frowned. She turned towards where the cabin where they broke out from and remembered her ice broke the door. “I-I don’t know if I can fight.” She shuddered.

Snatcher flinched in shocked. Was he hearing her just now? “Vanessa,” he started putting his hands on her shoulder. “I’ve seen what your ice powers can do!” He exclaimed. Vanessa looked up at her ex prince, giving him a look to tell him that her ice powers caused damage and death. Snatcher realized what he said and chuckled nervously as he had to rephrase what he said. “W-what I mean is.”

Vanessa covered his mouth shutting him up before he made things worse. She glared at the prince, who chuckled nervously through Vanessa’s hand. Vanessa then removed her hand and turned away from Snatcher.

Snatcher rubbed the back of his neck and had to think what were the right words to tell Vanessa without reminding her about her past. “ Look I know your ice powers have done...a lot.” He paused hoping Vanessa didn’t smack him. After a moment, he sighed in relief and looked sympathetic towards the young princess, “but I know your powers are strong enough to fight against these felines!”

Vanessa sighed. “But what if I kill them or worse destroy this entire train!” She trembled.

The former prince frowned, seeing the young princess realizing that her actions in the past did have consequences. He didn’t realize now it finally got to her. At this point, he would have scolded her and yelled at her, but with the train in danger, he pushed it aside for now. Snatcher put his hands on Vanessa’s shoulder, making her look up at him.

“Don’t worry I’m right here.” Snatcher reassured her. “If you're about to go off the handle, I’ll stop you before you do.”

“Promise?” Vanessa asked.

Snatcher paused feeling a bit tense. He remembered when he made a promise to Vanessa, things went terribly wrong. Hearing her say those words again scared him. If he promised to her things were bound to go wrong. Though he had no other choice, sure he didn’t want the train to end up like Subcon, but he knew Vanessa’s powers were strong enough to take down three cats. Even before the ice blast on Subcon.

“I promise.” Snatcher said. Vanessa smiled, and then gave a determined look.

“Well come on Luke! We got some cat criminals to stop!” She yelled, marching towards the part of the train where the Nyakuza were. Snatcher chuckled remembering that determination from long ago, and followed the princess.

The Nyakuza put the last of their remaining goods into a bag and laughed as they pulled off a successful heist. “Wouldn’t the boss be proud of us now!” Sumi beamed as he played with a golden necklace.

Coal laughed. “Yeah, no more boss throwing us around like a rag doll!” He added.

Sumi then grabbed the bag of goods. “Quick let’s leave the train before-” He paused seeing the train was moving and that they were far away from the station, and didn't know where the train would stop. Sumi chuckled and rubbed the back of his head. “Guess we have to wait till the train stops then.”

“Or until we kick your sorry butts!” Snatcher remarked. The Nyakuza turned to see Snatcher and Vanessa standing there determined to fight these felines.

Sumi and Coal gulped. Meowjima was shocked to see the kids had escaped from the locked door. “How’d you escape!?” Meowjima asked.

“That’s none of your business you pussy cats!” Vanessa shouted back.

Snatcher gave a gasp. “Why princess, I never heard such language!” He teased.

Vanessa smiled proudly. “Well pardon my language my prince, but these rascals have been bothering our trip.” She teased as well, giving a proper accent. The kids laughed, making the Nyakuza glare.

“Are you trying to fight us?” Coal asked.

Snatcher and Vanessa gave each other a smug look. “Maybe.” They both replied.

Sumi glared and grabbed his bat, and tried to swing it at the royal kids. Snatcher and Vanessa jumped out of the way, and Snatcher went to launch one of his fire attacks towards the cats only to launch a small blue flame. The Nyakuza looked at the small blue flame, as Sumi put it out with his bat and glared at the young boy.

Snatcher glared seeing his fire powers are still weak. “Why can’t my fire powers work!”

“Look out!” Vanessa warned, pushing Snatcher out of the way as Coal tried to swipe his claws at the young boy. Vanessa’s hands glowed blue and a snowball formed in her hands as she threw it at the cat. Vanessa laughed seeing she still had her powers. Snowballs were better than a small ember of flames that can be easily put out.

Snatcher looked at Vanessa with a smirk on his face. “I told ya, you had it in you.” He commented, making the princess smile. Vanessa giggled at Snatcher’s comment. Snatcher then grabbed Vanessa and the two moved out of the way when Sumi swinged his bat at the kids.

Vanessa made another snowball and threw it at the cat, only for Sumi to use his baseball bat to swing it away. He snickered, making the kids realize that snowballs may not be the best idea after all. “Do we run now?” Vanessa asked.

Snatcher was about to speak, but a familiar bird cut him off. “Not yet lassie!” Conductor shouted. The royal kids turned to the director owl, who had knives in his hands. “You peck necks, messed with the wrong train!” He growled. He then launched his knives towards the cats, who missed all of them.

Meowjima glared. “My turn!” He shouted, throwing a baseball bat at Conductor. The director owl ducked, and smirked at the cats.

“Ya missed!” He shouted.

“Did I?” Meowjima asked.

Conductor tilted his head wondering what the cat meant. Till Snatcher pointed above the conductor. Conductor looked up and saw Meowjima threw the bat at some luggage that was above the bird. Soon all the luggage fell on top of the bird. “I’m okay!” He shouted.

“Now we run.” Snatcher spoke up, as he took Vanessa’s hand and took her back to the room they were once locked in. The Nyakuza glared and went after the duo, hoping to catch them and bring them to their boss.

Snatcher and Vanessa ran as fast as their legs could take them, dodging from side to side as the cats tried to swipe at them. At times Vanessa would make a snowball to slow them down, but they either missed, swat or the lucky chance they got hit, it got them angry.

Snatcher glared seeing Vanessa making snowballs again and again. “Think you can do more than snowballs?” He asked.

“No! I’m not risking destroying this train!” Vanessa replied. She then shrieked when the Nyakuza tried to swipe at her only for Snatcher to hold her close to him. The two looked at each other in shock before continuing to run again. They ran through a few more train carts till they skidded to a halt and saw they were at the caboose. “Now what?” She asked. She didn’t hear Snatcher’s response for a while, then soon saw he wasn’t next to her. She looked around, and gasped.

Snatcher was held by Meowjima as Coal and Sumi snickered with their bats in hand. The young prince struggled to get out of the cat’s grasp, but Meowjima held him tight. “Luke!” She shouted. Vanessa’s hands glowed blue as she was ready to launch another snowball at him.

Peg one more snowball, and the boy gets it!” Meowjima growled as he pointed his claw at Snatcher’s neck. Vanessa looked in horror knowing Snatcher’s fate was on the line, and put her hand down in defeat.

Meowjima snickered and let his hand down, sparing the young prince for now. “So what do we do with little Miss. Snowflake?” Sumi asked. Meowjima looked at the young princess, who shivered in fear what the cats were going to do with her.

“Well we're on a moving train. Why not throw these brats overboard for causing us some trouble.” Meowjima suggested.

Sumi and Coal looked at each other and snickered. “I like that idea.” Coal agreed.

“I’ll do the honors.” Sumi stepped in as he walked towards Vanessa.

Snatcher growled and tried to break free. “Don’t you dare touch her! I’m warning you!”

The Nyakuza laughed ignoring the former ghost’s threat. Vanessa had nowhere to run and cried seeing this was it. Sumi was ready to grab her, as Vanessa braced herself. However, she didn’t feel herself being grabbed.

Soon an umbrella swatted Sumi out of the train, making Vanessa look up to see Sumi fly away. Then Coal was next to be blasted out of the train, which left Meowjima behind. He looked around for who threw his team members overboard. Meowjima then heard someone clear their throat and slowly turned, and gave a sheepish smile.

“Hat Kid-chan-ahh!” Meowjima screamed as Hat Kid swatted him off the train, as he dropped Snatcher as he blasted off after his team mates.

Vanessa helped Snatcher up as they looked up at Hat Kid who put her umbrella away. “You kids okay?” Hat Kid asked. Vanessa teared up and ran to Hat Kid giving her a hug. Hat Kid lost balance and landed on her bottom. She was shocked, but gave a small smile to see Vanessa and Snatcher was all right.

“Kiddo!” Snatcher shouted as he hugged Hat Kid as well. Hat Kid was shocked over the fact Snatcher hugged her once again. Hat Kid gave a smile and hugged the two kids close to her knowing they were alright. She’ll scold them later for running off, but was glad they were alright.

Conductor came running towards the kids and went to catch his breath. He finally got out of the luggage pile, after some help from the owls. “Don’t worry lad and laddie! I’m here to rescue you!” He shouted. Conductor paused seeing Hat Kid with the kids. “Oh lassie you're here!”

Hat Kid got up holding the two kids in her arms. “Yeah, I teleported myself here after being calm from our phone call.” She explained. Being held by some owls and moon penguins for over five minutes was the worst five minutes of her life, knowing Snatcher and Vanessa were in danger. “Don’t worry Conductor I stopped the Nyakuza, and their blasted off the train!”

Conductor sighed. “Thanks lassie.” He then turned to the royal kids. “So who is the young lad and lass?”

Hat Kid put the kids down, and held their shoulders. “This is Luke and Vanessa. My little brother and sister.” She said introducing them.

Conductor looked down at the kids, Vanessa was shy towards the Conductor, but Snatcher stood there proudly at the man. He chuckled, “I can see the resemblance lassie.” He commented. “They look just like you.”

Hat Kid blushed and chuckled nervously. Did Snatcher and Vanessa really look like her? “W-well Conductor we better get going,” she paused as she pulled the royal kids close to her, “because we're going to have a long talk.” she continued as her voice lowered, giving a creepy smug smile. Snatcher and Vanessa chuckled nervously knowing they were going to be in big trouble.

The three kids then teleported back onto the ship. She grabbed the two kids and took them to her room. Hat Kid pointed at the bed and Snatcher and Vanessa sat on the bed. “What. We’re. You. Two. Thinking?” Hat Kid asked, glaring at the royal kids. Vanessa and Snatcher were silent, not wanting to respond to Hat Kid’s question. “Do you know how worried I was? You guys think because you may be little kids again, but are older than me in a sense that you can just run off like that? I looked everywhere for you guys, and I was worried something happened! To make matters worse! The Nyakuza was on that train! Do you know how dangerous those guys are?!”

Snatcher was surprised seeing Hat Kid ramble on like this? He’d never heard someone speak to him like this since, well, his own parents. Though he understood why Hat Kid was acting like this. He would too if the roles were switched.

Hat Kid paused as she tried to calm down. “Look. I don’t mind you two going off on an adventure. You guys ran off without telling me, and I was scared something happened to you guys.” She explained in a calm tone.

“A-are.” Vanessa spoke up nervously. Hat Kid turned to the young princess, “we in trouble?” She asked.

Hat Kid sighed. This would be the part where she would say, yes, but with the long day they had plus they weren’t hurt she decided to let them off. “How about a warning for today.” Snatcher and Vanessa sighed in relief seeing they weren’t in trouble. “Just next time, tell me if you want to run off and do something.” She reminded them.

“We will.” Snatcher promised.

“We promise!” Vanessa added.

Hat Kid smiled. “Good.” She replied hugging the royal kids once more. Snatcher and Vanessa smiled and hugged Hat Kid back.

#Ahit au #a hat in time au #A Royal Problem #A Royal Problem AU #Hat Kid #DJ Grooves #ahit Conductor #Snatcher #ahit the prince #Queen Vanessa #Meowjima #Nyakuza #Nyakuza Metro

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floosies · 5 years ago

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bury a friend: The Story of Noctua

pairing: steve rogers x possessed!oc x mcu!au

summary: there have been sightings of a dark creature who vanishes with night and in the mornings only remains of once living people are found scattered in open fields or forests nearby.

warnings: mentions of abuse, mentions of attempted suicide, violence, gore, cursing, mentions/scenes of sexual nature.

Please read with discretion. 18+ content.

A/N: This is my first attempt at something more dark. It’s been in my brain since hearing some of biilie’s works and quiet frankly I want to venture into new territory. However, I understand the severity of some topics that I will write about. If you or someone you know is in need please look at these resources.

tags: @indecisivedolly

Part 3: The Seven Wonders (1 of 2)

She had been to the outskirts of New York only twice in her life. Once to dispose of a carcass and the other time for a ceremony in the northern woods during a winter. However, both times she’d traveled to the past for those events. She had not been to present day New York. Nor was she interested in doing so, but having no say as she currently sat on the rather large plane, she awaited to see what had become of it.

The trip was seemingly quiet except for the abrupt and quick mentions of trajectory and location. The three heroes looked rather stiff and awkward, Noctua was not used to this. She could read their minds, but opted not to out of respect for their privacy. Instead she chose to break their odd silence, “what preferred names would you like me to call you?”

Her soft voice caught their attention immediately, Wanda smiled at the fellow sorceress, “Wanda is fine. Thank you.” The younger lamia nodded, giving a soft smile to the woman sat in front of her. Steve spoke more rigidly, but with the same warmth. “Steve is fine as well.” He then went back to his seat besides the pilot. Bucky saw her starring at him waiting for him to speak. He didn’t though and she just assumed he was still afraid of her. So be it, at least he knew to fear her if all went down in flames.

A cold morning mist covered the compound when they arrived. Steve was about to apologize about the weather when he noticed she was no longer in the dress and crown. She was wearing more modern clothing. He had no clue how she came to possessing them though. Nevertheless, she looked presentable enough.

There were large windows that let light in easily and everything was white. It was so clinical, “this is the training area. The living areas are much warmer, I promise.” She must have shown discomfort, “of course. Where we headed to now?” She asked softly to Steve, “we are going to my office. I will take your information down, and then show you to your sleeping quarters.” Tenebrae had been quietly watching over its daughter. It knew they meant no harm, but she was fragile from lack of contact with others who were not like her.

It thought back to the early years when its daughter’s soul was guarded by dark clouds of depression and fear. She was a hollow shell of who she was now. If Tenebrae had not intervened she would have lost more than just her life. Her purpose was great and there was it knew that. It was why she was being allowed to congregate with these enhanced beings.

Wanda and James had excused themselves as they neared Steve’s office. There were other matters to attend to, but she was promised a dinner with the other hero tenants of the compound. It was something she looked forward to, as she’d never met others with inhuman abilities. For now she sat down next to a machine, there was a wire stuck onto her with some taping. Steve looked upset, “it’s protocol. We have to assure ourselves you aren’t lying about anything. If you do, it will send a small current of electricity through the body.” She had a look of disgust on her face at the explanation, “I promise this is usually meant for criminals, not to say you are a criminal.” Shaking her head she dismissed his behavior.

He reminded her of a baby bear, or puppy. Steve was the kind of soul that wished to be both emotionally and physically strong, but was incapable of such assertiveness. She did not frown upon it, she sympathized with beings of those characteristics. Nevertheless, the interrogation began and with it small shocks that began to distress her. She was not lying to him, there were just some truths she preferred to see through her own light. Like her given name Noctua, originally she was called Ruth Plutarch, but that name was associated with cruel memories the young witch wished to forget.

Steve explained that information regard physical abilities and appearance would be saved for the next day. “Why wait though?” She asked with an impatience, he answered coolly, “we have to prepare a training room for your skills. We can’t afford to wreck a room.” She nodded understanding that he was not wrong about her powers potency.

When the information portion was done for the day, he led her to the sleeping quarters of the compound. There were long halls with two or three doors on each side. “Each room has its own full bathroom and walk in closet, Tony. He designed this area for comfort really.” She nodded along as they reached the last door of left turn hallway. “This is where I’ll be staying?” He nodded twisting the knob to the room. It was simple, nothing too extravagant, the room was a modern take.

The bed was the part for her, she hadn’t sat on such a soft material since she traveled to the Edwardian age and roomed with a lord and his wife. It was wonderful to have small comforts of those sorts, “uhh...listen. There’s going to be a small dinner tonight with those who are staying here, or not on missions. I’d like you to be there,” Steve looked concerned. She wasn’t cruel though, “of course. How will I get to the dining room?” He was about to say he’d come get her but FRIDAY interrupted him, “Ms. Plutarch, I would happy to assist you with that.” Amusement and confusion clouded Noctua for a moment, “is this like tenebrae?” Steve quickly shook his head, “no. FRIDAY is an artificial intelligence system, that Tony created to help around the compound and Stark Industries.”

She nodded, but Steve wasn’t sure if she truly understood. She knew that because she caved in for a second and read his mind. “Steve, I have traveled to both past and future, I know this type of technology exists. Please stop worrying so much,” that made a small smile appear on him. It warmed her heart, “okay then. Feel free to ask FRIDAY for anything or if you want ask her to reach me and I’ll come help.” She agreed to his suggestion and then left her room. Now there was silence. It was the kind that comes when awaits for what is next, with an indefinite understanding of what to do til that moment comes.

A bath seemed like the right thing to do. It was a lovely feeling to clean up and dowse oneself off of impurities. She sensed it’s presence, “why interrupt my cleansing?” She teased, it laughed. “How are you liking these abnormal creatures?” Shrugging, she answered it while playing with the foam of soap that formed into large looking cloud in the water, “they’re fine. The shock therapy was awful though. Steve meant no harm though, he was practically fighting himself mentally.” Tenebrae listened intently to it’s daughter’s opinions on the odd heroes of the mortal world.

After their talk and her bath, she indulged herself in terrible television programs. She did not remember how she ended up asleep, but she was currently interacting in a dream. James or Bucky, or whatever his chosen name is was standing beside her, his hand on hip. Why did it all seem so familiar, as if it’s already happened? The dream was distorted by the voice of the artificial system awakening her. Quickly she changed her appearance to something more suiting.

it was modern and not too formal, it would do. The walk to the dining hall was filled with talk from the program. She nodded along, but was more focused on who she’d meet. The dining room was oddly dark in color. It felt so rigid, it didn’t feel like a place of meal or congregation. The people there were acting otherwise, laughter and conversation was buzzing, it’s then when Sam noticed her. “New girl, welcome.” She smiled at his witty introduction. Steve stood up then, “Noctua. This is Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Peter Parker, you remember Wanda and Bucky?” She nodded as she shook their hands and waved at the last two.

The dinner began warmly with introductions to each person. She found herself intrigued with Peter, he reminded her of who she was when she was his age. His kindness and curiosity towards life, it was sweet. However, she could feel the burn of James’ gaze on her. He was not impressed, so she tried to read his mind only to be met by his inner voice, “get out of my head.” His voice was cold and hollow even if it wasn’t actually him speaking.

Towards the end of the meal, they began asking questions. Steve was mesmerized and Bucky hated it, “c’mon what was your favorite time period?” Sam prodded, as everyone but James listened intently. She giggled, “well. The 1700s were interesting, but really it would be the 1960s or 70s, I know many people from that time.” He rolled his eyes, Parker noticed and called him out on, “don’t be like that Mr. Barnes, i’m sure you would’ve had fun in the sixties and seventies too.” Bucky glared at the boy. “There’s no need to be upset, he was just making a comment.” She defended the boy, everyone else murmured agreements with her, it just made him more upset. In an attempt to continuing his brooding, he rose from his seat and left. The rest of the table apologized for his behavior, but she waved it off.

Whatever the dream was, and whatever it felt like, it was wrong. That familiar warmth was not at all who that man was. Maybe it was meant for a different version of her. One with a different version of who that man was supposed to be. If he was going to despise her, so be it. He would still have to respect her, and she would make sure of that.

#sorceress #Scarlet Witch #bucky barnes #witch #oc!female #Steve Rogers #sam wilson #peter parker #tom holland #chris evans #sebastian stan #tony stark #robert downey jr #marvel #mcuedit #mcu #may the fourth be with you #bury a friend

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lightskinrry · 6 years ago

Text

Escape.

the one where you and Harry are trapped in your apartment and you can’t escape the apartment nor your feelings (part four of Pivot)

A/N: Well I don’t know if this is the last part but here she is; part four of Pivot!! Just so you know if you’re a new reader this part is a stand alone you don’t need to read the other parts if you don’t want to!! (but i advise you to do it bc they’re great lmaofdkj)

Also when the time comes, I linked something for you, please, PLEASE, click and listen.

Word Count: 4.5k

TW: well i hope you have nothing against HARDCORE FLUFF.

thank you to my darling @belladonna-styles for reading it over!

Read Part One! Read Part Two! Read Part Three!

Is there a best way to get over your feelings for someone you’re not supposed to have feelings for, other than being trapped with them in a half empty apartment with no signal and no light?

Yes. Yes, there’s definitely a better way. And you wished you knew what it was because right now you were just on the verge of a mental breakdown. You spent weeks trying to tell Harry about your feelings, every try ending with you brushing it off as a joke or him being too oblivious to understand.

You tried to tell him when he came back from his date for movie night and ended up saying nothing and daydreaming about him for hours.

You told him that you liked him like more than a friend while going out for lunch once and when he gave you the weirdest look, you just blatantly said “I like you like my best friend! That’s what I meant!” and his dumb ass bought it!

You tried slick moves like getting more physical, hugging him longer, kissing his cheek lower, holding his hand randomly. And what? After two weeks of being the most affectionate towards him, he set you up on a date with one of his friends… Telling you that he “noticed you needed some attention lately”. God, he was so obnoxious. And still, you could only see how sweet of him it was to try to make you feel better. Because you’re his friend.

You ran out of ideas to tell him subtly but you just couldn’t get yourself to be upfront about it. Last time you tried he almost choked on his food and gave you a look that screamed “Please tell me this is a joke.” So you didn’t really want to try that again.

But if anything could help, being locked inside of your apartment while the courant is off and there’s no signal, was definitely not the way to go.

They cut off the electricity in Bexley for a few hours and you didn’t know when it would be back. After Harry picked you up from work, you dropped by your apartment and invited him up, in a last hope of getting him to fall in love with you, maybe.

And when he was about to leave, it seemed that the universe told him to fuck off and stay. Your key didn’t work anymore. You couldn’t open the door and the sun was setting. No light, no signal and locked inside. You thought it would only be the matter of a few minutes, but it has been an hour, already.

You heard Harry’s voice from the hallway that leads to the bathroom.

“I can’t find a flashlight!”

“Well yeah, duh. We’re not in 2007 anymore and I’m not a dad.”

You turned on the flash of your phone. You had less than 10% battery left and Harry’s phone was dead. A nightmare. You lit up the issue of the hallway, the light following Harry’s steps.

He faked a laugh. “You know, you’re a funny girl, Y/N? Did you know that?”

You slapped his arm slightly and rolled your eyes. “I know.”

“Well, looks like we’re trapped.” He looked around him, squinting in the darkness that surrounded the both of you.

“I can’t believe the door won’t open.”

Harry placed his arms in front of him and stepped carefully to the door, trying to pull on the knob.

“Maybe I should try to knock it down?”

“Yeah sure, Bambi. Break your shoulder against my apartment door. Sounds like a great idea.”

He grimaced at you while you held the light of your phone in his face.

“I’m strong enough.”

You smiled at him and cupped his arms with your hands and pressed them. “Oh, I’m sure you are, Bambi. But it’s a steel door. Unless you want your shoulder on the floor. Don’t try anything silly.”

He groaned before perambulating inside the apartment. He was so cute when he was in a helpless situation. He just wanted to do good. You watched him stroll around carefully not wanting to fall. You lit up his figure with the flash of your phone, watching his socked feet roaming around on the wooden floor, his hands playing with the strings of his spice world hoodie and his light jeans slightly cuffed on his ankles. He looked in a deep reflection. You chuckled to yourself as you watched him.

“The courant should be back any minute now and we’ll call my landlord to open the door from the other side.”

You wished the situation would be different; not much to do with the courant being back or the signal on your phone. You wished he would relax and turn this into something romantic; kissing in the dark, dancing in the moonlight, having sex on the floor. You squeezed your thighs to the thought of his hands wandering over your bare skin, his fingertips dancing on your lips before one of his finger slipped into your mouth; his hand slightly grabbing your jaw, bringing your face to his, just so he could bite your lower lip...

You might have moaned a little bit because Harry looked at you from the side with an odd look on his face. You couldn’t even daydream in peace, now.

“I… I’m gonna look for some candles, okay?”

He walked up to you. “Yeah, good idea. How much battery left on your phone?”

You clicked the button on your phone and showed him the screen. It read 5%. Damn Iphones and their nice designs but stupidly short batteries.

You saw Harry smirked. “I didn’t know I was your lock screen, Milkie.”

You pinched your lips before bringing your phone back to you. “Well… I like this picture...”

How would you not? His white cream suit, the tiny tank top, the pink sunglasses, he looked scrumptious in this picture. Everything in this picture screamed ‘SEX’. And not that you never thought of him that way before, there was always pictures that made you clench your jaw and bite your lip but never that triggered a daydream or… made you moan his name while masturbating. It was your thing lately. Moaning and screaming his name while getting off. You’d feel shameful and guilty once you’re done because you never wanted him this way. But now, you just accept your fate, you want him this way. You tell him or you get over it. No other options.

You roamed around the room, looking for candles, you always had some scented ones for your sunday baths, you looked around quickly since your phone could shut down any minute now. You grabbed the ones in the drawer in the bathroom, the one in the cabinet and the ones on your bedside and brought them to the living-room.

Harry already gathered the ones that were on the counter on the floor. It looked like the two of you were about to perform some Ouija. It could be fun. But Harry’s a wimp, he wouldn’t be into it.

“There.”

You placed yours on the floor, and scattered them around the room. You checked the battery on your phone; 2% left and you still needed to find the lighter. The tension was at its peak. Will you make it?

You looked through the drawer in the kitchen. You always hide your lighter in case your mom makes a surprise pop out. She didn’t need to know that sometimes you lit up a joint by the window. But it wasn’t in the drawer. You felt Harry pressing his chest against your back.

“No lighter?”

He looked in the next drawer. Where the hell did you leave that lighter? You tried remembering the last time you used it… Harry came by and you two smoked a blunt while getting into one of your terrible analyses of your favorite albums. This time it was Hejira by Joni Mitchell. You could remember sitting by the window and watching the rain pour as he passed you the joint but the memory of the lighter was nowhere to be found.

It’s the moment when you looked outside the windows and saw the crescent moon that the memory struck you. It apparently struck Harry at the same time because the two of you turned around in a rush at the same moment and hit each other.

“In the pencil case!”

You went through the case looking for the lighter, holding your phone tighter as if it would prevent it from shutting off. You grabbed the lighter and rushed to the first candle to finally light it up. And as you placed it back on the ground, your phone shut down.

Every candle was lit. Each at a place in the apartment to bathe everything in a dim light. You made space on the floor and placed the cushions and plaids on the ground, surrounding them with a few cierges. You opened the windows, the sound of the traffic outside slightly resounding inside of the apartment. It was only you and Harry, with the moon and the traffic sounds in the background. The orange and red beams of the candlelights filling the space.

You stood behind the counter and poured two glasses of wine and carefully made your way to the little nest of cushions where Harry was seated, tuning his guitar. He left one here the last time he came, just in case. You eyed him with fondness, following his fingers moving on the instrument’s heads and stroking the chords.

“What are you going to play?”

He grinned at you before getting his focus back on his guitar. “You’ll see.”

The rain started pouring outside, and a light breeze filled the room through the windows, not strong enough to blow the candles but soft enough to make Harry’s hair dance a little bit in the air. You could hear the traffic from outside and the rain hitting your window.

Harry started playing the first notes and you recognized the song immediately. It was Tiny Dancer by Elton John. He played the intro before he started to sing. His voice filled the room, like a warm embrace, you felt it vibrate around you.

You sipped on your glass of wine, your eyes tracing Harry’s face and body. His floppy hair falling softly on his forehead, his mouth opening wider to hit higher notes, his jaw clenching, the veins of his neck, his shoulders tensing and relaxing as his arms carried the guitar, and his hands playing the chords; his fingers pinching and stroking them.

“Hold me closer tiny dancer, count the headlights on the highway.”

His eyes moved from his guitar to glance at your features. He was singing to you, now.

“Lay me down in sheets of linen. You had a busy day today.”

How intimate was that? He was in your apartment, sitting on the floor with you, serenading you. You wished he would kiss you once the song was done. You wished he would make love to you to the sound of the world crashing outside, to the melody of the rain hitting against the windows, to the raw silence of the room. You wanted to fill the air with muffled breathes and giggles, with noises of skin slamming and bites, moans and screams, a cry maybe, just sounds of love. You wanted to fill the air with love.

“You had a busy day today.”

Harry stroked the last note before placing his guitar next to him and taking a sip of wine.

“That was incredible. Your voice, Bambi, it’s… Wonderful.”

You cheered as you brought your drink to your lips.

“Thanks, Milkie. That’s really sweet.”

You gazed at him in utter admiration. Everything about him made you swoon. He was so beautiful in the candle light.

“You know I never get why you call me Bambi? I mean… I like it, but I always thought it was like… a Scrubs reference, you know?”

“Oh it definitely is.” You chuckled a little bit, Carla would always call J.D ‘Bambi’ and you might have picked it up from there, but there was more to it. “I think it fits you well, though. It’s because you’re really soft. You’re cute and I want to squish you and protect you and boop your nose, and kiss you. You’re Bambi. My Bambi, you know?”

You realised as soon as the words left your mouth that your glass was almost empty. Harry’s cheeks were painted that pretty shade of red and he couldn’t hide his smile.

“I like it…”

You grinned widely before re-adjusting yourself on the pillows beneath you. You watched Harry look around the room before his gaze laid on you again.

“It’s a pretty romantic setting, don’t you think?”

You choked a little bit on your gulp. “What?”

He giggled for a second. “I said it’s a romantic setting. Are you okay?”

You coughed while nodding along to answer him. It was romantic. The setting, of course. Not your relationship. Sadly.

“Yeah… The candles… The moon… The plaids on the floor. It’s all about setting the mood...”

He raised his eyebrows at you. “Setting the mood for?”

You blushed a little bit and hid it behind a giggle. “The mood for sex.”

He gave you a smug smile and shrugged. “Definitely.”

An awkward silence installed as you watched him sip on his wine. What did he mean ‘definitely’? Was he in the mood? Was he just being a tease? Are you trying to read too much into his words, again?

You stood up to go for a refill. You walked to the counter and poured some more wine in your glass.

“So… What about Lucas? Still in the flirting phase?” You asked Harry from the counter as you closed the bottle.

“No… We’re… Too different, it seems. Just didn’t work out.”

They went out a few times, and you stopped getting updates about two weeks ago. You thought they might have drifted apart. Harry was never too keen on talking about his relationships. He would tell you about the first date or if he liked someone but then you’d just get random updates when he’s telling you about his day and brings it up. You never pushed it on him.

You tried to hide your smile as you walked back to your seat, your glass in one hand and the bottle in the other so neither of you would have to get up for a refill again.

“Ah… That’s too bad. Do you… Are you… seeing someone else, lately?”

“No…” He scrunched his nose. “I’m a bit off, romantically talking…”

You raised your eyebrows at him and watch him laugh softly.

“I don’t know… I feel like I want to be in a relationship but at the same time I don’t. And the dating world is scary. You never know if you can trust someone, you know?”

“Yeah I understand. But sometimes what you’re looking for is right under your nose and you’re just too blind to see…Or too stupid.” You pinched your lips in a smile as you looked at him directly in the eyes. A sign he’s going to be completely oblivious to, again.

“It’s true. Sometimes, it’s like that. It’s like when you write. You spend so much time with your work, you have to let it go for a bit and do something else. So when you get back to it, you see it for what it is and you can understand it better and work on it again.”

It’s absolutely not what you meant. He got it all wrong, his stupid ass really can’t get signals. You want to throw a pillow at him, because he fucking deserves it. You sighed as you tried to compose yourself and not throw that pillow.

“Yeah… It’s like that…”

He takes another sip of his wine. “What about you? I don’t have any updates on your love life lately? Where’s my little Milkie-Casanova?”

She’s dying over here, thirsting for you but you don’t see it because you’re a boy and boys are stupid. Or you’re pretending like you don’t see it because you don’t want to hurt her feelings. Either way, she’s dying.

“She’s chilling. Not really interested in relationships lately. Kinda have somebody in mind… But it seems, it’s a one-way thing.”

He looked at you with a compassionate smile. “Well… Did you tell them about it?”

“Yes. I tried a hundred times. But you, you, you, are too fucking dumb!” You screamed internally. You grinned before scratching your head.

“No… Not really. I tried but… It didn’t really work.”

“You should tell them, Milkie. You’ll never know if you never try.”

You felt your blood boiling inside of your veins. You waited for him to delicately place his glass on the ground and hit him with the pillow.

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” You were muttering under your breath while hitting Harry softly with the pillow. Of course for him it was just a little game you picked randomly and way too spontaneously. But for you, it was bearing all your frustration.

Harry was trying to stop you in between laughs. “Hey! Milkie! Ouch! You…!”

He grabbed the pillow and pulled it so hard out of your hands that you fell on top of him. Your chest was resting against his. He softly wrapped his arms around you to make sure you wouldn’t slip away from your spot. You raised your head to look at him.

“What are you doing Bambi?”

“I’m playing your game.”

“What game?”

“The ‘who’s gonna be the most annoying’ game.”

He laughed in your face. He reached out one arm to pull a pillow and place it beneath his head while his other arm was secured around your waist. You rested your elbows on his chest and placed your face between your hands, and whispered, “You won.”

He smiled at you, his dimples popping out, he did his tongue thing, where he licks the corner of his mouth while he grins. And you felt a wave of heat running over your body.

“Did I?”

Only a nervous laugh fell from your lips. You were so close to him. He was single now. And this entire setting was the most romantic shit ever. Good moment to tell him how you feel.

Your hair fell in your face but your hands were busy cupping your cheeks so you didn’t try to pull it back. You felt Harry’s hands slither on your sides to finally reach your face and stroke your hair away, plucking them behind your ears, caressing your head and then your shoulders; just to go back exactly where they were on your waist.

“I think you did.”

You looked away for a second. His gaze was so intense, you couldn’t look him in the eyes. “You always win, Harry.”

You heard him chuckle but you still didn’t look at his face. You raised your legs up and crossed them in the air. You felt one of Harry’s hands go from your waist to your face, touching your cheek softly. He gently grabbed your chin to make you look at him and whispered, “Why won’t you look at me?”

“I don’t want to…” You let a giggle escape from your lips, trying hard to avoid his gaze.

“Why?” He squealed in a laugh. “I thought you found me pretty!”

You rolled your eyes at him before smiling in a stupid way. A way that said “Yes I think you’re pretty. I think about kissing you. Every. Damn. Day.”

“You’re pretty, Bambi. The fairest of them all.”

He squished your face with his hand. “Just like you, Milkie.”

You tried to smile between his fingers and when he let go of your face, he just booped your nose. A little silence installed between the two of you as you took comfort in staying on top of him. You looked in the distance for a moment. Bathing in the strangely affectionate atmosphere, remembering the conversation you left before you started hitting him with the pillow.

“So… You think I should… Tell the person I like them?”

He looked at you intently. “Yes. Definitely. Gotta be bloody dumb to not like you back.”

You raise your eyebrows at him in a smug expression. “You think? Some people are dumb, you know.”

“You wouldn’t like someone who’s dumb.” He smiled at you in a complacent way. He was right, you wouldn’t like someone who’s dumb but he was still the dumbest of them all for not noticing he was the one you liked.

“You wouldn’t know.”

He raised his head a little bit, and gave you that face he makes when you hurt his ego a little bit. “I’m sure I could guess easily.”

“Guess what?”

He poked your cheek with his finger. “Who you like.”

You burst into laughter. He definitely could not. And it’s not like you haven’t tried to make him guess, already.

“What? You think I can’t? I know you well, Milkie!”

You laughed again, wiping a tear at the corner of your eyes in a dramatic gesture. “No you can’t.”

He gasped like a drama queen before a pout formed at the corner of his lips. “Try me.”

You sighed, “Fine. You have three guesses.”

“Can I have a clue?” His hands were playing on your back, pulling on the fabric of your t-shirt.

You looked at him and faked a deep reflection before letting out your clue. “The someone I like is a ‘he’.”

He furrowed in eyebrows in concentration and stared at you as if he was trying telekinesis. “I think…. I think….”

You cut him off with a chuckle. “You think?”

“I think…” He wrapped his arms around you and rolled you over so that he was on top of you. His face was inches away from yours and his body was slightly resting on yours as his elbow held him up. He ran his hand on your face, taking your hair out of your eyes.

“I think it’s a guy called Harry. Might be wrong.”

You felt your heart beat so fast inside of your chest it might have jumped out of it as well. You tried biting your tongue to wake you up from your daydream because there was no way he was really saying this. You bit hard and closed your eyes a second.

When you opened them, Harry was still on top of you, a smirk plastered on his face and his hand stroking your cheek.

“Am I wrong, Y/N?”

“N-.. Yes. Wrong, all wrong. I don’t know where you got this information from. It’s fake news.”

He chuckled a little bit and brought his face even closer to yours. “Really?”

You nodded slightly and blinked twice to be sure you were not dreaming. “I call him Bambi. It’s fake news.”

Harry giggled a little bit. You didn’t know if you wanted to break everything down now or if you just wanted him to kiss you.

“I like you too.”

You laughed nervously. He likes you too? Thanks! That’s definitely not what you were asking for!

“You like me like… your friend? Because when I say I like you. I mean like… I want you to kiss me… and do other shit with me. I won’t be explicit. I don’t know. I feel inappropriate right now.”

He snickered at your comment and his gaze traced your face. “I like you like I want to kiss you.”

He brought his face so close to yours that now, your lips were barely touching. He whispered against your lips, “I also want to do other shit with you, too.”

You could feel his giggle vibrate on your skin and now you were literally melting. You waited for this for ages. You’ve been yearning for this, longing for this, pining for this. And now he was so close.

You raised your head up to him and kissed the corner of his lips. You just couldn’t let the moment slip away. He looked at you passionately before grabbing your jaw and pulling your lips to his. Your noses brushed against each other, his hands were resting on your cheeks until they slid to your jaw and grabbed it. Your lips were still tied, he let his hand wrap around your throat tight enough that you let out a little moan. And he separated his lips from yours for an instant to let you breath.

You looked at him for a second; his eyes glistening and his lips softly swollen, pink, and wet. You just wanted to kiss him again. You grabbed his face tenderly and connected your lips again, slightly opening them so your tongues could dance together a romantic ballet to the sound of your muffled breaths.

When you finally broke from the kiss, he just looked at you all dazed. Your hand was running through his hair and his was resting on your cheek.

“I love…”

The room suddenly lit up in a bright light, cutting him off in his track. He looked around seeing the apartment in a clear light. The candles and cushions and plaids and most importantly; you underneath him. You were craving to hear him finish his sentence. What do you love Bambi? Who do you love Bambi? You just wanted to know.

He smiled at you tenderly before placing a small kiss on your lips and he got up and walked towards the door, you were so confused and you could feel a gulp forming in your throat as if you were about to cry.

He turned the lights off and came back to you, placing himself exactly where he was, caressing your face with his fingertips.

“Love you Milkie.”

You reached for his face again to kiss him, and his voice stopped you. “Like my best friend.” He winked at you before laughing.

You shook your head at him. “You’re awful Bambi!”

He grabbed your face and kissed you tenderly again, muttering against your lips, “I know.”

You looked at him for a second, a stunned look in your eyes. “I love you too.”

His lips pressed against yours in a gentle move as you felt his hands roam through your hair. It turned out that being trapped in your apartment with him was eventually the best way. You definitely didn’t want to escape.

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stagedoorz · 5 years ago

Text

Lie Down With Dogs

Read it on AO3

Chapter one

Other chapters: [Gotta post em first!]

Word count: 1,076

Characters: Elmer Sagloo, Albert Dailva

Warnings: Angst, painful transformation, unused weapon

Elmer used to love the moon. It was one of the few things he didn't have to share with his siblings. He always got the hand-me-down clothes and the things his brothers and sisters were done with after they were broken and ruined. But the moon? He could just look up and there it was, just as bright and shiny as it ever was. It was just so awe inspiring to him. This pure, white object! Just up in the air! Never to be touched by anyone but gods themselves! Elmer knew all about the phases and could tell you all about it if you asked, and you’d know at least one new thing by the time he was done.

Elmer felt that the moon was his, and he felt that it was going to stay like that.

The chatter of the lodging house that night was the normal stories of local shenanigans, poker, and all around good friendly fun. It was a hot night in August, and everyone in Manhattan was winding down before going off to sleep.

"Hey, where's ya going, El?" Albert, one of Elmer's closer friends, asked, shoving some bread into his mouth.

"Oh, just to the bathroom, that's all!" He said, his signature cheery smile slipping onto his face. Albert, having stuffed too much bread in his mouth, just shouted a muffled shout to Elmer as he slipped out of the dining hall.

Elmer walked down the hall slowly, jamming his hands in his pockets as he heard a burst of laughter come from where he just left. Was the dining hall always that loud? He rubbed his temple; it didn't matter now if it always was, what mattered now was this killer migraine that had fallen upon his poor head. He pushed the door that led to the alleyway open, and breathed the night's air like it was a fine perfume for only the richest of men.

He leaned against the wall, whistling loudly a tune that felt good in his mouth as he got lost in his thoughts. He slid down the wall and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, which suddenly felt tight. Oh, jeez, did he eat something he was allergic to? He had some peanut butter earlier today, he couldn't be reacting to that, right?

No, he thought. If I was allergic, I'd be dead!

Elmer didn't know how long he'd been outside. Five minutes? Ten minutes? Someone would come looking for him if he didn't show back up soon...

He got up, brushing his pants with his hands, and pulled the doorknob. He was surprised to see the freckled face of Albert, who was standing with his hand on the other side of the knob. "There you is, El! Been lookin' all over for ya!"

"Oh, have you now?"

"Yeh. Got kinda, y'know, bored of Brooklyn's antics, decided to come and look for ya."

Elmer gasped. "You better not let Spot hear that kind of talk, he'll kick your ass!"

"Oh, shadup, his ego ain't that big." Albert stole Elmer's cap and roughed up his hair. "So, what's up with you? Why are you hangin' around outside?"

"Oh, well, I got a headache from all the noise inside. Wanted some fresh air."

"Fresh air? Honey, you're not going to get any fresh air in this dusty ol' ally! C'mon-" Albert beckoned Elmer, grabbing his hand- "let's go to the street."

They walked together, and as Elmer stepped out of the ally, holding Albert's hand, he started to tremble even though it was warm. "Elmer?" He looked at Albert's eyes, seeing the Emerald green in the light of the moon, which shone all around them. "Are you okay?"

He looked away from Albert to look at the sky. "I am. I am, dear..." Why, it was lovely tonight. The moon hung like like a spotlight over a perfectly made play, with the stars as their audience, waiting Albert and Elmer to make a story in front of them. Elmer squeezed Albert's hand and smiled, his shaking slowing slightly. "Isn't is just amazing?" Elmer asked sincerely, looking once again at Albert. "Why, I'd say the sky is... Almost as beautiful as you!"

Albert chuckled. "Oh, El, ya know how to make a guy blush!"

Elmer felt a warm feeling rise in his chest. He'd been planning on giving Albert something soon, and even though he didn't plan it, now would be the perfect time! He felt around in his pocket for something small and round. "Albert?"

"Yes, El?"

"There's something I want to ask you."

"What is it?"

Elmer let go of Albert's hand and hid the gift behind his back. The feeling in his chest started spreading to the rest of his body, making him feel a bit lightheaded. "Will you- Will you-"

Elmer sputtered a bit, turning red as he looked at Albert's face go from joy to shock. Elmer bit his tongue and glanced up at the sky for a moment. C'mon, Elmer, you can do this...

"Albert, will you make the luckiest guy in the world and-"

Elmer yelped as he felt a sharp pain stab at his fingers and overtake the warmness in his body, making him drop the silver band he bought for Albert onto the street. He doubled over, putting his hands over his ears as a million invisible sounds started attacking him. Albert grabbed him, making sure he wouldn't fall onto the ground, and asked, "Elmer, are you okay?!"

He just groaned as Albert went and leaned him against the wall. He unclasped his ears and nodded pitifully.

Albert looked worried as he pressed his hand against Elmer's forehead. "I'm getting-"

Elmer felt a terrible noise, a growl, rip through him. He watched Albert jump back. "Elmer?"

A pain unlike any other grabbed Elmer and shook him violently.

He felt electricity in his spine, which cracked and strained as it grew in a way that felt like it poked the inside of his brain and the rear of his pants. Elmer looked at his hands with swimming vision, as the bones inside of them started to look thick and taut like iron cables. Each one of his fingernails fell off, claws bursting through the tender skin where they once were. He cried as his teeth were bloodily replaced with daggers and he felt warm fur press against his clothes, which all now felt far too small for his changing body. Elmer pushed himself against the wall, gasping for air, then howling in pain as he fell onto all fours.

As the ringing in his ears and the pain subsided, he looked up at Albert, who was pale as a sheet.

"W-Who are you-" Albert pulled out a switchblade and pointed it at Elmer shakily- "And what have you done to him?" Elmer reached toward Albert pitifully, but he swung the blade towards him. "Answer me, God dammit!"

A different pain had fallen upon Elmer as be backed away and began to run as far as he could from Albert and the lodging house. An ache he hadn't felt in a very, very long time. One that twisted around in and burned his chest like a hot metal poker that threatened to come out the other side.

Heartbreak.

Hoolkorjhgnlrk doinlkjds Well then, I dunno why you read all this. Check out my other stuff? Maybe? Yeah

#sweeps writes #lie down with dogs

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tomhiddlesun · 6 years ago

Text

Porch Light | Jim Hopper x reader

First attempt at fanfic and it’s 12am, so it’s rough but maybe someone will like it. More to come. Debating on if I wanna slowburn or rage right into smut.

Jim Hopper x reader

Warning: mentions of death, violence. Angst and some building crushes.

————-

It wasn’t easy trying to be independent again. Especially after five years of marriage and one terrible spousal death. It had been a little over a year since your husband died and you’ve been trying to make sense of the world since. It seemed pretty unfair that you were left to pick up the pieces and figure out life Post-love-of-your-life, life. Yet here you were, sitting in a holding cell wearing nothing but a cheap prison sweat suit trying to figure out what you did to deserve all this.

You weren’t one to pity party, but the past year had been god awful. Your husband died in a school shooting and the dominos came crashing down from there. Crippling depression, therapist after therapist, trying to make you feel better about watching your partner bleed out in your arms. You weren’t even supposed to be there- you never went to visit him on campus. But just once, you wanted to surprise him at work. Then there were the screams silenced by the metal tap of a semi automatic weapon. You knew it was a mistake to live in New Hampshire... live free or die alright.

At first it seemed like you two were going to make it out. That was before you saw the gunman going for a classroom of students. You stepped forward before Shawn could stop you. And before you could make a move, he stepped in front of you as the gunman inevitably turned his muzzle your way. He took the bullet that was meant for you, falling to the ground as you crumbled to your knees. He took his last breathe in your arms and you lost your best friend and partner in a matter of minutes.

That’s where it all fell apart. You couldn’t get out of bed and when you did make your way into work you were a mess. Eventually they put you on forced leave, until you finally decided to leave it all behind and move back to your hometown of Hawkins. You yearned for something familiar, safe and comfortable again. Anything to dim your guilt riddled existence.

Yet...here you were in scratchy prison clothes after being found wandering down the street at 3 am, buck-ass naked. You, obviously, didn’t have any idea what you were doing due to the heavy dose of anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medication you took before bed. You didn’t even know you’d left the house until you woke with a jolt in the back of Good Ole Chief Jim Hoppers blazer, covered in a dusty wool moving blanket. He’d found you wandering into a suburban neighborhood while he was out training a new patrolman. Despite your insistence this was a mistake, the Chief still said he had to take you in for processing.

Now, as you sat in the empty cell plucking at a lose strand on your cuff, all you could hope was that you’d be home soon in time to get some sleep so you could enjoy your weekend off. It’d been busy at the law firm you started at since moving to Hawkins and for the first time in months, you had a chance to relax. And for the first time in over a year, you actually wanted to.

“You better be careful- would hate to see you unravel that especially after we finally got you dressed”

The blood rises to your face as you turn your head toward the Chief, who was leaning against the cell door.

“Not that you would mind, huh, Chief.” You bit your cheek at the quip, squeezing your eyes shut with embarrassment. You always said stupid shit when you were tired.

A loud laugh erupted from Hopper as he pulled his keys from his belt and unlocked the door.

“Smooth Y/N. No need to sweet talk me, we spoke with your doctor and he confirmed the side effects, but more importantly, said youre safe to go home. Normally I would’ve just brought you home, but the new kid is the superintendents son so I had to put on a show. Sorry about that.”

“Never took you as one to play politics” you said with with a huff and a smirk as you pulled yourself off the metal bench.

“Me either, but processing gave me some alone time with you hence why I sent the kid home early” he said with a wink.

“Ha. Ha. Nice try mister.” You patted him With mock pity as you passed. “But I’m glad it was you picking me up either way. Stupid medication. Its killing my sleep schedule.”

“That’s some heavy stuff if it’s making you strip your clothes off and taking you on nightly strolls” he noted with one raised eyebrow.

You waved a hand “no no I sleep naked, but the walks are all the pill. Gonna have to sleep handcuffed to the bed if I’m not careful” punctuating the statement with a wide yawn.

“That can be arranged” the Chief hummed as he shut the door, following you to the front door of the deserted station.

You cast him a side glance and a wry smirk, before changing the subject “so, are you taking me home? Or do I have to strip down and walk back alone” Stupid or not if felt good to flirt again. Maybe the lack of sleep or medication made you brave, but you were enjoying the moment as you stared up at Hopper. If you had to flirt with anyone you were glad it was him. You hadn’t been in Hawkins long before you ran into him at work. He came stomping into the office in a huff that something was taking too long to process. Everyone was giving him the run around until you intervened. His face went from 50 shades of red to a nice shade of pink when you came over to help. He sat quietly and watched you get his paperwork together, without making a single rude comment or impatient sigh. Since then, he made it a point to beeline to your desk any time he was in the office, claiming “you were just the most competent person there” and that he didn’t want to waste time with anyone else. But you both knew better. You may have been emotionally numb, but you knew he was up to something and it felt nice to be appreciated a little.

Hopper graciously offered to take you back to your apartment, not that he would miss a chance to spend a few more minutes with you. He didn’t wanna push you or give you the “wrong idea”, but a little ride home couldn’t hurt. However, despite his well laid plans, you dozed off in the car. Though disappointed, jim made sure to avoid any potholes. You rested in silence until he woke you with a gentle shake in front of your house.

“Hey, we made it. Lemme walk you up”

You agreed with a sleepy nod and stepped out of the car, heading towards your front door. You tested the handle as Hopper stepped behind you, shining light onto the door knob.

“You really ought to fix your porch light” he mused as you fumbled with the screen door and main door knobs. Thankfully sleep-walking Y/N hadn’t thought to lock it.

“I know but I can’t reach.... but I do have a lightbulb inside if you’re willing to help Chief” you said, blatantly fluttering your lashes at him.

This elicited another big laugh from him as he shook his head at you. “So what am I your errand boy now?” He questioned as you shrugged and opened the door. Despite his mocking tone, he couldn’t help but feel a rush of relief.

“So, is that a no? If not, I can pay you in beer if you’re off shift.”

“Well, if you insist” he said as he hurried in after you. The apartment was pretty sparse, but it smelled like you. And though he didn’t admit it then, Hopper loved that. As you wandered in search of the light bulb he took in your space. The small overstuffed couch cloaked in a thick knit blanket sat in the living room. Some mail laid piled on the breakfast bar that doubled as your dining room table. Pictures of family and pets dotted the fridge in your practically empty kitchen.

Hopper resisted the urge to step further into the house. You intrigued him and it made him want to drink you in. Unfortunately he also knew a bit of your story, encouraging him to keep his distance. He knew what it was like to be in swathed in a constant cloak of pain and didn’t want to be the guy encroaching on your space like a dick pic on legs. So, he waited patiently at the door until you came back with the long lost bulb.

As Hopper stepped outside to change the bulb you stepped back into the bedroom to change out of the sweat suit. You slipped into a pair of black leggings and your favorite red checkered t-shirt before meeting Jim back at the door way.

“You can come in you know” you chuckled, taking the dead bulb from his hand and disposing of it in the kitchen “I did offer to pay you in beer after all.”

Hopper smirked as he stepped into the kitchen to take the cold bottle of beer you held out to him.

“Cheers to the Chief, for rescuing me from a night of naked escapades.” The two of you laughed, each taking several deep gulps from your drinks.

“It wasn’t easy. You tried to run off. We had to use the blanket to trap you. Like a net” Hopper laughed, leaning against the counter top next to you.

“Oh great. It gets better.” You shake your head at your shenanigans. “Still, thankfully you were there.” You cast a tender smile up at Hopper, who stared in quiet awe back at you. Despite seeing you naked earlier that night, that smile drew him to you far stronger. He could feel his heart start to race and blush creep across his cheeks as he looked down at you. He could swear he felt static electricity building at the point where your arms almost touched and he desperately wanted to close the gap and get some relief. More than anything, he wanted to lean over, caress your soft cheeks and bring your mouth to his. Instead, he stared until you broke the tension.

“So...You want another beer?”

Part two

#jim hopper x reader #stranger things #chief hopper #jim hopper #fan fiction #slow burn #probably #flirting

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big-edies-sun-hat · 5 years ago

Text

This was for the @ineffable-valentines prompt “Serenade.” I had it in my head that that was for the 22nd, not the 12th, but what can you do? Post late, that’s what you can do. And so I shall.

Read here or on AO3

-----

1996

The girl, who was sixteen but actually fourteen and trying very hard not to let it show, tossed her hair carefully aside. It was a beautiful day in the park and she’d come here with him and she could not ruin this because it was very important and he had his guitar with him and everything and he was the most amazing boy really actually he was technically a man he was seventeen years old and he was paying attention to her.

The boy, who was seventeen but actually new at the guitar and trying very hard not to let it show, set himself down next to the girl on the wall by the pond. He opened the case and slowly, deliberately tuned it up, which was to say that he adjusted the pegs, plucked the strings, then adjusted the pegs back to where they had been in the first place.

“Well,” he said, and strummed a few times. “Well. Er.”

He looked up at her, caught her bright green eyes, and saw her smile. There was nothing he could say to a smile like that. The boy dipped his head to the guitar, his blond hair hanging down low, and began to play.

Two minutes later, the girl had not moved. She sat with the same bright eyes, the same bright smile, as her back began to ache, and she listened—

“By now you should have somehow

Realized what you gotta do

I don’t believe that anybody

Feels the way I do about you now—”

—and thought: oh no oh God why oh please I am in hell.

This was not, of course, hell; this was St. James’ Park on a lovely spring day. However, entirely coincidentally and without her notice, there had been a demon nearby, and he had passed right in front of her. And just briefly, he had noticed her—or rather, noticed the boy with the guitar—and permitted himself a moment of satisfaction with his work.

Crowley had invented the serenade. He had been there to give a shoulder-shake of encouragement when the first awkward youth, plucking at a poorly tuned harp, decided to sit down on the banks of the Tigris and sing to his love. But in all the years since, no one, in Crowley’s opinion, had ever understood the genius of it.

“Ah,” Hastur had said. “Incitement to Lust.”

“No, you see, that’s just it,” Crowley had said. “It’s bloody exhausting. The young lady—or the boy—has got to sit there and be beautiful and stare just off in the distance and hold their head just so, and they’ve got to like it. If they don’t like it, they have to sit there and take it, and even if they do like it, they’re sore and tired and embarrassed from everybody looking at them, and the glow’s gone off the whole thing. The lady’s annoyed and the bloke looks like a fool and it all ends up in Wrath.”

For all this, Crowley received one of Hastur’s looks, the kind that suggested that Crowley was going to be swallowed alive by a gaping void as soon as Hastur could see to it.

“Or you could do Lust,” Crowley amended. “Lust is good too.”

None of the other demons understood. Not even Aziraphale understood it. He’d been delighted to hear that the serenade was Crowley’s invention, but when Crowley had explained why he had invented it, he only rolled his eyes.

“Now I call that cynicism,” Aziraphale said, as they walked through Mayfair on a sunny spring day in 1850. “I should think that would be lovely, to listen to a song from someone who loved you. Or at least nice.”

“You would,” said Crowley.

For entirely unrelated reasons, neither one of them looked at the other as they spoke. There were perfectly nice shop windows on Aziraphale’s side of the walk, and there were excellent buildings visible to Crowley on his side of the walk, and so there was no particular reason for either of them to avoid the other’s eyes, which was definitely not what they were trying to do.

“In any case,” said Crowley. “Lunch?”

2019

It had only been two days. There were a lot of things to sort out, so many things that Aziraphale was worried, almost worried sick now. Was it too much trouble? Was he too much trouble?

“Look, look, it’s all right,” Crowley had said to Aziraphale; “there’s always things to sort out, with everyone, when they, uh … ”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “But—no. Look, one example: here. I don’t believe that everyone has had to cover all their wireless receivers and televisual devices with blankets because the Princes of Hell might look in upon them at any moment.”

“Fair,” said Crowley. “That’s fair to say.”

They had just returned and entered the half-dark in Crowley’s flat, where not much had changed, except for the blankets. These were not just blankets—Aziraphale had sealed them with powerful wards—but they were plain and gray and gave the impression that Crowley was preparing to move out. Aziraphale had insisted on the blankets and the rituals almost as soon as he arrived on Saturday night—they must not hear or see what I’m about to say to you, he’d whispered. And they hadn’t.

The two of them had not been back to the apartment since Sunday morning. They had gone instead to the bookshop, and done exactly what each of them needed to do very badly: Crowley had slept for twenty-four hours straight, and Aziraphale had spent that time doing inventory, not because he doubted that everything was in its right place but because he wanted to touch every book’s spine and know it was there.

“What exactly was it you needed here?” said Aziraphale.

“Got to get my phone, for one,” said Crowley absently, craning his neck as he searched. “And the iPad.”

“Those things?” This was more than Aziraphale’s usual disdain for touchscreens. “They’re under the blankets! They’re under seal. The screens, the speakers—they’re dangerous. What do you want them for?”

Crowley shrugged. He poked at one blanket with the end of a pen.

“Weather. Stock prices. Youtube. Mostly just to not be afraid of any bloody screen or speaker I ever see again. —Ow!”

Crowley tried pulling up the blanket with a pen, but, as Aziraphale had sealed it with a ward against demonic interference, it snapped him with a spark.

“Like walking into a bloody electric fence,” he muttered, wringing his hand.

“An electric fence that you watched me build and watched me set a sign on that said ‘Electric Fence’,” said Aziraphale. “Let me.”

He stepped around Crowley, spoke grave and ancient words in plain irritation, and pulled the blanket away. Behind him, Crowley shut his eyes briefly with satisfaction; the trick was simple, the argument avoided.

“There they are,” Aziraphale said, brushing salt away from the top of the sound system where the phone and the tablet were set. “The wretched things. Safe to—well, safe to touch, anyhow. And the hi-fi, too, if you want it.”

“The hi-fi,” said Crowley. “Do you know how long it has been since I have heard anyone call a sound system a hi-fi?”

“It’s hardly—”

Aziraphale cut himself off. Crowley had not sneered at him as he said that. Instead, he was smiling, fresh and plain and open, a new smile for a new world. He stepped in close, touched his forehead to the angel’s. Aziraphale, flushing slightly, took the glasses gently away, then tucked them into Crowley’s pocket. His hands fell to Crowley’s sides, and Crowley caught them.

The flat, which always seemed to have been empty for weeks, was suddenly brighter. This was because Aziraphale gave off an imperceptible glow when he was in love, but neither of them had quite realized this yet. The pair of them stood brow to brow, snow to embers, saying nothing, only grinning together at something neither of them could name.

“Can you stand it?” Aziraphale said at last. “Are you sure you won’t be sick of me?”

“Oh, I’ve been sick of you,” said Crowley, and kissed his cheekbone. “Been sick of you for ages, sometimes. It never makes a difference.”

“Monster.”

Crowley rested his arms over Aziraphale’s shoulders. His voice was as low as smoke.

“Stay with me here tonight.”

“Anywhere,” said Aziraphale.

There was no hesitation in his answer. Still, Crowley could feel anxiety in the angel’s body.

“We’ll make it comfortable,” he said. “You’re not afraid of this thing, are you? Listen—”

Noiselessly, he snapped his fingers. The sound system’s ambient lights glowed blue.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, with a nervous laugh, “there’s afraid and there’s afraid; I mean, are you going to put on one of those albums of yours, because I would in fact dread—”

“Nah. I had it on the radio, last time.”

The stereo did make some hellish and unsettling noises as Crowley searched for stations, but even Aziraphale was used to that.

“What is it you’re trying to tune in?”

“None of this. Everything’s terrible,” said Crowley. “How about … something …”

He was murmuring absently to himself as the stations changed, just as anyone else might do, except that anyone else would have had to touch a knob or button of some kind, whereas Crowley simply waved his finger slightly in midair. As he did so, he thought to himself: something sweet, not too sweet, old, not too old, with horns and strings and all, the sort of thing he’d like …

At that moment, far away, a digital radio station’s playlist changed. A muted trumpet began to play.

“There,” said Crowley. He put his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, then steadied himself on his feet. Aziraphale laughed anxiously and dropped his gaze, but Crowley touched his forehead to his, gently lifting his face.

I was dancing with my darling to the Tennessee Waltz, when an old friend I happened to see—

“You can’t mean it,” Aziraphale said, but his eyes were shining. “You want to dance? Right here?”

Crowley slid himself close, and Aziraphale, knowing nothing else to do, embraced him back.

“Yes and no,” said Crowley. “See, the trick is, when you don’t really want to dance—you just want to, you know, have a song with someone—you just stand there, and you sway. Like this.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “That’s … yes, that’s …”

… and while they were dancing, my friend stole my sweetheart from me …

Crowley tucked his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder, as the pair of them rocked slowly back and forth. Aziraphale sighed with contentment, with dissolving fear.

I remember the night and the Tennessee Waltz—

“Can’t play any instruments,” murmured Crowley, his breath stirring the curls of Aziraphale’s hair. “I mean, not properly, not without magic. So. Can’t play you a song. Hope you like this one.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“Might take something up, of course,” Crowley went on, idly turning his fingertips in a circle against the velvet of Aziraphale’s vest. “Might have some time on our hands.”

“Time,” said Aziraphale gently. His hands slid gently down the sateen of Crowley’s back. “Yes, there … there could be time.”

“I could play you something in public. Embarrass you to death. Make you want to crawl under a table.”

“I would adore it,” said Aziraphale.

“You would.”

Somewhere in an office building, not too far and not too close, a twenty-year-old intern got shouted at because Patti Page’s “Tennessee Waltz” was very decidedly not part of Planet Rock’s music library, let alone its format, and people had called in and tweeted about it. The intern shouted back.

There were meetings. There were analyses. There was even a brief examination of the floor’s surveillance footage. In the end, it was all chalked up to some kind of coding error in the software, and no one lost their jobs over the unauthorized “Tennessee Waltz.” After all, as the supervisor said later, nobody who’d called had actually complained.

#good omens #good omens fic #ineffable valentines #ineffablevalentines #i am so soft for this song #not wonderwall no argh

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 7 years ago

Text

Best. Date. Ever.

Summary: This wasn’t quite what you had in mind.

Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: Bad language. A smidgen of murder. A splash of fluff.

A/N: This was written for the lovely @abovethesmokestacks ‘s summer challenge, and I’m a slacker who’s a week late, so thank goodness Pia’s amazing! This story came about because I was seriously coveting these shoes and because Pia gave me a super cheeky dialogue prompt, which you’ll find bolded in the story. Enjoy!

A/N 2: Check out Best. Proposal. Ever. to read more of these two!

If you want on or off the tag list, send me an ask!

MASTERLIST

Dress up, he ordered. Something fancy and sexy. I got a plan.

It sounded promising. A night at the ballet perhaps, or tickets to the opera. Dinner and dancing, maybe. Something classy. Something elegant.

After eyeing them in the window, you decide to buy that pair of outrageously expensive Jimmy Choo’s for the evening, anticipating something spectacular.

Well.

It was something alright.

*****

Black satin clutch tucked tight beneath your arm.

Quiet steps on the balls on your feet.

Gun drawn, cocked and aimed, you tiptoe down the dim hallway, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the puddles of yellow light spilling from vintage sconces lining the wall.

The target looms ahead, a heavy black door at the end of the corridor and a steady stream of quiet curses slips from clenched teeth as you move, damning his dumb ass to hell and back.

Eyeing the narrow beam of light lining the bottom of the door, you pause when muffled laughter slips beneath the crack. Momentarily confused, you wonder if you have the wrong room.

Nope.

“Answer the fucking question,” a frustrated voice suddenly shouts, followed by the dull thunk of metal slapping skin. Bucky’s responding groan is long and low, a guttural sound ripped from deep in his chest.

It sounds desperate.

It sounds wounded.

It sounds – excessively theatrical.

Of course.

Is it possible to roll your eyes so hard you see your brain?

Leaning into the door, you press an ear to the thick ebony wood. There’s a hum of unintelligible muttering and then plain as day, you hear Bucky’s cheerful response.

“Yeah, no. Feels like you’re hard of hearing there, big boy. You wanna hand me that knife? Let me clean out your ears real nice and careful like? Or maybe you were that stupid kid sitting too close to the TV growing up, watching cartoons while your Mommy was running around banging the mailma – ow! Fucking ouch god dammit, what the hell’s the matter with you?! Who the hell stabs someone? That fucking hurt!”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sigh.

Here’s the thing.

Now and then, the avenging gets slow. It happens occasionally, not often, but enough for you to discover an interesting personality twist. When the avenging gets slow, Bucky Barnes gets bored. And a bored Bucky Barnes is – concerning. Full of pent up energy, leaking sarcasm and sass, he has a small tendency to find trouble.

It’s not trouble, it’s called saving the world, he always argues.

It’s not saving the world, it’s called gratuitous chaos, you always respond.

The voice comes back, full of fury. Electricity pops and sizzles and suddenly Bucky swears at the top of his lungs.

“Wait, wait, wait, stop! Damn, fine, fine. You got me, just stop, please, I’ll talk, I’ll talk, let’s talk…about the fact that your mom was totally fucking the mailman, I mean come on – “

The sound of electricity buzzes louder and he howls in pain.

“Say it again,” you hear the voice snarl, followed by Bucky’s breathless reply.

“No joke man, you touch me with that thing again, I’ll shove it so far up your ass you’ll shit sparks for a week.”

In addition to the whole trouble thing? He’s also a massive drama queen.

“This is bullshit, Bucky” you hiss at the door, glancing at the absurdly expensive heels and reaching to brush dust from the toe. “I’m so fucking pissed at you.”

Seriously.

Clutching the gun tight, you carefully turn the knob and with a deep breath, hip check it open. And yep. The reveal is exactly what you could have anticipated, because you know Bucky Barnes way, way too well.

Dangling by his hands from a wide steel beam, his wrists encased in what appears to be a reinforced cuff, Bucky swings gently, the toes of his black boots barely brushing the ground. His faded grey t-shirt is slashed down one side, soaked through with thick splotches of blood and clinging to his body like a second skin. Twitching his head to shake away sweaty strands of dark hair, you see the impressive array of purple bruises painting his face, extending down his neck.

He looks terrible. Awful. A beaten man in terrible pain.

Except –

The anguished grimace fades when he sees you, morphing into a shit-eating grin. Wiggling his fingers in a mocking little hello, he gives you a wink.

What an ass.

Hearing the swinging door, the man in front of Bucky spins, raising a gun in one hand and a taser snapping lime green sparks in the other. Frustration is etched in every line of his face, which is, to be fair, a common expression for anyone talking to Bucky.

“Drop the gun,” he bellows, shaky hands holding both weapons in front and sounding for all the world like a two-bit security cop in a low-budget heist film.

Throwing him an impressively impatient scowl, you shake your head.

“Listen, I’ve had a long day and these heels are killing me and I just wanted to spend one night without worrying how I’m getting blood out of my clothes in the morning. So since that fantasy’s shot to shit, can you please just not?”

“Don’t try to distract me!” he yells in response. “Drop your gun or I’ll shoot you both!”

Looking past him, you meet Bucky’s wide-eyed, innocent blue eyes.

Innocent blue eyes. Seriously. What a crock.

“I’m fucking pissed at you,” you warn Bucky, pointing the gun down at your shoes. “These were expensive.”

He pokes his lip out in an exaggerated pout and swings himself playfully in the restraints. “Don’t be mad honey baby, it’s all part of the plan.”

“Jesus. I shudder to think what else you have planned.”

The guy follows the exchange like a tennis match, head swiveling in confusion, until he focuses on you again and opens his mouth to shout another disappointingly dull threat, but you hold your hand up to silence him and he looks unbelievably put out by the gesture.

“Look, I’m really not in the mood, alright? I gave you a chance.”

Flicking your eyes to the bloody, sweaty man dangling behind him, you cross your arms and wait.

Here it comes.

Vengeance fills his features, a blinding smile of murdery glee, and in the blink of an eye, Bucky curls his knees to his chest and hoists himself up with the metal arm. With a casual kick, he hooks his thighs around the man’s neck and squeezes tight.

Dropping both weapons, the man scrabbles at the dirty legs locked around his neck, panic flashing through his face.

“You sir,” Bucky states, as the man chokes, trying to wrench free, “are a real dick.”

With a graceful twist of his hips, he snaps the neck with a jarring crunch. The body collapses in a heap and Bucky glares contemptuously for a second and then proceeds to aim several childish kicks at the head, but his toes are just out of reach and he flails uselessly in the air.

He looks up in annoyance.

“Hi. Little fucking help here please?”

Stepping over the body, you rummage through the pile of electronic gadgets and random torture devices strewn across the table. Locating a small purple device attached to a SpongeBob keychain, you dangle it in front of him.

“Apology first.”

“No worries, I accept your apology,” Bucky says graciously. “Now get me down.”

“No asshole, I want an apology. You said dress up and now my Jimmy Choo’s have blood on them.”

“Okay fine, I’m sorry.” Skeptical of his quick submission, you punch the unlock button slowly and the cuff releases. Bucky drops to his feet, rubs the red chaffing around his wrist, and gives you a wide smile. “I’m sorry you’re a wet blanket who doesn’t appreciate fun, but anyway.”

He anticipates the move and ducks when you snatch a knife from the table and fling it at him, letting it smack harmlessly against the concrete wall behind him.

“I swear to god, you’re lucky you’re hot Barnes. It sure as hell’s not your personality that keeps me around.”

“The hell do you mean? I’m charming as fuck,” he argues. Wetting his busted lips, he uses the collar of his shirt to wipe away the pool of blood caked in the corner of his mouth, while interested eyes trail down your outfit.

Strapless black silk dress falling to your knees. Diamonds dangling from your ears. Bright red lips. Black Jimmy Choo heels with a flirty little feather on the side.

His smile turns a shade darker and ten shades filthier.

“You look smokin’ hot. Nice.”

“And it’s apparently a waste. When you said dress up, I sort of assumed we’d be doing an activity other than murder.” Tossing the keychain on the table, you come closer to scan his impressive mess of injuries. Probing the thick muscle below his ribcage, he sucks in a strangled breath as your fingers brush the source of blood still soaking his shirt.

“Buck – “ you start, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t baby me, I’m fine. Me and that bag of dicks just had a little disagreement over one of his brainless questions.”

“How did he go from asking questions to sticking a knife in your gut?” you ask, trying to tug up his shirt to confirm the damage.

“No, I will not have sex with you!” he says loudly, pushing your hands away. “God woman, keep it in your pants.”

“I’ll punch you in the knife wound Bucky. I really will.”

Sighing loudly, he stops struggling and lets you pull apart the remaining shreds of his shirt. Examining the blood under his fingernails while you examine the slow leak of blood down his side, he shrugs nonchalantly.

“If you must know, he just got a bit pissy because apparently suck my dick wasn’t the correct response to that question.”

Life with Bucky Barnes is akin to chasing an aggressively accident-prone toddler, so you’re actually prepared for this situation.

Opening the silver clasp on your clutch, you search for the extra-absorbent bandages you threw in earlier. Folding his hands obediently, Bucky rests them on top of his head and watches with a serene expression while you wipe away the blood from around the wound, before ripping open the bandage and applying it carefully to his skin.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” you ask, paper held between your teeth, “to try being a little less mouthy?”

Straightening the remains of his bloody t-shirt and wiping your grubby hands on his jeans, you look up to find him grinning.

“It did occur to me. But where’s the fun in that?” He holds his hand out expectantly. “On to part two. Did you bring my gun?”

The worst. Honestly. Sometimes he’s the worst.

“Yes, I brought your gun, you ungrateful douche.”

Lifting the edge of your skirt reveals the narrow straps of a black thigh holster, with Bucky’s favorite Glock strapped in place. He bites his lip and gives you that filthy smile again, crowding in close.

“Ugh. Dammit that’s so hot. Here, let me help,” his fingers snag the silky fabric, trying to pull up your skirt.

Slapping his hand and giving him a warning knee in the balls, he grunts and backs away with his wounded puppy face. Unclipping the gun, you flip it around and hand it over.

“Keep it in your pants Barnes, we don’t have time. The show’s about to start.”

Standing up straight, he salutes you with the barrel of the gun and cocks it dramatically.

“You’re the boss. Lead the way, you sexy little minx.”

*****

Navigating the labyrinth of halls, you find the back staircase leading up to a maze of crevices and hidey holes helpfully built into the rafters of the enormous ballroom. Finding a slot near the edge, you crawl into position, the smooth silk of your dress picking up the thick film of dust, making the slide easy.

God. Dammit. Bucky’s spending tomorrow morning getting this dress dry-cleaned and you better not hear a breath of argument from him.

“Seriously, I’m so fucking pissed at you,” you whisper, knowing full well his annoying super hearing will pick it up and sure enough, he rewards you with a stifled laugh.

The space is dark, muted light from the ballroom’s sparkling chandeliers allowing you to stay hidden from prying eyes down below. Bucky follows close behind, wiggling in next to you. Getting comfortable, he sighs happily and turns to you, gaze drifting from your face down your bare shoulders, over the swell of your ass, and that filthy smile appears again. Reaching down, he massages the back of your knee and runs his hand up your thigh, trying to pull your dress up again.

“Lemme see your panties.”

“For god’s sake, do not say panties, you weird fuck.”

“Fine. Lemme see your underpanties. Are they lace? Tell me they’re lace. You know how much I like lace.” His hand wanders further up to find your black lace covered bottom and he gives a whispered yes of delight.

Ignoring the wandering hand squeezing handfuls of your ass, you open the black clutch again, extracting four paper-thin pieces of metal. Clicking them together reveals a lightweight air-rifle with a narrow scope affixed to the top.

Bucky’s eyes light up.

“Gimmie,” he says breathlessly, releasing his death-grip on your ass and reaching grabby hands toward the weapon.

Still ignoring him, you prop the rifle on the ledge in front of you and peer through the scope, searching for the reason you’re stuck in the dirty ceiling of this exquisite ballroom, instead of somewhere fashionable with people making jealous remarks about your amazing shoes.

Bucky nudges you.

“Gimmie,” he says again.

“No, Bucky.”

“Yes, Bucky,” he insists, now trying to tug it from your grip. “Did you forget I’m the best shot the US army ever had? I even have a certificate that says so. You can’t argue with my certificate, it’s not patriotic. Captain America’ll arrest you.”

Still searching through the crosshairs, you peel his sticky fingers from the barrel with one hand.

“You drawing a picture of a gun, writing ‘Bucky rules’ on it, and taping it to the refrigerator does not mean you have a certificate.”

He gives an indignant little squawk. “Uh, I didn’t tape it to the ‘fridge, I superglued it to the ‘fridge. That fucker’s never coming down.”

“Can you please shut up? I need to focus.”

“Come on honeycakes, let me have the rifle,” he whines softly, resuming the light strokes down your thigh.

“No. I know you. You’ll shoot the guy in the eye just to prove you can, he’ll realize something’s up, and it’ll blow our cover.”

“Why would I do that?” His voice oozes shocked sweetness.

“Because you’re a showoff,” you mutter.

“I’m not a show-off,” Bucky argues and somehow in the narrow space he manages to crawl on top of you, straddle your hips and start licking your neck. “Sometimes I’m just vindictive, I can’t help that. Now come on and give me the rifle, hmm? Please? I got stabbed earlier, you should let me have my way. If I have internal bleeding and I die later, you’ll feel really bad about not giving me this one little thing. Come on, hand it over.”

He sucks your earlobe and tugs with his teeth.

Long ago, this strategy might have worked.

He is charming.

He excels at sweet talk.

He is murderously adorable.

The only thing working against him now – is that you know he’s completely full of shit.

“Get off me, you weigh a ton,” you respond instead, wiggling your shoulders to shrug him away.

“Did you just call me fat?” he whispers. He bites your ear harder.

“Maybe,” you shiver at the petulant huff warming your neck.

“I am offended.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not, but someone with less self-confidence might be and would you like that on your conscience?”

“I’ll manage.”

In that moment, the crosshairs find him, a tall man dressed in an impeccable black tuxedo, his blond hair slick and shining. Even though he’s dead set on being an annoying little shit, Bucky instantly recognizes your posture change and goes motionless above you. Taking a deep breath, focusing on the small mole on the back of the blond’s neck, you gently squeeze the trigger. With a twitch, the rifle silently expels the microscopic dart and you know it’s a direct hit when the man scratches absently at the patch of skin above his collar.

Bucky gives a hum of approval and plants a sloppy kiss on your neck.

“Nailed it. High five,” he says and reaches between his legs to slap your ass. “But how come you’re always so mean to me? And why the hell does it turn me on so much?”

Breaking down the weapon, you pack it back in the purse and snap it shut.

“Because you’re a fucking masochist.”

“True. So – now what?”

“Now we wait.”

As the words leave your mouth, the chandeliers begin to dim, the hum of voices dropping as the crowd of people shuffle to their seats.

Folding your arms, you lay your head down to wait. Bucky finally stops fidgeting, settling on top of you, balancing his weight on his forearms and resting his chin on your shoulder. He smells like attic dust and irony blood, but his heavy presence is a warm and comfortable weight.

All fades to black. Absolute silence.

The single note trembles in the darkness, the vibrating twang of a cello. Low lights slowly illuminate the small platform at the front of the ballroom, revealing three musicians and the sudden haunting whine of a violin shatters the stillness.

The air overflows with music, Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Bach, a symphony of classics bleeding together, never pausing. Bucky stays still above you, his only concession to movement when he occasionally presses his lips to the space behind your ear, breathing in the familiar lingering scent.

And sure, he drives you bonkers half the time and he may be utterly full of shit, but a simple fact remains.

Nothing in the world, beats the feel of his mouth on your skin.

Ninety minutes of magic fly by and applause fills the room as the lights come up for intermission, the audience leaping to their feet. No one notices the blond man seated halfway back, slumped in his seat, nor the shadowy figures of two people energetically arguing as they slip from a hidden exit in the back.

*****

From a distance, you spy the neon sign, the only beacon of colorful life along this desolate stretch of highway. Bucky perks up and bounces in his seat.

“There it is! Pull over.”

“Bucky, no. I’m tired and you’re bleeding on my leather seats and I want to go home and shower.”

“But I’m hungry. I’m literally wasting away.”

“Figuratively. You are figuratively wasting away.”

“So, you agree then, I’m wasting away and we should stop.”

“Oh my god, fine.”

Swerving into the parking lot with a screech of tires, both of you clamber from the vehicle still debating his rampant disregard for basic language definitions and stomp into the brightly lit Taco Bell. At this lonely hour, it’s nearly empty, minus the energetic high school kid with headphones using his mop as an air guitar, the line cook playing Jenga with a towering stack of tomatoes, and the bored woman behind the counter, chomping her gum and watching your bickering approach with interest.

Glancing at Bucky, you flinch at the image. The harsh light throws his wounds into sharp relief, bruises already fading from dark purple to sickly greenish-yellow. The gray t-shirt is shredded and stiff with blood and sweat and what appear to be chocolate fingerprints, lifted from the half-melted M&Ms he found in your glove box.

To be fair, you don’t look much better. The previously elegant heels dangle from loose fingers, speckled with blood and holding two wilted feathers. Covered head to toe in dust and cobwebs, your knees are scraped up and your polished toes curl bare against the floor.

What the hell possessed you to walk barefoot into a 24-hour Taco Bell you’ll never know, but alas. Here you are.

Bucky saunters up to the register and slaps his grimy hands on the counter, giving the woman his most charming smile and what he believes to be a sexy wink. She simply raises an eyebrow and snaps her gum.

“Hello. I want the dollar menu,” Bucky says, squinting up at the sign.

“Which items?”

“All the items,” he replies promptly. “And a diet soda please, not a regular one. I’m cutting back on the calories, apparently I need to watch my weight. The lady here says I’ve been pudging out.”

Pinching the non-existent fat on his washboard of a stomach, he gives her a conspiratorial nod and points back to you.

“I most certainly did not say that,” you huff, glaring at him.

“Yes, you did, you called me fat earlier,” he reminds you. “Remember? When I was on top of you and tried to pull up your dress?”

The woman stares at him and blows a pink bubble. Her eyes slide to you and she gives you a slow nod, the kind that clearly says nice.

“No,” you say sternly, pointing a warning finger. “Christ no. Do not encourage him.”

Bucky laughs, the sound of his husky voice echoing through the restaurant and dammit, he looks like someone threw a brick at his face and used him to sharpen their knives, but he’s still the most attractive man you’ve ever met and how’s that for annoying?

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back on the road, flying along as Bucky holds tight to his food and watches the highway intently, counting out road signs. Finally, he points to a small green number.

“This is it, last stop,” Bucky says, his voice brimming with excitement. “Slow down, the road’s there.”

Arguing is futile, so you follow his directions, turning off the highway and bumping down a narrow strip of unmarked road. The path winds further and further and you wonder at his end game, until the trees suddenly clear and you hit the brakes in surprise.

The night sky extends in front of you, an infinite black road to the stars twinkling above the black ocean waves, a dazzling full moon low on the horizon. The secluded beach is empty, a quiet world existing for you and Bucky alone – and when you turn to him, you see him watching you with an adoring grin.

That damn smile. It gets you every time.

“I swear Barnes, you’re good. You’re really good,” you admit and Bucky tips his head back and starts to laugh.

Climbing from the car, you dig out a plaid blanket from your trunk, and with heels and soda in hand, the echo of crashing waves pulls you through the darkness. Finding a flat space, you fluff the blanket out and collapse, stretching out with a soft groan and closing your eyes.

Bucky drops his bag full of cheesy beef burritos and chicken quesadillas and caramel apple empanadas and kicks off his boots with a matching groan of pleasure. Falling to the blanket he rolls onto his stomach and tears into the food, making his way through each item in silence. Long minutes tick by as the damp breeze blows over your skin and you begin to doze.

“You know,” he finally says, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m calling it. Tonight? Best. Date. Ever. Gonna be hard to top this.”

Rolling to the side, you prop your chin in your hand. “Come again?”

“Yeah, I planned it perfectly! The whole night, it was all things you wanted to do.” He finishes chewing the last bite, tucks the wrappers into the bag and sits up on his knees, ticking off the evening’s events.

“So first, we did a fun couples activity.”

“Me saving you from an ass beating and you snapping a guy’s neck isn’t exactly a couple’s activity, but sure.”

“Second, I got us private box seats, so we could go to a – sold out I might add – classical music concert.”

“I mean, again with the murder and now a massive dry-cleaning bill, but okay.”

“And to cap off the perfect date, we’re having a romantic moonlit picnic on the beach.”

The sarcastic quip balances on the tip of your tongue and in all fairness, Bucky expects a sassy response. Sass is the bedrock of your relationship.

But the words don’t come.

Instead, you absorb the pure beauty of the glowing white sand and of Bucky’s handsome face, reflecting on everything about him that led you here tonight.

He’s incorrigible.

A pain in the ass.

Ridiculous.

Passionate.

Hilarious.

Adorable.

The love of your life.

Damn. You’re head over heels for this idiot.

Nodding slowly, your lips curve into the smile he loves so well, the one that melts his heart, the one he went to outrageous lengths to pull from you tonight.

“Yeah. You’re right Buck. You pretty much nailed it.”

Bucky grins at the compliment. He picks up your left hand, brushes specs of sand away, and places two kisses on your finger.

One above your wedding band, one below.

Contentment sings through his veins and he threads his fingers through yours.

“Happy anniversary honey.”

“Happy anniversary Bucky.”

“Do me a favor, yeah?” Bending closer, he rubs his mouth lightly against your forehead, your nose, your lips. He drinks up the word with a blissful sigh when he hears your reply.

“Anything.”

“Get those heels back on, I ain’t letting them go to waste.”

Laughing, you hand him the shoes and he pulls your legs apart and crawls between them, slipping the heels gently on your feet one at a time, leaving wet kisses on each ankle.

The filthy smile is back.

He tugs up your skirt.

And this time, you go with it.

*****

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