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happyyyandcrazyyy · 5 months ago

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matching bracelets (kaz brekker x reader)

summary: when (y/n) buys kaz a bracelet she does so as a joke, she knows he’ll never actually wear it. imagine her surprise when she sees it dangling around his wrist.

based on the prompt: person A gets person B a friendship bracelet, expecting person B to never wear it, but when it’s given to them person B puts it on and is rarely seen with it off.

warnings: mentions of blood and torture (not explicit, briefly mentioned)

kaz taglist: @the-tpd-bau @ellievickstar @thestudiouswanderer | soc taglist: @ancientbeing10 (if you want to be added or removed from the taglist just dm me!)

a/n: guess who's back after a year of being mia!! i've been working on a lot of fics, but inspiration just hasn't been there, so i'm going slow, i don't like to force myself to write if i don't feel like it. anywaysss, i hope you enjoy this one! it was such a fun ride to write :)

Jesper opens the door with a loud bang, strutting into the Slat with his head held high and a slight jump in his step. He’s whistling good-naturedly, his left hand twirling a pistol and his right hand holding a rumpled piece of paper.

(Y/N)’s right hand— which had immediately reached for the pocket knife in her boot at the tumultuous noise— retreats back to her side. She relaxes, letting her shoulders sag and briefly looking down to make the final correction on a contract Kaz had her look over, left hand holding the pen and swiftly moving over the paper.

Jesper makes his way towards her, still whistling. She follows him from the corner of her eye, a slight smirk taking over her features. He’s in a good mood, the kind of mood he’s only ever in when the Gods are in his favor and he manages to miraculously not gamble away all his money. It’s not something that happens often.

“Did you win some?” she asks, already knowing the answer but enjoying the way the Sharpshooter preens under the attention. Jesper, very much in character and to (Y/N)’s delight, twirls around and does a ridiculous dance before taking a small bow.

“Baby, I won a whole lot.”

She huffs out a laugh, leaning back as she watches him place the pistol in its respective holster before plopping down on the chair by her right side and tossing her a small bag.

(Y/N) catches it smoothly, reflexes as sharp as always.

She doesn’t need to open the sack to know there’s kruge in there; the sound of coins jiggling against each other is a dead giveaway.

Jesper winks, a teasing smile on his lips. He tips his chair back, feet on top of the table, “Because you’re my favorite.”

It’s really because he owes her more kruge than he’ll ever be able to repay, but (Y/N) plays along. She’s never cared much about money, anyways.

“You sure do know how to charm a lady,” she smirks.

“I’m good at charming gents, too.”

“Versatile.”

“You know me.”

(Y/N) smiles, softer around the edges this time, something reserved only for her closest friends. She’s about to being correcting another contact— she has twelve to go through, all because she’d been bored and had decided annoying Kaz would be a great way to spend her time, he obviously hadn’t agreed —when Jesper slides over the piece of paper he’d been holding in his right hand. In the time he’d made his way towards her he’d somehow managed to crumple it completely.

She takes it, half curious, half willing to do anything to procrastinate revising and correcting those stupid documents.

“Brought this for you, too. I’ve got the feeling you’re going to enjoy this much more than the money.”

Her eyebrows furrow with curiosity as she slowly opens up the paper.

Ink contrasts the yellowish hue of the paper. Her own face greets her, drawn by hand, but fairly accurate.

(Y/N) (Y/L/N)

Wanted dead or alive.

1,000 kruge.

She can’t help the snicker that falls from her lips

Jesper is right. This is better, much better.

“Can’t believe it’s only a thousand this time,” she huffs, a small pout on her lips. “I must be losing my touch.”

Jesper snorts at that.

(Because she hasn’t lost her touch, not even a little, and they both know it. Just yesterday she’d managed to get vital information out of a Black Tip member with a single touch and a minimal amount of bloodshed. Three days before that she’d disposed of a rival gang member who’d been speaking too freely and she’d made sure his body would never be found. Two weeks prior to that Kaz had sent her to steal a miniature stature and she’d done it without a hitch, forging an identical copy in less than five days. No, she still very much has it.)

“I might have to go overboard next time,” she muses quietly to herself, “do something that will raise the bounty to at least two thousand five hundred.”

She traces the outline of her name, biting down a smile when Jesper snorts.

“You’re insane,” the Sharpshooter deadpans, the fondness in his tone almost tangible.

(Y/N) smiles wickedly at him, “So they say.”

Marbles is what they’ve nicknamed her around the Barrel. They say she’s lost them all. And it must be true, she must be out of her mind, because having a bounty on your head in Ketterdam is nothing less than a death sentence. It means having the most ruthless assassins coming after you, all looking for a way to make fast money. It’s living with the constant fear of someone sneaking up on you and slicing your throat, of having your food poisoned, of being choked to death in your sleep, of having your closest friends betray you as a means to survive. But to (Y/N), who has been part of the city’s underworld since before being able to formulate words, who has had any sort of ability to feel fear beaten out of her, this is nothing but one of the most amazing sources of entertainment. It keeps her on her toes, brings an adrenaline rush that does not compare to anything else. She must be crazy because any sane person would be paralyzed in fear, running for their lives, and yet all she can feel is the comforting thrill of being in mortal danger. (And, yes, it is comforting. She was raised to be a weapon, trained to withstand any form of torture; having Death peering over her shoulder is something she’s comfortable with, something she’s used to, something that soothes her). Besides, even if she wasn’t deadly confident in her own abilities (which she very much is), and even if she was able to feel terror overtaking her limbs (which she doesn’t think she’ll ever feel again), the title she holds would be enough to keep her relatively safe; she is Kaz’s right hand, and no one dares touch something that belongs to Dirtyhands.

(Y/N) stares at the poster for a little while longer— they got her nose wrong, made it too pointy —before smirking to herself. She knows how this will all go down, has seen it played out a few dozen times before (this is a regular occurrence, after all, a bounty is placed on her head every couple of months, whenever she loses her temper and murders someone who was deemed untouchable, or steals something much too valuable for her blood-stained hands). So, yes, she knows how this will go; the bounty will stay up for a couple of weeks, long enough for a few to dare try to kill her, and then it’ll be removed by whoever placed it once they realize it’s futile, once they see how everyone who even dares breathe too close to her winds up dead. She hopes the assassination attempts are entertaining, she hopes whoever dares come after her head gives her a good fight, if only to keep things interesting. It’s been a while since she’s had some unrestrained fun.

(Kaz keeps her on a tight rein, knows better than to let her run around freely. To say things can get out of hand when she’s left to her own devices would be an understatement.)

“Again?”

The voice comes from behind her, and (Y/N) doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is, she heard his steps since before he even walked into the room. (It’s easy to know when it’s Kaz, he subconsciously places more weight on his left leg to keep the right one from aching, it makes his footsteps distinctive.) Still, she angles her head to meet his eyes. He’s leaning over her chair, cold eyes watching the bounty poster with disdain.

He’s never said it but (Y/N) knows that he doesn’t appreciate her life being imperiled. She is, in a way, an extension of him, and therefore any threats to her he sees as direct threats to him. Dirtyhands doesn’t take it well to being threatened.

“It’s okay, boss,” Jesper calls out. He’s still tipping his chair back, now playing with his guns. (Y/N) is kind of tempted to lean forward and kick one of the chair’s wooden legs, just to watch him struggle, possibly even fall. But Jesper’s known her long enough to realize when she’s on the verge of becoming a nuisance because his eyes narrow playfully and he lets the chair’s weight drop forward, “I wouldn’t worry too much.”

From the corner of her eye, (Y/N) can see the way Kaz’s face morphs. It’s almost indistinguishable, but she notices it. She thinks she would be able to spot the most minimal change in Kaz, she’s known him long enough for that. (Y/N) watches in amusement as he opens his mouth, no doubt to argue that he isn’t worrying at all, because Gods forbid he ever outwardly cared about anyone, but Jesper beats him to the punch and keeps going, “Heard some of Pekka’s Lions talking ‘bout how they’re not even going to try to come after her this time.”

“How boring,” she mutters to herself in disappointment, reaching for her glass of whisky. She’d meant for the comment to go unheard but Jesper’s snicker tells her that she wasn’t successful.

She takes a chug as Jesper points an accusatory finger at her and smirks, “That’s all on you, Marbles.”

At her bewildered look, he elaborates, “Two of them said something about not wanting to meet the same fate as the Razorgull guy from a couple of months ago—” (Y/N) smirks at that. The guy had deserved it. He hadn’t just tried to kill her, but also grope her. Murder she could understand, respect even, but touching someone else without their consent? No, she drew the line there. She’d had him swallow his own testicles; it’d seemed fitting enough. “—and the other one said that even if you hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t come close, not with you being Kaz’s right hand,” Jesper pauses for a second, a smug smile appearing on his lips, “and his best friend.”

Their reaction is instantaneous; Kaz goes rigid at the words and a smirk takes over (Y/N)’s features.

Oh, if the night didn’t just suddenly get better.

She glances up at her best friend, only to find him already glaring daggers at Jesper, who shrugs helplessly and innocently says, “Just telling it like I heard it, boss.” The flicker of amusement in his eyes reveals that he’s very much aware of just how much ammunition he’s provided (Y/N) with.

(Y/N)’s smirk becomes wider and gains a teasing edge when Kaz looks down to meet her eyes. His eyes harden, explicitly telling her to not utter a single word. Sadly for him, she has never been one to follow the rules, and Kaz must notice she’s not about to obey because his face morphs slightly, just enough to show the most minimum amount of discomfort. He cringes just the tiniest bit, bracing himself.

He knows her too well.

“You hear that?” she asks him, tone light and filled with amusement, “We’re best friends!”

“We are not,” Kaz tenses his jaw as he replies. He backs away from her, as if creating physical space between them will somehow stop the words from leaving her mouth and making their way towards him. As if distance could make her less of an bother.

(Y/N) fake gasps, clutching the skin over her heart in the most dramatic manner, “You wound me deeply, Kazzy.”

Jesper snorts, coughing to try to drown the laughter. She might be the only one who doesn’t get a knife to the jugular when calling him that.

Kaz’s eyes snap toward the Sharpshooter and the look must be deadly because Jesper quiets down immediately and tries his best to evade the boss’s glare. Kaz’s gaze then shifts towards (Y/N) and she perks up at the way his eyes harden even further in annoyance. He’s told her a million times to drop that ‘ridiculously stupid’ nickname and she’s decided she never will, not when it drives him to this point of exasperation.

(She’s a thrill chaser, you see. That’s what happens when you’ve seen just about everything and lived twice as much; few things get your heart pumping. And getting on Kaz’s nerves? That’s always exciting. (Y/N) never knows what to expect of him. The Bastard of the Barrel is unpredictable in a way that’s just delightful.)

“If you call me that one more time—”

“What are you gonna do? You can’t possibly try to hurt me. Best friends don’t do that to each other,” she mocks.

His eyebrow twitches, her grin stretches.

Oh, she’s going to have a field day with this one.

It’s obvious that Kaz knows he’s not winning this discussion because he walks forward, snatches the revised contracts and makes his way back to where he came from.

“Get those done before tomorrow afternoon.”

Boring. She was expecting more banter.

(Y/N) turns around to watch him leave, unable to stop herself from throwing a sarcastic, “Sure thing, bestie.” She does her best to sweeten the last word in a way that she knows will infuriate Kaz.

He freezes.

Bingo.

Even from afar, (Y/N) can see the way he tightens the grip on his cane. She’s thoroughly disappointed when he doesn’t throw a dagger her way. That would’ve been exciting. He takes another route, one she should’ve seen coming.

“I’ve got seven more files that need to be corrected. Collect them when you’re done with those.”

The corner of her lips tugs upwards slightly. There’s something thrilling about playing this game with Kaz, of seeing how much one of them can push before the other yields. He’s skilled and she enjoys the competition.

She ignores his order, “Goodnight, Kazzy.”

He slams the door on his way out, the only visible sign that she managed to get on his nerves. That’s mildly entertaining. Causing even the slightest slip of Kaz’s control over his temper is a success in her books.

“You’re out of your mind,” Jesper informs her.

She raises her glass of whisky at him and winks.

And that’s how it begins, as a joke. (Y/N) refers to Kaz as her best friend on every given chance. His reactions never disappoint.

There’s a lot of death threats;

(“Don’t mind him, bestie here is always grumpy.”

Clenched jaw, an exasperated sigh. “I will murder you.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time, Kazzy.”

There’s a knife thrown her way. (Y/N) catches it with ease, whistling good-naturedly. She smirks when she catches the look of annoyance in Kaz’s face.)

and a lot of not so kind words thrown her way.

(“I get special best friend privileges, right?”

“You get tolerated,” Kaz mutters, “barely.”

“That might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me. Now tell me you love me.”

There’s that Brekker glare, one that would send anyone to an early grave. (Y/N) just smiles sweetly.

“Get out.”

“Whatever makes you happy, best friend.”

She cackles as she closes the door behind her, the curses Kaz is sending her way loud enough for her to hear.)

All in all, (Y/N) is as happy as can be. Having the time of her life, really. It’s not often that she finds something that makes Kaz fume. He plays the game too, of course. He has her going over financial documents and legal contracts on her free time, knowing just how much she hates the bureaucracy, and he gives her the household chores she despises the most. Still, (Y/N) doesn’t complain. She does everything with a smug smile on her face. The annoyance that flashes through Kaz’s face makes it all worth it.

The bracelet isn’t something she plans for, it really isn’t, but the Saints place the opportunity right in front of her and who is she but a mere mortal that must obey the signs evidently laid by otherworldly deities (or whatever bullshit those religious fanatics preach).

(Y/N) inspects the wristlets in her hand. They’re black and rough, made of broken-down nets that fishermen dispose of near the pier when the material has worn down beyond repair and is no longer useful. The little girl who had sold it to her couldn’t have been older than seven, and yet the design was more than decent. (Y/N) had offered three kruge for it, much more than it was worth. The child had looked delighted, had thanked her profusely as she’d placed the coins inside her worn-down shoes.

Oh, (Y/N) cannot wait to see Kaz’s face.

“What’s that?” Jesper asks as she meets up with him, eying the bracelets with a gleam of interest. He twirls his guns absentmindedly, missing the way some of the fishermen glance at him with distrust.

“Oh, you know, just some matching bracelets for me and my best friend.”

Jesper snickers, shaking his head and proceeding to let out a low whistle.

“This might be his breaking point.”

“Wouldn’t that be delightful.”

“You’re insane, Marbles.”

She gives him a wicked smile accompanied by a wink. She’s about to retort when she catches sight of a shadow on the corner of her eye. She recognizes it immediately as her target. Shopping, as fun as it had been, wasn’t the reason she and Jesper were waiting by the pier. They’ve got orders. She has people to torture and interrogate and dispose of— preferably in a quiet manner —and Jesper is Kaz’s way of making sure she’s got her back covered. (Not that she needs backup, but whatever, she has tried arguing with Kaz about it and it’s the one thing he won’t relent on, the one matter she’s accepted she won't ever win. Kaz doesn't play when it comes to her safety.).

“If you’re kind enough to hold these for me,” she places the bracelets on Jesper’s unoccupied hand, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

They make it back to the Slat before sunrise. (Y/N) had been quick and efficient, as she always was, and Jesper had been a quiet and solid shadow, as he always was.

“I assume it all went according to plan,” the Bastard asks when he hears their steps coming into his office. It’s late, or rather extremely early in the morning, and yet (Y/N) isn’t surprised by Kaz’s presence. He rarely sleeps.

“It went without a hitch, boss,” Jesper responds, resting against the doorframe.

(Y/N) hesitates for a split second, her memory providing a brief flashback to the interrogation she’d done, to three little words the man had let slip out: they’re coming for you.

A warning or maybe a promise.

Thrilling, either way. It wasn’t often that she was verbally threatened.

At the time, she’d dismissed the words, too filled with bloodlust to pay them any mind, but now, with a clear mind and a steady heartbeat, she suddenly remembers her face plastered on paper all over Ketterdam and wonders if the words might be related to the bounty on her head.

Oh, she hopes so. That would prove to be fun.

They’re coming for you. Good. Let them try.

She nods her head in agreement with Jesper’s words. Kaz nods in approval and then jerks his chin Jesper’s way, a clear sign of dismissal. The Sharpshooter never walks into Kaz’s office after missions like this. He’s an escort, a babysitter of sorts, merely Kaz’s way of making sure she heads his way instead of making a beeline for her bed.

(Y/N) sticks her tongue out at him and Jesper blows her a kiss in response.

Lucky bastard. It’s always her that has to stay up to report. And she hates to admit it, but she’s tired, she can feel the exhaustion begin to creep on her bones and settle in. She has been up for more than thirty-seven hours at this point, and she can feel it catching up to her. Still, she knows that Kaz prefers to hear details when the information is fresh on her mind, when she can provide as much detail as possible, so she pushes through for him. She just has to wait a little while longer before crawling into her bed and passing out for the next twelve hours.

“Marbles comes bearing gifts by the way,” is the last thing the Sharpshooters says before exiting.

A smirk takes over her features, sleep, exhaustion and the new information briefly forgotten.

Kaz is going to hate it.

Lovely.

Kaz seems to sense, probably by the wicked amusement on her face, that whatever it is it’s not something he’s going to enjoy. His face twists into a scowl.

“Out with it, then.”

She pulls out the dark bracelet from her pocket as she walks towards Kaz, dangling it in front of his face when she’s close enough.

Jesper had handed them back on the way home, tossing them over as soon as she’d wiped the blood off her hands. He hadn’t said a word, but (Y/N) knew that the action had meant to snap her out of the weird haze that clouded her mind after every mission, where adrenaline still coursed through her body and all she could think about was bloodshed, fingers itching to kill and maim and fight.

(It was a thing, the haze. When taking lives there was nothing but calmness and bloodthirst, the restlessness that always lingered beneath her skin subsiding as soon as a weapon was placed in her hand and orders were given. And as soon as the mission was done, as soon as the target was neutralized and she’d efficiently fulfilled her orders, fogginess followed. Her mind became clouded, as if somewhat trapped in a loop of violence, every nerve on edge and ready for any threat to emerge.

She was brought up as a killing machine, a child soldier, the best out of all the assassins produced by the Silent Blades, her father’s pride. She was ruthless, wretched, or at least those had been the words used to describe her when she’d been a child. She supposed the dissociative state she slipped into was normal when considering her upbringing, some sort of psychological shield that kept her from going insane.

She never spoke about it, but the Crows somehow knew. They often eased her out of it, knowing full well that when trapped in that state she had not an ounce of thought and only muscle memory to rely on, which made her infinitely more lethal.)

Jesper’s actions had worked like a charm. With something else to do with her hands, the fogginess had ruptured. She’d absentmindedly tied one of the bracelets on her own wrist, fingers playing with the edges of the other.

It’s that bracelet, the one on her arm, that Kaz glances at now. It’s brief, but for a split second the scowl etched on his face softens and something that she can’t quite catch passes through his eyes. It’s gone before (Y/N) can even begin to process it.

“Best friends have to have matching bracelets, don’t they?” And if she wonders about it later, she’ll blame it on the exhaustion, but the words come out softer than she intends them to. A jest, but not any less truthful.

Kaz’s face morphs and she gets a fleeting glimpse at that flicker in his eyes again. His scowl melts into something a tad bit gentler, the look contrasted by the aggressiveness with which he snatches the bracelet from her hand, “You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met.” He means that and his tone has enough bite to make her cackle.

Amusing.

Placing her hands on her back pockets and shrugging, she responds, “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Kaz snorts, “Go take a bath.” He dismisses her, turning around and making his way to his desk, “Reports can wait until you don’t look half dead.”

That’s unexpected.

(Y/N) raises her eyebrows, “You’re being nice.” It isn’t often that Kaz forgoes a report after a mission. He might’ve been more touched by the gift than he’s letting on.

“It’s for my own sake,” he retorts, not turning around, “you just stink and it’s making me nauseous.”

She does have a lingering smell of blood and sea water.

“Everything in this damned place stinks,” she responds. I know you’re lying, she’s saying, I know you’re being kind.

“Get out.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” (Y/N) mocks, walking out of his office.

She sleeps a full day after that, everyone knowing better than to bother her unless they want to lose to their head, and when she reports to Kaz the next morning the three words she’d heard from the man slip her mind. (Y/N) doesn’t remember them until a few weeks later when she’s tied to the ceiling by her wrists, face bleeding.

Now, she must admit, she’s impressed. No one had ever tried kidnapping before. There’d been more attempts on her life than she could even count; stabs resulting in blood being shed, never one drop of hers, poison that she had either swallowed down like a champ or identified before a single lick of it touched her tongue, because being raised an assassin meant she’d been trained in the art of toxins and she’d built up tolerance to pretty much every substance in existence, and that one time they’d tried to shot at her, which only resulted in (Y/N) stealing Jesper’s gun and placing a bullet right between the perpetrator’s eyebrows. All in good fun. Kidnapping was new, but only because those who had attempted on her life had never tried joining forces, all of them wishing to keep the financial reward for themselves.

Torturing, that was new, too.

She could endure, of course she could, she’d been trained for this. That did not mean she’d missed it.

The poster had stated she was wanted dead or alive and it was clear that the man in front of her wanted to take his time. It was personal, she could tell by the brunt of his hits and the delicate precision of his cuts. Had she been anyone else, she would’ve been begging for it to stop, but (Y/N) was a Silent Blade, even if she’d left the organization and that life behind, and she would never break.

The only reason she was in this situation was because the assailants had gotten the upper hand. They’d used one of (Y/N)’s street urchins— a little girl with piggy tails and two missing teeth, one of the ones who gathered information for (Y/N) and traded it for food and shelter —as leverage. And time had apparently made her soft because she’d hesitated. The brief second of doubt had been everything they’d needed.

Them subduing her didn’t mean she’d gone down without a fight. There’d been five of them in the beginning. Only three remained. She’d plucked one guy’s eye out, going deep enough to sever the optic nerve and cause brain damage, and she’d ripped the other’s ear with her teeth before slitting his throat. She’d managed to stab one of the three men remaining with a dagger before being injected with some unknown serum. It hadn’t knocked her out, not the way it was supposed to if the incredulous look on her kidnapper’s face was any indication, but it had drugged her enough to allow them to overpower her.

And now here she was, slowly bleeding out.

“I intent on handing your corpse to them and claiming the reward.” He’s been quiet for so long that (Y/N) had almost forgotten his presence. She doesn’t raise her head, only looks up. It’s hard to do so when her right eye is swollen shut. “But they never specified the conditions it had to be in.”

The man has his back towards her, fingers running through a box of tools. He’s used almost all of them on her by this point. Amateur. A skilled torturer knows to go slow, to drag it out, to choose a weapon and stick to it until the person is weeping and screaming.

“It was my brother that you killed.”

That sparks her interest, a smirk taking over her bloodied lips. She looks at him, dead in the eye.

“Which one?” she taunts.

The sound of her voice, still strong despite the blood loss, startles him. He freezes for a split second, hand over a wooden baseball bat.

“What?”

She snickers, blood dripping into the floor. “I’ve killed a lot of men, darling.” The way he seethes, fury filling his features, amuses her. “So which one was your brother?”

“You had him swallow his own testicles.”

“Oh, him,” she nods her head in appreciation. “Can’t say I regret it.”

Now he’s fuming, hand shaking so badly he almost loses the grip on the bat. If (Y/N) looks close enough she can see the resemblance. Same brown hair, same nose, same crazy look in their eyes.

“I’ll make you regret it.”

“You can certainly try,” she concedes mockingly. Because, honestly, there’s nothing he can do to her that she hasn’t already withstood.

There’s a raging roar and then a burst of pain. A hit to her abdomen, which no doubt bruised a rib, and then two to her back. But it’s okay, she thinks to herself as she wheezes and coughs, trying to regain air in her lungs, she knows how to play this game and how to win it. Keep him talking, keep him angry, let him think he has the upper hand, keep him from noticing how she’s preparing to break free.

“I wonder…” he murmurs, bat dragging behind him. “You’re not particularly remarkable.” She scoffs as he begins circling her, a tactic supposed to drive the prisoner into panic at the lack of vision of their assailant. Her heart doesn’t stutter. She’s trained to identify people and objects by sound not sight. She knows precisely where he is, even if she can’t see him. “So, what makes you interesting enough for the Bastard to keep so close?”

She grins, feral and with bloodstained teeth.

“Why don’t you come closer and I’ll show you?”

His face does not change but his step falters. “You cannot believe me stupid enough to fall for that.”

“You were stupid enough to tie my wrists with handcuffs,” is all she replies before dislocating her own thumbs and releasing herself from the shackles.

She hits the floor hard, body swaying for a second. Her hands are numb, nerve endings frayed. It hits her, now that she has to keep herself outfight, just how much blood she’s lost. The edges of her vision blur.

There’s a cut on her thigh, it bleeds heavily. Her back is all flayed skin. Breathing is hard.

It doesn’t matter. She only needs four fingers and half a mind to hold and use a dagger. She shakes the dizziness off.

He comes at her, but she’s expecting that. Sidestepping him is easy, kicking him in the back as he passes by even more so.

“You’re not much without your friends and a syringe full of drugs, are you?” she stumbles a little as she taunts him. Time is not on her side, she knows this. He’s cut deep in her arms and legs, no major artery touched, but with precision to give her a slow and prolonged death. She’s been steadily bleeding for hours.

(Y/N) has to end this. Soon.

He comes for her again, and she dodges, punching him right in the gut. He feigns left and she moves away, noticing too late the fist that impacts with the right side of her face. Despite the pain, she manages to stomp his toes and slam her knee against his balls.

That does it.

A high whimper leaves his mouth and as he struggles for air, she backs up. Keeping her eyes on him, her right arm reaches back to the toolbox. She knows what she’s grasped as soon as her fingers graze it.

“Say hi to your brother for me.”

The scalpel lodges itself right on his carotid artery.

“Nice,” she mumbles in delirium as she hears him choke to death. It’d been a majestic throw.

The adrenaline is gone in a second. (Y/N) stumbles backwards, barely aware of all the tools scattering around in the floor. She lets herself rest against the wall, slowly sitting down on the floor.

She’s going to die.

It doesn’t matter that she’s managed to get rid of that poor excuse of a man. She’s too injured. She knows.

(Y/N) isn’t scared. She’s tangled with Death for a long time, and as cold begins to creep in and the edges of her vision blacken, it feels like welcoming an old friend. It feels like getting what she has always had coming for her.

The tips of her fingers begin to tingle, her body’s desperate effort at keeping her heart pumping. Her ears are ringing, hard enough that when shouts begin all that she can hear are muffled sounds.

Then someone’s touching her face. She greets the warmth.

“Fuck,” she hears as she tumbles forward, her forehead landing on a collarbone. Jesper grasps the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. At least, she thinks it’s him. Her brain feels mushy, but her nose has never failed her, and it smells like gunpowder and mint.

She’s laid down on the ground gently, probably to inspect her injuries before moving her.

“You’re going to be okay,” the Sharpshooter reassures her, but his voice is trembling. He’s scared. She must look worse than she feels, and she feels like she’s been attacked by a group of Heartrenders.

She wants to speak, to tell him it’s okay, but opening her mouth feels like an impossible task.

“Save your energy.” That’s Kaz. His voice is steady, but she can feel the underlying tension, the worry in his words. “You are not dying tonight.” And he says it with so much conviction, like he would hold her soul with his own hands to keep it anchored to her body, like he would keep her heart beating with pure willpower.

Her eyes look for him, but she catches sight of something else entirely.

“You’re wearing it.”

She must make no sense, words slurred, but Kaz understands. His whispered words are the last thing she hears before slipping out of consciousness.

“How couldn’t I?”

Then there’s nothing. She loses track of time. She comes back to her body from time to time, able to hear words but incapable of pinpointing the speaker. She’s floating, but there’s pain and aching.

“…too much blood, I don’t know…”

“…keep her alive.”

“I am trying!”

“Don’t try, do it.”

“…punctured lung, broken ribs…”

“…don’t know how she’s still alive.”

When she comes to the first thing that she feels is blinding pain. Everything hurts. Her muscles complain as she sits up. She clenches her jaw to keep the tears at bay. The worst is already over, she will not cry.

“Don’t move,” (Y/N) freezes at the command, her head snapping towards the voice. “Nina stitched you back together, I doubt she would be very happy to see all her hard work ruined.”

She gently eases herself back on the bed, fingertips running over her bandaged stomach. She can feel the edges of the stitches poking through it. It must’ve been bad, then, if she required stitches to keep the wound together. Usually, she’s a fast healer, a result of all the training she’d gone through.

“How long?” Her voice is raspy after not being used. Her throat hurts, which might be related to the way she was choked to the verge of unconsciousness several times while held hostage.

“Four nights.”

Bad then.

(Y/N) can feel Kaz’s eyes on her, assessing. She meets his stare, and it’s when she’s looking at him that a vague memory comes back.

Her eyes drift down to his wrist.

The twin bracelet to her own, the one she keeps tightly wrapped around her wrist, as if part of her own skin, greets her.

“You are wearing it.”

Kaz frowns in confusion, until he follows her line of sight. He looks away, hand clenching and unclenching over the head of his cane.

“Even after almost dying you’re still insufferable,” he responds.

But when he looks back at her, (Y/N) can see everything in his eyes.

How could I not, he’d said, and he’d meant it. If friendship was something that could bloom in a wretched place like Ketterdam, Kaz was her best friend and she was his, even if they’d never discussed it, even if they would never admit it. You’re the steady order to my unrelenting chaos, she thought to herself, someone I would follow to the end of the world.

He nods, as if reading her mind and agreeing with her.

“Rest.” That’s an order, one she has no intention of disobeying.

“Sure thing,” she responds as Kaz makes his way towards the door, “bestie.”

(Y/N) can feel the amusement in his words, “Absolutely insufferable.”

She smirks, toying with the ends of the bracelet’s strings.

(Y/N) never takes it off. Neither does Kaz.

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penny00dreadful · 1 year ago

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STWG Prompt: I can explain!

Eddie had just barely pushed his own bedroom door open before everyone, including him, was shouting and he clapped a hand over his eyes.

“I didn’t see anything!”

“You better not have!” Robin shouted at him and he could hear her pulling her shirt back down from where she just had it held up to her chin.

“It’s not what it looks like!” Steve’s voice came out as more of a high pitched shriek rather than how it usually sounded.

“Okay, because it looks like you were feeling up Robin’s boobies.”

“You said you didn’t see anything!” Something bumped against his forehead and based on the softness of the fabric and the smell, he guessed it was probably one of Steve’s polos snatched up from the nearby hamper.

“This is my bedroom! Sorry I don’t walk into my own bedroom expecting random naked women!”

“I can explain!” Steve’s voice sounded closer now and Eddie automatically reached his free hand out blindly for him.

“Excuse you, I am not a random woman! And I am not naked nor was I naked, I was just kinda topless!” Robin huffed. “And this is Steve’s room too!”

When his hand finally landed on Steve’s arm, he felt his way down towards his hand, lacing their fingers together.

“Okay, then. Let me rephrase. Sorry I don’t walk into our bedroom-” he gave Steve’s hand an exaggerated shake, “-expecting to see you topless!”

Steve squeezed his hand back. “She said her boobies felt weird.”

“Have those boobies been put away?”

Robin made a disgusted noise. “Can you two stop saying ‘boobies’? What are you, twelve fucking years old?”

“Her boobies have been put away.” Steve snickered to himself, recoiling with a hissed ow when Robin slapped him across the arm.

Eddie had to blink a few times to get his eyes to adjust back to the light in the room but when he did, he found Robin thankfully fully clothed.

“Uh,” Steve shuffled a little on his feet. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not cheating on you with Robin.”

“Obviously.” Eddie pulled him closer, tucking his hand into Steve’s back pocket and giving him a little squeeze. “You’re not the cheating type and she’s as gay as Christmas.”

Robin glared at him with her hands on her hips. “I’m Jewish.”

“Gay as Hanukkah, then. Are your boobies okay?”

Robin glared at him again but shifted her eyes over to look at Steve.

“Everything seems fine, Birdie. Same as I told you this time last month. And-”

“And the month before that, yeah, yeah. I know.” She sulked, staring at the two of them for a moment before asking, “Do you have any vanilla ice-cream? And some sprinkles?”

Brought to you by my own monthly woes

#steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steve x eddie #penny00dreadful #eddie x steve #stwgdailyprompt #robin buckley #stobin #platonic soulmates stobin #dailydrabble #i can explain

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afyrian · 2 months ago

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always open for you sakusa kiyoomi x gn!reader (fluff) m.list | wc: 1.2k | prompts: brother's best friend + next door neighbor

"oh shit, no no no no no," you whisper to yourself, running up the soiled stairs of your old apartment building.

the torn paper sign still stays taped against the metallic elevator doors. they've been there for as long as you've lived there, and you'd be damned before your landlord would ever spend the money on something so 'frivolous'. forcing you to push your way up the steps, sweat beads already piling on your forehead.

precipitation rests on the back of your neck, the back of your shirt already feeling the affects of six flights of stairs. taking in a deep breath, you make your way up the last flight, hands weary of leaning against the stairwell handles. "shit, i'm going to kill him," you whisper once more, praying for the day you free yourself from the lease.

pushing open the door to the main hallway, you clamber down the carpeted flooring. some doors stay decorated, fall leave wreaths decorating some of the older couples' doors. a few even have welcome floor mats, begging for a place of their own, their welcome mat beautifully placed on a restored wooden porch.

walking up to your door, you grab at your pocket, feeling for your key. biting your lip, you look up at the cracked clock at the end of the hallway, fifteen minutes until four. finally, your fingers pull the key from the little pocket hidden within your jeans. however, it fumbles from your fingers, falling to the ground.

rolling your eyes, you lean down quickly in an attempt to pick it back up. and in a rube goldberg type of scenario, your forehead knocks into the door handle. reaching your hand up to the throbbing spot, you straight your back, moving your foot instinctively. the rubber sole of the shoe knocks into the key, sending it under the door.

"no no no, this can not be happening today," you shake your head, pressing your head forward to lean against the slightly scratched up door.

closing your eyes, you can feel the five stages of grief washing through you. denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. however, acceptance lingers just far enough in the distance that you can only feel the aura of it. "i can't miss this meeting," you whisper to yourself, mind wandering with thoughts of nearby libraries and shitty reception on your phone.

before you can lift your head, a nearby door creaks open. the hinges begging for even an ounce of oil. "everything okay?" a voice asks, quietly, yet loud enough that it rings loudly in your ears.

turning around, you see your one and only neighbor, sakusa kiyoomi. he knows you, you know him. his reputation proceeds him as your brother's closest friend. "hi sakusa, i'm locked out. so okay, for the most part, but i have a meeting i have to attend in a few minutes," your gaze glances towards the clock for another second... twelve minutes.

you can remember the first time you met. atsumu invited you to one of their charity events, and he walked in with a suit that could rival anyone. he barely spoke to you, but after you moved in from across from you, the two of you begun to see each other every morning.

and every morning, you wonder how he can bother to stay in this apartment building. especially when you know how much atsumu makes a season. "that's a bummer... you could borrow my computer if you'd like, until you can get a key. gives me an opportunity to have atsumu owe me something," he shrugs, arms crossing in front of his chest.

"that would save my life, plus i would love for atsumu to owe you something as well," you laugh, hands clinging to your bag's strap.

sakusa looks back at his door and then to you, "but i do have errands to run, could i give you a key and maybe you could return it next time i see you?"

his eyebrow quirks upward, a smile growing on his lips. there's a unique feeling you garner from seeing his smile. the way it makes your stomach churn undeniably sets you into a minor panic. "yes, i can absolutely do that. thank you again sakusa. it's an important meeting regarding promotions and missing this would kill me," you clasp your hands together, bowing slightly in appreciation.

sakusa turns around to unlock the door, not seeing your form of expression. "well, we can't have that happening, now can we?" sakusa shakes his head, opening the door to show a beautifully decorated apartment.

it differs from the general look and atmosphere of the apartment complex. volleyball paraphernalia sits on a few shelves in the corner, some of the walls painted a pleasant pale yellow color. his kitchen has had some repairs, no cracks in the wood like yours. no drawers stuck closed due to the last renter's indiscretions.

even a light scent drifts through the air, blocking the musty smell of the hallway's carpet. "your apartment is beautiful," the words come out quietly, a wave of shock rocking you.

"thank you, trying to make it feel like home until i can get a home," he shrugs, walking down the hallway into one of the farther rooms.

down the hallway hangs some photos that he hung up, all framed in a carved, wooden design. some are of the black jackals' team, one even of sakusa in the middle of spiking the ball. as you venture further, you see one of him and who you presume to be his grandmother. she's cleaning something with him, a candid photo of sorts.

smiling to yourself, you hurry to catch him in the small office room he holds. it's just as good looking as the living room and kitchen, his computer boosting up with a tired hum. "i can't thank you enough for this," you shake your head, turning on your phone to check the time once more, five minutes, "really, this is life saving."

"it's alright, this room has been collecting dust anyway, what with all of the tournaments and practices happening lately," sakusa shrugs, fingers gripping at a ballpoint pen as he scribbles something onto a blue post-it note.

turning to look at you, he presses the sticky residue against the desk, "this is my number, call or text if you need the password or anything. or feel free to save it if you ever get locked out of your apartment again."

for a moment, it feels like butterflies flutter within your throat. strangling any sense of normalcy within you, forcing you to feel awkward in his presence. "alright, i definitely will. at least then i won't be stuck with annoying the landlord during his 'personal time'," you roll your eyes, noting every time he's ignored your calls.

"right... yeah, use it whenever, my apartment is always free, even if i'm not," sakusa nods, pushing open the office door more, making his way back to the front of the apartment.

standing breathlessly, you tap your finger against the post-it note. staring down at it, you notice the quickly drawn smiley face hidden in a zero. "fuck," you whisper to yourself, noting your heart beating quickly and the heat rushing to your face.

a/n: hating myself for not formatting this all on the actually ask 😔 but i hope you like it dodger <33 gen. taglist (open): @eggyrocks @causenessus @applepi25 @softpia @bakery-anon

#art credit to @/carrotsprout_ on twt #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fic #hq #haikyuu fanfic #hq x reader #hq fanfic #☆ fics #☆ writing event #sakusa x reader #sakusa kyoomi x reader #hq sakusa #haikyuu sakusa #sakusa kiyoomi #sakusa x you #msby sakusa

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faeriekit · 1 year ago

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Health and Hybrids (XIV)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

PART ONE is here PART TWOis here PART THREE is here PART FOUR is here and PART FIVE is here PART SIX is here and PART SEVEN is here PART EIGHT is here PART NINE is here PART TEN is here PART ELEVEN is here PART TWELVE is here PART THIRTEEN is here and this is part fourteen! Yes I messed it up this morning yes I had to wait all day to correct it it's all goooood

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts

Where we last left off... Bart is a good egg who is having a Bad Time waiting for his friend :(

Trigger warnings for this story: body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) | my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

Danny wakes up with a gasp.

He’s—where is he? Everything hurts. He can barely think. Danny groans, long and loud, and lifts up an aching hand to his temple.

His fingers come away green. Aw, fuck. What happened to him? What’s going on? Why is his hand…blurry? Is he concussed? Is something wrong with his eyes, or with his head??

(He hopes it’s not his head. It’s waaay easier to heal from one than the other.)

Danny tries to sit up, and— NOPE. Ow. Bad idea. Suuuuuch a bad idea. His arms and hands and his neck and his back are screaming at him, now that he’s awake enough to pay attention. Ughhhhhhhhhhh.

He lays back down. His eyes don’t—well, they don’t shut all the way, which part of his brain labels as very bad, actually, but the world does turn darker and greener as he tries to shut his eyes, and that’s close enough to closing his eyes that Danny can mostly zone out past the pain.

He licks his sore lips. They taste like copper. And battery acid. …And Pixie Sticks.

Ugh, ecto-blood. His own, he assumes.

Everything is blurry and everything kind of hurts and he doesn’t know how he got here or what’s going on. Danny tries to roll over, tries to get more comfortable, but something starts dragging on the inside of his arm, which means intravenous lines.

Ugggghhhh. He hopes it’s got pain meds at least.

Awake him can deal with this later. Danny zones out, his labored breathing evens.

He’s asleep before he knows it.

Danny wakes up next to quiet murmuring, and to weird sensation of something moving in his arm.

He yawns—and his jaw cracks apart farther than usual, with more clicking noises than his jaw usually makes. Weird. His arms come up, his eyes unblur…

The tugging sensation doesn’t go away. Danny sniffs blearily. Blinks.

Two white-coated humans(…?) in PPE pause at his bedside, a half-dissembled IV shared between them.

Danny stops breathing. He can’t—is he—

His eyes go to the ceiling. The floor. He doesn’t recognize the room he’s in. He doesn’t understand. Is this the Guys in White again? Is he— Did he never leave? Is he trapped? Danny doesn’t—he can’t—

—One of the white coats starts making worried noises, which. Danny’s never heard that before. It’s usually threats. They raise both their arms, and Danny flinches back—

…And so do they. Huh. Hm. Are the Guys hiring scaredy cats now? That would be a change of pace, if they were as scared of Danny as Danny is of them.

The second person clicks the new IV bag into place. Danny stops focusing on number one and starts focusing on number two.

They don’t make any overt tells either. The IV line is already in him, and the bag is… Well. It’s not red and Danny’s not in any pain, and it’s not green either. It’s just. Kinda opaque? Milky? The person doesn’t start cackling evilly or telling Danny how screwed he is, either. They both just sort of…tidy up?

The first one doesn’t get closer, either, but Danny can mostly tell that they’re scanning him visually. Their attention goes from his face, to Danny’s visible arm, to the puncture point in his elbow for the IV needle.

Danny also eyes his IV point. Well. It looks like a needle. Doesn’t hurt all that much.

Someone says something he doesn’t catch. But the tone isn’t…mean, or anything. If anything, it sounds quiet, and low, like they’re trying to keep him calm.

Danny doesn’t understand.

He moves as far out of the way of them as possible. It only has the effect of a few inches and it's so painfully slow. If that. He— he remembers. He’s supposed to be scared of— something. No, he knows it—

The labs. He’s supposed to be scared of the labs. The smell is rank there and there’s always screaming and Danny had been hurt there; really, really hurt.

He’s still hurt. He’s still in a lab. In a room. In some sort of too-small prison, and now his barely-sewn together lungs are trying too hard to keep air in his body and it’s not working, and—

Danny barely pays attention when the first doctor leaves. He sees the other back into the door and reach for the phone line, and he can’t stop breathing and he can’t calm down because that means that they’re calling for help and they’re going to hurt him all over again. Tie him down. Cut him open. Shock him, until he can’t breathe without screaming—

Someone new comes in. They look— rushed. Danny can see her actively tying up long black hair, threading a mask up over her face, pulling on one of those paper shifts the doctors wear. The only difference is that she doesn’t put boot covers on.

She has big, bright boots that go all the way up her legs. With his green vision, they look kind of…greyish? (Maybe they’re pink..?)

Either way. They look…ridiculous. Danny doesn’t exactly forget to be scared, but also…what the fuck.

The woman sees that Danny can see her. She waves.

Danny presses back against his— cot. Bed.

That doesn’t stop her. She pulls latex gloves from out of the paper slip she’s wearing and snaps them on, revealing a thin layer of something shiny underneath her elastic-bound sleeves. Once that’s on, she does a visible body checkup of herself: boots, gown, gloves, mask, hair.

…No hair net, though. Or goggles. The Docs in White always wanted to be fully covered when they saw their victims. Being able to see her eyes is a lot…friendlier.

She figures herself out. Straightens. Gives a double thumbs up.

…Danny's eyes roam around. There’s no one nearby. There's only a wall behind him. Is she looking at…him? Is that directed to him?

She doesn’t move immediately— and once she’s in, the second doctor leaves the room entirely.

…The new person takes over. She goes from monitor to monitor, getting closer, but with none of the focus on Danny, per se. She reads his stats, verbalizes them out loud, which, doesn’t sound like…English? But enough to confuse him? It’s kind of like trying to discern Esperanto when he's not thinking about how it's not English.

Ancients. The pounding in his head is getting worse. Maybe Danny has a concussion or something.

The woman doesn’t…get. Him. In fact, he seems to be the least interesting thing in the room to her. Her time is spent on reading the charts and the machines waiting around him, putting something into a…fridge? A Cabinet? In the corner of his room? And otherwise, she leaves him alone.

Until. She does get up and look at him, and all of Danny tenses up painfully. He can’t move. Something’s holding down his legs, his body’s stiff, and all of him is so tired that he genuinely can’t tell if his waist is tied down or if he’s just that exhausted.

He can hear his heart rate monitor kick up. He can’t move, not really. He tries to go intangible but his core just throbs with misery, and—

She mostly just pats his sheets. Not his person, even. Apparently the torture is being held off for now. “Eow eart wel?”

…Danny squints. That is almost English.

“Eom hebbjan yift,” she adds, leadingly, as if Danny is a friend she can tease and not a subject under threat of the knife. He doesn't like it. It hurts. Nothing is real and everyone hates him and all he wants to do is leave but his body is rejecting him and—

Something light and plastic thumps down onto the bed.

Danny blinks. He looks—down. (His neck makes him regret that.)

Is that a…is that a space shuttle? No, ‘cause Danny thinks he recognizes it. It’s Discovery? Isn’t it? That’s the one they just retired. He tries to grab it, but— ouch, oof, his fingers can’t even stretch, bad idea—

The woman gently guides the shuttle into his hand. It doesn’t even hurt. And.

It’s cold to the touch. The model is plastic, it shouldn’t be so cold, but the sensation is distinctly cool and kind of familiar.

…Oh. Danny struggles to flex his fingers around the thing.

It’s him.

Or. Well. The shuttle is his. It has his ectoplasm imbued all throughout it. He can even sort of feel the sensation of carefulplayingcareful he’d have felt while near it. The feeling is weak, and timid, but it’s still there.

So. Then. When did he get it? And…why? Why was it allowed to him? How did he get it?

Is this how they’re feeding him now? Instead of showering him with poorly filtered ectoplasm every time he gets rowdy, are they actually trying to feed his Obsession? For real?? That’s—that’s brand new behavior from the—

Danny blinks. Wait. That’s not it either. Because there’s an IV in him. So…they know he’s getting human food.

So. Uh.

Hm.

Danny doesn’t want to get his hopes up. But this…might not be the Guys in White.

Of course, they might not be better than the GIW either; it’s a total possibility that Danny’s getting suckered into some scheme where every gentle permission and soft voice is a debt he owes…some new reason to take…

His eyelids twitch as they try to shut. He’s so tired. Fear kept him mobile, but now…everything is so heavy.

The lady carefully shushes him, ever so gently. She pulls up his blanket for him. Pats it down.

Danny shivers. He’s so, so scared.

“Ræste þiht,” the woman whispers. The words sound fond. Danny’s so scared, but he’s so tired. His heart is beating so fast. “An freond becymþ hraðe.”

It’s reassuring.

Danny doesn’t want it to be.

He falls asleep the way the desperate do—clawing at the last traces of wakefulness, only to have his consciousness ripped from him.

#Diana: Hi friend! :) I'm glad you're awake!#Danny: *dialling 911 and failing* HELLO???? POLICE?? ANYONE?? HELP???#HE'S UP AND HE'S PEOPLE!#also shoutout to everyone who thought Danny was too concussed for English. Nope! This is a Fundamentally Different English y'all.#health and hybrids #dp x dc #dpxdc #dcxdp #danny phantom #tw gore #tw medical #tw body horror #dcu crossover

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blixabargelds · 3 months ago

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for the prompt game “zipping or buttoning their jacket for them” for clegan!! if you want to! 🫶 love your stuff on ao3 and am pressing my face intensely against the glass of all the superstar stuff you post

@roycest too thank youuuu sm guys <33

i borrowed @swifty-fox’s little beasts boys for this one hehe thank u for letting me play with them :3 cw gore mention ~~

- zipping or buttoning their jacket for them

John holds the cigarette up to Gale’s mouth. He knew that he’d quit long before they met. John had offered one without mentioning that; Gale had taken it without a word. His fingertips brush Gale’s lips as he raises the smoke for him again, the usually plush skin turned chapped with anxiety, and sterile air.

He can’t hold the thing himself, because he’s got twin tears through his hands. On each hand: two fractured metacarpals, four torn tendons- palm, and back- one rough, bleeding hole. Disinfected, bandadged, and splinted still now. He’s slated for surgery on both of them in the next couple of days. John’s fingers shake as he helps Gale take another drag.

“Gale-”

“Don’t, John.”

John rubs at his eyes. They sting from being open so long, but each time he shuts them he can only picture Gale, face twisted in agony and two seven-inch iron nails through his palms. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Gale says again. He fixes John with a look. His eyes are red-rimmed, vaguely glassy from the shock, and the pain, and the good stuff they’ve given him, but it’s an effective look nonetheless. “You got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

John laughs. A teasing, phantom itch passes through the crook of his elbow. “I’m the one who-”

“John, stop it, please.”

It’s only the fraying of Gale’s voice that shuts John up. He wants to touch him so bad but he can’t. Everyone knows him, everyone is doing double takes at the young priest, smoking Reds held up to his face by someone else, and sporting gauze-wrapped stigmata at 2am outside the ER.

John wonders if that’s the only reason they picked him. Like John’s got a pronounced connection to the church in some way less complex than the truth of that relationship. Maybe he’s just been going around wearing his twelve steps on his sleeve, giving off some vibe of reformed dedication to his higher power. He doubts that, though. Very fucking much.

The other explanation is that these people- these guys John owed money to, as they told him- knew about him and Gale. That they talk. John’s got no idea how they would. He’s got no idea who they were, because he can’t remember so many of his fuckups; so many people he’s pissed off or fucked over. Got your priest, said the anonymous text on the screen of his shattered phone. Yours. John wonders if they could tell, if they didn’t know already, that his connection to Gale went beyond Sunday Service in the way that he’d reacted; like a rabid dog as they twisted the nails in deeper. They’d thought it was hilarious. Live crucifixion, real original idea, grinding in the rusty iron fixing Gale to the tree behind until said priest had finally cried. John would’ve given over every cent if he hadn’t been scared for a second that they’d just kill Gale.

He’s not sure where his strength came from, in the end. He hadn’t even thought of his parole.

He wants to hold Gale’s fucking hand. But that’s not something they do anyways, and Gale doesn’t need him to. Couldn’t if he did.

John throws caution to the wind, hopes whoever walks past next might see nothing more than the expected level of comfort to be seen outside an emergency room. He wraps an arm around Gale’s shoulders and pulls him tight to his body. John can feel the way he’s shaking. Adrenaline and morphine slowly seeping out of him, and Gale gives in, too, pressing his face into John’s collar. His breaths come fast and uneven against his skin.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry,” John says.

He dips his face lower, shielded from view by the side of Gale’s head, and ghosts a kiss above his ear. It’s too tender for whatever they are. Which is currently undefined, a burning mess and hidden clashes of tongues, but John’s too tired to care. He can’t stop hearing the scream Gale clenched behind his teeth.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Gale says. John can’t stop hearing Gale’s quiet, fervent praying. He’d been kind of unconvinced by his devotion before. Still is, mostly- John’s pretty sure he was counting his own Hail Marys, too. “You’re uncharacteristically quiet. It’s freaking me out.”

John laughs. It sounds embarrassingly wet. He peels himself back from Gale, dragging out another smoke. He passes this one back and forth between them; watches Gale wince as his fingers automatically flex, as if John’s gonna let him take it himself. He hasn’t really got anything to say, except that he’s sorry.

“You’ll look hardcore.”

Gale blinks. Then laughs, a shaking and breathless thing, kind of heavenly to John; after the night from hell. “Right.”

“You’ll be the most Godly priest around. The gay rumours have got to stop now.”

“John,” Gale hisses.

John holds his hands up in surrender. “I said rumours. Unfounded, I’ve heard. No fucking idea where anyone would get that from, truly, sick thing to make up about a priest.”

“Fuck, John, what if my fingers don’t work anymore.”

John stops talking again at that. He looks down at Gale’s bandaged hands. There hadn’t been as much blood as John expected, the two long nails plugging the wounds where they speared him back to front. It was only when Gale had ripped one out in the car that it really started to bleed. John told him not to. Gale knew not to, only John guesses he hated the look of the things in his palms, because he’d just tugged one straight out in a daze, and sent blood spurting all over the dashboard, pooling down in his lap. John has seen a lot of shit, but he’s never seen right through someone’s body before. Right through his hands. Gale won’t even be able to turn the pages of his precious Bible alone for weeks, at least. John gets a horrible image of Gale’s loose fist working his cock, the slide of it visible through a gory opening in his tender flesh.

These guys in their masks had asked where Gale’s God was now. He looks like he’s still trying to figure it out.

John could kill someone for a drink. A joint, maybe. A line, or worse. He shakes a little with it.

Gale is still shaking, too. Gentle tremors running up and down his lithe body, useless hands coming around to hug himself. It’s cold, and late, but they’ve been surrounded by doctors and nurses and cops, disinfectant and bleating machines for hours. Gale, who doesn’t smoke anymore, had asked for a cigarette, and John wasn’t going to say no. He shrugs off his old Patriots hoodie and helps Gale’s hands through the sleeves.

“’S’alright,” he’s saying, even as he’s blinking slowly, grimacing with the brush of fabric on his fingers.

“Don’t be a martyr,” John says. “For once.”

John zips the sweater up for him. He pulls the hood up over his ears for good measure, and leans back to admire his work. It would be funny if it weren’t so pitiful; Gale dwarfed somewhat by the thing, mussed hair sticking out from under the hood, and that vaguely smug, pious air gone completely from his tired face. John wonders if his voice will tremble at the altar. If he’ll even get back up there for a while. John doesn’t think it’ll take long. Gale is infuriatingly stubborn.

“John, I can’t feel my fingers,” he says, exhaustion pulling down that defensive veil and making his voice thin. John realises he never answered his question

“Hey, it’s the painkillers. The doctor said you’ll get movement back, didn’t he?”

“He didn’t say how much,” Gale croaks.

“Well,” John grits his teeth. Swallows, then says, “Jesus’s hands worked fine.”

It’s meant to be light, but it comes off sort of desperate.

Gale shuts his eyes. “Ain’t Jesus, John. I’m just a fuckin’- some idiot.”

“Cut it out, Gale,” John says. It’s sharp enough that Gale opens his eyes and looks at him, owlish and shocked. John tugs at his curls and sighs. “Fuck, sorry. Just, bad shit happens when there’s scum involved. Trust me. Y’not actually a saint, some guys fucked you up. It should’ve been- it shouldn’t have been you. Alright? This sort of shit shouldn’t happen to you.”

Gale stares at him. John’s arms still itch uncomfortably, a familiar pull in his stomach making him feel off kilter. He thinks of his one year chip. Thinks of swallowing it whole, seeing if it does any damage to his insides.

“Want to listen to some records later?” he says instead.

“I’m gonna be here overnight, John.”

“Yeah,” John says. “Me too.”

Gale blinks. He looks fucking dreadful; tired and hurt, lost in John’s clothes and all messed up where he’s usually so put together. Sheet white and in pain. John wants to kiss him so bad his veins ache with it. It’s sort of funny, how John thinks he’s friends with a priest now.

“Sure,” Gale says after a while. “I’ll listen to some records with you.”

#frankiefic #masters of the air #mota fanfic #clegan #sorry for how long these inbox prompts are taking me i have been Unwell

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imagines--galore · 8 months ago

Text

||The Thread of Fate|| Part Fourteen

Summary: Soulmate AU. They say the Thread of Fate connects you to your one true love. It may tangle. It may stretch. But it will never break. Wrapped around your little finger it tightens when it feels your soulmate is close and loosens when they are far. And becomes visible with the colors of your soulmate’s Nation when you finally fall in love with them.

Pairing: Zuko x OroraOC (ATLA)

Rating || Genres || Warnings: T+ Romance. Adventure.

Previous Chapters - Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen

A/N: I LOVED writing this chapter! That's it. That's all I'm gonna say! Enjoy my lovelies!!!! Eeeeeepppppppppp!!!!!!

"I was saving that peach for this morning."

"Then you should've told me last night. How was I supposed to know it was yours?"

"Because I didn't eat mine last night. You were right there when I put it away."

"For all I know, you didn't want to eat it."

"Who in their right minds wouldn't eat a peach?! Its the best fruit there is!"

"Which is why I ate it!"

And so the argument continued, words flying back and forth across the breakfast table. Iroh sipped his tea contentedly, enjoying the warmth of the beverage. The little argument didn't bother him, really it would bother him if Orora and Zuko weren't arguing first thing in the morning.

Thinking that perhaps he should step in, lest Orora freeze Zuko for the rest of the day, and she would do that, Iroh cleared his throat, catching both their attention. "I believe you owe Orora a peach Zuko." He stated calmly, prompting his pupil to shoot a smug smirk in the scowling Prince's direction.

"She can get one herself." He grumbled, standing up. Orora pursed her lips in annoyance, but chose to remain quiet. She wouldn't be letting it go that easily, but for now, they were already getting late for work.

Best to pick up on it later.

Iroh couldn't help but chuckle at the look of intense concentration on Orora's face. He knew exactly what she was planning, he just hoped her revenge, should she choose to seek it out, which she would, wouldn't make Zuko too annoyed.

Then again, it was rather nice to see Zuko display emotions other then anger, anguish and hopelessness. For too long he had watched his nephew despair over the loss of his home and his honor. But ever since Orora came into their lives, Iroh had seen significant change. One that made him realize that perhaps the boy Zuko had been before he was banished, was still somewhere inside him.

And as they stepped into the teashop to begin work for the day, he caught his nephew shoving a peach into Orora's hand before stalking off to look for his apron. His young pupil stood still for a few moments, eyes darting from the fruit to the door where Zuko had disappeared.

Finally, she rolled her eyes, a gentle smile playing about her lips. Slipping the peach into her pocket, she began her tasks for the day.

Iroh shook his head, smiling to himself. It was obvious how the both of them cared for one another, and yet neither were willing to take the next step. Perhaps because of their views, views that had been thrust upon them by the world.

A Fire Nation Royal, and a Water Tribe Noblewoman.

A love that was never meant to be.

Huffing to himself, Iroh began to go over the many many teas he had stored on the shelf behind the counter.

He had allowed them both the dignity of working everything out themselves, but if they were going to be too stubborn about their nonsensical views, he would have to step in.

They were far better together then they were apart, he had seen and experienced it firsthand.

Perhaps an opportunity would arrive soon, that would help push both teenagers together.

————————–

She stared at the peach in her hand.

It was rather strange how something as insignificant as a piece of fruit held so much meaning. And all because Zuko had given it to her.

Granted he had done so because his Uncle had told him he owed her one, but, lately, Orora had begun to realize that even though his Uncle was the one to advise Zuko on something, the act being carried out was something he did out of choice, and not necessity.

She was on her break at the moment, sitting in the back of the tea shop, looking over at the peach as if she were seeing it for the first time. Taking a bite of the fruit, she smiled at the sweet taste that burst across her tongue the moment she split the skin with her teeth.

Staring listlessly at the wall across from her, her mind wandered to the dinner they had a few nights ago. She still couldn't believe her and Zuko had managed to pull it off without any major mishap. They had actually been smiling at one another by the end of the night. And there was also the fact that she heard him laugh for the first time since they had met.

She had come to that realization late at night. It was shocking enough that she had laid there in silent surprise for a good few minutes before it sank in completely. It was sad how Zuko didn't allow himself to be happy. He didn't smile often either.

If eating spicy food and reacting to it got a sincere laugh out of him then she would probably do it again.

Orora shook her head as she took the last bite of her peach. The past couple of days, she had been seriously contemplating on Zuko being her soulmate. Here in Ba Sing Se, so far away from the horrors of war and the danger that had plagued them, she had to admit it was easy to dismiss all that was going on beyond the Walls and build a new life.

Maybe

Maybe having Zuko as a soulmate wasn't such a bad thing.

He did look out for her, she mused as she stood to wash her hands in the sink. Whenever she would go out in the city he would follow her. At first it had been a little annoying, but seeing him actually be sincere about the task had softened her heart. And though she knew she could take care of herself, should the need arise, it was comforting to know that there was someone watching out for her.

And then there were the little gestures he had been acting on every now and then. She usually slept late, wanting to get a bit of practice in before heading to bed. Besides, as a waterbender, her abilities were much stronger at night under the light of the moon. Sometimes she would practice for so long that she would barely have the strength to stumble to her bed roll, let alone pull the blanket over her. She would wake the next morning with the blanket covering her, and she knew it had been him.

How?

Because her string had tugged a little during the night and despite being asleep she had felt it.

He would always wait by the door before they left to ensure she walked between him and Iroh during their short trek to the tea shop. And when it was time to go home, he would be at the door once more, walking a pace behind her.

Zuko probably thought she didn't notice. But she did.

She noticed everything about him.

How, despite the cold exterior he tried to maintain, he actually had a kind heart. One that had hid from the rest of the world because he had had his face burned for showing that empathy for someone else.

Looking down at her hands, Orora suddenly realized she had actually washed the peach pit. Smiling softly, the girl couldn't help but shake her head as she recalled how Zuko had avoided her eye when handing her the fruit.

And for some unknown reason, one that certainly had nothing to do with sentimentality, she slipped the little peach pit in the pocket of her trouser.

The moment she did, her string flickered with color, and remained a deep red for a good few minutes.

All the while she stared at it, a warmth spreading through her entire body.

And if she blushed when Zuko walked in a few moments later, she simply walked past him, head held high, and eyes aglow with the realization that, perhaps, her feelings for him were beginning to grow stronger.

————————–

Warm amber gold eyes followed Orora as she walked back to the front of the shop. Once her break ended, his began, and Zuko was dying to eat something and get off his feet.

Honestly, serving tea all day, taking orders, washing dishes and stocking new product was as taxing as firebending. As someone who hadn't had a job his whole life, it was an eye-opener for him that people did all this and much more, just so they had a hot meal and a roof over their head.

Moving to where their daily lunch was, he picked up his bowl and settled onto his chair as he began to eat.

His eyes flickered to the two bowls that were still full of food, and he frowned. Orora hadn't eaten. She would likely be starving when they got back home. He needed a reminder to tell her off when it came to skipping her lunch. She did that often, he noticed, not eat because she didn't feel like it. If she kept doing that, she was surely going to get sick.

Letting out an annoyed huff he took a big bite of the stew he was eating, chewing almost aggressively. It was a little annoying at times, how much the thought of Orora occupied his mind. It was beginning to get rather tedious, if he were honest with himself, trying not to think of her.

But the surprising revelation about it? Was that he didn't actually mind thinking about her.

It was strange. For so long all that had occupied his mind was capturing the Avatar and getting back home. But now that was something that seemed as impossible to achieve as seeing a live dragon.

But what did seem possible? Was living a quiet life as a refugee. During the 100 year war, no Fire Nation army had been able to penetrate the walls of Ba Sing Se. So there was no chance of the city coming under the Fire Nation's control.

Maybe Uncle was right?

Maybe it was time to stop looking to the past and look towards the future.

A future with his Uncle at his side, someone who genuinely loved him.

And Orora. A future with Orora.

Would it ever happen, he wandered, playing with the last few pieces of meat that were at the very bottom of his bowl. He saw her as a friend now, and he was content with just that.

After all, he sighed in slight defeat, leaving the rest of his stew as he moved to the front of the tea shop again.

Soulmate or no, who could ever accept him?

A scarred, banished prince, with nothing but his title to remind him of who he had been.

Nothing more.

————————–

The new boxes of teas had arrived, and Iroh had eagerly opened them up to begin stacking them in the appropriate shelves. Climbing up the ladder, he lowered his hand down where Orora began to hand him the boxes one by one.

It had been a relatively slow day, so most of the chores they would normally do after the shop had closed were nearly completed now. Orora was honestly looking forward to going home early. It had been a busy few days, and she would also be going to Lake Laogai to practice a little of her bending soon.

A little lost in her daydream of practicing in a large body of water, she very nearly missed Zuko approaching the both of them.

"Uncle, we have a problem." His voice sounded urgent, prompting Orora to turn and look at him, while Iroh descended from the ladder.

"One of the customers is on to us." Zuko stated through slightly gritted teeth. Orora looked around the tea shop, and not finding anyone that would look remotely threatening rolled her eyes at Zuko. "You're being paranoid Zuko." She stated in a low voice, before moving to arrange a few more tea boxes in one of the lower shelves. Zuko threw a scowl in her direction before continuing to address his Uncle.

"Don't look now but there is a girl over there at the corner table. She knows we're Fire Nation." Iroh turned around to look at the girl, but was quickly pulled back by Zuko, who growled at him. "Didn't I say don't look?!"

"She's harmless Zuko. She's been coming in for days now. Always orders the Jasmine." Orora stated, not at all bothered by his accusations. Their main concern had been Jet, and he was already dealt with, so no reason to go around stirring up trouble. And she was aware how much Zuko loved to get in trouble for no reason.

Iroh had managed to see the girl, and having seen the girl before as well, he had also noticed how she would often watch his nephew as he worked around the shop. He tried his best not to let his glee show as he spoke. "You're right, Zuko. I've seen that girl in here quite a lot." He nudged his nephew in the stomach playfully. "Seems to me she has quite a little crush on you."

The reactions he had been hoping for were instant. Zuko blinked in astonishment at his suggestion, his brain unable to comprehend that anyone, let alone a pretty girl, would have a crush on him. Orora had dropped the box she had been setting, and turned to stare wide-eyed at her teacher and soulmate.

"What?" They both all but squawked out, prompting Iroh to let out a chuckle.

As if realizing what had just come out of her mouth, Orora quickly turned her attention back to her task, though not before she caught the look of surprise Zuko threw her way. Obviously he had seen her reaction. Though nothing could be said on the matter at present, since the girl came up to the counter. "Thank you for the tea." She said, a smile on her lips as she placed a few coins on the table, which Zuko picked up to put in the money box. "What's your name?" She continued, prompting Iroh to smile slightly.

Turning back around, Zuko spoke. "My name's Lee. We just moved here." He added, gesturing to both his Uncle and Orora, the latter of whom was still rather busy with stacking boxes, however she was more then aware of the conversation happening behind her.

"Hi Lee, my name's Jin." The girl introduced herself. "And......well, I was wondering if you would like to go out sometime." Zuko was stunned, for lack of a better word, staring at Jin as if she had suddenly grown an extra limb or something. Iroh, not wanting such a golden opportunity to go to waste quickly stepped forward.

"He'd love to!" He exclaimed loudly, behind him Orora glanced at Zuko out of the corner of her eyes, trying to see how he had reacted to being asked out by such a pretty girl.

"Great." Jin exclaimed, sounding delighted. "I'll meet you in front of the shop at sundown." And just as suddenly she had appeared, Jin walked away. A large smile on his lips Iroh threw an arm around Zuko's shoulders, who finally broke out of his bewildered state to glare at his Uncle.

————————–

"I'm not going."

The deceleration came as no surprise. As soon as Jin had walked out of earshot, Zuko had been quick to turn to his Uncle and state what was on his mind. Orora, not wanting to hear the rest of the conversation, moved to the back of the shop to finish doing whatever cups were left.

She knew Iroh wouldn't let Zuko back out, not when it meant making someone sad, so it was better to not be a part of that conversation.

Besides, she needed a little alone time to figure out why she had reacted the way she did just then a few minutes ago. Bending some clean water she splashed her face with it, allowing the coolness of it to calm and relax her a little. Maybe she should spend the evening on the roof. There was bound to be a moon out, and she just needed to bask in it's silvery glow. That always helped ground her.

But first, something to eat.

She moved to where her bowl of broth was still waiting for her. It was cold now, but she barely noticed as she caught snippets of conversations from beyond the open door.

Finally, Zuko appeared. He began pacing, grumbling under his breath, and she knew Iroh had won. "You know, you should be glad a pretty girl asked you on a date. Most guys aren't so lucky." She stated between a bite of her stew. He glared at her, to which she simply shrugged. "I'm just saying, why not go out and just have fun?" Setting her bowl down, she watched as his gaze flickered from his finger to her own.

The very finger the string that attached them to one another was tied.

She sighed, inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth as she spoke. Zuko, just because we've decided to be friends doesn't mean we've promised anything more." Her voice was soft, and sounded a little detached, even to her own ears. And despite her heart telling her not to, her mind was pushing her to do the right thing.

"Go out with her. And like your Uncle said, be a normal boy for once. You deserve that more then anything. To be treated normally and not as the enemy." A smile pulled at her lips, though it didn't reach her eyes. At least not completely.

Something that Zuko noticed, even as he finally relented. "Alright, I'll go."

————————–

Zuko was beginning to feel a little exhausted.

Mentally.

Jin spoke. A lot. And while that wasn't a bad thing, he had never been good for long conversations. He preferred silence and as minimal conversation as possible. Orora had understood that early on, and though she teased him about being broody, she would keep quiet when she knew he needed the silence to just......be.

Her conversations did help him forget his rather morbid thoughts, and whenever he would return to silently contemplating, he found his mind to be much lighter then it had been before.

And all because he spoke to her.

"So tell me, I know Mushi is your Uncle, but what about that girl that works with you?" Jin's question had him blinking out of his stupor and looking at her across the dinner table. "Oh, she's a student of my Uncle's. He helps her with her waterbending, even though he isn't a bender himself." He was quick to add with a shrug.

He watched, confused, as Jin let out a little sigh of relief, her shoulders drooping slightly. "Oh well thats good! From the way she looks at you sometimes, I thought you two were soulmates or something."

Zuko blinked.

"What?" That word was supposed to come out as a demand, but instead it came out hoarse and unbelieving. The girl shrugged. "Well, yeah. I mean I've seen her look at you sometimes, and thats the exact way my mom looks at my dad when he isn't looking." She grinned. "They're soulmates." She added as a away of explanation.

The young prince simply gave a small nod, before returning to his silent contemplation, only half listening to Jin as she continued to talk.

————————–

The only good part of her evening had been when she had seen Zuko walk out after Iroh had helped him with his unruly hair. She had to physically hold herself back from laughing out loud, and had only let loose after he had gone, not wanting to hurt his feelings.

"I see you are amused by my nephew's misery Orora." Iroh said, though there was no anger in his words, only slight reprimand. Orora pursed her lips to keep from smiling. "I'm sorry Master. Though I do hope Zuko has a good time. He deserves it." She added.

Iroh reached out to pat her arm in an affectionate manner. "I know you are a little hurt, but you possess a kind heart for saying so Orora." Seeing the slightly crestfallen look on her face, as she allowed her true feelings for the date to show, Iroh continued.

"And who knows, perhaps this date will act as the wake up call my nephew needs to not take you for granted."

She shook her head. "He doesn't do that Master." Moving to the window, she placed one leg over the ledge. "Although, it would be nice if he were to notice me as a girl rather then just his friend." So saying, she pulled herself up on the roof to loose herself to her thoughts.

————————–

Well this was a little awkward.

Zuko glanced at Jin, looking more then a little crestfallen about discovering that he lamps weren't lit. And looking at her sad expression, he was reminded of Orora, and how sad she would look whenever he spoke to her about his past. Though since that first night, when he had revealed everything, he did try to cheer her up. Mostly he just said something to annoy her, to distract her from thinking about his past.

Lately though, he had been working on actually making her smile.

"Close your eyes. And don't look." He said. Jin gave him a confused look, but did as he asked. She even covered her eyes to assure him that she wasn't looking.

Zuko walked forward, holding his hands together. He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling as he allowed his inner fire to burn a little brighter. It had been so long since he had firebended. Using his pointer and middle fingers on each hand, he shot small bursts of flame in the directions of the candles to light them. It didn't take long for him to be done, and once finished, he stood straight and looked at Jin, who still stood with her palms over her eyes.

"Okay, now you can look."

Removing her hands, Jin gasped. "Oh, wow." Zuko had to admit, the lights did look rather beautiful as they reflected off the surface of the water of the fountain. Jin looked at Zuko, amazed. She walked up to him, looking at the candles. "What happened? How did they light? What did you do?" There was no accusation in her tone. Only surprise and happiness as her gaze flitted between him and the lights around them. Zuko didn't reply and Jin finally fell silent as well, looking around at the pretty view in awe.

And as he watched the light reflect in the fountain, he couldn't help but think of Orora and how she would probably create ice crystals to hang in midair. He was sure the sight would only become even more wondrous then it already was.

He was brought out of his thoughts when he felt Jin take his hand. Feeling a little lost and confused, since he had no other girl other then Orora actually take his hand voluntarily, he turned so he could look at Jin.

Who was beginning to lean in a little.

Prompting him to quickly hold up a piece of paper between them. His heart thumped wildly in his chest. Surely she hadn't been about to..........

"I've brought you something." Jin looked at him surprised. "It's a coupon for a free cup of tea." He continued, prompting the girl to smile. "Lee, this is so sweet." She said taking the coupon and smiling at him. Zuko shrugged as he took a couple of steps back. "Don't thank me – it was my Uncle's idea. He thinks you're our most valuable customer."

Jin smiled. "Your uncle is a good teacher." The young prince's face softened slightly at the words. "Yeah, Orora can testify to that." He said, his eyes falling to the fountain once more where the water rippled slightly in the breeze. He felt Jin walk up next to him. A hand pressed to the side of his face. "I have something for you too. Now it's your turn to close your eyes."

With no hesitation he did. He felt Jin move even closer to him before a pair of soft lips pressed against his own. The contact was brief and she pulled back almost instantly. And though he did lean back in a little, almost instinctively he pulled back.

He opened his eyes, standing there and looking at her. Imagining someone else.

Someone with darker skin.

Ice blue eyes.

A patch of white in her hair.

And a smile that had begun to effect him more then he ever thought possible.

He turned his back on Jin, beginning to walk away.

"What's wrong?" Jin called out behind him. He could almost hear the disappointment in her voice. "It's complicated." He said, trying to shake away the image of Orora looking at him just as Jin had a few moments ago. "I have to go." He said starting to walk once more.

"Its that girl isn't it?"

He turned around startled, his eyes wide in disbelief as he stared at Jin. She had an almost sad smile on her lips as she looked at him. "You know you look at her the same way she looks at you sometimes. I've seen it." She said sighing in an almost melancholy way. "I would kill to have someone look at me like that. Like I'm their reason for getting up in the morning." She clarified, oversharing as usual, given how that was how she talked. Jin shrugged.

"Maybe it doesn't have to be as complicated like you say it is."

Zuko looked at her one last time, before sprinting back home.

————————–

Iroh looked out from the window down in the street, hoping to catch sight of Zuko as he returned. Of course he did not anticipate his nephew taking the back entrance of the apartment building. The door opened and Zuko walked in, silent and contemplative.

Trimming a bonsai tree to appear nonchalant, Iroh barely glanced at his nephew. "How was your night, Prince Zuko?" He asked. Zuko responded by walking to the bedroom and slamming the door shut behind him. Iroh looked after him for a second with a confused expression before he sighed and moved back to his task.

Though he immediately turned back around when he heard the door crack open and Zuko's voice to filter out.

"It was nice." He said, his voice soft and sounded as if he didn't believe the words himself. The door closed again, and Iroh smiled before resuming his task.

————————–

He found her lying on the roof. Her arms behind her head, her gaze trained towards the night sky, the light of the moon bright yet soothing. She didn't move her head, though she knew he was there as he mirrored her position.

A peaceful silence enveloped them both.

Where Zuko's mind had been a cacophony of words and voices echoing all around, barely finishing a thought, it was now silent. And where Orora had been overthinking even the most minutest of details, she found perfection in that moment as Zuko lay beside her.

"So, how was your date?" She finally spoke, her voice breaking the stillness of the moment, though not taking away from the tranquility of it.

"It was nice." Zuko repeated the same words he had told his Uncle, eyes tracing the many stars that littered the night sky. "I told her we traveled with a circus at one point. She seemed to believe it."

A soft laugh echoed across the rooftop. A sound that prompted Zuko to smile. He liked hearing her laugh.

"She also asked me to juggle, and I broke a couple of pots."

Another laugh. He was beginning to associate that sound with true happiness.

"Then she took me to see this fountain. You would've liked it. The lights made it look like the water was dancing." He never would've thought he would say words like that. Words of beauty and appreciation he always kept to himself. But here, with her, he had no problem saying them out loud.

Another silence.

This time it was broken by Orora. And the words she spoke next were so soft that Zuko almost missed them.

"Did you kiss?"

He stiffened beside her, and she had her answer. A pang of sadness had her almost wincing as she pursed her lips.

"She did." His voice finally came, soft and sincere. "I didn't."

Normally when the both of them spoke to each other concerning anything, words were their major means of communication. A way to get their point and message across.

But right then, they were barely speaking, and yet the amount of emotion, understanding and comprehension that passed between them was one neither had ever felt before.

Finally, finally, she turned her head, something she had been dying to do since he came up.

Why?

Because she wanted to look at his handsome face.

She wasn't at all surprised to see him looking back at her. The wind blew softly, a few strands of her hair escaping her comb and tickling her cheek.

"Why?"

Her heart was beating fast, though her breathing was calm and slow. She had never seen him look so gentle before. So soft.

Zuko allowed his eyes to roam over her face. From her expressive blue eyes, to that soft looking patch of white hair. And while in the past he had to stop himself from touching it, this time he didn't.

His hand lifted to gently brush the tips of his fingers against the strands. They were just as soft as he had imagined.

In his attempt to stroke her hair, his body had shifted even closer, and tilted slightly so that he was lying at his side. Loosing herself to the feeling of his fingers in her hair, Orora couldn't help but lean towards him, her upper body turning to the side as well.

Their gaze never wavered from one another.

He cleared his throat, wanting to give her an answer though unable to find the words. And somehow, she understood.

So she brought her fingers up, gently pressing them against his lips and giving him a smile, showing him that despite him not saying a word, she knew.

A look of gratitude flashed in his amber gaze, as his hand slowly dropped from her hair, to rest his palm against her cheek. The gesture surprised her, prompting her to remove her fingers from his lips. Though they didn't get very far.

Instead she pressed her fingers gently against the scar on his face. She allowed her fingers to trace along the rough skin, a touch so exquisite and tender, that Zuko was sure it was nothing but a dream.

But the reality of it was that Orora was lying next to him. And she was touching his scar. The ugliest part of him. And she was touching it as if it were the most softest of flowers.

"Close your eyes." He said, his voice a perfect replica of his expression.

Tender.

The girl stopped moving her fingers, though her hand stayed where it was.

She did as he asked.

He moved closer, his eyes closing as well.

She felt his nose brush against her own.

He felt her warm breath caress his mouth.

And in that moment, there was no war.

There was no Fire Nation or Water Tribe.

No Prince or Noblewoman.

It was a moment between a boy and a girl.

A moment under the stars as his lips found hers in a tender embrace.

And the string that connected them together burst in a flash of color.

Blue and Red.

Before it faded once more.

————————–

Tag List - @wavesofchaos @violet-potter @rennysketch @emma-andrea1 @lovesammikinzz @fuzzyfestcat @msrawog @notsaelty @lust-for-pan @aces-tattooartist @jinxxangel13 @lotr-got @bitterspoons @realrintaro @gatorgirl151 @inutheangel @heartfully10 @lucaaahhh @juniper-july19 @anuttellaa @gfksz @bussyvussy

#zuko imagine #zuko x reader #fire lord zuko #atla zuko #prince zuko #zuko #zuko x y/#zuko x oc #avatar the last airbender imagine #avatar the last airbender fanfiction #avatar: the last airbender #avatar #avatar the last airbender #the thread of fate

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writingamongther0ses · 4 months ago

Text

Time's Run Out

Summary: Two souls walked into the Woods and only one was given to the lord of the Woods. The clocks have been ticking for so long and now they ring. It's time for Lennox Cox to give what is owed. Inspired by @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt of Counting Clocks

Tick, tick, tick...

"I'm sorry," Clockwork sighed, no trace of apology in her face. "Your time's run out."

An expression formed on Lennox's face that Mary Arden had never seen before. She recognized the furrowed brows and closed tension of gritted teeth anger before, but the blankness in his eyes?

Dread.

She had never seen such dread in his face.

Tick, tick, tick...

"What does that mean?" She had to ask.

"It means," Clockwork drew herself up, out of the hunch, revealing that she was taller than Lennox. Much taller. Tall enough that some prey instinct in Mary Arden cowered, ready to die. "Two souls walked into the woods and two souls are due."

"My sister-"

The clocks, all at once, hit twelve.

Tick, tick, tick...DONG.

All the clocks, all at once, began to ring. Alarms of all kind went off, from cuckoos coming out to electronic beeping. The loudest of them all had to be the grandfather clock downstairs, it's dongs loud enough that Mary Arden was pretty sure she felt her bones rattle.

"She's coming!" Clockwork cackled. "You've run out of time, Lennox Cox! The queen is coming to collect your debt!"

Lennox didn't let her continue. Mary Arden yelped as he grabbed her arm and hauled her from the room, only releasing her when they were running down some stairs. "Find Riley!" he ordered as they hit the ground floor, not pausing in their speed. "Go out the back door, I'll catch up!"

"What are you gonna do?!"

There was a CRASH that was nearly muffled by the DONG, DONG, DONG!

"LENNOX! YOUR SISTER IS COMING TO COLLECT WHAT IS OWED!"

"I'm going to distract Clockwork and Mabel," Lennox said. If he was bothered by the idea that his sister was supposedly coming to possibly murder him, he didn't show it. The dread hid any other emotion. "I'll catch up with you, I promise."

Was it bad to say that she didn't believe him?

Tick, tick, tick.

#Bad End #Flash Fiction Friday #flash fiction #my writing

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solarmorrigan · 1 year ago

Note

I was looking for prompt lists from your tumblr only to stumble upon the newest ask game lol Anyway "Don't trust me" for anything/any pairing you want <3

It's kind of funny that for all we talk about Steve n' Eddie, this is the only prompt so far I've filled that doesn't involve any romance between them. Anyway, SEE WHAT ANGST YOU HAVE HELPED ME WREAK. Or something <3

[No major warnings, but you'd probably call this one hurt/no comfort]

Angsty-ish Prompt List

Eddie blinks at Steve, apparently startled to find him on his doorstep at seven o’clock on a Tuesday evening.

“…hey,” Steve says after a long moment of awkward silence.

“Hey,” Eddie replies automatically, then scrunches his eyes shut and shakes his head; when he opens them again, he grins at Steve. “Yeah, hey, sorry. To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected royal visit?”

Eddie still hasn’t stopped making references to Steve’s stupid high school nickname, despite Steve’s admission that he no longer cares for it. It’s starting to feel a bit pointed, but Steve reminds himself that it’s also possible that he’s just being sensitive. Eddie’s a hard guy to get a read on, but Steve knows that he likes to tease, so he shoulders past the comment and carries on.

“I brought food,” Steve says, holding up the foil-covered pan in his hands, as if there’s any way to have missed it.

And now Eddie’s back to staring at Steve like he’s never seen him before. “O-kay,” he says slowly. “Well, I’ll never turn my nose up at free food, but, uh – why?”

Steve quirks an eyebrow at Eddie. “I promised Wayne I would, remember? Like, last week.”

Eddie still seems confused. “Wayne’s not even here.”

“What?” Steve frowns. “It’s Tuesday, isn’t it? He said Tuesdays were his nights off.”

“It is, indeed, Tuesday,” Eddie says slowly, like he’s trying to explain the concept of a calendar week to Steve. “But Thursdays are Wayne’s nights off.”

“Shit.” Steve’s heart sinks a little; he knew he should have written that down. “Well – shit, I mixed that up. But I’m not just gonna sit on this until Thursday, so you should still take it. I mean, it’s for you guys, either way, so…”

“Uh… I guess, sure.” Eddie shrugs before stepping back from the doorway and beckoning Steve over the threshold. “Come on in.”

Steve follows Eddie through to the kitchen, placing the pan on the counter when directed. He’s still a little disappointed that it won’t be eaten immediately, but guesses it’ll still be pretty good as leftovers.

When Wayne had heard Dustin pestering Steve about his chicken parmesan recipe last week (his mom has been sideways asking for Steve to bring it to dinner soon), he’d mentioned that it was a dish he enjoyed, and Steve had been happy to offer to bring some. Of course, he’d hoped Wayne and Eddie would both get to try it fresh, but as long as it gets eaten, it’s fine.

“So, you said you talked to Wayne about this last week, but I really can’t say I recall this conversation,” Eddie says.

“Dude, you were standing right there,” Steve tells him. “It was when he invited me in after I dropped the kids off for your game.”

Wayne is always the one to invite Steve in, if he happens to be around; Eddie tends to wave briefly from the doorstep, or only invite Steve in if it can’t be avoided.

Honestly, Steve has the feeling that Wayne likes him more than Eddie does.

Eddie blinks at him. “Wait, you were being serious?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Shit, I thought you were being sarcastic, or that it was a joke or something!”

“Why would I sarcastically offer to bring you and your uncle dinner?” Steve asks, baffled.

“Because you,” Eddie emphasizes with a little laugh, “do not cook.”

“O-kay, except clearly,” Steve pointedly taps the foil cover of the pan, “I do.”

“Since when?” Eddie scoffs.

“Since whe– I don’t know, a while!” Steve shrugs, throwing his hands up. “Since I was twelve or thirteen, I don’t know.”

“Uh huh,” Eddie says flatly.

“What,” Steve says back, just as flat.

“Just, I dunno. In my experience, guys like you don’t really cook.” Eddie shrugs.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest, cocking an eyebrow at Eddie. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, y’know, you play sports, you chase skirts, you don’t cook. Like, you’re rich, what do you even need to cook for?” Eddie insists, as if all of this should be perfectly clear.

Steve clenches his jaw, trying to keep a hold of his desire to snap right back. “I need to cook because I didn’t want to keep living off of boxed mac and cheese and takeout pizza when I was a kid,” he grits out. “Since I was kind of fending for myself–”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure that was real hard, up in that big house,” Eddie cuts in, rolling his eyes.

Steve loses his hold. “Okay, what the hell is your problem with me, Eddie?” he barks.

“Well right now, my problem is that you’re standing in my own kitchen, yelling at me,” Eddie snarks back.

“I brought you dinner! That’s literally all I came here to do!” Steve gestures sharply to the pan sitting on the counter. “And you’re basically throwing it in my face, man, so again: what the hell?”

“I didn’t ask you to bring me dinner. It isn’t my fault you can’t keep your days straight,” Eddie huffs.

“Okay, fuck you,” Steve snaps. “I’ve been trying and fucking trying to be nice, to be your friend–”

“And it’s been fucking weird! I didn’t ask you to be my friend, either!” Eddie says, his volume rising to match Steve’s.

“But I still don’t get what the hell I did to you!” Steve insists. “You’re acting like you’re waiting for me to snap and threaten you with a swirlie or some shit.”

“You know what? Kind of, yeah!” Eddie tosses his arms up.

The premise is so ridiculous that Steve actually lets out a laugh. Eddie doesn’t even crack a smile.

“You’re… serious,” Steve says slowly.

“Not about the swirlie specifically, but the basic concept, yeah.” Eddie crosses his arms over his chest, chin jutting forward defiantly.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Steve asks. “You think I’m still like that. You think I’d still– what happened to ‘actually a pretty good dude,’ huh?”

Eddie shrugs, looking for a moment satisfyingly uncomfortable. “Under certain circumstances, sure. And it’s nothing, like, personal, okay?” he says, and Steve wants to laugh again. “I just don’t really trust that anyone can really change that much.”

The admission—the verbalization of one of the ideas that Steve worries about the most—douses Steve like cold water, and he can’t help the venom that seeps into his tone as the chill sinks in.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck more could I possibly do to convince you? You think I stopped hanging out with all my old friends because – what, I got bored of them? Couldn’t possibly have been because I realized they were all turning into people that I didn’t want to be. Definitely not,” he sneers.

Eddie scoffs. “Bare minimum, congrats for not hanging out with douchebags anymore.”

“And you think I got the shit beat out of me more than once, why? Because I thought it was a cool thing to do? Because memory problems and migraines are all the fucking rage right now?” Steve presses. “Or do you think maybe it was because I got my priorities in order and put the safety of the people I care about at the goddamn top?”

That does give Eddie a moment of pause. “Okay, I didn’t know you had, like, memory shit–”

“Because I don’t talk about it,” Steve cuts in. “Because I don’t want the kids to feel bad if they get it into their heads that it happened because of them! Because, you know what? I like having them around! They’re huge pains in the ass, every single one of them, and I would actually fucking die for them. Does that sound very King Steve to you, Eddie?”

Eddie sets his jaw, arms still crossed in front of his chest. “Fine, but it’s not like you have a monopoly on getting yourself injured for their sake.”

“You’re right,” Steve says quietly. “You’re right, I don’t. And while you were in the hospital, and they were all worried about you, I drove them up there any time they asked. I had other shit to do, I had my own injuries, but I made sure they got there and they got to stay as long as they wanted.” It feels shitty, laying it out like that, like he’s trying to make himself sound good – it’ll probably only prove Eddie’s point, but Steve can’t think of any other way to make him see that Steve really has been trying. “I even got to talk to your uncle while you were unconscious, too, y’know? I mean, why do you think he keeps inviting me inside when you clearly don’t want me here?”

Eddie shrugs, silent in his frustrated uncertainty.

“I seriously don’t know what would convince you at this point. I’ve been trying to do better, I’ve been trying to be better. You told me that you care about Dustin’s opinion, and you told me what he thinks of me; your own uncle seems to like me just fine, but–” Steve sighs, running out of steam. “But fine. Don’t trust me. Don’t trust that I’ve changed, whatever, man. I can’t give a shit about this anymore.”

“Why did you decide to give a shit in the first place?” Eddie demands, looking a little lost. “Last I knew you, you wouldn’t have wanted to hang out with the likes of me, so what the hell changed your mind?”

“I fucking met you!” Steve snaps, finding some extra well of irritation to tap into. “Dustin and Mike and even Lucas have spent the last year talking about how goddamn cool you are, and how you stick up for them, and honestly? I hated it at first, but then I met you and I thought– maybe they know something I don’t, maybe they’re right about you being cool, because yeah, circumstances were shit, but… I thought the guy I got to know over those fucked up few days seemed kinda great. And then, talking to Wayne, listening to him talk about you, I thought – yeah, this guy seems cool. Like a genuinely good person, or something. Like someone I’d want to be friends with.”

It doesn’t seem like Eddie has anything to say to that, staring at Steve in quiet startlement, but Steve has no problem filling the silence.

“My mistake. Apparently, people really don’t change,” he says, and then he turns to leave.

He hears one low call of his name from behind him as he reaches the door, but he doesn’t turn back. He’s wasted enough energy over the years on people who don’t want him; he likes to think he’s finally learned when enough is enough.

#steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #azure7539arts #hurt/no comfort #just in case #listen I STRUGGLED WITH THIS ONE I'M SORRY #solar wrote #answers from solar

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thepromptswhisperer · 1 year ago

Text

Making A Bet Prompts

1. A and B make a ridiculous bet that makes both of them suffer. (e.g. “I bet you can’t even go twelve hours without kissing me.”)

2. A and B have made a bet neither of them is willing to lose. So, they both actively work on winning it.

3. A somehow always wins the bets they make with B.

4. Losing the bet is only secondary when it promises that A lost something else too. (e.g. bet on them getting the spot in the sports team)

5. A realizes belated that they never should have made a bet with B/on this.

6. A and B see other couples/people around them making little bets and wonder they are missing out on something.

7. A feels confident in winning the bet they made with B and (wants to) raise(s) the stakes.

8. A hopes – in vain – that B forgets that they lost a bet to them and owe them something.

9. “Awwww. Don’t be such a sore loser.”

10. A is not interested in the bet B proposes, but they go along with it to make them happy.

11. A realizes that they are going to lose the bet. Yet, they can’t/won’t/don’t want to forfeit.

12. A tries to warn B to not make a bet with C.

13. Losing/Winning the bet is the best thing that has ever happened to A.

14. A asks B to not bet (on certain things) anymore. (B doesn’t listen to them and loses everything.)

15. A and B make a bet that makes the latter question their feelings for/trust in A/etc. (e.g bet on who will get more phone numbers from strangers)

16. A lighthearted bet between A and B takes a dark turn.

17. A and B make a bet on C and D’s bet.

18. A enjoys their reward for winning the bet they made with B.

19. A loses a bet to B, and the latter makes sure they’ll never forget it.

20. A and B have used the same reward for winning a bet for a while now. A proposes to change it up.

21. A uses a bet to let B know they have feelings for them.

22. A cheats during a bet (e.g. being on their phone when they bet they could stay away from it for a few hours), thinking that B wouldn’t find out.

23. A is invested in a bet B made with C.

24. “You’re turning this argument into a bet/challenge?”

25. A wants to win their bet with B and (tries to) sabotage(s) them/bend(s) the outcome so it works in their favor.

26. A becomes aware that B and C stare at them in a weird way. (Have they yet again made a bet on them/their behavior/relationship/etc.?)

27. A makes a bet with B, certain they will win. They don’t – and they are mortified by it/their ego takes a big hit.

28. A and B find out that their friends/etc. have been placing bets on them (getting together).

29. A deliberately loses a bet because they are not in the mood to deal with the person/etc. B becomes when they don’t win. (Though they aren’t much better when they do win a bet/something either.)

#writing prompts #writing inspiration #bet prompts #challenge prompts #relationship prompts #couple prompts #friendship prompts #prompt list #writing ideas #writing #romance prompts #person a and person b

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ash-whimsicalfanfic · 1 year ago

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I Love You

Leroy Jethro Gibbs X Fem OC/Reader

Word Count: 1149

Warning: Mild language, fluff, flashback, angst…

Prompt: You are planning to leave to New Orleans after Gibbs says you both couldn’t continue what was going on. However, your plan doesn’t seem to go through…

Y/N's POV

I hurry inside my house and start up the stairs before stopping. I just realized my door was unlocked and the lights were on. However, my gut didn't have a bad feeling.

So, I slowly descend down the stairs and look into the living room where Jethro was sat and nursing a glass of bourbon. I sigh, running a hand through my hair. I was anticipating that I would be gone before any of them found out I was leaving.

"You seem to be in a hurry." He says, his blue eyes slowly roaming over me.

I hated when he did that. I hated how a simple look from him made me so weak in the knees. I hated how much I missed us even if it wasn't exactly what I wanted. I hated how much I loved him.

For six years, I hoped that he'd come around to the idea of a relationship. Instead, for six years we've had sex any given moment we could. I practically lived at his house until about three months ago when he said this had to stop.

I was buttoning up my blouse, knowing not to overstay. I could feel his eyes on me and I tried to ignore them. But, I loved when his eyes were on me.

"Y/N." He says.

I turn around and face him. He was sitting up in the bed now, the sheets covering his lower half. My eyes meet his and I try to ignore the stinging at the back of my eyes. I knew what was going to happen. I knew what he was going to say.

"No. Don't say it, Jethro." I whisper.

"You have feelings and how are you ever going to get over them if we keep doing this? We need to stop. You need to move on. I have rule twelve in place for a reason. I really don't want to lose you as a friend or a co-worker." He says.

"Jethro...I don't understand how you were able to push your feelings away!" I say upset.

"We can't keep doing this. We have to stop." He says, completely ignoring what I just said.

"Fine. Have it your way, Gibbs." I say.

I didn't miss the flash of hurt in his eyes. He hated when I called him Gibbs, he's mentioned it a lot. He prefers Jethro or even baby time to time. I gather my stuff, ignoring his whisper out to me as I leave the bedroom. I wipe away a tear that falls down my cheek and hurry out of his home.

"Gibbs, what are you doing here?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe.

"You tell me." He says, tilting his head slightly as he studies me.

"I don't owe you an explanation." I say.

"Actually, you do." He says, his voice hardening.

"Do I? You were my boss. That's it. I'm leaving. It's my decision, not yours." I say firmly.

My chest clenches as one thing repeats in my head.

Lies.

I hated that I was leaving behind everything that I've come to love here. Not to mention this is the only place that's ever felt like home.

"You do owe me an explanation. If anyone got a goodbye, I deserve that goodbye. You're not leaving though." He says.

"I can't do this with you. I'm tired of this game your playing. For six years we slept together and I had hopes that maybe you'd come to term with your feelings. Instead, you cut it off. You want me to move on, Gibbs? I can't do that here with you. No matter how many dates I go on, they'll never be you. As long as I'm here, I won't be able to get over you. I need to leave. It's not fair that I'm tearing myself apart while your so easily able to hide your feelings as if you never had them. And maybe you didn't. Maybe you lied." I say.

"Have I ever lied to you before, Y/N?" He asks.

"When you said you couldn't be in a relationship because of rule twelve...you lied. I know you and I know when you lie. You lied straight to my damn face. It's not because of rule twelve. It's because your scared you bastard." I snap.

"I've got nothing to be scared of." He grunts.

"Gibbs, leave. I need to finish packing. My flight leaves tomorrow." I say.

"You're not leaving." He says, setting the glass down as he stands.

"I am." I say, moving towards the front door as he walks towards me.

I open it, looking at him as I motion him out. He looks at me, stepping closer as he pushes the door shut. I glare up at him and he pushes me against the door.

"Gibbs, leave." I say.

"Jethro...call me Jethro." He murmurs.

"No! We. Are. Done! You made that clear. Now leave!" I exclaim.

"No. I'm staying and so are you. I told Vance you changed your mind. He pulled the papers so you aren't going to New Orleans. I had McGee hack into the air flight system and get you a refund. There is no flight tomorrow. I couldn't stop anything about you selling the house, so you'll stay with me. But, I was able to have the landlord of your almost apartment in New Orleans, to get rid of the contract." He says.

"What have you done!? Why can't you let me be happy? I'm trying Gibbs! You told me to move on and when I try, you have to ruin it!" I shout.

"I saw that email and realized that I love you and I'd be damned if I let you leave." He says.

"I-I...what?" I whisper.

"I love you." He says.

"Jethro." I whisper and his lips quirk up.

"Y/N." He murmurs.

"Stop it." I whisper, looking away as I try to push him away.

He doesn't budge. He keeps me against the door, our chests pressed against each other and his hands rested on either side of my head as he stared down at me.

"I love you." He whispers.

I look at him again, looking for some sign of deception. This felt like a trick. A trick to keep me here. But, Jethro doesn’t lie...he doesn't trick and I could read him better than anyone else. So, there I stood looking into the blue eyes that only shone with honesty and love.

"God! Your such a bastard!" I snarl and he chuckles, kissing me roughly.

My hands find his hair, tugging on it softly and he grunts against my lips, deepening the kiss as he presses himself further against me.

He pulls away, looking down at me with those intense blue eyes that were now shades darker.

"Get your stuff, your coming home." He murmurs.

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heraldeez · 5 months ago

Note

Because it’s funny and very off-season, would you be comfortable writing about Jayce doing some Christmas decorating?

(I laughed a lot writing this one, thanks for the prompt, anon.)

Jayce x Reader | 670 | SFW

Contains: mistletoe! and the hubris of man

You’re chewing on an excellent snickerdoodle cookie and waiting for the ‘snap.’

The tiny pine tree you’d brought home to stuff into the corner of your shoebox grad-student apartment couldn’t be more than three feet tall, set on a table to add a bit of winter cheer to the sea of textbooks and beat up mechanical projects that usually comprised your place. And despite its diminutive size, Jayce has spent the last five minutes strapping on a distinctly oversized tree topper to the poor thing.

It’ll totally work, or so he had said. Handmade. Just for you.

Not like you were going to tell him no, even before he had held the ornament aloft so giddily, absolutely gleaming with earnestness and excitement…

Jayce stands at the center of your living room, surrounded by cheery garlands and two tacked up stockings, staring down your tree with a contemplative hand on his chin, as though there were simply a better angle he could come at it from. The branch woefully strapped with the dense, albeit beautiful, piece of metalwork droops down towards him as if prostrate and begging for mercy.

“I just thought–” Jayce closes his mouth again for a moment, regarding the poor tree with a grimace. “I thought the wood might be a bit stronger?”

You blink at the topper – solid metal! The size of your cranium! In no universe was that thing meant for a tree smaller than the towering one in the festival market square! – and swallow back cinnamon sugar.

“Well, the ornament is just, uh, extremely well made,” you offer, gently.

Snap.

Shouldn’t have opened your mouth. The tree takes the opportunity to splinter, topper lurching abruptly into the floor at his feet with a dull thunk.

Jayce sucks in air through his teeth. “I owe you a new tree. And maybe a new floor.”

That startles a bark of laughter from you, standing up from the kitchen stool to go place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surveying the carnage. “Definitely not. We’ll just get more creative with displaying it.” Your eyes dart around your cramped living room for prospective spots. “I think it would look excellent on top of the bookshelf. Flanked with some candles.”

Jayce nods slowly, but his pout is still focused on the splintered bough. His brows still furrowed with the need to fix, to problem solve.

“Before that,” you ply, drawing your hand from his shoulder to rummage in a festive bag beneath the coffee table, “would you like to help me tack these up instead?”

Jayce's eyes flick to the bundle of mistletoe sprigs dangling from your fingers. The frown startles off his face as his lips part slightly, wanting.

“Oh! Well, yeah–” The corners of his lips quirk up, somewhat bashful, somewhat delighted. “Yeah, I can definitely help with that.”

The tree is all but forgotten in the subsequent flurry of kisses. One right there in the living room. One out on your tiny balcony, breathing in the scent of candied fruits and nuts wafting across your neighborhood from the festival market up the street. Another in the doorway of your kitchen. Approximately twelve exchanged in the middle of your bedroom, Jayce's fingers curling in the soft yarn of your sweater to haul you up against him, eager and sweet against your lips.

He lurches back sharply enough to make you jump, snapping his fingers. “I've got it – I'll build you a new tree. You don't mind the brass aesthetic, do you? It'll be very art deco.”

The abruptness of it startles laughter out of you, too caught in your mirth to remind him that Christmas is in four days, and he hardly has the time to spare building you some sort of steampunk tree.

And yet the tree appears, nestled in the crook of Jayce's elbow when he knocks on your door Christmas Eve, tiny and sturdy and gleaming in the light.

You marvel at it for a moment, and then pull him down for a much-deserved kiss.

#I FORGOT TO TAG 💀#jayce talis #jayce x reader #reader insert #for the record - jayce isn't an idiot here I just think he's absolutely the type to get way too carried away with his projects #to that poor tree's detriment. whoops.

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i-didnt-do-1t · 2 months ago

Text

Day 9 of @ailesswhumptober

Heatstroke/hypothermia - “you look pretty pale.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oscar had already downed two black coffees by six am in an attempt to stave off some of the exhaustion. It hadn't worked. So he stood hunched over the distribution counter, a cigarette between his lips and tapping his finger once on each newspaper as he counted so he could get piles of ten.

The newsies were so fuckin' loud this time in the morning. And he didn't understand how they were so awake when it was still dark out and cold enough that Oscar could barely feel his hands. And that was with the thick jumper that used to belong to his da thrown on underneath his jacket.

"That was twelve, Os." Morris nudged him with his elbow. "Pay attention."

Oscar shoved him with his free hand. "You're twelve.” He snapped. “Shut fuck up."

But he tapped out two papers on the last pile with his thumb and pointer finger to make sure he was right, and seperated them, starting a new handful.

"Mornin' boys, miss seein' my face yesterday?"

Oscar didn't glance up at Kelly, despite the odd shakiness in his tone. It was weird when he hadn't shown up to distribution at all yesterday, but when Oscar really thought about it he realised he actually couldn't give less a shit.

"Thought you'd done us all a favor and fucked off," Morris intoned, "how many?"

Kelly opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a brutal, throat tearing cough. He threw his elbow up over his face to hack into.

"Shit. Forty-five." The answer sounded breathless, almost slurred like he was drunk and it was so fucking cold that Oscar couldn't fault him for it. He'd poured a shot of whiskey into his second cup of coffee this morning, just for the warmth of it.

But he rolled his eyes regardless and picked up four piles of ten, he let Morris count out the last five.

"You look real pale, Kelly." Oscar said, leaning his forearms on the counter in front of him and grabbing his cig from his lips between two fingers. He blew out smoke and then inhaled warmth again. Felt it filter through his chest.

Kelly did look pale. And shaky.

"Didn' know you paid attention to my looks, Delancey."

His shaking seemed to get worse as tried to snatch the papers that Morris slammed at his chest, hard enough to shove him back a couple of steps.

He glared but flicked though them, pupils jumping as he counted.

"I asked for fifty-"

Oscar glanced up from his next pile sharply. "Like fuck you did."

"What's more likely, I order wrong or- or Oscar fucks up the countin'."

"Know what I'd put money on." Racetrack said from where he leant against the wall next to the gate, thumbing through a paper and Oscar would've went at him if it weren't for the desk seperating them and the knowledge that race was usually a lone seller and if Oscar wanted he could go beat the shit outta him later.

"You asked for fuckin' forty-five Kelly, we ain't stupid."

"Good way of provin' it. Just gimme the five an' I'll fuck off."

"Jack." It was Jacob's voice. Oscar had barely even realised he was there.

"Not givin' you shit you ain't paid for, cowboy."

"I paid-"

Morris slammed the coin back on the counter. "Owe me another couple pennies, if you want five more papes."

And then Jack looked at the change. Murmured the number out loud as he counted.

"No I- Shit I swear." He dug his hands into his pockets. And Oscar was close to just jumping over the counter after all. It was bullshit.

And he was holdin' up the line.

"Fuckin' scram Kelly."

Oscar didn't care about David Jacobs, but he was thankful when the asshole, seemed to step round the corner from where he'd been watching and prompted Jack forward.

"C'mon Jack. You said forty-five. Let's just- let's go."

He barely glanced at Oscar or Morris as he latched a hand around Kelly's upper arm and all but dragged him along.

As another newsies stepped up to the window, Oscar shot a glance at Morris, and ground out his cigarette.

"Freak."

……………….

Maybe it was petty. Morris had called him petty more than once since they left the distribution yard, but he seemed to follow Oscar now anyway, cigarette loosely held between his fingers and a casual stroll behind Oscar, and scuffing his shoes haplessly on the cobblestones.

"Don't reckon we're gonna find him Os. An' if we do he's gonna be glued to Jacob's."

"You're sayin' that like it's gonna put me off."

Morris went quiet, considering.

"Yeah okay. I wanna break Jacobs jaw.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Asshole.” He paused. “I didn’t read somethin’ right other day and Weisel wouldn't let me do it then when he laughed."

"Two birds one stone then." Oscar said, as he reached behind him without turning, Morris wordlessly passed the cigarette to him, and then kicked him in the back of the knee.

"Fuckin' dickhead-"

……………

Oscar knew a lot of Jack's regular selling points, and the alley's he escaped to when he was trying to avoid crowds or any angry customer who realised he spouting bullshits like it wasn't something all the boys did.

They'd be wondering maybe half an hour, with the odd argument and at least 4 cigarettes when they eventually ventured down the right side street.

He wasn't expecting to find Jack's body slumped against a wall, the Mouth hunkered down next to him, desperately pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. He was repeating his name like Jack seemed in any kind of position to answer with the way his eyes were flickering and his hands- shut his whole body was shaking, breaths shallow and slow and weak.

For a moment Oscar was pissed that someone else had got to him first. And then he took in the ashen sheen to his skin again, the way his pupils seemed to be moving under his eyelids. He looked cold to the touch, bag left haphazardly to his side like he'd dropped it when he went down, papers spilling out.

"The hell's wrong with him?" Morris asked, a puff of cold air clouding in front of him, he'd dropped his cigarette and ground it under his foot on the journey over.

David looked over to them like he hadn't noticed them before, eyes wide. Then his borrows furrowed and his attention turned back to Jack.

Oscar had never liked being ignored.

"Nothing you can help with. He already ain't well alright? Just. Just leave it alone."

Oscar's jaw hardened, and he found himself casually leaning against the alley wall next to him, arms folded across his chest, left hand tensing into a fist on and off.

"Looks fine to me."

"He's sick-"

"Seemed fine earlier when he was bein' an asshole at distribution this morning, right Mo?"

Morris had fished another smoke from his pocket and let the question hang in the air for a moment while he lit the end of it, holding his hand around the match flame to feel some of the warmth.

"I'd say so."

Oscar almost barked a laugh when at the answer Jacobs moved from Kelly's side to in front of him, like he was protecting him, while Jack weakly and unsuccessfully tried to push himself up to sitting.

"S' fine, dave." His voice was fragile, small. Oscar had only ever heard it like this in the refuge. Those nights Kelly got sick with cold, or after a few days in solitary.

"Yeah Dave," he said, mocking "He's fine." He scoffed. "Hell, if I don't kill him the hypothermia will."

Something like realisation dawned on Jacob's eyes.

"He slept out on the fire escape last night.’

"Yeah that'll fuck you over. He's an idiot. Fuckin’ deserves it if he’s doin’ that shit.”

Oscar felt like Kelly deserved it anyway, anything to fucking humble him.

"What's hypotherm- what is that?”

"Like heatstroke Mo, like you got back on the farm. But cause of the cold."

"Ah shit. Poor fuck." The words were sympathetic, almost, but Morris's tone wasn't. He took another drag of his cigarette and passed it over to Oscar again.

Morris was well acquainted with heatstroke, days spent out with the heat of the sun on his back on the farm. Oscar was familiar with it too. But hyperthermia had been what got him when he was young. It was a vague memory, confused and muddled but if he thought about it hard enough he could still vaguely feel his ma's hand carding through his hair, and the mountains of quilts on top of him so heavy he almost couldn't move. He remembered being surprised she had bothered at all to do anything to help, it had been her that had kicked him out that night, a devil child.

A bastard.

He remembered shivering as he walked barefoot to the barn out back. It was mid December, near Mo's birthday, too goddamn cold.

He didn't remember waking up or going inside the next morning, could only assume da carried him if the gentle sway of movement and the memory of his da's large warm hands were anything to go by.

Sometimes when he couldn't sleep he thought about it, the aching painful cold, and then da's hand, ma gently humming low Irish songs she remembered while gently pulling his hair back from his face, checking the temperature of his brow.

Anger stirred again in Oscar's stomach, but it was the type he wanted to drown with the half full bottle of whiskey hidden on the top of his cupboard.

The memory was foggy at best but he wanted it gone.

He pushed himself straight from where he'd leant against the wall, lip twitching at how Jacob's tensed, and tossed the smouldering cigarette butt at Davey's feet.

"When he ain't so fuckin' out of it tell him I'm gonna beat the shit outta him."

Jacobs look relieved and Oscar considering punching him just to prove a point. He could feel Morris rolling his eyes.

"Ain't wanna kill the poor bastard."

Oscar knew Jack Kelly, cowboy, as much as he hated to admit it. Knew that pity would piss him off more than anything.

That was the only thought that gave him any kind of satisfaction as he slapped a hand on Morris's shoulder and turned away.

#newsies #jack kelly #the delancey brothers #morris delancey #davey jacobs #Oscar Delancey #ailesswhumptober2024

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