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astroboots · 1 year ago

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EYEM #13

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You meet another version of the man you love and finally find out why the Universe is trying to kill you.

Word count: 5,800

Warning: violence, pain hurt and angst. Be prepared.

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Everything hurts. You don’t know where you are, you’re disorientated and queasy.

The first sight that greets you is the glow of scarlet eyes so piercing they cut through the blurriness of your vision.

They're familiar, but also different. Even though they’re identical to his, you know this is not your Miguel.

It takes you a while to make sense of your surroundings. Long moments for the nausea to dissipate enough that you can take in the dark moody blues of the space and recognize that you’re in the same sparse room as before.

Takes a few longer moments still before you register that your wrists and arms are restrained by strange threads made of an unknown material that glow up in an alarming neon red and you’re strung up and suspended in an intricate web from the ceiling.

You try to pull against your restraints, but it’s useless, your body won’t listen to you. You can’t even get your little finger to budge. You can’t fucking move.

“You’re alright,” The man who looks exactly like your Miguel says. “Try not to move. It’ll be better that way.”

You don’t listen to him, because why the hell would you. This is not your Miguel. You try again and pain sears through your muscles.

Shit! He bit you and now you’re paralyzed.

Panic races through your spine. You need to get out of this situation, now. Need to get out. Need to get to Miguel. Even if you can’t move, there has to be a solution somehow.

Lyla is meant to protect you right? She was built for that purpose. If you summon her then surely, “Ly–”

You can't get the second syllable out. Sharp pain stings inside your throat as you try to speak.

“Lyla’s not going to attack me," he says as if he can read your mind and knows what you were planning to do. "It’s a safety feature built in to make sure she doesn’t go rogue. The only time that gets overridden is if I’m a threat to your life."

Irritation crawls under your skin.

Fuck’s sake Lyla. Does this not count as a threat? Do fangs poised against your throat and taking a chomp out of you not qualify? The man bit and paralyzed you!

Despite two failed attempts, you try to move again, straining against the impossible heaviness of your numb limbs. Another jolt of pain shoots through your limbs as you do.

Miguel flinches at the sight of you as if there was an invisible thread connecting your body to his and he was able to feel every ounce of your pain.

His hand reaches up to cup your cheek to stop you.

“Don’t move,” he tells you again. “My toxins have paralyzed you and it will hurt you if you try to move. Stay still, nena. Please. You’re safe.”

If this was your Miguel, he would have been curt and snappy with you for being so stupid to move when it hurts. But this Miguel says it like a plea. Soft and gentle all at once.

His other hand comes to your collarbone, thumb gently wiping away the dried blood that’s pooled there. There’s an unreadable expression on his face as he stares at the dark stain of red on his fingers.

“This is the last time you’ll be hurt. You’re not going to die this time. I know how to fix this so you won’t die ever again."

Fix...it? What does he mean? Like make the universe stop trying to kill you for good?

You blink up at the man, unsure of what to make of his words. You don't trust this version of Miguel any further than you can throw him. The man knocked you out and tied you up...

But if he can fix it, even if the chance is small and far-fetched, what would be the harm in listening?

Your tongue is heavy and dry in your mouth and it feels like you’ve swallowed fistfuls of sand when you try to speak again. “Ho-how?”

“I just have to eliminate the root cause of why the Universe keeps trying to kill you.”

You prepare yourself for the pain that’s going to come again to ask him what he means. But luckily you don’t have to, this Miguel spares you of that.

“You’ve encountered another me in your dimension, right?” he asks.

You don’t answer him. But it doesn't seem to matter, because he already seems to have decided on the answer as he continues.

“It’s his fault,” he says with anger, his red eyes burn with an unnatural glow that sets your teeth on edge. “It’s his fault that this keeps happening to you. He’s the reason the universe keeps trying to kill you.”

No. No that’s not– You don’t know what he’s getting at. Don’t know what has happened to this version of Miguel that makes him believe this.

But you do know one thing. You don't need to listen to the rest of it to know. He is wrong.

Your Miguel has saved you. Protected you again and again. Put himself in harm’s way and nearly died to keep you safe. He would never hurt you.

“No,” you ignore the spasm of pain across your diaphragm as you speak. “He s-saved me.”

His mouth furls into a feral snarl, flashing the corner of his fangs. “You wouldn’t need to be saved if it wasn’t for him.”

“That’s not–”

“He’s an anomaly! Every Miguel O’Hara is!”

You blink up at him at loss for words. You don’t understand what he’s trying to tell you.

In front of you, this Miguel visibly grits his teeth, grinding down on his jaw, as he continues to speak in that low tone that simmers with fury.

“Humans are not meant to travel between dimensions. When I invented inter-dimensional travel, I violated that natural order without knowing it. Everyone I come across, everyone I saved, I’ve doomed, because that event was never supposed to take place.”

“You– you don’t know–”

He cuts you off before you can finish, “I’ve seen it!” he shouts. His hands curl into agitated fists at his sides. “After I lost you, I–I...”

He looks back at you and the words seem to die on his tongue.

As you hold his gaze you begin to see what you missed before. You were too focused on this Miguel’s anger to notice the grief pouring out of every inch of him.

“I lost myself,” he says, quieter now. “Lyla showed me a version of us in another dimension and it was the only thing that kept me going. We had a life together there. A daughter. You were happy there... Then that version of me died.”

He pauses again, lost in some memory that you are not a part of. Shame sinks into the hollowness of his sunken eyes and he looks away from you again.

“... And I replaced him. I thought it was harmless, that I was just replacing a version of me and the universe wouldn’t know any better. But I was wrong. He was never supposed to be in that dimension either. That whole universe collapsed because of me and our daughter and you died with it.”

Making a broad gesture through the empty air, amber light brightens up the space.

From behind him, a myriad of holographic screens flicker into existence, and you see images of yourself repeated and illuminated in all of them. You with pink hair. Another you with piercings. A you with tattoos and shaved cuts. Hundreds of variants of you wearing pieces of clothing that you’ve never owned. All of them, a different you, living their everyday life.

“Since then I’ve observed hundreds and thousands of versions of you in every dimension,” this Miguel tells you, as he gazes longingly at the screens that float above.

“All of them get to live full and healthy long lives. Do you know what every one of those versions of you have in common?”

He turns back towards you, closing the distance between you. “We never met. The reason you keep dying is because you meet me.”

His face is so close that a lock of his curl falls on your temple. Had this been your Miguel, you’d been tingling with warmth and excitement, now all you feel is a cold shiver.

“Every time we meet is because something I did inadvertently puts you in danger, and then I save you from it, starting the chain of events.”

Your mind flashes to that first moment you fell out of the Chrysler building. The blur of blue and red that came crashing into your life in pursuit of a villain and knocked you out of a skyscraper window.

“The universe is trying to erase your existence because of me. To try to correct the balance.”

Your face feels numb. Your mind is reeling from the revelation.

The question that you’ve had since this all began has finally been answered. Why this universe seemingly has it out for you. Why it has repeatedly tried to kill you. Why your world literally was about to end after you kissed him… It all makes a tragic sense now.

It’s because of Miguel.

You don’t know how long you remain frozen, crushed under the weight of the realization, before the sound of footfall joins the room, echoing in this empty space.

You hear him before you see him. Your Miguel. He calls your name and the familiar tone of it sends warm shivers through your spine.

Searching the space, your eyes land on his familiar silhouette in the dim light.

Miguel is struggling to walk, hunched over and limping forward despite his injuries. He looks so much smaller than what you are used to. There's blood dripping down his face and ugly red gashes ripping into his protective suit where one arm is clutching to the gaping raw wound.

Parting your mouth, you desperately try to warn him and scream that he needs to run. But the noise is garbled and choked. Nothing remotely close to a word comes out of your mouth. Even if it did, it wouldn’t have helped.

Miguel is too distracted by the sight of you. Too focused on reaching you that he barely registers the sight of his other self standing beside you, and then it’s too late.

It happens so fast, your eyes aren’t able to register it. One second his cosmic Doppelgänger is beside you. The next he is gone.

He leaps into the air with a ferocity that chills your bones. His claws slashes through the air and he pounces on Miguel with the entirety of his body weight.

Miguel doesn’t stand a chance. He’s already wounded and weakened. There’s been no time to heal. He’s still heavily bleeding from his abdomen and the bone-deep wounds where the damage meant for you had torn through him instead.

His body lands on the floor with a painful heavy thud. Even from this distance, you can hear the air rush out of his lungs with a pained and choked wheeze.

“Do you know what you have done?” His voice drips with venom as he fists his hand into Miguel’s hair, yanking his head upwards, level with his. “Why couldn’t you just have left her alone?”

Miguel snarls with an ugly grimace as he tries to wrangle himself free to no avail, pinned as he is on the ground. He meets the man’s stare without cowering even as he is unable to stand upright, wounded and bleeding out.

“The fuck are you on about?” Miguel spits out. He surges forward, ramming his forehead into the other man.

The blow of it sends the Doppelgänger reeling back. But it doesn’t last. He snarls in anger before he lunges forward, grabbing for Miguel’s head to slam it back down into the ground.

All you can do is helplessly watch the scene unfold before you.

“You still don’t get it do you?” he growls, raising his arm in the air to deliver another forceful blow.

There’s a nauseating bone-crushing sound that makes you sick to your stomach when his fist connects to Miguel’s jaw.

“You should never have gone to her world. You didn’t belong!”

He clasps around Miguel’s throat in a painfully hard hold, pinning him there against the ground.

Miguel’s tanned skin bleeds white around the dented imprints of that talon grip, cutting off blood circulation until you’re sure he can no longer breathe.

“She died because of you!”

The words make Miguel freeze. The whole of his back stiffening.

A fisted hand hammers down on Miguel’s face and you squeeze your eyes shut before you see it connect. All you hear behind your closed eyelids is a sickening crack that you know means something is broken.

Silence follows, and you barely dare to squint your eyes open, terrified of what you will see. Even though you’re bracing yourself, you’re still not prepared at the sight that greets you.

Miguel's body is slumped and motionless on the ground. The other him towers over his defeated form. There’s an eerie calm to his movements as he gets up and steps back.

On the ground, Miguel looks so much smaller than when he's lying in bed next to you under the covers and your heart beats painfully fast in your chest, unable to intervene.

The other man raises one leg above Miguel’s still form, poised like a sledge-hammer and holds there.

His foot comes down, delivering a shattering stomp that reverberates through the space. You swear you can feel the suspended webs holding you, shake and tremble against your skin from the after shock.

The air thins in your lungs. Hot, wet tears spill down your cheeks. For a long and dreadful second, you’re not sure if Miguel is still alive.

Then you hear a tiny, pained whimper, from the ground.

You don’t know what you feel anymore. Fear. Sadness. Anger. Relief. Everything inside you is drawn in a tight knot and aches at the pitiful sound of how much pain Miguel must be in. But there’s also the tiniest of hope, because as doomed as this all may seem, at the very least he’s still alive.

That's all you care about right now.

In front of you, his other self cocks his head to the side. He narrows his eyes as he looks down at the defenseless body on the ground with a disdain that you've never seen on those features before.

“You disrupted the canon when you jumped into her dimension. Do you understand?” he says with a quiet barely contained anger. “The universe keeps trying to kill her, because you, an anomaly, entered into the picture and altered the course of her life."

Something sharp protrudes from the back of his arms, as he speaks.

"But I can make it right," he says and you see the sharp long appendages extend from both sides of his upper arms.

You stare at them with a growing fear, as they grow sharp and menacing, into blades that glow ominously red.

No. Nononono.

This can't be happening. This can't be real.

You wrench against the restraints around your limbs and pain sears through every single cell of your body. But right now it doesn't matter. You have to move. Because you know what’s going to happen if you don’t.

"I can save her. If you die, she gets to live. All you need to do is stay down,” he says.

To your horror Miguel does. Miguel doesn’t move. Doesn’t resist. Doesn’t fight back. The tight tension in his muscles go slack, and his arms drop at his sides.

The most stubborn man in the universe has stopped fighting. He’s given up.

That man is going to kill Miguel. You can’t stay still and let it happen. You have to move. God, please please, you need to–

“I have to do this to keep her safe,” the Doppelgänger says, “You want that too. It’s all we ever wanted.”

Pain tears at the seams of your skin, sharp and fractured like broken shards and glass splitting through your skull until you’re sure you are going to vomit. You ignore it.

In front of you, he raises his arm above Miguel’s head until it looms over him like a reaper's scythe.

Ripping through the last of the hindrance holding you down, adrenaline and pain mix into a sickening concoction until you lose sense of your surroundings.

It's only a few feet away.

You can’t stop, even if it hurts. Can’t stop even though your vision flickers white with bright dotted spots. Can’t stop, because if you do– you’ll lose him.

You leap, throwing yourself in front of Miguel's slumped form on the floor.

Everything hurts. Pain sears through your insides, scraping every inch of our flesh. It burns and crackles in the marrow of your bones.

You spread your arms out in an attempt to make yourself bigger, trying to shield as much of your Miguel as you are physically capable of.

“Nena…” the man above stares down at you, wide-eyed and frozen.

He's stopped, the sharp blade protruding from his arm suspended inches from your face.

“Cielo! Move,” Miguel barks from under you.

“No!”

There’s no fear in this moment as you say the word. Even with the honed blade looming over your head. Even though all it’d take is one swift downward movement to end it all, you’ve never felt surer of your safety.

Because this close, you can see it now.

This other Miguel, different as he may be, is still Miguel. If there’s one thing you learnt in these last few months it's that more than anything, no matter how hard-headed and wrong he might go about it in his methods. This man will always choose your safety over everything else. Your survival. Your life.

That’s why Lyla still hasn’t overridden her safety protocol. Because your life is not in danger, not by his hands.

If he has to go through you to get to Miguel… He wouldn’t. You can tell that much.

And if your life is the only shield you have to offer the man you love, then you’d gladly lay it down under the guillotine.

“I won’t let you lay another finger on him,” you say as you stare up at the other Miguel defiantly. “Not as long as I’m alive.”

The man narrows his eyes, seething with an anger that radiates from every inch of his body as he spits out the syllables.

“He is killing you.”

His lips quiver, hands trembling as he looks down at you. You recognize that expression. It's the same one Miguel held when he was looming over you, vowing to eliminate the Avengers in order to protect you.

The same pain in his eyes, whenever he fears for your survival... because he's already lost you once.

That's what this is...

You see this for what it is now.

Despite the fact that he’s a stranger, in spite of all the differences, you see him for who he is. The anger, the blame on his own other self, on your Miguel. The haunting guilt he has towards himself.

When he says, ‘he,’ he's not just referring to the man behind you. He's talking about himself.

Kneeling upwards, you move towards this man, ignoring the burning pain that shudders through your trembling arms as you reach up to cup those all too familiar sharp cheeks. He flinches at the touch, as if he didn’t expect it.

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t know. You didn’t kill me,” you tell him.

His eyes widen and he turns his face the tiniest fraction into the palm of your hand, chasing after your touch.

“Maybe you and him are the reason the universe tries to kill me. But I’m still glad I was able to meet you."

At your words, you can see the determination in his eyes waver. The way something in him cracks open and falls apart at your words.

"I'm sorry," he says, and the words bleed with guilt. "I'm so sorry. It's all my fault."

“It's not your fault," you tell him again. "It’s okay, Miguel, I don't blame you. Even with all the near deaths and the end of the world, meeting you is the best thing that happened to me."

He’s not your Miguel. You know that. But despite everything that preceded this moment, your heart still hurts for this man.

All you know is that you want to make him feel better. You just want to make his hurt a little bit less painful.

“If it was my choice. If it were for me to decide. I would still want us to meet. I’m going to choose that every time. And I think that’s what she would’ve done too."

A glossy wetness shines over his scarlet eyes that threatens to spill and you ache for him.

Even if the man in front of you is not your Miguel. He’s still Miguel.

You will always recognize him, not in the identical physical features of his face. Not the stubborn angle of his ridiculously sharp jaw. Nor his obscenely large build.

No. It’s in the sadness of his eyes. The longing that he holds for you whenever he looks at you. The love you can plainly see there, no matter how hard he tries to hide it from you.

You are the woman he loves above all else. In every universe.

You can see that now.

“I think that’s what I’d always choose, Miguel. There are many versions of me but I know that every me will love every you in every universe if given the chance.”

His shoulders slump, the burning anger in him dims as his chest visibly deflates in front of you. Then he stands there, staring down at you with that aching defeat etched into the corners of his weary eyes.

“If I let you go,” he starts, voice so quiet it almost sounds like a whisper. “Where would you go from here?”

You stop to consider his question.

If you leave here with Miguel, your life as you know it is never going to be the same.

The comforts of your everyday life in New York will be lost. No more Netflix, or fancy lemony cupcakes, or the barista that knows your order before you open your mouth.

You will never know what your life will look like from one day to the next. What the world itself is going to be, jumping from one foreign universe to another. That should be terrifying to you.

But somehow it isn't.

What's scary is the thought of going back to the life you had without Miguel there. The life that was so painfully mundane and ordinary that you had no moments of importance worth remembering seconds before falling to your death. The life you spent that was trapped in the machinery of habit, without a speck of color and excitement in your life.

As confusing and downright scary every day has been since you met him, you’ve never felt more alive. Never felt safer than when Miguel is by your side. You wouldn't give it up for anything.

In your mind, there’s only one choice you want to make.

“I am going to leave my dimension with him,” you say. “The world won't have to end and we’d be together.”

He shakes his head, disbelieving. Those sad eyes, still pinned on yours.

“No matter where you run to, it would start up all over again," he says, biting down on his bottom lip with worry. "The universe will eventually try to erase you because it thinks you're an anomaly. That would be the rest of your life, running from dimension to dimension.”

He throws a look behind you where Miguel is lying on the ground, the disdain and anger coming to life again, before he continues. “If he dies, if I kill him, then that connection is severed, you could go back to your normal life.”

You turn behind to look at your Miguel. He has an expression on his face that mirrors his other self. One of defeat and sadness and disbelief.

“I don’t want that. I don’t want a life he’s not a part of.” You turn back to the other him, squarely meeting his eyes. “Please.”

Other Miguel looks like his world is ending as he looks at you. For the longest moment he doesn't say anything, and you aren't sure what his answer is going to be or what he is going to do. If he's going to hold you here against your will and kill Miguel despite your pleas.

Then he drops his gaze to the floor and you can see that he’s holding back tears.

“Go,” he whispers.

He steps back from you, retreating step by step to widen the physical distance between yourself and him, and turns away with his back towards you.

You immediately scramble towards your Miguel, arms reaching for him. It’s not graceful, your limbs still hurt and your movements are clumsy. But you try to ignore it so you can loop Miguel’s arm over your shoulder and try to haul him up on his feet.

Predictably, Miguel is already starting to protest and scold you, “Cielo, you can’t–”

“Not now, Miguel,” you cut him off, and for once he listens.

His mouth presses into a firm line as he strains to stand upright, trying not to lean on you for support to get up, but failing to do so, leg buckling under his own weight.

Your hand shoots out around his waist to hold him steady, the slick blood from his wounds painting your fingers a bright red. You swallow down the worry, prioritizing getting away above all else for now.

“Let’s go,” you tell him, and he gives you a curt, almost compliant nod as the two of you move together with clumsy steps and rely on each other for support.

Behind you, the other Miguel is still standing turned away from you. You stare at his wide back as you walk away.

With each step that broadness looks smaller and smaller in the distance. The lonely and grief-struck silhouette of another version of the man that you love, that so clearly loves you, disappears out of sight as you leave him behind.

Miguel is quiet. He won’t look you in the eye as both of you try to hobble your way to the corridor you had landed in when you first came to this dimension.

It takes you both an eternity. It's nothing short of a miracle Miguel is still alive and even though the toxin is wearing off in your system, you still feel sore. Every muscle in your body is cramping, worse than any time of the month you’ve had to endure so far in your life.

You gain an entirely new appreciation of what Wong must’ve gone through and if there is a way to send interdimensional gift baskets, you remind yourself you should get one for him as an apology.

“This should be safe enough,” Miguel tells you as you reach the secluded space.

You both slump down to the ground, catching your breath with your backs leaning against the wall behind to hold you upright.

“Are you okay?” you ask him, which is a silly question for a man that probably has at least half a dozen broken ribs, internal bleeding, and a fractured jaw from the looks of it.

Despite all those bodily injuries though, Miguel is acting unbothered.

“Yeah, give me a minute and I’ll get us out of here.”

He wastes no time as he reaches over for your wrist and fiddles with the dials on your watch,

A hologram appears above, but there’s no sighting of Lyla. He hasn’t summoned her and as far as you can see it’s all just gibberish coding that he’s inputting. You have no idea what he’s doing but if you had to take a guess, it looks like he’s manually inserting the programming of the next jump to ensure it’s the right location this time.

He’s quiet and concentrated like always, eyebrows furrowed, as he works. Then out of nowhere, without looking up from what he’s doing, he speaks.

“What do you want to do once you get out of here?”

"Sleep,” is your immediate answer and Miguel laughs quietly at that as you continue. “Recover, just... rest, for a while, I guess"

"Sounds nice.” He shuts down the illuminated screen, presumably already done.

Then he’s quiet for a long moment, just sitting there next to you.

“...and after that?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“I guess since I’m going to be traveling different dimensions now for the rest of my life, I’d want to go to all the cool places? Like one where there’s talking raccoons. Or a dimension where we all have sausages for fingers, or one where all life forms are rock based.”

He pays close attention to you, face resting in the palm of his hand, as you tell him of these made up otherworldly dimensions.

“If we happen to jump into another dimension that’s similar to my old one I wouldn’t turn down Beyoncé tickets, provided Lyla could get them or we could just have her hack into restaurant booking systems and get us into all the exclusive places.”

There’s a small smile on his face as you speak, and your chest feels warm at the sight of it. Somehow after the day you have had, barely escaping the end of the world, going through an assassination attempt by the Avengers, being ambushed by another version of Miguel, you both made it through.

That tiny smile of his feels like a prize at the finishing line.

You slide your fingers across the space between you, until you find his knuckles, interlacing his fingers with yours.

"Anything would be okay, really. As long as I get to be with you," you tell him.

His smile turns wistful, as he nods back at you, squeezing your fingers back between his. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

There’s a lingering moment that you share in the comfortable silence. It’s unlike him. The Miguel you know would have wanted to make the jump five minutes ago, but you figure he must be tired.

He’s been shot at, thrown off buildings and beaten half to death by his own Doppelgänger today. He’s more than earned a minute or two of rest.

His head tips up staring into the moody blue ceiling above. “I love you,” he says.

It’s sudden and a bit out of nowhere but your face tingles. Warmth fills your chest until there's so much of it you're not sure you can contain it inside you. Then he continues.

“If there was any doubt. I love you, this you. Even if I find you to be absolutely batshit insane sometimes.”

You can’t help the silly grin tugging at your lips. The dopey feeling that buzzes bright in your veins. You feel slightly lightheaded and you aren’t sure if it’s a side effect of the toxins or just his words.

“Miguel, I lov–” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I know,” he says, turning his gaze to you, as he squeezes your hand gently in his. “You don’t have to say anything. Let’s just stay here for a while. Just like this.”

He doesn’t say anything after that.

The two of you stay like that in the moody darkness, his thumb smoothing over the front of your hand in soothing motions, as he looks down at you like he doesn’t want to take his eyes off of you. It’s a while longer still, before finally Miguel seems ready. He takes your hand that he’s holding and brings it close.

“Lyla,” he summons. “Take us to the next location.”

At the command, there's a bright burst of strobed colored lights surrounding you. It’s blinding your vision as it throws you into motion even as you’re sitting still.

Then before you know it they fade into a bright sterile whiteness. You wait for your surroundings to reform. To see a skyline and buildings and city lights.

But there’s nothing.

“Wait, where are we?” you ask.

Everything is blank and white and endless here. Empty space as far as the eye can see. Dread seizes you. You’re in the void again.

Why are you here?

How… Is the watch broken? Did the two of you fail? But it worked before. You shouldn’t be here, how–fuck, your vision starts to flatten. The ground underneath you is unsteady. Everything blurs. You can’t breathe.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” Miguel says, taking your hand in his as he squeezes down. “I sent us here.”

He says it so casually, your brain doesn't quite register the meaning. What does he mean he sent you here? On purpose, why would he–

“What do you mean? I don’t understand, Miguel, why would you–”

He hushes you soothingly. One hand comes to cup the back of your head, stopping you mid-sentence. “You’re not going to stay here. We’re just doing a drop off.”

“Miguel, what–”

He leans down, forehead pressing intimately against yours, there’s a sad smile on his face as he meets your eyes. They’re soft and gentle, and your chest squeezes painfully tight just looking at him.

“I already told you, didn't I?” he tells you, both hands coming to cup your cheeks. “I’m not going to let you die.”

Without missing a beat, he’s already moving on before you even have a chance to retort.

“Lyla,” he calls, and you hear the ping from your wrist. Can feel the slight vibration as the hologram takes form. “Run the updated protocol."

There’s a bright glow that forms all around you. Bright light crackles at the edges of your vision and there’s a delayed reaction in your brain as you try to process everything that’s happening around you.

He lets you go, taking a step back. ��I love you, Cielito. I will always love you.”

Shit! He wouldn’t. Why?

“Take her home for me,” he orders.

You step forward trying to grab hold of him but it’s already too late. Your fingers grasp for him, but it sinks into nothingness, Miguel is already gone and so are you.

You find yourself inside a small studio apartment.

There’s no one besides you.

There’s a sole window sill where the view of New York City is entirely obscured by the neighboring building and its ugly brick wall. Not an inch of the skyline is visible.

You’re surrounded by clutter and second hand furniture that is all too familiar. A cheap IKEA Ingatorp dining table. Laundry still piled up on the bed. Dirty dishes stacked up in a tower over the sink.

You know this place.

You’re home.

~ Next Issue

Dedication & Credits: To my favorite moose @thirstworldproblemss. Thank you as always for listen to my insane ramblings and machinations, even though you literally do not even go here.

To @guruan who I have been dying to share this chapter with for so long! Thank you for all the amazing art, thank you for your help looking through dialogues to make sure the Spanish used reads right. Thank you for crying about this man with me.

And last but not least big hug loves and smooches to @djarinsbeskar who gave this a second pair of eyes in the eleventh minute when I was freaking out about the copious use of Doppelganger, her advice was invaluable to me and without her I probably would've put this on ice over the weekend. Please send her all the loves! cause she is amazing and beautiful and gorgeous. Also do you know that she has her DEBUT NOVEL SENSUAL SUMMONING coming out soon? please check it out and sign up to her newsletter.

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse #oscar isaac #across the spiderverse fanfiction #across the spiderverse #marvel mcu #marvel #miguel ohara fic #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you #spiderverse fanfiction

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ellecdc · 4 months ago

Note

Okok can i overstay your house party by asking for one more???

♧ here for the drinks:

I actually dreamt about this, it was so funny

so basically one of the black brothers is injured and the shy and soft reader is trying to help but she faints when she sees blood😭😭 so then the poor injured guy has to help her and be like bitch no it's my turn to pass out

but also kinda hot coz he's assertive and telling her stay tf awake

i've always loved your comedic fics

it's a weird one but I hope u like it, if not that's okay!!! love u and congratulations once again🩷🩷🩷

-🩷

pink heart emoji, I am almost upset with you that you sent such a funny and cute request as a head canon blurb!!! this would make such a cute fic!! but, since I'm working slowly on fics rn and idk when I'd get to it, here's your head canons <3 also, I'm going with Regulus for this simply because I think it'd be funny to see him be soft/stern

you walk into (what was supposed to be) an empty herbology classroom to find Regulus crumpled over a desk

you make a startled sound, causing him to look over at you though he doesn't straighten up his posture

"Oh, erm, I- I'm sorry...I can...come back later if you're using the room?" he shakes his head quickly at you and looks back down at his lap

"No..you're fine just...mind the cabbages" he says, voice taught as you spot the Chinese Chomping Cabbages rolling their ways back towards their bed of soil

"Are you alright?" you ask cautiously, deigning to head towards him, he makes a grimacing sound

"they got me...the cabbage, that is, I'll be fine but I should probably get to the healer"

when you finally make it to Regulus' workbench, you see why he needs to go to a healer. "oh...oh! oh, uhm, huh, uhm, okay." you sputter, swallowing around your gag reflex and trying to stay upright, leaning your weight heavily on the workbench as your vision starts to blur

"Do you mind passing me my scarf?" he asks, motioning to it with his head as he applies pressure to the wound with the hand of his uninjured arm

you do mind, but you can't very well say that, so you do as asked and hand it to him not without your arm violently shaking

"you alright?" he asks you slowly, making a surprised sound when you sway slightly on your feet "Merlin, y/n, what's your problem?"

you try to mumble something to the effect of "shit I'm sorry" but you're not sure how effective you were when it feels like your mouth is filling with cotton

"oh for Salazar's sake" Regulus mutters, quickly tying his scarf around his arm tightly twice before reaching for his wand and vanishing the blood as best he can, though his white uniform shirt is a lost cause

"okay, we're both going to the infirmary, but you have to stay awake y/n, can you do that?", you think you say yes, but he asks you again. "can you stay awake for me?"

you nod your head because yes you would do that for him, but it was a mistake as you nearly land on your knees, only upright thanks to Regulus' good arm circling around your waist

"Nope. none of that. hey-" he heaves you up further so he can support your weight "no fainting, if anyone's going to faint, it should be me, yeah? come on, stay awake for me"

and for the love of all the gods you do your damned best, keeping your eyes shut and pretending you can't smell the blood on Regulus' person until you make it to the infirmary where he sets you gingerly against a bed, but as you open your eyes and catch sight of him again, you fall unconscious

you wake up to Regulus sitting at your bedside - a fresh jumper sans blood over him and the end of a bandage you can see near his wrist, and he's smirking at you

"why're you still here if you're all fixed up?" you grumble as you sit yourself up, and that only seems to cause his smile to grow. "it'd be terribly rude of me not to thank the person who got me to the infirmary, no?" - "you practically had to drag me here" you argue, only for him to shrug his shoulders. "semantics, anyways, I figured I better walk you to your common room too, you know, just in case"

well didn't he just about walk you everywhere in the castle from that moment forward <3

#elle's celebratory house party #elle's here for the drinks

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whalesforhands · 1 year ago

Text

for what i have overlooked

fleeting memories and unsaid words, there’s a beauty in all of them.

HBD GOJO SATORU

“So? So? Wanna spend time with your lovely teacher and tell him all about your training?” A wink that cannot be seen from under his blindfold as he throws out a peace sign, holding it up to his eyes, awaiting the replies of his precious students.

His antics are ignored.

“Panda, that punch needs some work. Loosen your fist a little next time.” She takes a bite of the ice pop, the crunch of the cold treat loud.

“Oh yeah? Inumaki said that I got a mean kick though. Should I try that next time?” The crinkling of plastic as he unwraps the ice cream sandwich, licking his lips.

“Salmon!”

Maki wipes the sweat from her brow, confident grin upon her face. “Yeah, bring it.”

Oh well. Guess he’ll just eat by himself, then. Rummaging through the remains of the plastic bag and digging around, he hums. He was sure he had bought enough— Scooping up all the remaining ice creams they had and dumping it at the counter as he took a phone call.

Oh! There it is! His hand pulls out still chilled plastic, excited grin on his face as he flips it over to inspect the flavour. Like a roulette for ice cream flavours, would he like it? Love it? Hate—

His brows furrow as he looks at the packaging, his eyes squinting at he looks at the tiny prints and lackluster colours. Man, he got one of those old timey flavours…

“And there!” A hand catches the ice cream bar midair. “Red bean flavour for the masses!”

“And my cigarettes?”

“Heh.” He runs a hand through his hair dramatically, swiping hair away from his eyes as he poses with the mentioned item. “The great Gojo Satoru never forgets!”

A plastic packaging is thrown at the girl who seamlessly catches it in one hand, lax smile on her face as she nods in thanks. “The great Gojo Satoru should remember to tie his shoelaces.”

“Wha—?!” That nasty trickster of a woman! His complaint dies on the tip of his tongue when he watches her settle down beside you on that familiar bench, the sun already beginning to set as the blue of the sky starts to fade into a colourway of pink and orange.

Was the day over already? These summer days always seemed like they were far too short.

Watching as you chomp down on the ice cream held to your lips, the cold taking over your teeth as you feel a tingle up your spine. “Mmm… Suguru, I think they changed the flavour on this one.”

“Really?” He leans towards you. “I’ll have a try then—“

“I want a biteeeeeee!~” Satoru has an arm around your shoulders as he drags you in closer towards him, “Pleaseeeeee?” Puppy dog eyes and a whimpered plead, he bought it all, so please?

This… Was meant to be a shared treat between yourself and Geto to compare the red bean ice cream brands. Though, you suppose a variance in your experiment wouldn’t hurt. A peek over at Suguru only catches him rolling his eyes with a smile. That’s a yes, then.

“I’m not quite sure if you’ll like this though, Satoru. It’s a bit different to the ones we usually eat.” You’re slightly worried as you turn to hand him the stick, only for his hand to wrap around yours and aid in personally bringing it to his mouth.

“Don’t you worry about it~” Perhaps you don’t understand yet; but he would take anything as long as it’s from you.

“One bite, Satoru.” Geto is unwittingly firm despite his lax expression, his copper-amethyst eyes watch intently as Gojo starts opening his mouth. “One.”

And one bite he did take, engulfing the entire treat in his mouth.

“Ahh, this greedy—!” Suguru’s arm flies across Shoko to grab onto the ice cream that was about to be swallowed whole, hand immediately around Satoru’s and yours, attempting to pull it away only to end up with empty wooden remains.

You’re too shocked to even react.

“And that’s why I hide my ice cream.” Shoko only nods in, her head against your shoulder as the straw of her iced tea is held in between her lips.

“That was one bite!” He’s speaking through chews as he feels the icy chill seep into his teeth, feeling Suguru smack his shoulder lightly in revenge. “Bleg— Sour!”

Maybe he’s glad that this brand has lasted the test of time, despite the unappealing flavour profile. Maybe— He’ll enjoy it this time?

Gojo Satoru’s grin doesn’t falter as he tears the plastic away with ease, blindfolded eyes staring at the cold treat only momentarily, before he takes a bite.

Oh. It’s still a little too sour for his tastes.

——

“Gojo-sensei! Ya sure you’ll be fine without an umbrella?” Yuuji waves at him from under the umbrella the first-year trio stood, calling out to him from the heavy rain. Does he not want to share with them?

“Aha, don’t worry about a thing, Itadori! Look!” His hand is held out for the three to observe, outstretched and showing off just how perfectly dry it remained despite the pouring rain. Infinity truly was quite the gift.

“Ehhhh?! Gojo-sensei, you’re amazing!”

“Don’t flatter his ego.”

“Ahhh, lucky! He doesn’t have to worry about the rain messing up his hair…”

“Heh, I’m the strongest, after all!” There’s a ringing in his chest, a thump in his heart. “See ya later!” A salute before he departs.

The crowd shifting about him, the patter of the rain against umbrellas and concrete as he walks, easily navigating through as he treks the way back to campus.

He used to love rainy days, you know?

He notices you holding a palm out, letting the rain droplets fall onto your hand as you sigh, staring up at the darkened skies.

“Well, well, well! Look what we got here!” An arm around your shoulders as you hear him laugh from behind you. “Looks like it’ll be raining for quite a bit!”

You only let out a sigh, leaning back into his arm as you pout at the dreary weather. “I didn’t think it would rain this heavily today…” You really should’ve listened when Nanami started squinting at the clear sky and reminded you to take an umbrella.

A hum from the white-haired sorcerer as mischievous blue glint from underneath black frames, the impish grin alluding to something more. “Sayyyyyy, you were only gonna go back to the dorms, right?” He’s starting to unbutton his uniform jacket.

You nod. What… Is he planning?

“Then, let’s go! Brace yourself!” You feel fabric fall softly over your head, your eyesight shrouded in darkness as you feel your hand being grabbed, larger fingers intertwining with your own as you’re dragged forward and out into the unforgiving rain.

It doesn’t take long before you’re both at the entrance of your dorm home, sweating, wet, muddy and messy from the trip. “See?” He holds a thumbs up. “That wasn’t so bad, right?”

Your hand still hasn’t loosened its grip on his as you suddenly feel him shiver, a sneeze being let out. It wasn’t bad at all, but you think you’re both about to be sick. You sigh, but thumb grazing over the skin of his hand. “We’re both gonna be sick because of this, you know?” He feels extremely cold.

“And you shouldn’t have given your jacket to me, you don’t look well at all.” His white buttonup had been completely soaked through, water dripping from his head as you stare up at him, removing the wet jacket from your shoulders. A shift in your hands results in you letting go, a whine dying on his lips when he feels your dryer palms go up to his face. “Don’t do that again, okay?”

He could retort, tell you at least he made it back with you in one piece. Though, the way you look at him causes a stutter in his heart, pleading worry and concern in your eyes has him feeling… Guilty. He’s Gojo Satoru- He doesn’t get sick, nobody was ever concerned about his wellbeing till this point. Why would they? He’s one of the greatest. He didn’t have people like you or Suguru, hells, even Shoko—

Maybe he gets it. Maybe this is what the word of ‘love’ means. He should do this again sometime—

“Are you both insane?” Shoko is absolutely unimpressed as she stops in front of the both of you, towels already in hand.

Maybe he is, if he gets to evoke such reactions from you all.

He stares up at those grey skies, his palm having an itching, almost phantom warmth as he feels a subconscious twitch of his lips.

He hopes the rain stops soon.

——

“Ah- He’s waking up.” There’s a hand upon his cheek as he starts to crack open his eyes, smooth skin stroking his own and the usual weight of his sunglasses off his face.

Gentle voices, gentle touches. His nose picks up on the scent of grass, the feel of the summer breeze upon his cheeks, his head against something soft, something comforting.

“Satoru, you finally awake?” He hears a deep chuckle, a gentle voice stroking his ears, another graze of fingers upon his soft face. “You’ve been asleep for almost an hour.”

“Hrmm…” He doesn’t feel like waking up, doesn’t wanna leave this overwhelming warmth.

“Suguru, we should let him sleep a little more.” You were always the soft-hearted one. “I think he deserves it.”

Gojo Satoru thinks he’s deserving of a lot of things, such as his position upon your lap where he naps with comfort. He flips onto his side, enjoying the way you continued to stroke his head, fingers running through snow-white locks.

“Fine, just a little longer. Then it’s my turn.”

He opens his eyes to realize it was another dream. A frequent occurrence that leaves his eyes feeling dry when he lifts his blindfold up, fingers grazing across a wetness to the soft fabric.

Oh.

It hurts to breathe till the point of bruising on the days his lingering regrets stir within him, the swirling uneasiness causing him strife that he long thought he had gotten over.

It’s with those days that he thinks he’s pathetic; made to give up on things he never wanted to let go of, but with those feelings come a forgotten reminder of warmth. The blank lines that had been filled with nothing but those days.

Memories, dreams, hopes and all that was alike. He holds onto them, clawing at the remainder of their existence. A blue of youth that was unlike no other, a spring of sun-filled bloom that he wants to keep.

Because, only then will he be fine alone, wouldn’t he? It serves as a way to keep him together, keep him whole. He has to be.

He’s the strongest, after all.

Notes:

Gojo could’ve used Infinity when running through the rain with you. But you wouldn’t have been able to touch him.

He thinks he’s found a newfound taste for red bean ice cream.

#dyf au #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satosugu x reader #geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #gojo x reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

Text

Silver Lining 6

Warnings: non/dubcon, speech impediment, bullying and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: silverfox!Bucky Barnes

Summary: You have an unpleasant encounter with an older man.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You yawn as you look into the barren depths of your cup. Bucky sits up and rolls his shoulders, a dimple in his cheek. He looks you over as you furrow your brow curiously; do you have something on your face?

“W-what?” You bat your lashes.

“Should've got ya something with caffeine,” he says.

“Oh… little l-late,” you look over as the baristas wipe the counters. It's almost closing time, “s-s-speaking of-f.”

“Mm, yeah, I suppose,” he slides over his stapled papers, “you got all my notes. When I get back, we'll figure out the final draft and get the mic going.”

“S-sounds g-good,” you stutter and swallow another yawn. When you're tired, you can barely speak straight. “I sh-should head ou-out.”

You chomp down as yet another yawn rolls up your throat and your eyes nearly roll back. You smile as best you can and stand, grabbing your bag to pack up. He gets to his feet and pulls on his jacket.

“I'll give you a ride,” he offers.

“No, n-no, it's o-okay–”

“You shouldn't walk,” he looks outside as the night contrasts the white ground, snow still piling high.

“J-just as bad d-driving,” you comment.

“I got snow tires,” he insists, “really, I'd… I'd feel bad if you walked.”

“Y-you would?” You snort.

He gives you a look. That look. The one that warns caution. You put your hands up defenselessly.

“Fine, I-I'll let y-you drive m-me,” you surrender. “B-b-but you should know, I'm n-not that h-ho-hopeless.”

“Never said you were,” he pulls a beanie over his gray hair, “not a big fan of the cold myself.”

“Yeah, i-it probably m-makes your b-bones hurt,” you slide your arms into your coat.

“You making fun of me?” He scowls.

“No-o, I just… my st-stepdad always says–”

“It's fine. It does,” he sniffs, “cracked a few ribs playing ball in college. They never heal right.”

“Ouch,” you hook your bag on your shoulder.

“You got a curfew?” He checks his watch.

“Wh-what? I-I'm thirty,” you exclaim.

He chuckles. That takes you off guard.

“I know, I'm not too old to make jokes too.”

“Y-yeah, I w-wasn't–”

“Relax, it's fine. Better go before we're snowed in,” he leads you to the door, thanking the staff as he opens the door and waits for you to go ahead of him.

Well, there might blizzard brewing outside but he seems to be thawing.

🩶

You get home to a quiet house. Your sister, Kira, hushes you as you come upstairs, her children already asleep. She has a clay mask on as she hogs the bathroom going through her nightly routine. You dip into your room and hide.

You didn't expect them to wait up for you. That's ridiculous, but no one even asked about the job. It must be the excitement of a full house. Your sister does everything right so of course they'd want to focus on her. Maybe tomorrow.

You get in your pajamas and settle into bed. It’s hard to still your mind and the jittery energy still swirling inside of you. You put on a lofi video and let it play as you close your eyes. You have the weekend to make the last tweaks and you’ll finally be onto the next step. You hope.

You spend Saturday penned up in your room, hunched over at your desk as you go through the notes from your meeting. As the clock ticks close to noon, your phone vibes, drawing you back to the land of the living. You rub your eye sockets and groan. You need to eat.

You check your phone; you have a message. You flick your thumb up and blink at the text. It’s Bucky. You still haven’t saved him as a contact, recognising him only by the last four digits of his number.

‘Quick pitstop. Forgot to ask last night. How can I pay you?’

You chew your thumb as you think. That’s the awkward part. Even though you’re doing work, it’s still a bit strange. It isn’t like a company where the money just pops into your account on schedule.

‘I can give details when you get back. Hate to add stress to your trip.’

You hit send and sit back, stretching your neck. Your phone buzzes again. You don’t expect a quick response.

‘Asking now. Will be heading into no reception. Wanted to pay you for scriptwork. Will pay rest after recording.’

Your stomach knots. You’re trying to be polite but you can’t deny that you could use the money. With Christmas tiptoeing closer, you should really get on gift shopping.

‘Right. I have Venmo.’

You tap the arrow and wait. He doesn’t answer right away. When he answers, it’s just the thinking emoji, followed by another text.

‘I’ll figure that out. Do I need your email or something?’

You sweep away the chat and tap into your app. You copy your payment code and paste it into the chat. You follow it with a quick message; ‘should prompt you how. If you need to wait, it’s fine.’

Thumbs up. That’s it. You accept that. To be fair, from him, it’s an improvement. It seems you’ve found a tenuous truce with him. You’ll take that if it means you’re not scooping into your savings.

You can hear your sister and mother gabbing as you leave your room. You stop at the top of the stairs and brace yourself. Things didn’t exactly leave off on the best terms.

You descend and sneak past the dining room where they sit and sort through your mother’s vast Christmas card collection. You’re careful not to draw any attention as you enter the kitchen and quietly pop a pod into the keurig and set your mug on the tray.

Your coffee brews with a grind, giving away your endeavour. You don’t look back as you hear the scuff of slippers. Kira enters and clinks her empty cup down on the counter not far from you. She couldn’t wait until you finished.

“So, how was your job? A bit late to be rushing off to work.”

“It’s f=freelance,” you say. “It’s g-g-good.”

She scoffs, “ah, well, that’s great. You can get out of mom and dad’s hair soon enough.”

“Y-yeah,” you agree, cheeks scalding with embarrassment, “w-working on i-it.”

“Oh, I’m sure. You know, Catherine called me the other day…” she mentions your previous coworker, her friend from college, “guess she got a promotion.”

You nod. She’s goading you. What does she expect you to say? Does she expect you to apologise for leaving a bad situation?

You take your cup of coffee and sidle away. She chuckles, the way she always does when you don’t feed into her drama. Her mug hits the tray heavily.

“I’ll tell her you say hi,” she preens.

You keep going without an answer. You yawn as you come upstairs and hear whispers ahead of you. You rush forward, sloshing hot coffee onto your hand as you approach your open door. Why didn’t you close it?”

As you get to the threshold, there’s a sudden clatter and you gasp. Jamie sits in your desk chair as your laptop lays face down on the floor. Casey is underneath the desk tugging on the power cord. You shriek and sloppily slam the mug onto the shelf mounted just beside the door.

“W-w-w-what are you d-d-doing?” Your emotion overwhelms your voice, “how–”

You hear footsteps rush up the stairs and Kira hisses as she marches down the hall, “shhh, my kids are sleeping.”

“No, th-they aren’t,” you hurry forward and take Jamie out of the chair. As you shoo Casey, your sister enters your room.

“Don’t hurt him,” she demands.

“Wh-what? I w-wouldnt–”

“Don’t touch my kids,” she comes forward and scoops up Casey then takes Jamie’s hand, “they’re just curious.”

You bend down to pick up your laptop. You turn it over and find lines streaked up in a spectrum. Smashed. Broken. Demolished.

“They b-broke it,” you whimper.

“Ugh, whatever,” she hauls her kids back to the door, “it’s just a computer.”

You stare at the ruins and shake your head at her back. What are you going to do?

#silver lining #bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #drabble #au #silverfox au #marvel #mcu #winter soldier #avengers #series

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just-some-random-blogger · 11 months ago

Text

Less Dire Situations | 1

Part 2

Peter liked you the moment he met you after moving in with his Aunt May. Unfortunately, he never got the guts to talk to you. The idea disappeared after grade school and high school graduation, so you can imagine how surprised he was when you answered his ad for Advanced Calculus tutoring. It felt like he could actually get a shot with you… and then you jumped off the Manhattan Bridge.

Peter Parker x Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, DD:DNE, suicidal thoughts/ideation, suicide attempt, themes of depression, social withdrawing, emotional masking, canon divergence, angst, hurt, typos, etc.

A/N: i have an andrew garfield brainrot and i needed a fic to help me escape, thus this fic. btw its originally posted on ao3

Tagging: @sloanexx @azperja

I groan and slam my head on the table.

"Brava," Peter laughs and claps his hand, a pencil between his grip, "she's done it, folks. All 22 questions." He shifts on his chair and checks his phone for the time, "and it only took 3 hours."

I begrudgingly lift my head and glare at him, "there would still be daylight had you let me cheat."

He chuckles and shakes his head, "you don't pay me enough for that."

I raise my brows, "I feel like your reasoning is skewed."

Peter puts his pencil down and crosses his arms. He watches me as I finally close my journal and maths book, gathering my things into my bag. He tidies up his things too, "hey. You genuinely did good though."

"Psh. Gee. Thanks," I throw my pencil case in my pack.

"No," he shakes his head, "I'm serious," he places a hand on my shoulder, "you did good. You understood the concept. I'm proud of you."

He looks genuine when he says this, solemn and earnest even. I can't help but smile back at him, the vexation in my system, shattering into a million pieces. I chuckle and nod, "thank you, Peter."

He smiles.

I make a face, "you're such a dad."

Peter laughs under his breath and gathers his things.

"You ever hear that before?"

"Wow," he says exaggeratedly, "it's almost like you don't call me that every chance you get," he stands as he brings his books in his arms. He points the eraser end of his pencil, "which is such a foul, considering I don't have one."

I cackle. Peter chuckles inwardly, shaking his head as he heads into his bedroom. He mutters breathily, "you're so messed up in the head."

I tidy the rest of my things and fix his two-seater dining table. I then stand and push the chairs under the table, putting my backpack on.

Peter comes out of his bedroom, hand in one pocket, the other adjusting his glasses, "I'll walk you home."

I shake my head, "nah. I'm gonna go get a hotdog."

"That's fine," he heads to his front door and grabs his coat, "my treat," he puts on his coat and looks over his shoulder, "using the money you paid me."

I roll my eyes and chuckle as he opens the door.

"Ladies first," he motions and bows.

"You're such a weirdo," I walk out his apartment.

"True," he closes the door.

We eat hotdogs, heaping with relish, mustard, and ketchup on a bench by the river. It was out of the way from my home, but it was always a welcome detour, in my opinion.

I lick my lips as I look at the massive monument across from us. The Manhattan Bridge; my final stop.

I point as I chew.

Peter looks as he takes a bite of his hotdog. He turns back to me, "Manhattan Bridge."

"My launch pad," I say. I swallow and hold the rest of my hotdog in both hands, "one day, I'll jump."

He stills in his spot. He refrains from eating his hotdog and wonders if he heard right as he watches me continue to eat mine. He shifts and turns to me.

I chomp, and chew, and look back at him.

"What?"

I was never one to repeat myself, so I don't.

"Don't joke like that."

I turn to my hotdog and mutter under my breath, "I'm not joking."

Peter hears this of course but he doesn't doesn't give it away.

I look back at him and stuff hotdog in my face. The worry and concern that radiates off his face eats at me. I regret saying it. Part of me wants to tell him, to seriously tell him I am messed up in the head. I want to tell him the idea of jump off such a pretty bridge that means so much to so many people sounds so... cathartic.

I want to tell him I don't want him to feel concerned or worried. I don't want anyone to feel that way for me, which is precisely why I want to do this.

I don't though, because I know he'll only be more concerned and worried.

I grin at him and nudge him with my elbow, "it'd be a great way to meet the Spoods, huh?"

I cackle to myself as Peter gets recoils.

He doesn't respond to my joke, not in anyway that counted. He straightens up and gives a sigh, "a Spiderman joke?"

I nod.

He shakes his head, "still not funny."

"Oh, come on, grampa. What? You can't take a dark joke?"

"Dark jokes are funny."

"Come on," I raise my arms, "it is. Spiderman has saved so many people from falling before! It's a great idea."

"Listen," he raises a hand, "if you want to meet Spiderman, I hear there's a spot he goes to a lot."

"Pshh," I wave him off, "where's your sense of adventure? Where's the serendipity?"

He shakes his head, looking at the last of his hotdog. He doesn't feel like eating it anymore.

I decide to lighten the mood by pointing at other things and commenting on them. I get a couple chuckles out of him by the time I finish the last of my hotdog. When I turn to him, I recognize how badly I've killed the mood.

He and I stare for a moment. I can only take so much until I decide to look at his hotdog.

I grab it and eat it myself. He watches as I stand and brush the crumbs off my hands. With a mouthful, I say, "you snooze, you lose."

Peter stands and places his hands in his pockets.

He walks me home like he always does, only this time the mood was not so chipper.

When I get to my building, I give him a smile and wave, "thanks for the hotdog, Parker."

We stand in front of the entrance.

"And for walking me," I add.

He nods and smiles, "you're welcome. You should still eat dinner though, particularly vegtables."

I snort and nod, "yes, dad." I head towards the door.

"And hey," he calls out, making me stop.

I look back at him and raise my brows.

Peter presses his lips together, "it was a joke, right? Just a silly, ha-ha joke."

My heart sinks. I smile and lie through my teeth, "of course, Peter."

Peter stares at me. He smiles. He nods, "good."

"Good," I nod back.

"There's still so much Algebra you have to learn."

"Good night, Peter."

He watches me as I go inside. He is deeply unsettled, "night."

It's been 30 minutes since I woke up. Where once was only shadow, at this point, the sunshine was trickling through. The glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling were no longer glowing.

My alarm goes off. It's now 8 o' clock.

I sit down on my bed and wipe my face. Time to check the news.

I grab my phone and finally end my alarm. I open my news and look at the latest headlines. My eyes are heavy as I scroll through the depressing articles: the war of Israel, the genocide of Palestine, the war crimes in Sudan, the human rights crisis in Afghanistan, the exploitation of Congo, the US missile strikes in Yemen, topped off with local crime and, neighborhood disturbances-- fuck, someone killed a 90-year-old at the K-mart two blocks down?

I chew on my lip as I feel desperation creep up my spine. My fingers are ice cold and my eyes water as I search the tabloids for something-- anything.

But there was nothing.

There was no news on Spiderman.

I throw my phone on the sheets in front of me.

I turn to my calendar on the wall, looking at today's date, encircled with red, just like every day before it.

I stand and grab my red marker, crossing today out, just like every date before it. I look at date tomorrow, fingers tingling with agitation.

Why won't he just come?

I encircle tomorrow's date and decide, fuck it. I toss the marker on my desk. Tomorrow's D-day regardless if Spiderman shows.

I grab my towel and take a cold shower.

The next thing I know, I'm freezing in first period. I exhale on my hands and rub them together as Ms. Vasquez explains today's activity, a study on good vs evil, a sketch that concisely depicts each side, utilizing the combination of techniques we've been discussing for the week.

She says while were drawing, she'll also make rounds to check on our the status of our final output.

By the time she comes to my desk, I'm halfway through my sketch.

Ms. Vasquez looks at my drawing pad and smiles. I look to her, then my work. It was what it was.

She places her tender, veiny hand on my shoulder, "exceptional work, my dear. As always."

I turn to her. I don't know what about 'as always' rubbed me the wrong way. Was it the implicit excellence constantly required of me? Was it the feeling I had nowhere else to go and therefore had to keep outdoing myself? Was it the fact I didn't actually believe I was always exceptional? Was it the fact it felt like it negated all the times I did feel exceptional but people couldn't discern it?

I smile, "thanks, Ms. V."

The middle aged woman purses her lips. She scrutinizes my expression and I get nervous. She motions with her head, "I especially like the rendering you did."

I turn to my drawing.

"There's more visual weight on the good side than the evil, making it look darker."

I release a chuckle and turn back to her.

"There's that smile," Ms. Vasquez said.

"Can't get anything past you," I mutter lowly. I rub my neck uncomfortably.

"That remains to be seen," the woman responds, "do you finally have something to show me for your finals?"

I press my lips into a small smile and examine my current drawing, only to release my pencil and give her a bashful expression. I make nonsensical sounds. She raises her thin brows in concern.

"Come on," she urges, tightening her cardigan around her, "not 1 sketch? Not even a doodle?"

I let out an airy chuckle, "I haven't really been seeing inspiring heroes lately."

I watch as her freckled face contorts, her smile lines turn to frown lines and her forehead curls with worry, "a lot of your classmates are doing their parents, siblings, friends. I've seen a lot of Spiderman sketches too. And Iron Man... And that one trapeze act from Hell's Kitchen."

I snort at the mention.

"You mind me looking at your sketchbook?"

"Sure," I push my open book towards her.

"I mean your personal sketchbook."

I freeze at the mention. I look at her, trying to figure if she was serious or not.

She raises her hands, "artist to artist, I know it's like opening your ribcage, so I won't judge. But teacher to student," she sighs, "I'm honestly concerned about you. You were so excited when I announced A Study on Heroes. I wanna know what's going on with your drawings at least."

Fuck. I rub my thumbs across my fingers and chuckle, "ah. What can I say," I take my backpack and rummage through my things, "burnout."

I hand her my notebook. It was tattered and crusty. It had pages clinging on for dear life and ones that didn't belong there at all.

Ms. Vasquez accepts the object with reverence. I gulp as I watch her open it. If she catches the page where I drafted my suicide notes, she either doesn't notice or doesn't note it. I'm sure as hell she saw my distressed drawings, but she doesn't say a word about that either. She is completely stoic as he works her way back into my work.

My heart nearly leaves me when she turns my book to me, "who's this?"

I look at the primitive sketch. I look at the faceless figure eating a block of something undistinguishable. I don't know how she knew it was someone at all, "that's Peter."

"Peter Matthew? From the other section?"

"No," I shake my head, "just Peter. He's studying bio-chem."

"Ah," she nods, tucking her dark curly hair behind her ear.

I wait for her to explain how she knew the sketch was a person, but she doesn't. She only brings the book back to her chest and continues flicking the pages.

After a while, she shows me again, "what about these?"

I look at the plump man who had a handless raised arm. The paper where his wrist ends was ripped, having been been erased so many times. There are other doodles of him surround that one, scenes of taking orders and making angry faces. I had forgotten about those. My teacher turns the page and I see more of him.

"That's Eddie," I point toward the whiteboard, "he sells-" I swallow the lump on my throat "... doughnuts."

She nods, "why not him?"

I look at my sketchbook as she places it before me.

"I-" I shake my head, "haven't bought doughnuts there in so long. I doubt I should even do him." I close my notebook and shove it back into my bag.

Ms. Vasquez takes a moment before replying, "there's light and dark within all of us. Sometimes acknowledging the darkness is the first step to letting it go, to make room for light."

My nerves begin to tighten when she says this.

She releases a breath, "if he was relevant enough for you to commit more than 5 pages, I'd say he impacted you enough."

Thank goodness she let it go. "... his doughnuts were pretty good."

"Good then," she nods, "find an angle. Think of how he impacted you, say--" she shakes her head in thought, "you eat his doughnuts when you're stressed and after, you feel like life isn't so bad."

I pick up my pencil and nod. I absentmindedly continue shading my current drawing.

I perk when she calls my name. I turn back to her.

"I've been lax on you because I know you're a good student," Ms. Vasquez explains, making my throat constrict. She continues, "and because the finals were still pretty far. But not anymore," she raises a finger, "I need something soon. And I mean within this week soon."

"Yes, Ms. Vasquez."

She nods, "it can be about the doughnut guy, or someone else entirely. Okay?"

"Okay."

She smiles when she walks away and so do I.

The next thing I know, I'm being yanked back to keep my balance.

I whip to my left, barely hearing what Peter had to say against the loud bustle of the street.

When he lets go of me, we stop by the corner of the pavement. He tucks his hands back into his jacket pocket, "you are so out of it."

"Sorry," I make a face then smile, "Ms. Vasquez really chewed me out."

His brows quirk, "she did?"

"Yeah," I look at the passing cars, then the streetlight, "I've been procrastinating the final work for too long. She said even I couldn't shit out a whole final output overnight."

Peter doesn't respond until after we cross the street. He nudges me with the hand buried in his jacket, "what was your final output again?"

"Ah, we're supposed to make a fleshed out character design on a hero of our choosing. They have to have impacted us someway."

He nods. He takes a chance on a joke, "so no Spidey for you."

I chuckle and shake my head, "a lot of people are actually doing Spiderman."

"For real?" he asks, genuinely surprised.

I laugh, looking back to where I was walking, "yeah. It's all about justifying it, you know."

Peter feels fuzzy inside. He chuckles, "he walked my dog once."

I laugh and follow-up, "he beat up my 6th grade bully."

Peter snorts then adjusts his glasses.

At this point, we take a turn and the smell of warm vanilla becomes apparent. It doesn't take long for us to reach Eduardo and Son's Doughnuts.

I stop at the entrance for a moment. Peter looks at me and pulls me back, so not to disrupt the flow of people. Even through it all, the place was busy as ever.

"You okay?" Peter asks me.

I nod as I turn to my feet. I give him a smile and impulsively push the glass doors open, walking into the store even though my chest was tightening.

Peter follows after me, not saying a word. We stand in line. The line was as long as I remember, maybe even longer.

The warmth of the store, which used to be so welcoming and comforting, felt suffocating now. I stare at the checkered floor; the tiles were new. It seems even the walls were freshly painted. I rub my hands together as the line moves.

"Hey," Peter says from behind, patting my shoulder. I look back and turn where he was pointing.

My heart gets nipped at when I see a portrait of Eddie on the wall. It was candid shot, his face was stoic as he fried donuts.

I gulp and look forward.

As I got closer and closer to the front, I turn to Peter and grab his arm. He looks at me with reassurance. He takes the lead when it was our turn.

"Hey Eduardo," Peter says.

"Peter," the man exclaims, "the-" he stops himself when he sees me. I make eye contact with Eduardo and muster up all the guts to smile at him.

He speaks my name with such surprise and fondness, guilt nearly paralyzes me.

"How've you been, Da Vinci?!" the beefy man chuckles with excitement, "it's been so long! We missed you here!"

Peter turns to me with a smile. My chest tightens as I smile back.

"Peter says you're gonna be a big shot animator soon!'

My lip slightly trembles, "nah. I'm barely even graduating."

Eduardo waves his large hands, "oh-ho-ho. Dad was crazy about your drawings. And you know him. He's not crazy about anything but doughnuts."

My smile crumbles at the weight of the conversation.

Eduardo turns to the baked goods before him, his profile on full display, a carbon copy of his father's, then back to us, "whatever you want, Da Vinci, you got it. On the house."

"I- E-Eduardo- it's fine."

"Oh no. I gotta convince you to be a regular again," he smiles. I notice he's got a golden tooth now. Eduardo shakes his head, "what was it? Boston Creme and a Bear Claw?"

I don't nod but he gets the order anyway.

"The regular for me too, Eduardo."

"Yeah, yeah, pay up, Parker."

Peter and I head to the register. There, we are assisted by Lorenzo, who immediately says, "sorry about my older brother."

The soft smile on his angular face soothes me enough that I actually manage to smile back.

"It is so nice to see you again though," Lorenzo says as he rings up our order, "really."

Peter watches as I rub my arm. Lorenzo says the amount due.

Peter turns to Lorenzo, passing a bill as he says, "hey. Last time my ham and cheese was cold."

Lorenzo raises a bushy brow, "tough luck, kid." The lanky man gives Peter his change and Eduardo himself comes to give us our order packed food.

"Nice to see you again, sweetheart," the older of the two brothers says, "make sure to come back; Chico would want to see you."

Peter takes our order. The three men look at me.

My face contorts, "I..." I suck in a breath, "I'm really sorry about your dad."

Lorenzo presses his lips. Eduardo smiles, "thank you. I'm sorry too. We all miss him here. I'm happy you had the courage to come back."

"It was hard to open up again after we closed up," Lorenzo says with a half smile, "but it's what dad would have wanted."

Peter and I eat our warm treats on our way back to campus. The crunch of the dough and the sweetness of the cream made me feel like I wasn't where I was right now. It was enough to make me cry, so I don't think about it too much.

"Are you gonna do it?" Peter asks, "the hero thing?"

I turn to him and shake my head, "I shouldn't. It wouldn't be right."

A loud car honk from afar fills the air.

"Maybe you could do it, in memoriam."

I chuckle under my breath.

The thought of coming back to ask for photos from the bereaved family sounds horrifying. I want to argue on this point, but I dismiss the thought altogether. It doesn't matter anyway.

"You know what," I smile at Peter, "when you put it that way, it sounds like a good idea."

Peter perks as he takes a bite of his food. He chews and nods, "it is."

I turn back to my doughnut, and speak without a second though, "I hate that he died. I hate that it was him. No one deserves to go out like that."

He doesn't get to respond.

"The police don't even care. No one cares." I shake my head, "not even Spiderman cares anymore."

Peter feels winded. He turns to his ham and cheese. He feels tempted to say 'cut the Spiderman some slack' about as much as he wants to say he was too busy with homework, too busy with Calculus... too busy enjoying tutoring to have time to put on the suit.

"I hate that we have to depend on some masked bozo for justice," I say out of spite.

Peter and I halt at a bend.

He looks at me as I look at the street, littered, polluted, and filthy. Peter thinks there's so much to unpack here.

He zones onto my face, studying the wafting strands of hair, the visible turmoil, and the tormented beauty.

"You know what, Pete?"

"Hmm?"

"Nevermind what I said. Good for him," I take a bite of my warm food, "I'd bail too. Probably build a web swing for myself and rob the Trump tower."

I laugh when I say this. Peter doesn't.

Peter decided Spiderman did care.

He got in his suit and spent the whole night waiting by the radio on his desk for a scene to help out on, not that he had to wait the whole night for something to happen.

There wasn't anything big, which was a good thing, just a few run away robbers and gang fights needing to be broken up.

It was, what, weeks, a month and a half since he put on the suit? It both felt so long and not long at all. What he knew for sure was that he missed this.

He missed it so much he swung around New York until he couldn't.

And then he missed his morning alarms.

When he finally woke up, he felt incredibly well-rested, a little too well-rested. When he realized he caught up with his sleep, he jolted into a panic and knew he fucked up.

He scrambles for his phone, slapping his hand on his bedside table. He checks his screen and jumps out of bed when he sees it's 2pm. He webs his backpack towards him and leaps out of the window, swinging through after lunch traffic.

He lands on campus, a little winded and sweaty, praying he could still catch what was left of his class that starts at 1:40. He sprints to his building, evading most of the people around. Just as he runs up to the entrance, he passes a woman who startles because of him.

It happens in slow-motion; Peter's spider senses cause him to turn and witness the aftermath just as it played out. She lady was carrying way too much for a person of her size; the heaps of paper in her arms comes crashing down.

His instincts get the best of him and he shoots a web at her water jug before it hits the ground. He makes an abrupt stop and grabs her arm before she loses her balance.

"Woah there," he huffs, keeping the woman upright.

She gasps as her things escape her.

Peter releases her arm and picks up the fallen objects.

She catches her breath and watches as he hands her the papers. He gives a guilty look, "sorry about that."

The middle aged woman knits her thin brows and huffs, "you running late or what?"

Peter chuckles with guilt, holding her water container by its handle, "I'm so late."

She grunts as she carries her papers. He makes a face when she leans back to carry the weight, clearly struggling.

Peter releases a breath and chuckles, "but uh-" he takes the papers back from her, "not too late."

"Oh, you don't-"

"No, ma'am, I insist," he says, "I'm guessing you're heading into the main building?"

"Actually," she slowly takes her water container from him, "I'm heading to my car. It's in the lot outside campus."

"Alright then," he smiles, "lead the way."

"Really? Are you sure? Because I really do need help..."

Peter chuckles, "yep. Yes. It's fine."

She smiles and nods, raising her arm forward.

They walk to her car and when they get there, he places the papers in the front seat.

"Thank you so much," she sighs, clutching her jug in her chest, "what's your college? Maybe I can put in good word to your teacher for getting you late."

Peter laughs, "no, it's fine really. I'm, uh, in bio-chem."

She raises a brow, "you wouldn't happen to be a Peter, would you?"

He's surprised, "woah, I am actually."

The woman chuckles, "what a coincidence."

Peter's heart leaps when she says your name and explains you're in her class, introducing herself as Ms. Vasquez. She says you mentioned him just yesterday, as he was the subject in one of your drawings. As quickly as his heart soars, it crashes when she tells him you had gifted her the water container in her hand.

Ms. Vasquez raises it, flaunting the familiar looking thing, "she's such a sweet girl."

That was your container.

"But you know," she adds, "I'm concerned about her. Has she been acting odd lately?"

Peter gulps, his entire body tenses. He can't speak.

"She hasn't been passing her requirements on time, and normally, I wouldn't think much of it, but she's been my student for 5 semesters, and she's never once been late, let alone missed a submission."

He uncomfortably smiles, "she's... I don't -she's going through some stuff."

Ms. Vasquez' brows furrow but she nods, "well I'm glad to know she has you in her life," she pats his shoulder, "thank you again, Peter."

Peter raises his hand in regard as the woman gets into her car. The moment she drives off, he pulls out his phone and calls you.

Except he doesn't call when he catches the 13 missed calls you've left him. His soul nearly slips out of his body as your 'this could have been a text, Parker,' line plays in his head; you hate calling.

He frantically presses his thumbs on your number. His pulse races as he hears the continuous ringing and did-not-pickup beep.

Fuck his 2pm class.

He looks for you all over campus. He checks almost every room in your building before realizing it was a waste of precious time. He revisits all the areas you've taken him, and visits places you've mentioned once before. He goes through the entire campus, then runs around the entire neighborhood.

He goes to your building but the guard to your dorm won't let him in without you there, even though he knew him well. He climbs up the fire exit but you had your curtains drawn and the windows locked. He tries knocking, then debates on breaking the window down. He decides against it.

He goes to the convenience store, the fast food chain, the café, the thrift shop, the bodega, the pharmacy, the record store, all of which you loved, but doesn't find you. He finds himself busting through the arcade you loathed because of how loud it was and the flower shop you scorned because they over-charged you once.

Nothing.

He finds himself busting into Eduardo and Son's Doughnuts, nearly breaking the glass door down with him.

The brothers turn to door and give a chorus of shocked exclamations.

"Jesucristo, hermano!" Eduardo shouts from the counter.

Lorenzo gasps and clutches his chest, leaning toward the register.

"You good, Pedrito?" Chico asks as he stops cleaning the tables.

Peter feels sweat on his neck and back begin to cling on his shirt. He surveys the unusually vacant establishment, finding only 3 customers present.

Chico wipes down the tables with his thick arms and large fingers, "you want an iced strawberry latte, kid? You looked stressed."

"He's in university," Lorenzo chuckles, going back on his phone, "what do you expect?"

Peter shakes his head and waves his hands, asking if they've, by any chance, seen you.

"Ah, yeah," Chico smiles, "she was just here."

"Wait, what?"

Eduardo grins and steps away from his station, pointing at the wall by Peter's side, "she set those up."

Chico and Peter turn to where Eduardo heads.

Peter surveys the wall that was bare just just yesterday. Where once only a small portrait of the brothers' father adorned the space, now had a framed illustration of Eddie and his kids beside a bulletin board where multiple pages were pinned. Most of them, he recognized, were your doodles of Eddie, ripped out of your sketchbook, the others were notes written with different handwriting.

"She asked if she could something to the wall," Eduardo said, "I thought she was gonna put one drawing of dad. I was shocked when she started ripping at her journal. She said... what did she say Chi-"

"Art keeps the memory of those we love alive," Chico raises a finger.

Lorenzo makes a face, "she literally only said art is meant to be shared."

"That's what she meant," Chico eyes his younger brother.

Lorenzo shakes his head and turns to Peter, "she was actually looking for you too."

His stomach drops, "she was?"

"Yeah," Lorenzo puts his phone down and rummages through the drawer behind him. He pulls out something and reaches out to Peter, "she said to give you this if you come."

Peter dashes forward and receives... a Tawagoshi.

"When she left, I realized she didn't think of why just giving it to you tomorrow," Lorenzo says, crossing his lean arms.

Peter looks at him in a panic, "did she say where she was headed?"

Lorenzo is taken aback by his expression, ".... uh... No? She- she didn't."

Just as Eduardo continues to muse about the new wall decorations and how so many people posted their letters to Eddie, Peter busts out of the place, just as roughly as he came in, causing Eduardo and Chico to yell at him in Spanish.

At this point, Peter is full on Spiderman. He puts on his suit and swings through the city. He's on high alert as he goes through each street.

Part of him wants to take thorough looks through every corner of the neighborhood, but his gut was urging him to speed through the avenue, dead set on a destination.

The sun begins to set on New York when he reaches the Manhattan Bridge. He looks down from the pillars of the structure. As the seconds pass, he feels more and more desperate.

He lies on his back and takes off his mask. He takes his phone out and calls you over and over and over.

He wonders if you already did it. He sits up and stares at the river, eyes watering as he imagines your lifeless body floating up the shoreline. He pulls his mask on, tugging it on his head way harder than need.

He realizes he started to cry when his lenses begins to fog. He tugs his mask on and snaps himself out of it. He battles with himself on what he should do next.

He's already off the other side of the bridge when he feels the urge to swing back. He wrestles with himself, unwilling to waste time, but ultimately he succumbs to that urge and perches himself back atop the pillar.

And then, the worst possible flavor of relief washes through him when he sees you. It's cruel how you don't even think twice when you reach the middle of the bridge.

"NO!" Peter yells as you climb onto the railing.

He swings towards you, using his body as a pendulum to reach you faster.

You're already free falling when Spiderman whips himself towards you.

He catches you.

You let out a grunt as your body cracks at the impact.

Peter has and arm and his legs around you, "what are you doing? What are you doing?!"

You look at him, eyes red and puffy. Your voice is hoarse, "S-pidey?"

#dd:dne #peter parker #peter parker fanfic #spiderman fan fiction #spiderman fanfic #avengers fan fiction #peter parker angst #marvel fanfic #marvel fan fiction #marvel au #peter parker x reader #spiderman angst #andrew garfield fanfic #spiderman andrew garfield #spiderman fic #spiderman au

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jenanigans1207 · 11 months ago

Text

Hi, please accept me being weak and sharing even more of this fic that I'm working on because I'm too impatient to hold onto this until the fic is done.

For context, the whole point of the fic is that Dean gets hit with a curse that forces him to tell the truth if asked a question.

(enjoy the angst of me projecting onto Dean Winchester!)

----

“You don’t get it.” Dean grinds out, all frustration and sharp edges, words cutting his own throat as much as they’re cutting Cas.

“Dean—”

“Ask me.” Dean says, throwing his arms out to the side. “I can’t fucking lie so ask me.”

Cas stares at him for a long moment and it’s not hard for Dean to read the expressions on his face. Up until this point, Cas had been very carefully and delicately choosing his words every time he spoke to Dean, careful to not accidentally phrase something in a way that would come across as a question. He has been diligent in his attempt to respect Dean’s privacy and Dean’s wishes, steadfast in his belief that Dean should not be forced to tell them things, but should only volunteer things willingly. Even though Sam had been practically chomping at the bit to finally get Dean to talk about his feelings.

But Dean was giving Cas permission to ask, to force the curse to bring the words to the surface. This was about as willing as Dean got when it came to feelings and Dean could see the exact moment that Cas accepted the permission he was being granted.

“Why do you always push me away?” Cas asks after a moment, his voice quiet, like he’s afraid of receiving the answer as much as he’s afraid of what delivering the answer will do to Dean.

But Dean doesn’t need the curse to bring up the answer. At this point, everything is such a fucking disaster that Dean’s willing to answer that honestly all on his own.

“It’s easier.” He says, and he notices the way Cas steels himself for whatever else Dean is about to say, as if he’s prepared for repeated blows to the heart. “If you leave because I push you away— because I’m a short-tempered asshole who crosses the line and says shit he doesn’t mean, I can live with that. Because that— that’s my fault, Cas. And at that point, just add it to the list, you know? Everything is my fault— Sam being back in the life, everything that’s happened to him, everything that’s happened to you, the fucking end of the world was my fault! So yeah, if you leave because I pushed and pushed and pushed until you couldn’t bear it anymore, I’ll just add it to the list of reasons I hate myself and cope with it the same way I cope with all the other reasons— too much alcohol and even more denial.”

Cas’s lips part, clearly surprised by the answer he’s getting. “That’s—”

But Dean isn’t done. “I’ve spent my entire life hating everything about myself, Cas. And yeah, I’m not sure I ever hate myself more than I do when I hurt you that— that is a new low, even for me, but it’s still in the realm of things I understand. But if— Cas, If you—” Dean’s throat is so fucking tight that it hurts and the words almost can’t get out. He clenches his jaw, swallows, and decides to put himself out of his fucking misery. “If I asked you to stay… If I told you how badly I always want you there, how nothing is ever right when you’re gone, how I never want you to leave and you— and you left anyway? If I told you the truth and you still chose to leave despite that? Cas, that would kill me. It really would.” Dean can’t look Cas in the eye now that the words are out in the open. “So instead, I push. If you’re going to leave no matter what, at least I can blame myself for it. It at least makes it a little easier to breathe in those lonely moments. Gives me something to do, too, you know? Instead of missing you every second of the day, I spend at least a few of them kicking my own ass for what I’ve done and continue doing to you.”

There’s a long, tense silence that follows the words and Dean honestly doesn’t know how he expects Cas to react.

“And you—” Cas’s voice is as strained as Dean’s had been and Dean glances up at him briefly, unsurprised to find the pain reflected in his face. It’s not like Dean’s unaccustomed to hurting Cas, he shouldn’t be surprised that even his honesty manages to do it. “You think that I would leave either way? You think that I— I want to go? That I would choose to go even if you didn’t push me away?”

It’s several questions all jumbled together, but it doesn’t really matter because they all have the same answer anyway. “Yes.”

Dean had hurt Cas a lot of times in the past, he knew that. He wouldn’t say he’d come to terms with it, wouldn’t say that each and every time he had said something intentionally harsh, cruel, or uncalled for wasn’t tied for number one on his list of reasons he hated himself more than any other creature on earth. But still, he knew that he had done it and he often replayed it in his head, hurting himself with the memory of hurting Cas. But despite that, nothing prepares him for the way Cas’s face crumples at his answer, for the way he looks more dejected, more hopeless Dean has ever seen him. Suddenly every other time Dean has hurt Cas barely even makes the list of reasons he hates himself because this— this just took every spot in the top one hundred.

Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever get the image of Cas’s broken, faithless expression out of his mind.

Dean almost expects Cas to try and school his expression into something a little more neutral, something to disguise the hurt in his eyes. He usually does, just to spare Dean the pain— or maybe Cas thinks it’s the satisfaction— of knowing that he’d landed another winning blow. But Cas doesn’t do anything to cover up the agony in his expression, doesn’t even attempt to pretend that he’s not breaking to pieces right before Dean’s very eyes.

Dean fucking Winchester, the man cursed to save the world that does not love him and to break the only actually precious thing he’s ever been given.

“Why?” Cas finally chokes out. “Why would you think that?”

Dean answers his question with a question, “Why would you stay?” Cas stares at him with eyes that are impossibly blue and unfathomably sad. For someone who knows only disappointment, Dean’s surprised to find that it hurts so much to find it reflected in Cas’s eyes. “I’m not— I’m not a fucking joy to be around, Cas. I’m not shining sunshine out of my ass, I’m not Mary freaking Poppins. I’m an asshole— clearly— and I… Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking disaster, a basket case. There’s more wrong with me than there is right. Me constantly pushing you away is an example of that!”

“Dean, if you’d let me, I would—”

“Let you?” Dean repeats, somehow incredulous despite the absolute trainwreck of a situation. “Let you? Cas, I may push you away, but I don’t physically shove you out the door. And I’ve never once locked it behind you, never once stopped you from coming back. You get that, right? I may push and push and push but you? Cas you leave.”

Somehow this is getting worse by the second and if Dean weren’t so unbearably miserable, he’d be impressed that he’s managing to fuck everything up further with every word that comes out of his mouth. Looking at Cas now, he’s honestly not sure which one of them hates the situation they’re in more, which one of them feels worse. Cas looks like he’s about to collapse in on himself, like the only thing he’d ever been fighting for just gave up and surrendered the battle. He looked like his entire purpose had just been ripped away from him.

“I don’t ever want to leave, Dean.” Cas says brokenly.

“Then why do you?” Dean asks, just as broken, just as quiet, just as desolate. And when Cas doesn’t immediately answer, biting back a reply that he clearly knows, Dean laughs, bitter and humorless. “Right, ‘course. Forgot, I’m the only one who has to be honest, here. Fucking fantastic, Cas, that’s just great.”

Cas takes a tentative step forward. “Dean—”

Dean has always hated how much he loves the way Cas says his name. Cas, a former Angel of the Lord said Dean’s name reverently, like a prayer, like it carried some sort of holy meaning or importance. Cas said his name like it was a blessing to be able to speak it at all, like it was the only name he ever wanted to say again.

And Dean can’t take that right now, can’t let Cas say his name like that while refusing to meet him in the middle on this. “No, just—” He’s breaking, he’s breaking, he’s been broken for so many goddamn years at this point and yet somehow he’s still breaking. “You— you were supposed to fight, you asshole. You were supposed to come back and see that the door was still open. You were supposed to— to try. And you never did— do. You never do. So I keep pushing and you keep leaving and it’s easier for me to blame myself than it is for me to blame you but god, Cas, it doesn’t matter whose fucking fault it is because it hurts every time you go.”

Dean doesn’t know if angels cry. But if they do, he’s certain that Cas would. If there were only ever one angel in all of history that cried, Dean would know with absolute certainty that it was Cas. And Cas isn’t even an angel anymore, technically. He’s just a stupid human with stupid human emotions and the even stupider human inability to deal with them. But he looks like he might cry, like he might prove to Dean to that all of his celestial holiness was just a rouse and that he’s always been harboring this deep seated sadness underneath.

“I—” Cas starts to say, but whatever response he had is lost to the sound of Sam opening the door finally.

“Hey,” Sam says hurriedly, and there’s a smear of blood on his cheek. He stumbles into the room, the hand on the doorknob stopping him from toppling over completely. Once he makes it in the room he pauses, seeming to notice the tension that’s suffocating them. His eyebrows rise as he glances between the two of them. “You guys good?”

“No,” Dean answers immediately, the curse beating Cas to the punch. “We’re not.”

That seems to catch Sam off guard and his hand slips off the doorknob as he regards Dean. He probably wants to ask some question that would make Dean rehash this entire thing, probably wants to do something stupid and sentimental like sweep him up into a bear hug and tell Dean that everything will work out. But he seems to sense the severity of the situation, the levity of the expressions on both of their faces. He shuts his cakehole.

“No,” Cas agrees after a moment, and his voice is thick with emotions and whatever words he was forced to swallow back down when Sam barged in. “But we will be. Right, Dean?”

Even the curse doesn’t have an answer to that one, leaving his throat completely dry as he tries to swallow, letting him give whatever kind of response he wants. “Yeah.” He chokes out after a moment, not meeting the gaze of either of them. “We always are.”

#i keep skipping ahead to write the really emotional scenes #because i can't get them out of my head #so enjoy this #and know that the fic has a happy ending #whenever we get there #i actually already wrote the confession lmao #anyway #as usual i can't keep shit to myself #destiel #spn #supernatural #angst

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starry-nights12 · 1 year ago

Note

"Precious"

One Word Prompt-Closed (Jinx's POV)

TW:Murder-Suicide, talk of death, Jinx expressing positive views about dying

Ekko's eyes trialed from me to the pin of the chomper around my finger.

This was the only way things could go back to how they used to. The damage we have done to each other over the years could never be fixed.

This way we could be free of our past and be happy

I didn't stick it onto him. He has the choice to stay or leave me like everyone always does.

Vi had abandoned us.

She left me on that night of the canery and she left him for dead to take care of her beloved demon.

Yet he didn't move or try to run away. His eyes clouded with tears until it was raining on my face.

When everyone else was gone it was only us. We grew up to resent and despise each other. We both went our separate ways and he loathed me for not following him.

For the first time in seven years;

His tender, brown eyes stared into mine with something I always longed for. A treasure that I could only have in my memories brought to reality.

He was looking at me like I was precious.

It's what I missed from him. It was all I ever wanted and I had to die to receive it.

I swallowed the bitter taste of the blood I wanted to cough up to prevent it from ruining everything.

When we were kids, I could confide in him and he was a shoulder to cry on when my siblings overwhelmed me. He was the boy I discreetly gazed at as he looked over his blueprints.

He encouraged me and believed in my inventions just like Vi did. In return, I drew hearts over our initials and drew us holding hands and kissing in my diary.

The sweet, pretty boy had become a strong and most beautiful man at twenty. The sad, pitiful little girl had transformed into a sadistic, terrifying woman at eighteen.

I'm not afraid of death. We all die eventually, so there's no point of fearing the inevitable.

But I rather die by my grenade than have my ex-childhood friend I still cared for kill me.

He cradled the back of my head, he lowered himself on top of me until he whispered in my ear, "I love you."

My eyes widened and I temporarily stopped breathing. A great tremor took over me as I began to sob.

The questions I wanted to ask had gotten caught in my throat:

Why?

For how long?

What's the matter with you?

How could you possibly love me after everything we did to each other?

Who do you love? Powder or Jinx?

I didn't want to stew over the last question.

This was going to be our last moment together and it was perfect. It was everything I ever dreamed of.

It's only us now.

It's all we need.

We'll be together again. We'll be able to finally be happy in the afterlife.

I craved so badly to kiss him. To finally experience what his mouth would feel like over mine. I wanted to caress his face and run my fingers through his dreadlocks.

But we didn't have any time. The chomping had gotten louder and we only had seconds left.

Instead, I wrapped my arms around him tightly, my hand clutched in his hair. "I love you too,"

A flash of a pink cloud blinded me. The blast from the explosion covered our bodies in searing heat.

#timebomb #ekkojinx #ekko arcane #jinx arcane #arcane #my writing #one word prompt #prompt request #I FINALLY FINISHED THIS!!!#this idea is the most recent one. I made a full fledge fic out of this and another prompt😭#The one I WAS doing I k8nda lost interest in to do this one instead #ask #samelie4

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ships-to-sail · 1 year ago

Text

And just like that, here we are again!

It is a truth universally admired that in every fandom I enter sincerely, I will begin to contemplate a WW2 AU and at last, we've arrived at that inevitable day! And so:

“Welcome to Coney Island,” Nora says, looping her arm through Henry’s again and patting him on the hand gently when she sees the look on his face. “Isn’t it —” “ — bright,” he whispers, clearing his throat and then repeating himself, his voice stronger. “It’s so bright.” It’s the middle of the day and everywhere he looks he sees more electric light bulbs than he’s ever seen before. They outline the signs above alcove-sized shops and restaurants so big they seem to take up almost entire city blocks. They shout at Henry to try things like Nathan’s hot-dogs and new filterless camel cigarettes, scream at him that he’s in the home of the world’s fastest roller coasters, the longest scenic recreational train, wonders and marvels that all vie for his attention so energetically it sends a shiver along his arms. “And you ain’t seen nothing yet,” June practically squeals as she loops through his other arm and starts marching him in the direction of a large wooden monstrosity, looming large along the thick-slatted boardwalk. The sign in front spells out CYCLONE in big swooping letters, and Henry swallows thickly, the first leaden drop of trepidation slithering down his spine. And he knows, now, that he should have stopped it then. Should have found a way to beg off politely, but, well. He hadn’t, not then and not when they’d meandered their way through the cue, making small talk about the other attractions nearby and how often June and Nora made their way this far down the city. And not when he’d stepped behind Nora on a too-small wooden cart, taking his seat like nothing at all was amiss. And so now, really, he has only himself to blame, head cradled in his hands and nothing in the world where it ought to be. “I think I might need to lie down for a moment,” he says thickly, and the girls chuckle nervously, but that’s not what Henry hears. What Henry hears, over their laughter, over the screams of the next round of victims on the coaster behind them, over the steady drum of waves in the distance, is a deep voice painted along the edges with warmth like a slow drip of honey. It’s not an accent, persay, but it’s a history, and it might be the most beautiful sound Henry has ever heard. “Aw, shit Nor — what’d you do to the poor sod?!”

As always, I'm chomping at the bit to see what all y'all are working on, so PLEASE feel free to take the open tag, and if you do make sure to tag me so I can see it! Otherwise, tags are below the cut!

@dumbpeachjuice @cheesecurdsgravyandfries @orchidscript @everwitch-magiks @happiness-of-the-pursuit @indomitable-love @celaestis1 @cricketnationrise @rmd-writes @inexplicablymine @welcometololaland @kiwiana-writes @clottedcreamfudge @lilythesilly @sparklepocalypse @nontoxic-writes @tintagel-or-cockleshells @hgejfmw-hgejhsf

#red white & royal blue #rwrb #fanfiction #six sentence sunday #bugle boy of company b #ww2 AU

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wellpresseddaisy · 1 year ago

Text

Beginning to See the Light

@greens-your-color What happens when Darius takes Severus into Society the first time. (No biting, although I think Lucius wanted to chomp on someone for both of them.)

“…heard you’re allowin’ your boy to racket about with the Potter set.”

Severus heard the adenoidal tones that meant Gwendolyn Whitlow found another victim. He drew back slightly, letting the curtain of his alcove shield him. Old habits died hard, he supposed, but listened in anyway. One never knew what one might learn.

“Oh, yes. Family, you know.” Lucius answered coolly.

“Isn’t one of the girls not magically born?” She made that sound like a communicable disease.

“Miss Whitlow, I know you, tragically, have yet to enter the beautiful precepts of parenthood, but when one’s only son is determined to do the right thing by his…relative, then one simply must support him in that endeavor. The Granger girl is more palatable that I imagined.”

Severus could see, in his mind’s eye, Lucius’ expression given the chilly tone. He’d bet a month’s salary Lucius had his monocle out. Or perhaps he twitched a fan at her. The monocle, Severus decided, was more likely. Lucius’ liked people to feel as if they were being examined and found wanting.

“Don’t you worry at all about low company?”

“Quite frankly, Miss Whitlow, Draco’s manners and marks both have done nothing but improve since he took up with Potter, not that it is any of your business. I think, perhaps, it’s time to repair your own ignorance on the subject of the non-magical world.”

Miss Whitlow sputtered something at that. Severus swallowed hard. Low company. He’d been that, once. The little urchin graciously taken in hand by Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black. Eileen’s boy, so tragic she’d gone and married that muggle.

He didn’t belong here. He’d never belonged in this glittering world of balls and routs and card parties and boxes at the opera. His world was chalk dust and bubbling cauldrons and sticky children managing to have the most ridiculous accidents possible in class.

“Right, my lad, that’s quite enough of that.”

Severus startled as his husband suddenly loomed up at his side.

“I…Dare…I’m…” he floundered at seeing the stern set of Dare’s jaw.

“Hiding behind a curtain and thinking you could never belong here?” Dare raised an eyebrow.

How did the bloody man know that?

“Oh, Severus. Do you think I never had those moments myself?”

That put a different complexion on it.

“Come with me, pet. We’re going to plead a headache. You look peaky enough.” The wry twist of his mouth took the sting out of that one.

In short order, Severus found himself standing on the pavement waiting for their carriage. Dare wrapped an arm about his shoulders.

“Why don’t we try somewhere more to our taste?” Dare asked.

Severus looked up at him, the misery of ruining their first evening out together in Society dissipating with his surprise.

“Where?” he asked.

“Will you trust me?”

Severus felt his heart melt at that and tried to keep from smiling soppily. “Of course I trust you.”

“Then hold on. I sent the carriage back.”

Severus tucked himself close, closer than one really needed for side-along apparition, and closed his eyes. One squeezing moment later, he felt their feet hit pavement again.

“We’ll have to put your hair up, if you don’t mind, but the rest should be right.” Dare held up a clip and Severus turned around.

His husband’s hands were gentle as he carefully combed his fingers through Severus’ long hair. He plaited it quickly and clubbed the heavy length of it up at the nape of Severus’ neck with the clip. Severus looked at the brigtly lit façade before then and choked on air.

“A dance hall? Dare, if someone sees…”

“No one here will utter even one peep about us. They knew my father.”

How he said that and kept a perfectly innocent expression Severus would never know. He snorted.

“He used to dance here?” he finally choked out.

“Apparently,” Dare bit his lip. “That would have been in the forties. He used to bring his Slytherin cronies with him, slumming it.”

“The imagination boggles,” Severus murmured.

“Come along,” Dare grinned, anticipation lighting his eyes. “I’ve been watching you in set dances all evening. I cannot believe Mrs. Sedgwick thinks waltzing immoral, even now.”

Severus let Dare lead him in, suddenly happy he’d worn the flame-colored evening pajamas Narcissa and the tailor insisted he required for less formal events. The flowing trouser legs gave him some comfort—Dare seemed like the sort who danced energetically.

Who would ever have thought that Tobias Snape deciding that the best way to tire out energetic magical children was to teach them both swing and jive would come in handy? He could hear his mother even now, leaning out the kitchen window over the cramped back garden and laughing:

“Toby, why is Severus learning all the lifts?Surely that would be for Lily?”

“Nay, ‘leen. The lass’ll be taller than our Severus in weeks! Growing like a weed, that one.”

So Severus learned how to be lifted and all the aerials. Did Dare know any of them? He supposed he’d find out. They secured a table around the edge of the dance floor after checking their cloaks. Dare marked it as engaged and led Severus out to the floor.

Severus let him swing them into the flow of dancers, following his lead in a slow fox trot.

“Can you keep up?” Dare grinned down at him.

“With this?” Severus raised an eyebrow.

“This is just a warm up, my lad.” Dare stole a quick, smacking kiss.

It was. The more decorous fox trots and waltzes slowly trailed off into Stompin’ at the Savoy and One O’Clock Jump. Severus matched steps with Dare, following his lead easily. Several numbers he didn’t recognize passed as he and Dare familiarized themselves with each other.

He’d forgotten the joy of it, giving over to the music, the bass thumping in his blood up and down the scale as the band kicked the tempo faster and faster. He’d never felt like this dancing with Lily—so wholly in sync.

He realized that many of the other dancers had cleared off the floor, leaving more space for the jitterbugs. Dare laughed down at him, and swung him out, his hair falling over his forehead.

“Can you do the aerials?” he shouted over the pounding drums.

“All of them,” Severus bellowed back. “My father said it was my patriotic duty so I could show up the Yanks and scandalize the Malfoys!”

Dare snorted and steered them to an emptier section of the dance floor.

“Want a go?”

“Yes!”

He hadn’t trusted Lily’s muscle strength enough to try anything like a candlestick or an around the world with her. They’d confined themselves to some of the tamer pops and throws. He might regret it in the morning, but he couldn’t resist Dare’s infectious enthusiasm.

Frankie flips, around the worlds, k flips, tick tocks, and coffee grinders followed in quick succession. Severus knew they were drawing a crowd, but he didn’t care. He matched Dare step for step.

“See now, Davey, I told you that were Tommy’s boy. No one else danced like that.”

Severus caught Dare’s eye and laughed in delight as Dare supported him into a candlestick.

#hp society/the ton #hp the season au #hp the season/the ton au #severus snape #darius riddle-sinclair #the problems with ritual magic

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stories-and-chaos · 9 months ago

Text

Tarnished pt 29

[Helluva Boss AU where Blitzø’s childhood theft from Stolas’ palace is discovered and major consequences ensue for everyone involved.]

[Part 29/?? Word Count: 1535]

—————

Blitzø continued explaining the upcoming festival. “The locals have a great time and the Pain Games are fun to watch, but I gotta do my bodyguard thing. Don’t even get to play.” He pouted, looking more like a grumpy impling than an adult. “Loonie’s coming for extra security. Dina’s never seen it so she’s tagging along for fun.”

Barbie made a noncommittal sound, mostly acknowledging she’d heard. She sipped her iced coffee, the rattling sound from the straw saying it was now more ice and coffee. She shouldn’t be upset. What was there to be mad about? Besides her coffee running out. There, that was it. She was annoyed about missing a free coffee after therapy. Her tossed cup landed in a trash bin; at least her aim hadn’t suffered from all the abuse she’d put her body through.

Blitzø, also finishing his drink, dumped the ice in his mouth. Gotta get all the chocolate he could from it. His cup followed Barb’s, hitting the rim before falling in. Crunching on his ice cubes, he saw Barb cross her arms and stiffen up. He’d seen her chomp on ice too, so he didn’t think that upset her. “‘Ey,” he said around a mouthful of coffee flavored ice, “‘ou w’nna come wif?”

“Huh? Swallow Blitzø, can’t fucking understand ice mouth dude.”

He crunched and swallowed some, giving himself brain freeze. “You wanna come with?” he repeated once it passed. “You’ve been doing great with rehab, maybe your therapist will clear you for the day?”

Barb blushed a little. Nope, she wasn’t embarrassed that he picked up on her feeling left out. Because she didn’t feel left out! “Well, how else am I gonna get my free coffee?” She huffed, deliberately loosening her shoulders and uncrossing her arms. “Which day is it?”

After giving her all the information, Blitzø realized there was something he needed to mention before she saw him in a public setting with Stolas. “Uh, one thing real quick. I gotta play the whole master/servant bullshit. For appearances and crap.” He rubbed his neck, his discomfort radiating off of him. “And that means I gotta have this.” He brushed his other hand against his forehead where the All Imp Circus mark was.

But when his hand moved away, there was a solid white heart in its place. It was topped by a crown with elegant scrolling lines on either side. Barb felt a flash of rage at the sight. You asshole, you covered up our mark?! Then she saw Blitzø’s expression underneath the changed brand. Hurt, shame, and fear. He couldn’t make eye contact with her. Her twin took a shaky breath and passed his hand over the mark again. It was back to a stylized skull heart.

But his expression didn’t change. “It’s… it’s part of the binding,” he said, voice thick with emotion. Fuck this hurt more than the brain freeze. “I learned enough magick to illusion it back, for when I’m solo. But anything in public with Stolas… yeah.” His voice trailed away.

Something else for her to process. “Well, thanks for the gut punch. Least you didn’t spring it on me at the festival.” Barb’s tail cracked in annoyance as she walked. The tip poked him in the side. “C’mon, I’m hungry and I wanna get back before the cafeteria closes. If you beat me there I’ll let you tell me more over dinner.” She picked up the pace, Blitzø slack jawed behind her.

“Fuck you Barb, you know the way better than I do!” He ran to catch up. He didn’t beat her to the dorm but they still had dinner together. They chatted about less heavy subjects and Barb agreed to the festival, pending therapist approval.

—————

A week later, Barb was waiting at the elevator concourse, not quite patiently. Either Blitzø or one of the girls were supposed to meet her at the Sloth terminal and head to Wrath. Normally, Barb was dressed in some sort of tight miniskirt dress with tall boots. She’d swapped that for denim shorts, sensible shoes, a crop top, and a checkered button up tied under her breasts. No point in her good heeled boots getting stuck in mud or worse at Wrath’s farms.

Loona hopped out of an elevator for foot traffic. Like Barb, she wasn’t wearing her usual goth outfit. Unlike Barb, she was dressed in a dark jacket, slacks, and wore a set of dark shades. “What’re you supposed to be, Men In Black?” the imp scoffed.

The Hound plucked at the jacket. “I know right? Blitzø wants my help with security and this is his idea of a bodyguard outfit. But fuck all happens at this thing. This is the third one I’ve been to and it’s soooo dull.” The two got in line for ascending foot traffic. “By the way, if you and Blitzø are cool now, should we call you Aunt Barb?”

“Fuck no! Makes me sound like an old lady, one that sits around knitting and shit. Just Barb, got it?” The imp glared up at the Hellhound. “And I still don’t know if I’m ‘cool’ with the jerk.’

Loona shrugged and pursed her lips as they boarded. “I mean, you accepted his invite? Been talking after every group?”

“I wanted a change from all that Sloth-pink. And he gets me free coffee.” Loona smirked and let the matter slide, for now. They complained idly together as the elevator steadily rose. Once at the Wrath level, they exited to see a throng of imps outside the terminal, gathering for the festival. “Dad and the rest are waiting at the main tent. You wanna see them first or check things out around here?”

Barb squinted at the harsh orange light. After years of Sloth’s dreamlike hues, her retinas felt like they were burning. “Might as well let Blitzø know I’m here.” They pushed through the crowd; the festival stage and tent were easy to spot amidst the countrified buildings. “Waiaminnit, isn’t that royal here too?”

“Oh shit! Yeah, Stolas, Dad’s with him.” Loona halted a few yards away from the tent. “You gonna be okay? I can let Blitzo know you’re here if you don’t wanna deal with Stolas.”

Barb glared at the fancy tent walls. “Fuck it, I’m here. Let’s rip off this freaking bandaid.”

Living in the circus gave her a flair for drama. She whipped open the tent flap and announced, “Barbie Wire’s here, bitches.” The small group inside all looked at her blankly before her twin walked up.

“Barb! You made it!” Blitzø had a similar outfit to Loona, black jacket and slacks, with dark shades. “Everyone, this is my twin sister Barbie Wire. Barb, you know Loonie and Dina. That’s Millie and next to her is Moxxie; they’re my employees. And this -oh shit.” Blitzø stumbled over his words as he’d just been about to introduce his twin to his master. Barb crossed her arms, suspicion rising over Blitzø’s hesitancy.

“Allow me, Blitzy, darling.” Blitzy? Darling? The Goetia rose gracefully from his ornate chair. His hair feathers almost brushed the tent canopy as he stalked over. Then he bowed deeply, putting his face at eye level to the twins. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Barb. I am Prince Stolas of Ars Goetia.” His deep pupil-less eyes looked sincerely pained as he continued in a voice only the imp twins could hear. “Although it may not mean much at this late day, I deeply apologize for the pain my father put you and yours through.”

Barb shifted uncomfortably. “Just Barb, none of that ‘Miss’ crap. And uh…yeah…” From Blitzø’s side of things, Stolas was as much a victim as he had been in the whole debacle. But she hadn’t been prepared to deal with all that right this second.

“Not the right time Floof,” her twin muttered at the royal. Floof? They have pet names for each other? Stolas gave a surprised hoot. “Right, we can discuss this later if need be. Today is a festival after all. Why don’t you all take a look around before the official event’s start?” Stolas shooed all the smaller demons out into the Wrathian heat. “You too Blitzy, have a bit of fun.” Barb noticed Blitzø’s grimace as the flicker of light shone under his collar.

“You sure you’ll be alright on your own? You remember what happened the second year you hosted,” Blitzø protested as the owl demon continued to usher the group out.

Stolas laughed. “Yes of course I remember darling. You did an excellent job dispatching those assassins and their leader is still making a splendid horse hitch at the edge of town. Ah ah ah!” He shook a long finger at the imp as Blitzø tried to interject. “I promise I shan’t move from this pavilion until you return and any attackers will find themselves encased in stone. I’m sure someone could use a fence post around here.” With that he pushed his lover outside and closed the tent flap with as much drama as Barb opened it.

“Bad idea to piss off royalty boss,” Moxxie called out. “Better do what the prince says.”

“Oh go fuck yourself Mox.”

—————

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#helluva fanfiction #helluva boss #helluva au #helluva blitzo #blitzo #blitzo x stolas #helluva stolitz #helluva stolas #helluva loona #loona #barbie wire #moxxie and millie #helluva millie #helluva moxxie

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fandomfluffandfuck · 1 year ago

Note

HELLO I'M BACK WITH CHOMP CONTENT

https://youtu.be/eIYDVZ5a4lE

I was watching this video essay /reaction video on 'She's the Man', and right at the 12:15 mark they start talking about how channing tatum looks very biteable "like chomp?" "like chomp."

and i just akcjscjakcks I was the other two people immediately covering my mouth bevause that's the EXACT SAME THOUGHT I had. I'm genderfluid, and there's this comment under the video like "at first I was like noooo all trans men are different, but as soon as I heard them say channing tatum is biteable I knew we all share one brain cell" and I could not agree more

— 🔪 anon

[Link] the YouTube video, "I Made Transgender Men Watch "She's The Man'" by Evasive

Referencing the conversation bit, "No homo, but Channing Tatum looks kinda bitable. Like. I get it." "No, yeah, like..." "Bitable? Like chomp?" "Like chomp."

CHOMP 👏🏻 CONTENT 👏🏻

Lmao, I love that 💀💀 One brain cell, and the brain cell knows exactly what it wants. To bite. I can't blame it, though, I may not be feral for Channing, BUT there are plenty of men I would like to sink my teeth into 👀

P.S. When I was writing today, I ended up typing out this (for You Can('t) Teach An Old Dog New Tricks), and I thought of you:

He is Bucky’s.

Bucky folds him however he sees fit. Positioning him with a pillow under his shoulders after constricting his heaving chest in a harness of rope. All he can do is gasp breathlessly. He doesn’t need oxygen. He is thriving on rich, decadent lust. The pillow underneath his shoulders leaves him hovering with his head tilted back, straining his neck, and by extension, the chain that connects the clamps on his nipples to the front o-ring of his collar. The pillow also leaves his chest pushed forward, and his arms up and out—contorted into a perverted offering, not unlike a saint pinned to a cross. Steve moans dreamily. An offering. Steve is about to be consumed. He aches for it. He wants to be chewed and swallowed. Used. Bucky’s mouth—warm and wet with saliva, his wicked tongue, and sharp teeth. He wants. He wants inside him.

He’s going to be inside him.

Bucky is serving him up, preparing him more, stretching his arms and legs to the sides, and attaching him to the four corners of the bed frame. Spread. Exposing him to be played with. Plucked like a beloved instrument. Consumed like a favorite dish not often allowed, thus demanding to be savored.

A sound stretches from deep, deep inside Steve to out of his gaped lips. It drips with arousal. Steve is an ill-defined, shimmering ball of arousal.

Nothing else.

Yeah... 😮‍💨 I feel that. Chompable.

#asks #🔪 anon #steve rogers #bucky barnes #stucky #fandomfluffandfuck

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the-whumpening · 10 months ago

Text

The Backstory Arc, Part 4

Prev | Masterpost | Next

Oooh we got us a good one, boys. It. Has. Everything: hurt/comfort, angst, sloppy first aid, two dumbass boys kissing and confessing their love!

CW: injuries, blood, discussion of hypothetical death

Evius silently jostles in Ash’s arms, and Ash can feel his gaze on his face. He stares forward as he carries Evius down the lilting deck of the ship, knowing that his resolved calm might break if he meets his eyes. When Ash arrives in front of his own cabin door, he jiggles the handle and bumps it open with his hip. Inside, a small twin cot is tucked away in a corner, a wooden trunk at the foot and a small table on the opposite wall.

“Wait,” Evius breaks the silence, “I thought you were going to my room, not yours.”

Ash gingerly sets him down on the bed, where he insistently perches on the edge rather than laying down. Ignoring this, Ash rummages through the trunk, pulling out a clean rag and a bag of first aid supplies. He sets them on the bed beside Evius, then pours water from a jug into the basin on the table.

“I didn't want you to disappear or anything while I got my first aid kit,” he explains coolly as he dampens the rag and wrings it out. “So . . . I just brought you here instead. Turn around, I need to check your back.”

The firm, calm tone of Ash's voice is surprising even to his own ears. It's rare he has the chance to care for anyone else; usually, it's the other way around. Don’t be too proud, he chastises himself, this is your fault in the first place.

“Yes, sir,” Evius teases, rotating to present the skin of his back. Ash is relieved to find very little damage, only a few spots of irritation from the rough wood of the crate he'd slammed Evius into. He dabs at them gently with the cool cloth, freeing any debris or lingering sweat, thankful to hear only Evius’ even breath rather than winces of pain.

“Okay,” Ash huffs, setting the cloth back in the basin and placing his hands firmly on Evius’ shoulders. “I need you to lay down so I can look at the rest.”

“Ash, really, I'm fine,” Evius insists, stifling a groan while twisting to face him. “This isn't nece–”

At that, Ash shoots an unamused glance at him, and Evius shuts up for the moment, allowing Ash to guide his body down to the bed. Ash runs his fingers carefully across Evius’ ribs, noting the shiver in his smooth, muscled stomach as his fingers pass. But luckily, Evius’ ribs seem intact, though quite bruised.

“Sh-shouldn’t you buy me dinner first, big guy?” Evius nervously chuckles. Once again, Ash remains calm; he knows how Evius loathes confrontation, and every quip reminds Ash how important it is to not let him run away from this.

He retrieves the cloth and begins to delicately clean the punctures his claws made in Evius’ neck. It takes nearly all his control to keep his composure and swallow the bitter tears springing up in the corners of his eyes. Despite Evius’ darker complexion, handprint-shaped splotches are growing more visible by the minute around his throat, a temporary exhibition of Ash's raw strength.

Through gritted teeth, Evius chimes in, “See? No big deal. It doesn't hurt at all!” Despite his protests, Ash can feel his pulse racing and gulps of discomfort under his fingers.

Still trying to maintain his calm, he reaches into his bag to find some medicinal leaves and a bottle of clear alcohol. He presents the leaves to Evius, gingerly placing them in his mouth.

“If it doesn't now,” he calmly replies, “it's about to. The herbs should help, so no more talking, please.”

Evius is stunned into silence, carefully gnawing on the bitter leaves in his mouth. Almost immediately, the remaining soreness and stinging in his body lessens. Meanwhile, Ash prepares a fresh rag with splashes of alcohol and sets some bandages to the side.

“Ffff–!” Evius grunts as the alcohol touches the open wounds. He chomps eagerly on the leaves, but it can only relieve so much. Ash’s free hand moves to his forehead, brushing the sweaty curls out of his face.

“I know. I'm sorry,” he murmurs, his meticulous, stiff calmness finally replaced with tenderness. His thumb sweeps Evius’ forehead, an attempt to offer at least a little comfort. Although Ash wants his hand to linger, he needs both to bandage Evius’ neck. I’m so sorry, Evvy . . .

He sets to work carefully covering the wounds, the shame of his actions finally hidden away. As he starts to wrap up Evius’ ribs as well, he deftly scoops under his shoulders, lifting the exhausted tiefling almost face-to-face.

Evius chuckles slightly, a small grimace crinkling his nose from the pain in his ribs. “Maybe you should play nurse more often—I could get used to this.” As he speaks, the air swirls on Ash's cheeks, and his brain fogs up for a second.

With the wrap finished, Ash lays him back on the bed, covering him with the thin blanket. Ash sinks down to the floor, leaning his tired body on the side of the bed and draping an arm behind Evius’ head. He sighs heavily, feeling a weight on his chest he can't quite shake off.

“Are you okay, Evvy?” His fingers trail through Evius’ curls, the springy white ribbons slipping easily through his grasp like silk.

Evius shrugs his arms out of the blanket and rolls over to lay on his side facing Ash. Although he can't hide the discomfort from his ribs, the compressing wrap helps immensely and allows him to steady himself with a few breaths.

“I'm fine, Ash. I promise,” he pants. As before, he tips his forehead to meet Ash's. “You don't need to worry about me so much.”

Despite knowing how intimate this gesture is for tieflings, Ash has to pull away. His pulse is quickening and he can feel heat rising in his cheeks.

“Clearly, I do!” he snaps, his temper flaring. “Evvy, you nearly got yourself killed!”

“Nearly being the operative word,” Evius replies, forcing a crooked grin. “Everything was fine—I was in control the whole time.”

“So that's why I was able to slam you through a crate and almost strangle you to de—?” Ash cuts himself off, unable to even speak the words. “It was reckless. What if something went wrong? What if the spell didn't break like you expected? You can't just—!”

His blood pumping, Ash can't sit still anymore. He leaps to his feet, pacing the tiny floor of the cabin as his hands shake with rage. Why doesn’t he get this? How does he not know how much I—

As if to sell himself on the lie, Evius posits, “But nothing did go wrong. Whether it could or not is besides the point. At the end of the day, I'm not terribly hurt, we know the tattoo works, and you got to be big and scary without holding back! It's a win-win.”

Ash shoots him a scathing glare from across the room, his arms folded tightly over his chest. Removing one hand, he pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture he'd seen Evius himself perform almost daily in their travels. After blowing a frustrated sigh out of his nose, Ash replies, “It feels like you didn't think this through at all. What would've happened if you did get seriously hurt, or worse? Evius, you have a kid now. What's going to happen to Zephyr if you die? What about all your friends and family? Kane, Krumgus . . . me?”

As he squeaks out the last word, the flame of Ash’s anger snuffs out. Suddenly, the pounding of his heart takes on a different rhythm altogether. As angry as he wants to be with Evius, anger isn't the emotion bubbling to the surface now. His chest aches, and his eyes are swimming against his will. He slides to the floor beside Evius again, turning his head to hide his face.

“I just want you to be safe,” he chokes, trying to force the lump in his throat to disappear. “I don't want you to get hurt, or to do something reckless and . . . and not come back.”

Ash feels a tentative hand on his shoulder, but he's too embarrassed to turn and meet Evius’ eyes. Still, his tiger ears flick and turn towards the low, melodious sound of Evius’ voice.

“I'm sorry, Ash.” He sighs, all traces of humor and levity finally gone. “You're right. I went too far this time. I'm . . . I'm sorry I put you through that.”

As Evius starts to pull his hand away, Ash reaches up and grabs it, holding it back in place. “I was terrified,” he chokes, his voice quavering. “All I've ever wanted was to protect the people I care about . . . and then I wake up to see myself trying to kill the person who—” He squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out the memory. “If something were to happen to you, I . . . I don't . . . I don't know what I'd do without you.”

Summoning all his courage, Ash turns to face Evius, ignoring the ache in his chest and the tears threatening to overflow. “I need you, Evius.”

“Ash . . . Come here,” Evius murmurs, propping himself up to embrace Ash. From his position on Ash's chest, he can clearly hear the frantic thumping of his heart. “I’m sorry.”

As much as he wishes they could stay in this embrace, Ash can't help but worry. “Evvy,” he starts, barely louder than a whisper, “I don't want to let you go, but . . . you really need to lay down and rest.”

Evius peeks up, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. “Or maybe I just need you to kiss it and make it better.” He winks, but Ash’s expression goes blank.

The idiom is completely lost on Ash, but an unsettling thought occurs to him, as well: I don't think my teeth need to be anywhere near his neck right now.

“That doesn't . . . seem like a good idea. Besides,” he mutters absently, “how would that heal an injury . . . ?:

Evius chuckles as he explains, “No, Ash, it's just a saying—never mind, it's really not important. But,” he uses Ash as a support to sit up, now eye-to-eye, “what is important is . . . I think you do want to kiss me, don't you?”

At that word—“kiss”—Ash’s heart flutters and his stomach drops. His pulse thuds relentlessly in his throat; he's sure Evius can feel it from where his arms are lazily draped behind Ash’s neck. There's no turning back now, is there?

Steeling his resolve, he delicately holds Evius’ face in his shaky hands, the warm, smooth skin igniting his nerves. “I've dreamed of it every night since Solmar, Evvy. But . . . ” He hesitates, his voice now a choked whisper. “Are you not scared of me now? After what I've done . . . ?”

Evius’ cool demeanor drops; the time for deflecting and avoidance has run out. His delicate brows furrow against his hypnotic eyes. “No,” he assures in a quiet plea. “Never. That wasn't you, Ash—that wasn't your fault. It wasn’t . . . the man I love.” He punctuates his timid statement by placing one hand over Ash’s pounding heart. “And I suspect . . . that he feels the same way about me.”

A memory springs to Ash’s mind of being swept aloft by the wyvern not too long ago—the weightless feeling, the monstrous anticipation, the exhilaration . . . he’d never experienced anything quite like it before or since. That is, until now, kneeling before the man he’d pined after for years. His entire body felt light and alive with electricity. Unable to hold this feeling in, he lets out a frantic laugh, his lips quivering and feverish tears streaming down his cheeks.

“You’re right,” he laughs, bringing his forehead to Evius’ and touching the tips of their noses together. After a deep, steadying breath, he pulls back slightly. “I love you, Evvy. I think I have since we first met. And . . . ” He chuckles. “I do want to kiss you—so badly.”

They both can’t help but laugh as their lips finally meet. Unlike before, with an entire audience surrounding them, this kiss isn’t so desperate and hurried. Ash isn’t confused or hesitant like with Umazura; for the first time, he feels absolutely sure of his actions. No second-guessing, no questions, no uncertainty.

At this realization, Ash winds his fingers through Evius’ curls, unwilling and unable to let him stray from his hands. Sensing the shift, Evius also pulls Ash closer, one hand trailing up and down his spine and leaving goosebumps in its wake while the other cradles the back of his head.

No words need exchanging between them; even without a spell, Evius can still read Ash's mind. Before long, Evius pulls back just far enough to speak. “Ash, darling?” he whispers.

Unfazed, Ash takes the opportunity to nuzzle the side of his nose against Evius’. “Yes?”

“Actually . . . ” Evius shyly chuckles. “I think you're right. I do need to rest.” His cheeks are warm against Ash's, and the two of them briefly lock eyes as Ash pulls away.

Ash laughs, rolling his eyes and letting go of his iron grip on Evius’ hair. “Alright, hang on, then.”

He helps Evius to his feet, then rifles through his trunk. “Here, to help you keep warm.” He holds out a shirt to Evius, who gingerly slips the oversized garment onto his lithe frame.

Ash then props himself on the edge of the bed, an Evius-shaped crevice between himself and the wall. He steadies Evius as he climbs back onto the bed, nestling in between the crook of Ash's elbow and the wide expanse of his chest.

As Ash pulls the blanket over the two of them, Evius traces his finger over the striped patches of hair on Ash's chest. “I guess I never noticed just how hairy you are,” he mumbles sleepily, a crooked grin spreading on his face. “I like it.”

Ash laughs. “Evvy, I’m a tiger. Go to sleep, silly.”

Evius nuzzles deeper into Ash's chest, muttering, “Okay, okay.”

In the drowsy stillness, Ash brushes Evius’ hair out of his face, his fingers trailing over Evius’ defined cheekbones. He quietly hums old songs he'd learned from Kane, wondering what they’ll say when they find out. It doesn't take long for Evius to drift off, his breath steady and soft.

I don't know how I deserve you, Evvy, but . . . I will protect you. I promise. He places a gentle kiss on Evius’ forehead, then he, too, dozes off into a comfortable sleep. The swirls of color that had previously visited his dreams wrap around one another now, bands of gold and copper interlacing to finally create a full image.

Evius.

#whump writing #whumpblr #whump #dnd whump #the caged tiger #tw blood #hurt/comfort #injury whump #angst with a happy ending #ash and evius #rublewriting

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uncaaj · 2 years ago

Text

Fanfiction: Dog Teeth (Bluey)

READ NOW ON AO3!

“Come on, Bingo! Pull!”

“I am, Bluey!”

It wasn’t uncommon to hear joyful laughing and squealing coming from the Heeler backyard, especially when close family paid a visit. The source of the noises of merriment this time was Bluey and Bingo engaged in a fierce Tug-O-War with their young cousin Socks. The 2-year-old Heeler had a tight grip on the rope and was not letting up.

“‘Atta girl, Socks!” called her father, Stripe.

Chilli, Bluey’s mom, was astounded. “For going against kids twice her size, Socks is hangin’ tough.”

“Yeah, she’ll drag me round the room askin’ for dinner every night. Isn’t she something?” Stripe couldn’t keep pride out of his voice.

“This...is something,” said Chilli, continuing to watch.

Bluey felt a tickle in her nose. She sniffed but it only grew in intensity. “Ah…ahhhh…"

“Bluey, no!” said Bingo, feeling the rope slipping in her paws.

“AH-CHOO!” Bluey's sneeze blew her backwards, and Socks gave a mighty tug. It shocked Bingo so much that she was dragged to the turf by it, ending their match decisively.

“Hooray!” cheered Stripe and Socks’ big sister Muffin.

“Bless you!” said Chilli.

“Aw, biscuits!” Bingo grumbled.

“Kids!” said Bandit from his post on the grill. “Sausages are ready!”

All the Heelers disappeared into the house, except for Socks who continued chewing on the rope in earnest. It was so much fun to chew that she didn’t even notice anyone had left until she felt herself being hoisted by Bluey.

“Let’s go, Socks,” she grunted, carrying her cousin inside, rope trailing behind them all the way.

+++

BLUEY: “This episode of Bluey is called 'Dog Teeth.'”

+++

All were gathered up on the balcony at the picnic table, with the kids congregating at their own table. Sausages and trimmings were distributed generously and thus the feast began. As Bingo chomped her sausage, she noticed Socks seemed more interested in chewing on the rope than eating.

“Uncle Stripe?” she asked after swallowing her bite. “Why is Socks still playing Tug-O-War?”

All the adults couldn’t help but chuckle. “Socks ate before we arrived, so we brought that so she’d have something to do at the table.” Stripe turned to Bandit and Chilli. “She’s teething,” he said, and they nodded.

“What’s teething?” Bingo asked.

“Well,” said Bluey, pointing to the sharp incisors she had. “You know how your dog teeth got in your mouth? They grew there!”

“That’s…one way to put it, dear,” Chilli said before turning to Bingo. “It’s a bit of a sore process so a toy to chew takes the toddler’s mind off the pain for a while.”

“A dog’s teeth are his pride and joy,” said Bandit.

“Really?” Bluey asked.

“You bet!” said Stripe, standing up.

Chilli and Trixie shared a look. “Here they go,” they said.

“Our special sharp dog teeth show we’re tough,” Stripe continued, flexing his arm. “If you keep 'em shiny and pointy, you can protect your family from anything.”

“The mark of a real dog’s dog, passed down from our ancestors,” said Bandit, rising up himself. “With our pearly whites…”

“We win the fight!” Stripe finished.

The two slammed their paws on the table and growled. “Grrrrrrrrr!”

All the kids showed their appreciation by hooting and hollering aplenty and Bandit and Stripe joined in. The womenfolk rolled their eyes.

“You two are full of yourselves,” Trixie laughed. “That’s so outdated.”

“No one even needs dog teeth anymore,” Chilli concurred.

“Says you,” said Bandit. “What if one day I just wanna bite something?”

“And when has that day ever come in the thousands of times I’ve heard that excuse?” Chilli asked.

Bandit paused. He knew she had him there. “Er…i-it’ll come! I’ve kept ‘em ‘cause I know I’ll need ‘em.” He crossed his arms and stuck his snout in the air.

“I know!” said Bluey. “Let’s find a reason for Dad to use his dog teeth.”

“Yeah!” Bingo cheered. They hopped down and dashed away.

“‘Atta girls!” Bandit cheered. “See? Dog teeth can be useful and I don’t even have to prove it.”

“This can only end well,” Chilli sighed.

+++

The first stop was the fence where they could see Lucky’s dad Pat lounging in his backyard, sipping a cold beverage.

“Lucky’s dad?” Bluey called out.

Pat peeked out of his sunglasses and waved at them. “Bluey! Bingo! How’s it hangin’?”

“Good!” said Bingo. “Could we ask you something?”

Pat got up and walked to the fence. “Yeah, no worries. What’s up?”

“We’re trying to find out what you can use dog teeth for,” Bluey explained.

“You've used your dog teeth before, right?” asked Bingo.

“Sure have. In fact, I got a great story. Bingo, you’re gonna play Janelle.”

Bingo jumped for joy. “Yay, play story!”

“And Bluey, you’ll be this big meanie.”

“Ooh, okay! Who will you be, Lucky’s dad?”

Pat climbed over the fence and tumbled into the Heeler’s backyard. “I’ll be me, of course! Now, hold my hand, Bingo.” Bingo ran over and took Pat’s paw. “Check it- it was back in college, you see, and me and Janelle were at a party for the cricket World Cup final. We were dancing.” Pat began humming a danceable tune and shook his tail to the beat. Bingo danced along too, giggling all the while. “Then suddenly, this big meanie comes over and says ‘I can dance better than you can!’”

Bluey walked up and pointed at Pat. “I can dance better than you can!”

Pat crossed his arms. “So I said, ‘Hey, shove off, mate! She’s here with me.’”

Bluey grabbed Bingo’s hand. “Come on, babe, let’s party!”

“And so…I flashed my teeth at him.” Pat crouched down to Bluey’s level and growled at her playfully.

“Eeeek! Sharp dog teeth!” Bluey squealed.

“Then I chased him around the party!” said Pat, and he and Bluey proceeded to run around the backyard for a spell before he tackled her and they fell to a heap, laughing until their bellies ached. “The end,” he panted.

“Hooray!” Bluey and Bingo cheered.

“Good story, Pat!” called Bandit from the balcony. “Your dog teeth showed that meanie what for!” Pat gave Bandit a thumbs-up as they all stood up.

“Do you still scare meanies away with your dog teeth?” Bluey asked.

Pat rubbed the back of his neck. “Actually, I don’t. I don’t have ‘em anymore.”

“What?” Bandit exclaimed, surprising the lot. “You still had ‘em when we graduated! You still owe me for biting my tail at the ceremony!”

Bluey and Bingo giggled. Everyone turned to look at Pat and a little shade of red shone through his yellow coat. “Tell us that story!” said Bluey.

“Er…oop! Lucky’s calling me. See ya!” And Pat was back over the fence before anyone could say another word.

“I guess his dog teeth weren’t that important after college,” said Chilli.

“He never even bit the bloke!” Bandit groused. “How’s a dog like him who I’ve known for years not have his teeth?”

Ding-dong!

“I’ll get it,” said Bandit, and Bluey followed after.

“Bingo, before you run off,” Trixie called, “can you help us wash up lunch?”

Bingo waved back. “Okay, aunt Trixie!”

+++

When Bandit answered the door, a bushy black and white Border Collie was standing there. “Oh, Josh!"

"Hey, Bandit," said Mackenzie's dad, "could you give me a jump? My car won’t start.”

“Oh, yeah, sure thing, mate."

“Oh, Mackenzie’s dad?” Bluey asked as they went down the stairs into the front yard.

“Yeah?”

“I’m trying to figure out what you can use dog teeth for.” She looked over and saw her dad heading to the garage. After she saw him disappear inside, she turned back. “I think dad’s worried that his don’t have a use anymore.”

“Gotcha,” nodded Josh. “Well, I did have a use for them. At my last job, in fact.”

“What did you do?”

“I was a sheep herder for a big farm back in New Zealand, so I had to make sure the sheep didn’t wander off in the pasture.”

“Did you show them your dog teeth?” Bluey asked, showing hers to him.

“Sometimes. I’d even bark at ‘em. But if they wouldn’t listen, I’d have to pick ‘em up by their scruff and bring ‘em back in line. Here, I can show you if you’d like.”

Bluey’s tail wagged. “Yeah! Can I be the sheep?”

“Right-o! Here we go.”

Bluey felt a gentle pinch at the back of her neck as she was hoisted up into the air. “Baa!” she bleated, wiggling around.

“Come on, cheeky sheep!” said Josh through a full mouth. He trotted around the yard with Bluey laughing the whole way, then he sauntered over to the porch and set Bluey down gently on the steps. “Just like that. My dog teeth helped me get a grip through all that wool.”

“Hee-hee! That was fun!” Bluey cheered. “So do you still pick sheep up and carry them about?”

“Not really. I got a different job when we moved here, and once Mackenzie came along, I wasn’t doin’ much herding. So I got rid of the dog teeth.”

“What?!”

They both jumped. Bandit was back, looking upset again. “You don’t have your teeth either? I thought you still had sheep.”

“Only a couple. And you've been to my house. Camn't wander much in my backyard, eh?”

“Ugh, not again!” Bluey grumbled. She trudged inside and shut the door behind her.

Josh stared and couldn't speak for a moment. “W-was it somethin’ I said?”

Bandit sighed. “Don’t worry about it, okay? Let’s get your ute goin’.” As he slung the jumper cables over his shoulder, he was beginning to feel his own dog teeth in his mouth. He knew he cleaned his teeth well that morning but it felt like something was there that shouldn’t be. If his friends didn’t keep their dog teeth, where did that leave him?

+++

Along the way to the playroom, Bluey ran into Stripe.

“How’d it go at the door?” he asked.

“Mackenzie’s dad doesn’t have his dog teeth either,” said Bluey.

“That’s weird. Josh always seemed like a rough and tumble kinda dog.”

Bluey tapped her foot and looked down. “I think dad’s more worried now than when I started.”

“Ya know, back when me and your dad were kids, every guy kept their dog teeth. Your grandpa Bob even told us we weren’t real dogs unless we had ‘em.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Stripe nodded, kneeling down. “Every day, he’d tell us when we cleaned our teeth. Wanted us to be able to ‘fight for our future wives’ as he called it. Your aunt Trixie likes to tell me how ridiculous he was, and maybe he was. But you know who always listened to grandpa Bob?”

“Who?”

“Rad. If anyone tried to be the dog grandpa Bob wanted us to be, it was him.”

“Hey, that’s a great idea!” Bluey dashed out of the room.

“Uh, where are you going?” said Stripe, running after.

“Let’s FaceyTime uncle Rad!”

+++

The little spinny thing on the screen spun and spun as the tablet worked its internet magic.

“This’ll settle it once and for all,” Stripe said.

“And I can make dad feel better!” Bluey agreed.

The spinny thing went away and a split second later, Radley, the eldest Heeler brother appeared, a towel covering his usual poofy hair apart from his yellow cowlick. “Hello?” he greeted.

“Uncle Rad!” said Bluey, tail wagging.

Radley smiled and waved at them. “Bluey! Stripe! What’s up?”

“You look like mum out of the shower!” Bluey giggled.

“I just got out of it,” he said, patting his towel bun. “This is how I dry my hair. So what’s new?”

“Well, we’d like to ask you something-”

“Bluey!” called Bandit, closing the front door. “Where’d you go?”

“In here!” She waved him over.

“Bandy! It’s Rad! We’re gonna ask him about his dog teeth,” said Stripe.

“Oh, you beauty!” Bandit bounded over and bent over into the camera frame. “So Rad, spill it. Been tryin’ to find someone who thinks dog teeth are still useful and I know you’re the dogliest dog of us all.”

Radley rubbed the back of his neck. “Heh, ya don’t say.”

“You must still have your dog teeth. Shiny and pointy, eh?” Bluey asked.

“Yeah, you got ‘em, right?” said Stripe, leaning into the screen. Bluey followed and soon, all three of them took up the entire camera frame.

Radley was taken aback. “Um, er…no. I don’t got ‘em.”

Bluey, Bandit, and Stripe were so gobsmacked, they lost their balance and faceplanted on the coffee table, knocking the tablet off its perch.

Radley winced upon suddenly seeing his family tumble, then seeing nothing but the Heeler’s ceiling onscreen. “Uh, you okay?”

Bandit propped himself and the tablet up first. “What?!” he shouted. “You were daddy’s boy! You made us keep our teeth clean because he told you to!”

“I’ve been using the expensive toothpaste for years!” Stripe said with a smirk.

“W-well, I’ve just come to realize I was pushy about that stuff. When you think about it, it’s kinda silly dad thought only a couple of teeth made you dogly.” Radley held his arm aloft and flexed it, showing the muscle it had. “I’ve got other ways of showing that.”

“Silly?!” Bandit howled. “This is outrageous! It’s like they don’t mean anything to anyone anymore!” And Bandit stormed off, grumbling and muttering incoherently.

“Whoa, big bro!” said Stripe, chasing after Bandit.

“Aww, I made it worse,” said Bluey, her ears drooping.

“...I think I’m missing something here,” said Radley.

“I tried to find a use for dog teeth so dad could feel better about his. Lucky’s dad doesn’t have his anymore, and Mackenzie’s dad doesn’t either.” Bluey rested her arms on the counter and plopped her head on them. “I couldn’t help dad.”

“It’s okay, Bluey. You did your best, but I think this is something your dad has to handle on his own.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s something your grandpa Bob instilled in us when we were kids. Sometimes it’s just hard for people to break out of what they’re used to hearin’. But if you let him know you love him, with or without the teeth, that’ll bring him around.”

Bluey rose out of her pout. “Are you sure?”

“You bet, squirt,” Radley nodded. “I learned it’s not your teeth that make you, it’s your heart.”

Bluey smiled at that.

“You should put that on a t-shirt, Rad,” said Trixie. Bluey turned around. She, Chilli, Bingo, and Socks were coming down the stairs.

“Mum!”

“Come on, let’s go cheer up your dad.”

+++

When Stripe and Bandit reached the backyard, the elder Heeler was still muttering to himself.

“Right,” said Stripe, stopping in his tracks. “I was playing along at first, but you’re actually torn up about this, aren’t ya?”

Bandit slowed to a halt, and his shoulders slumped. He then sat down and hugged his knees. Stripe padded over slowly and took a seat next to his brother.

“I know it’s a silly thing, and I know having no teeth suits me mates better. But…I dunno. I like how I look with my dog teeth, they make me feel tough.”

“They remind you of dad,” Stripe observed.

Bandit nodded. “Yeah. See right through me.” They sat there for a moment, watching birds flutter by. “I just…d’ya reckon he’d be disappointed in me if I did get rid of ‘em?”

“I think he’d say ‘Ya can’t count on me for that, Bandy.’”

The two Heelers laughed for a little bit at Stripe’s impression and by the time they calmed down, they were wiping tears from their eyes.

Bandit sighed and stood up. Stripe did as well. “Thanks, little brother,” Bandit said.

“No worries, big brother.” Stripe placed a hand on Bandit’s shoulder. “Whatever ya do, just know I love ya.”

Bandit smiled. “Me too.”

When Bluey, Bingo, Chili, and Trixie made it to the back porch, Stripe and Bandit were standing by the tree, locked in a hug.

Chilli stepped onto the stairs but Bluey held a hand out to stop her. “What’s up, Bluey?” she asked.

“Just like uncle Rad said,” Bluey responded, smiling. “Dad figured it out himself.”

Bandit broke the hug when he felt a tug at his leg. Looking down, he saw Socks holding out her rope, her growing dog teeth showing in her smile. “Play tug, unca Bandy?”

Bandit picked up the little pup and suddenly, his dog teeth felt right at home, like they always were. “You bet, mate.”

#bluey #fanfiction #aj tries to write #bingo heeler #bandit heeler #stripe heeler #socks heeler #trixie heeler #chilli heeler #radley heeler #mackenzie's dad #pat bluey #lucky's dad #fluff

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sunnixsunshine · 1 year ago

Text

Sorry if they’re ooc, they’re old now and I based them off my parents 🥺👉👈

Lmao kind of a companion to my last comic

The yard was littered in drunken teens, front and back. The music inside was loud enough to hear through closed doors. Amazing how cops weren’t called yet.

Carmen stopped. She tightened her grip on Mickey’s arm. “You wanna stay out here?”

“Y-yeah…” She scarcely nodded. Swallowed hard. “That’s just..”

“Too much?” Mickey pried his arm away then quickly took her hand in his. “I’ll be quick. Don’t worry. I just need to make sure she’s okay.”

Carmen lets his hand slip away. She hugs herself, standing there at the end of the driveway as her boyfriend stalks up the porch steps.

It’s not much better inside than the outside. The music is louder. Everyone is drunker, if that’s even possible. He recognized many faces from school, but some turned up blanks in his memory, possibly from the other highschool in town. He thanked whoever was above for giving him his dad’s tall ass stature over his pop’s as he could easily see over most patrons.

He didn’t see Tabitha anywhere however. No sign of her in the living room where several kids were just sucking face and drinking. The dining room was clear of her, too. Again, just drunk teenagers. Where Tabitha got this much beer Mickey will never know, but considering she had questionable connections he wasn’t that surprised.

The kitchen was the same as the rooms before. Trashed. Red cups and pizza boxes everywhere. Beethoven sitting on the island making out with some boy Mickey didn’t recognize. The gray haired metal head gave a wink and thumbs up as Mickey passed by, the taller boy cringing as he made it to the pantry where he had spotted a familiar face sitting inside.

Lounging inside eating from a party sized bag of tortilla chips and obviously tipsy was Jan. So Mickey sat beside him, needing a break from the crowded house. He slouched awkwardly to avoid the shelf digging in his back.

“Since when has Tab liked you enough to invite you to anything?” He quipped.

Jan snorted. He plopped his head back against the shelf with a dopey grin. “Nah,” He chomped down on a chip. “I’m the music guy. I’m an essential part here.”

“She’s using you for your Spotify.”

Another loud crunch. “Yep. She digs me man.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. He’s so delusional.

“Where is she right now?”

“Where is who?”

“Tabitha.” He hissed. “You’ve been here the entire night! You’ve gotta know where she is!”

He stuffed more corn chips into his mouth. Mickey snatched the bag away and shoved it two shelves above Jan’s head.

“Where is she, Jangelo!?”

The boy cringed at the use of his full name and groaned. “I don’t fucking know, man. Why do you need to know anyway?”

“Because I’m worried.”

A beat of silence stretched between them. The only sound was the muffled music and Beethoven and his “friend”.

Mickey sighed. He ran a hand over his long face. “It’s just,” He looked around the room, feeling bad for whoever had to clean this mess up— likely to be the hostess of the party. “She didn’t seem to be acting right at school.”

“She got into a big fight with her folks again. I overheard dad talking to Aunt Joan about it over the phone this morning. They canceled her birthday because she got arrested again for shoplifting.”

Jan seemed to sober up. Just a bit. Showing genuine interest in the well-being of his crush. “So? She gets into spats with her mom and dad like all the time.”

“I know.”

“Then what’s the problem here?”

“She… Look, she just didn’t seem right, okay? Do you or do you not know where Tab is?”

“I doooooo!”

Both boys turned their heads to the side kitchen door leading to the hallway. Hanging from the door was Allison, obviously drunk off her ass. A goofy grin and beer stained sweater. Mickey shot up and grabbed her hand and back to steady her, guiding her to the wall. She wobbled until she eventually rested against the wall.

“Are you drunk!?” Mickey shouted, already knowing the answer but not believing it. She was absolutely the last person he’d expect to see here in this state.

Allison shook her head. “Noooooooo!”

With a frustrated sigh, Mickey grabbed a bottle of water from the pantry, forcing the new bag of chips out of Jan’s hand to replace it with his own bottle of water to sober up with.

When he got back to Allison, an obviously older boy stood above her, the girl flushing deep crimson. “Hey, baby, why not give me a tour of your house? It’s just as beautiful as you.”

“Okay,” She giggled as he took her hand.

Mickey’s face turned an angry shade of red as he pushed the dickweed aside, then further pushed him hard into the opposite wall. “Stay away from her, jackass. She’s fifteen and drunk.” He spat, channeling his pop’s crazy eyes. He ran off with a grumble, making sure to bump shoulders.

“Hey!—”

“Shut up and drink this.” He shoved the bottle into her hands.

“Where’s your sister?”

Allison shrugged, the motion knocking her balance off. Fucking Christ on a stick, how much did she drink?

“You have to know! She’s your sister! Now where is she?!”

“I think,” She fell against Mickey’s chest. He righted her back to standing, the girl giving him trouble as he did so. “I think I saw her go upstairs like-like an hour ago?”

“Perfect. That’s all I needed to know.” He walked her over the pantry and sat her down next to Jan then left.

“Uh, chip ahoy?” He offered.

She took a cookie, biting a small bit off.

Mickey had to sludge through the crowded stairwell to reach the second floor where Allison said Tab had run off to. The floor the stairs opened up to was a mess but not many patrons were around. A girl passed out on the floor. A couple of kids sat in Conrad’s room smoking. Someone loudly puking in the bathroom down the hall. Confucius may want to burn his entire bed later, eugh. And Jfk is for sure gonna have to call a professional to clean up the vomit and beer out of his room’s carpet.

Tabitha’s door was closed shut. Probably locked, he figured. But upon closer inspection, it was just closed. The knob turned easily, door opening into what Mickey hoped would be Tabitha. But no one was there. It was empty.

You’d think some of the party goers had been in here. Clothes all over the place. Closet door flung open, clothes hung haphazardly. Unmade bed.

“Tabitha?” He knew it was empty but it wouldn’t hurt to call out and make sure.

He took a closer look around the room. The floor was typically like this. Messy with dirty clothes. Empty energy drink cans always sat in her bedside bin, overflowing enough to fall over onto the carpet just by looking at it.

The closet, though, wasn’t usually this messy. Clothes were missing. Her whole stash of snacks she didn’t want her brother taking gone, too. He could only assume her weed and cigarettes were gone as well.

He moved over to her bed. Despite it all— the mess on her floor and days old trash in the can— she did at least keep her bed clean. Not made, but clean at least.

More clothes piled up at the foot of the bed. A ripped open box of fruit roll ups sat where her pillows would go.

Then he saw it. Sat on the jumbled blanket was a loose piece of paper, a letter. Not taped down, just trusted to lay there without disturbance. Mickey sat on the bed, hesitantly as if he were going to get caught. He picked up the page and began to read.

“Did you see Ivan? Man he cleaned up nice!”

“I hear he, uh, works real estate in Florida now. Pretty successfully too.”

“Good for him!”

Joan smiled to herself. The anxiety from earlier had worn off hours ago. Frida was right. The reunion they planned together turned out perfect. Those who came really enjoyed themselves. It was nice to see so many old faces again and catch up. She’s forever grateful that everyone forgave her eventually, happy she could make more memories with her former peers years later.

Now that the reunion is over, she can relax.

…..Aw crap that’s right.

The big fight with Tabitha yesterday. And the And how moody she was this morning.

Well she did take her “birthday privileges” away. But then again, she did get arrested for a second time. Luckily no charges were filed. The store couldn’t provide concrete evidence that she stole anything, nor could the police. That first time two weeks ago was enough to convince her and Jack that she did do it.

….part of Joan regrets it. Not believing her daughter over some idiots who didn’t even own a functional storefront camera.

The other part knows she’s right though. Her defiance said it all.

But maybe she should cut her some slack? She is eighteen as of ten fifteen this morning. Still in school, but regardless she’s an adult now.

“Hey Jack, I was thinking.” Joan began. “Maybe we should lift a week off of Tab’s grounding?”

Jfk turned enough to get a glimpse of Joan. “No way. Absolutely not. She needs to learn her lesson.” His face was stern, unyielding in his daughter’s punishment. Drastically different to his usual tired expression.

“But Jack, it’s her birthday.”

“You see this is why she’s so, er, defiant!” He began to rant. “You coddle her, Joan.”

“I do not!”

“Uh, guys?” Confucius pulled into the neighborhood.

“You do, Joan. It’s the whole reason why Tibbie’s the way she is.”

“Guys—”

“Are you insinuating this is my fault? That I’m a bad parent?”

“Well, no, that ain’t what I said, but—”

“GUYS!”

The two bickering exes went silent. Confucius had stopped driving, having parked on the side at the end of the cul de sac.

“What the hell…”

“Oh she’s dead.”

“Why am I not surprised….”

The three watched as a teenager threw himself over the edge of the porch railing to vomit. Another chugging what they can only assume, based on surrounding behavior, to be some alcoholic beverage through the funnel Jack uses on the car.

Confucius killed the lights and stepped out, Jfk and Joan following after, anger flaring.

“What is this? What the FUCK is this!?” Joan about screamed.

“I’m not a part of this!” Came a frantic confession in the dark.

The three squinted as they tried to see who it was. Once their eyes adjusted, they saw it was Carmen, having just risen from the other side of the van in the driveway. She nervously played with the long sleeves of her boyfriend’s jacket, biting the corner of her mouth.

“I have nothing to do with this, please don’t call my moms!”

Joan sighed as she looked at Jfk and Confucius. “Don’t worry, Carmen. We won’t tell your moms.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Jfk gestures to the house.

“We’re not mad at you, obviously,” Confucius puts a calming hand on his husband’s shoulder. “But what is going on? Where’s Allison? Tabitha?”

Jfk was fuming. He’s not usually a moody guy. Always has this lax expression. Real approachable kind look. It’s what made him a good car salesman.

But this was different. This was his home. His expensive home. Where his eight year old slept. No way in hell was he about to gently ask a bunch of intoxicated teens to leave when they were currently ruining his home. “OUT.”

“EVERYBODY, er eh-uh, OUT!”

The music was cut. Cups dropped as kids frantically scrambled to leave. Those who passed out were shaken awake.

“I'M CALLING THE POLICE IF YOU DON'T LEAVE.” Confucius tacked on as he noticed many kids still hanging around, too involved with other people to notice the party was trashed.

Joan weaved through the fleeting crowd to get to the nearly empty living room, looking for her oldest daughter. She now retracted her previous sentiments. To hell with taking a week away! She’s adding two! Or perhaps she’ll add two months! She may be eighteen but she lives under her roof, she can ground her as much she wants!

Just about everyone has left. Jfk went around fussing at the mess, grumbling empty threats of homelessness towards his daughter as he looked for her.

Confucius opened the door to the kitchen, having to take a second to look himself before he said some things he’d regret. “Beethoven you and your little friend need to get out of my house before I call your parents then the police.” He was used to Beethoven’s behavior, being his step-daughter’s friend and all. It was no shock to see him making out with some rando. He’s just tired at this point.

The boy trudged out of the kitchen with his partner, casually waving bye to the three adults.

Confucius further walked into the kitchen only to walk back out soon after, holding the door open. “Joan. Jack. I’m not dealing with this crap.”

Jack raced ahead, asking if it were Tabitha. Confucius said no, that they’re not going to believe him if he said who it was.

The two parents burst in the room to find Allison laying across Jan’s lap, face flushed with booze and half eaten cookie on her chest. The human pillow known as Jan sat unbothered watching videos on his phone, laughing obnoxiously.

Jfk stomped over, hovering over the kids. “Allison Rose Kennedy!” He boomed. “Just what is going on! I want answers now!”

The girl burst into a fit of laughter. She rolled to her side, clutching it in her hysterical fit.

“She’s wasted.” Jfk stated the obvious. “She’s fucking wasted!”

“We can deal with her later,” Joan tugged on his cardigan. “Right now, our concern is Tabitha.”

The three split up. Confucius took the bottom level where he and Jack’s home offices were. Joan and Jack took the floor above.

It was a mess. Not as bad as downstairs, but it still irked Jfk to no end.

Tabitha’s door was wide open. The overhead light on. Judging by the reflection of the tin sign hanging on the door, so are her string lights from above her bed, which she only ever turns on when she’s inside. They were battery operated, she hated wasting the power.

Walking in, she first noticed the mess. Clothes everywhere. Then she noticed a figure on her bed, slumped over the edge. Shoulders too wide and boney to be Tabitha.

The figure took notice and looked, a hopeful gleam in his eyes. It was Mickey.

“Michael—”

“I’m sorry.”

Mickey stood— or slouched, his default stance. He offered her a paper, face nondescript. Not at all telling. She walked further in, hesitantly taking the paper. She looked for an answer in the boy’s face but ultimately didn’t find one.

Hey mom. Hey dad.

I’m sorry. For everything. I’m sorry I couldn’t apologize in person, I’m bad at words you know that. Anyway, don’t bother finding me. You’re better off without me in your lives. I’m a shitty person.

Tell Ally she can have my makeup. And whatever clothes she wants. And tell her sorry for being a bitchy sister.

I love you guys. Bye.

All the anger that once filled her body turned into despair as she realized what the letter meant. She dropped the paper and scrambled for her phone, hand shaking as she looked for her contact. Dead Kennedys’ Drug Me played from the bed. Joan’s heart sank.

Mickey uncovered the blankets to find the ringing phone. It stopped when Joan hung up. She was on the verge of tears, regret running through her whole body.

Their attention was stolen by Jfk. He seemed to sense the mood in the room, shoulders deflating. Joan turned to the man with watery eyes. Mickey picked up the paper and handed it over.

#clone high #clone high reboot #clone high 2023 #clone high au #clone high fic #future au #clone high ocs #clone high jfk #clone high joan #clone high joan of arc #clone high confucius #oc: carmen #oc: mickey #oc: tabitha #oc: allison #oc: jan #oc: beethoven

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