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mochegato · 4 years ago

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Even the Losers

Chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 3

“We have a problem,” Tim grumbled as he stumbled into the dining room. He threw the morning newspaper down on the table, letting it slide the last few feet until it stopped millimeters short of Bruce’s coffee.

Bruce sputtered his eggs and grabbed the paper, staring at the picture of him speaking with Marinette and Adrien that took up the entire front page above the fold. He threw the paper back on the table. “Son of a b…”

“We’ve been getting calls from PR all morning,” Tim interrupted him before Alfred got upset with Bruce for his language. “Because they’ve been getting calls from every newspaper, news station, blog, and interested citizen in the world, calling to ask them about it.”

Tim poured himself a large cup of coffee, larger than usual. He’d had patrol last night and gotten woken up at the crack of dawn this morning with calls about the story. So he was running on all of three hours of sleep and just wanted to crawl back into bed, but with this story, there was no chance of him getting to bed until after tonight’s patrol had already left.

It didn’t help that he was beating himself up for not picking up on the cues she was giving that night. He’d run into her. He and Stephanie had talked to her. He saw her freeze up when she realized who he was. He knew she was acting off, he just hadn’t thought it was nefarious. If anything, it seemed hurt, not scared. He should have caught onto her body language. He should have noticed how she seemed to freeze when he mentioned the family. She must have thought he was fishing, letting her know he was onto her and her plan to do this.

“You’d think after all the false alarms they’ve reported in the past that they’d know better by now. Not every black haired, blue eyed child is a Wayne. I’ve had PR draft up a statement that while we appreciate her support for the orphans, she is not, in fact, a Wayne,” he finished, taking a bite of his muffin, missing Bruce’s grimace.

Damian grabbed the paper, wrinkling it in his clenched fists as he scanned the text. “She must have orchestrated the whole thing to put this out. How else would they know these details?”

“No,” Dick commented thoughtfully, prying the paper away from Damian to take a look at the picture. “If she was in on it she would have put on a better act. Look at the image. She isn’t playing into it. She looks scared, not excited to ‘introduce her fiancé to her family’.” Dick quoted. He briefly scanned the paper for more information.

All the evidence appeared to be the picture, her physical features, and some call logs to her parent’s business. Dick scrunched up his face with concern. While not damning, it was interesting. He didn’t know any reason Bruce would have to contact a bakery in Paris. “Not to mention the story would have gone out yesterday for a bigger circulation boost. Sundays are the big press days. They wouldn’t have waited until Monday. That suggests they researched, or rather stole the information. And no quotes from her in here.”

“Fine,” Damian growled, acquiescing to his logic. “Maybe she did it after the fact. She saw the opportunity and took it.”

“No,” Bruce admitted quietly. “She wouldn’t have had to do that.” The room seemed to become still as everyone turned to face him. “If she wanted this story to go out she could have put it out at any time. And she would have played up the dance, would have sought me out at the gala. But she didn’t.”

“What dance?” Duke asked cautiously, his focus entirely on Bruce now.

“I asked her to dance. She said no. Ran away as quickly as she could actually,” Bruce chuckled self-deprecatingly as he stared at the paper in Dick’s hands.

Damian blinked at him as though the longer he stared the clearer what was happening would become. But no matter how hard he stared, the image didn’t become clearer. If anything, things became hazier. “This could all be a clever ruse. She wants to appear innocent so when you confront her she can point out that she didn’t do those things. It says she’s an aspiring designer. This could all be for publicity.”

“She wouldn’t have to go through all that,” Bruce stated again, more finality in his voice. He finally looked up, but still didn’t make eye contact with any of them.

Dick stared at Bruce, taking in his response, letting the words and their broader meaning sink in. The words he wasn’t saying hung in the room like thick smoke, winding their way into everything they touched, stealing the air out of the room. “What are you saying Bruce?” Dick asked cautiously

“The story’s true, isn’t it,” Tim observed. It was a statement more than a question.

Bruce nodded with a sigh. “Except for the meeting her fiancé part.”

Tim knew it was true even before Bruce’s verbal acknowledgement. The pieces suddenly fit together. It was the only thing that made sense. That’s why her reactions were off. That matched. He saw her face when they told her the gala was to celebrate family. He saw her body language change sharply when Stephanie joked about Bruce taking in everyone he saw. He wasn’t sure what to make of it at the time and didn’t really even try because it didn’t seem relevant and they had more important issues to think about, namely celebrating Duke. After the story, he thought the reactions were a tell. But now… now that he knew, they were a tell, but for something else entirely.

She was trying to be polite about it, not letting on how hard it was hitting. And oh God, didn’t that make it worse. Everything they said had been cordial, joking at Bruce’s expense, at their own expense. But with the new knowledge… it was at hers. They weren’t jokes, they were digs. They were attacks. They were him putting her ‘in her place’; out of the family. Tim took in a shuttering breath and collapsed on the couch, his head in his hands.

He would have so much to apologize for. He would have to find her and make sure she knew he didn’t mean his words the way they must have come across. He knew how it felt to not be accepted. He knew how it felt to not feel loved by your parents. He knew how it felt to have your place in the family questioned constantly, to be attacked, to be unwelcome. He wouldn’t wish that on enemies, let alone family.

“Who is she, Father?” Damian demanded.

Bruce met his eyes, guilt swimming in his own. “She’s your half-sister. Her mother and step-father have been raising her in Paris,” Bruce answered calmly.

Damian fought the gasp his lungs demanded against his will. His father was confirming it. He was acknowledging her. But never trusted them with the information. “Were you ever going to tell us?” Damian finally asked with forced coolness

“I was letting the dust settle on introducing Duke before I broached it,” Bruce hedged.

“So you just found out,” Damian asked angrily. That would make sense. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them, him. It was that he didn’t know until recently. Of course that was what happened.

“No.”

Damian gaped at him, his hastily built protective construct shattering with one word. “How long have you known?”

“Since she was born.” Damian gaped at him. He’d known. He’d known since before Damian came to live with them and still never told them. He didn’t trust him. Even after all he’d done, he still didn’t trust him. And now he was letting this unknown, this daughter, even just thinking the word made him wrinkle his nose in disgust, do whatever she wanted. He trusted her but not him.

“You have a daughter, a biological daughter you’ve known about for decades and that you never told us about,” Dick asked again in a daze. He fell into a chair staring at Bruce incredulously. There was no way. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He loved kids. He loved his kids. Why would he send one away? He hadn’t even wanted to do that to Jason.

“So I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know?” Duke asked. He looked around, taking in the stunned, disbelieving, hurt expressions.

“Not just you,” Damian gritted out.

Duke sucked in a breath and pulled out his phone, texting Jason and Cass to let them know what was happening. They were going to want to know as soon as possible too. All of them were going to have questions and issues with this information. And if the conversation went on much longer, they may want to be involved.

“Why was she there last night? What did she want? Surely she wouldn’t have come without a plan,” Damian pressed. Nobody had access to the kind of power and money they had and just walked away. If she was presenting herself and not to them, to the press, there must be a reason, a plot. They needed to find out more about her to figure it out. “How did she get a ticket in the first place?” That might be a place to start. It would give an insight into her accomplices and they could be pressed later for more information.

Bruce sighed and looked back down at his food, pushing the plate away, no longer hungry in the slightest. “I can’t answer how she got her ticket. As to why she was there, she was there to talk about a position for a friend of hers… with Lucius apparently, not me.”

“She was using her name to get her subpar friend a job,” Damian spat in disgust. There had to be more though. With their name, she could get much, much more. This had to be an opening gambit. The job must be placing an operative, loyal to her, within their institution. Next was the stunt with the press. They needed to figure out her next steps.

“No,” Bruce insisted. “She didn’t mention her association. He doesn’t know… well, he does now. He spoke to me after the gala, said he discovered one of our managers is stealing ideas and there was someone he was going to spend the weekend researching but he was excited about hiring him. Luthor is trying to hire him, so if we don’t act fast we’ll lose him. I’m betting that was her friend.”

“You don’t know that,” Damian growled out. “That could be a coincidence.”

“I’ll confirm with Lucius today, but it fits with what I know,” Bruce insisted calmly. “From what her mother has told me over the years, it’s the kind of thing she would do; go well out of her way to help a friend. And her mother let me know she was planning on attending the gala to talk about hiring her friend. I just thought she was going to talk to me.”

“Why didn’t you tell us,” Dick asked breathlessly. He was staring at Bruce with hurt saturating his eyes. He heard nothing after Bruce admitting he’d known about her and never told them. He was aware Bruce had been saying things for the last few minutes but none of it had registered. None of it was what he needed to know.

Bruce sighed and ran his hand over his face. “Nobody knew. Nobody but me and her mother and step-father. It was easier that way.” Easier to pretend was left unsaid. Easier for Bruce to pretend like he hadn’t cut her out of his life, like he didn’t regret it every day. Easier for Bruce to try to forget.

“Not even her?” Duke asked.

“Not even her,” Bruce confirmed with a sigh. He ran his hand over his face.

“Why?” Dick was staring at him in wide eyed confusion. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. He’d been with Bruce for twenty years and never heard a whisper of a biological daughter. But she existed. And he knew. Bruce took a deep breath and Dick scowled. “I swear to God, B, if you say some dumbass excuse like to protect her…”

“She has a happy life. Her mother and step-father love her beyond words. They support her, love her, encourage her. They’re there for her whenever she needs it. They never miss an event. Family dinners every night. She has friends… a good life. She’s safe. She never had to worry about defending herself. She never had to be taught what to do when she got kidnapped. Never had to… doesn’t remember seeing the people around her dead from the latest rogue attack. Not like what she would have here…” he again left the last part of the sentence off. The “with me” was left for everyone to fill in on their own.

“You’re a good father,” Tim assured him weakly, because at this point, with this information…

“I hope so.” Bruce gave him a weak smile. “But when she was born… I had an obligation. I had a responsibility.”

“She was your responsibility!” Dick yelled, his face suddenly contorting in anger and frustration with Bruce.

Bruce looked away stoically, face suddenly a mask devoid of emotion. “She had a better option and I made sure she got it.”

The room was silent for a few moments while his words settled in. The only sound was Dick seething in his seat. “But she doesn’t know you? You never visited. You never interacted with her. Even not telling her who you were to her,” Tim clarified.

Bruce shook his head. “I visited her final project for her degree a few weeks ago under the guise of research for the fabric project. She’s a designer. I was hoping to get her in on the fabric project. I thought it would be a good cover to get her comfortable with the family. But I didn’t talk with her while I was there.” He chuckled slightly at the memory. “I couldn’t even get close. There were too many people talking to her, congratulating her, offering her internships. Her work was beautiful.”

“But you’ve talked with her parents,” Tim checked.

He sighed and waved his hand helplessly. “I spoke with Sabine every so often to check on Marinette, make sure she was okay. I helped pay for her schooling, but even that was disguised as an investment into her parents’ company.”

“So her parents were having you pay for their company, holding the secret over your head,” Damian spat out.

“No!” Bruce growled. He knew Damian was having a hard time with this. Hell, that’s one of the main reasons he waited so long, because he knew Damian wouldn’t react well. Damian would have taken it as an attack on his position in the family. And after the way he treated Tim and Dick when he first found out about them… They could protect themselves against his attacks. She wouldn’t have been able to. He didn’t know how far Damian would actually go and he didn’t want Damian to have to find out either. He had been waiting until Damian was more settled, more secure in the family and their unconditional love for him before he reached out to her. But he wasn’t going to let him disparage Sabine and Tom. They’d been nothing but understanding.

“They only let me put in the amount for tuition. They wouldn’t allow me to give any more than that and Marinette got a scholarship for her university so she didn’t need any assistance. I tried to keep giving them money for her to at least have spending money but they refused. They stopped accepting the transfers. They only relented when I said it would look suspicious. So they’ve been creating a trust for her with it.”

Damian grumbled and looked away. Whatever their game was, they were certainly good at it.

Bruce dropped his head into his hands. “Nobody was supposed to know about her until I was sure it was safe,” Bruce grumbled into his hands. “Until I’d had a chance to talk to everyone about it.”

“Well now everyone knows, so maybe now is a good time to start trying to make that connection,” Dick growled.

“If she’ll let us,” Tim added. He remembered the look in her eyes when he talked about his… their family.

“It’s never too late to start trying to bond,” Dick insisted. His eyes were bordering on wild. They could bring this back, right? The family had come back from worse. They’d faced steeper hills. Hell, Damian tried to kill them when he first came. Jason had also tried to kill them all more than once when he came back. She couldn’t be that bad. They just had to make the first move. “We just have to let her know we want to.”

Tim shook his head and looked down, not at all convinced it really was as easy as that. Tim was awkward on a good day. He could make friends but usually they made the first move. He was pretty certain she wouldn’t make the first move in this instance. Damian wouldn’t accept her, period. Dick would crowd her. Jason would… whatever Jason did, probably disappear. She wasn’t a Robin so he probably wouldn’t try to kill her. Cass would try, but her success depended on Marinette understanding what Cass wasn’t saying. And Bruce… Bruce was never good at understanding emotions or sympathizing. Honestly, their best hope was Duke.

Duke breathed out a deep sigh and looked away. This family was not easy to get along with or find your place with. And bonding with each other? He managed because he fought next to them. They bonded in the field, in their suits. He wasn’t sure if they realized that about themselves. If they interacted outside the suits it was because of the bond they formed inside them. She wouldn’t have that opportunity and without it… The prognosis was not good.

“What are you going to do, B?” Tim asked tentatively. “Because whatever your plans were, now she knows and she’s dealing with it on her own. She… You need to talk to her.”

Bruce sucked in a breath and massaged his temples. “I know.”

“And you need to apologize,” Dick added firmly.

Bruce nodded. “I know.”

“No, you don’t,” Dick growled. “You have no idea what has to be going through her head right now.” He grabbed his bag and stalked out of the manor, slamming the door as he left.

“And you need to decide what we’re going to tell the public,” Tim added. “We need to put a statement out soon.”

“I know,” Bruce agreed. His voice this time was more detached. That was something he would have to decide, but that wasn’t the priority right now and not something he wanted to do without her input.

He needed to come up with a new plan and quickly. This was nothing like the one he had come up with. He was supposed to have more time. He was supposed to be able to ease into this. He was supposed to be able to feel things out before deciding a path. He was supposed to control the environment and how his family found out.

But now he was thrown into it, they all were, and he had no idea how to proceed. He didn’t know her well enough to anticipate how she would react to the situation or to him. He didn’t know her well enough yet to know the best way to approach her. He needed to come up with a game plan. He sighed heavily. He had to get into the office, not show anything out of the ordinary. And once he was behind his office door, he could talk to Sabine. She would know what to do.

Chapter 5

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@maribat-bdbwm @jayjayspixiepop @redscarlet95 @alice-hazelwood @deathssilentapproach-blog @unoriginalmess @alyssadeliv @emotionalsupportginger @frieddonutsweets @when-no-wings-do-broomsticks @toodaloo-kangaroo @colorfulmongerpsychicranch @iloontjeboontje @wolf-for-life @maribatserver

#maribat #bio!dad bruce #bio dad bruce wayne #roynette #Even the Losers #mbdbwm2021 #prompt - bonding

324 notes · View notes

jiminrings · 4 years ago

Note

can we get a fratboy Jimin and good girl oc with pinning from both sides 👀 ahhhh thank u in advance love ur writing!!

cherry king

drabble week: day four

drabble week masterlist

pairing: fratboy!jimin x goody two-shoes!reader

wordcount: 3k

glimpse: "y-you uhm, you-? y'know, you like... doing that? is that why it's your nickname?"

feedback + support mean the world to me!!

“next!”

great!! the line’s moving :D

that’s only like the 87th time jimin has heard the word next and it makes him wonder how much more would it take him to bring him to the front

(it’s actually only been 14 times and jimin might just be a self-admitted impatient bitch!!!)

he understands that yes, it’s ten in the evening!!! and reasonably-large stores/pharmacies like these can have less staff at the time compared to ten in the morning

sure, checkout machines and cashier lanes could be broken down!! or they could just not be open at all

jimin gets that alright, maybe the self-checkout machines are close at this time of the night because it is ten in the evening

what’s not clicking in his mind, however is that at the exact time that he comes here

as in the EXACT time that he’s here (!!!) — there happens to be dozens of people in a store at ten in the evening, and there happens to be a grand total of one (1) cashier lane

atleast random store music would be entertaining :((( all he hears are the beeps of a scanner and the chatter of groups of people who came here

jimin was eavesdropping on some guys in front of him and he wAS invested but lmao turns they were just discussing the plot of die hard or any testosterone-jacked movie like it

he’s also tried looking at the smaller middle-aged woman’s phone in front of him who’s scrolling through her facebook feed, but quickly decides against continuing it

because what if u could see his face and when she turns it off, she’d see a college guy deeply-invested in the baloney article she was reading about how subway sandwiches are the work of the devil

so uh yeah he’s just looking everywhere besides the front, back, and the sides of him and in all angles basically

he’s,,,,, aimlessly scrolling through his instagram feed he’s already scrolled through tHREE times and his explore’s page a little too dry

it’s a good thing that jimin’s entirely sure he’s the nosiest person out of this line and no one else is trying to figure him out

might be wrong though

“cherry king?”

hold the fuck on

jimin’s eyes widen, head snapping up and clueless to the fact that he doesn’t look discreet at all, and his head-cocking’s the most movement he’s done the whole time in this store

WHO’S SAYING HIS NICKNAME?????

it can’t be a coincidence either because as far as he’s concerned, there isn’t anything named cherry king that’s being sold here

there is literally NO other plausible scenario happening here besides the fact that someone who knows him is in the store!!!!

his gaze falls to the person behind him, brows knitted in confusion until it clicks

that was you?

“jimin? huh, it really is you. i thought i was losing my mind for a second.”

“y/n?”

okay maybe hE’S the one who’s losing his mind here

he knows you!! you’re the smart girl in his year who’s known for being pristine and stuff!! you’re like the good-est girl he’s ever known and heard of

.... quick question lads is that weird to know someone by

“you could’ve just called me by my name, y’know,” jimin chuckles heartily, still a little dumbfounded to see you here but he’s grateful for the interaction nonetheless

you look casual today?? like you still look like yourself but everyone else would think it’s an out-of-body experience to see you out of your pretty dresses and monochromatic get-ups

it’s you..,.. in a hoodie three sizes larger than your size with your pristine shoes traded in for socked-feet wearing slides

jimin thinks that you look like grace under pressure

“i wasn’t sure,” you smile right back and it’s the first time he realizes that there’s glasses atop your nosebridge, softening your image more from the usual composed look you carried

“how were you sure enough to say my nickname out-loud though?”

jimin questions you, bringing light to how he’s wearing a plain white shirt and is looking as relaxed as ever with how he’s dressed — his hair long enough to be put into a messy sprout of a bun

you clear your throat, the amusement bubbling in your scratchy throat

“you have yourself as your lockscreen, jimin.”

oh my gOD

he winces when you say it, eyes screwing shut in embarrassment that he whines in pain with how direct you put it

“n-no way — fuck you respectfully, y/n. i-i’m not- i’m changing it right now!!”

does he look the vainest person alive rn

the way he has a mini freakout entertains you to your core, giggles unable to be suppressed as he finds the latest-taken picture he has of dogs that he comes across with

that’s 10/10 an experience he doesn’t want to repeat again

“it’s okay. i won’t tell anyone.”

he hears you reassure and he believes you, a flustered blush on his cheek still as he coughs to make up for a diversion topic he couldn’t think of

frankly, you’re getting bored too and jimin’s the only form of entertainment you have because using your phone atm would be too disorienting

“what are you doing here, by the way?”

your head tilts in query and he’s relieved that you address something else, not being relieved seconds later when he realizes his answer

“just a little supply run for our frat. we weren’t supposed to run out of things for three more days, so this is just a lil emergency haul for awhile.”

you nod in understanding, glancing down at his basket and uh

uhm 1/4 of the space is literally occupied by boxes of condoms

....

......

jimin’s confused to why you turn silent, thinking that he must’ve gotten boring to continue talking to until he follows your gaze to his basket

NO WAY?!]>|>]%%[%]%]

“i-it’s not l-like that!!!” he crouches and immediately gets the food and the bottles of shampoo and conditioner to bury the condoms in the bottom of the pile, attractively getting more attention from you who’s ready to let it go

“i-it’s not — it’s ours — n-no!! t-they just gave me a list and i just put it because it’s on the list b-but like it wasn’t my-...”

how many more times will the universe fuck jimin up in front of the person he has a lil happy crush on

you only smile meekly, tilting your head and he thinks this is the part where you tell him how much of a douche he is

"y-you uhm, you-? y'know, you like... doing that? is that why it's your nickname?"

“t-that?” jimin clarified albeit confused, thinking back to his nickname as he tries to rapidly connect the dots to not look like a fool

cherry king? that?? what do you-

WAIT WHAT

“nO!! o-of course not!!”

he almost shrieks and his voice sounds ultimately defensive, shaking his head no

why does he look so frantic

“hey, hey, i believe you! — calm down, jimin. you don’t have to explain anything to me.”

whew

fuck

but he argues that it iS the truth though!!!

but why won’t you just ask him why he’s called cherry king though >:(

you’re already content with the silence after the conversation but he isn’t, still wanting more

is it so bad that he wants redemption D:

“how about you? what are you doing here?”

you don’t answer instantly and it’s because you’re nudging jimin to continually walk, the cashier looking much more visible now as he’s nearer in line

he takes a look at the handful of things that’s in your basket —

electrolytes, hot pockets, soup, cup noodles and fever patches...?

“oh. i think i’m running a fever.”

what???

what are you doing here aLONE if you think you’re running a fever???

he’s not gonna lie about the fact that you don’t look too good

what if you pass out and no one’s there for you and all the graveyard shift employees do is put a wet floor sign around your figure???

“y/n?? what are you doing here alone then?? are you oUT of your mind??”

the panic in jimin’s voice is clear as day and you’re a little startled, instead responding to tapping him on the shoulder to point that he’s already the one on the cashier

what he does is grab your basket before he is, putting it in front of the conveyor belt because he couldn’t even wait for it to roll out

“i said i think i’m running a fever.”

jimin stops from simultaneously rummaging for his rewards card and putting his items on the counter to unceremoniously drop the box of condoms down jUST to put his hand on your forehead

“you are.”

you surely don’t think low of jimin but you can’t help be surprised either at his concern for you when this is the only time you’ve had a conversation with him!!!

“you drove here?” he asks in seriousness, sending you a look while waiting for the total amount

“walked. the airconditioning makes me even more sick,” you answer with no fuss because even thinking about car fresheners while you’re sporting a fever makes you want to gag. “let me-...”

jimin already pays for both your items in cash, getting them bagged separately as he’s not gonna take no for an answer for what he’s gonna propose next

“then i’ll keep the windows down. i’ll drive you back to your dorm.”

he grabs both your bags in one hand and uses the other to beckon you over, holding you still because it’s dark out and a fever vision wouldn’t exactly help

it’s only when he straps you in and (true to his word) puts the windows down and starts his car that you start asking

“why are you doing this for me?”

why IS he doing this for you??

jimin thinks about his answer in a second

“would you do the same for me?”

well

if you were in front of him at a godforsaken line, had yourself as your lockscreen, realize that jimin’s behind you with a fever and is by himself in a store at 10 in the evening

“of course i would.”

jimin smiles, steering away from his parking spot

“then i would too.”

( ♡ )

maybe you’re thinking of jimin

no wait you’re dEFINITELY thinking of jimin

you’re much better now and your fever’s already subsided enough for you to go back to class!!!

the whole interaction with him was three days ago and maybe your head is just full of him at this point

“are you sure you’re okay to handle this by yourself??”

jimin worries when he drops your bag to your hands, briefly coming inside your dorm to set it down

“mhmm. i’ll just sleep it out.”

“i think if you’re missing a couple of steps.”

you snort as his paranoid features, waving him off. “i’ll eat. then go to the bathroom. and then sleep.”

okay good enough

“what if this just-“ jimin trails off, his expansive mind suddenly running as he points to your chest, “stops????”

cute

“i have a smart watch.”

“would you put me as one of the emergency contacts? please?”

he’s making you take down his number without malice because jeez he’s gENUINELY worried!!!!

it may not always be great sharing a house with his frat brothers, but he knows that if he has a fever, atleast half of them would dote over him and you have atleast one who would go into hysterics!!! it’e a full package!!

“i’ll be okay, jimin. i’ll call you when i need someone to hand me my puke bucket.”

“please do. i’m not even kidding. get better now because i miss your dresses.”

o_O

uhm

“n-no i meant your usual style!! wait, not that there’s anything wrong w-with your style right now. i-i was-...”

“yeah. i miss them too. now go home, jimin.”

“you sure?”

u never really had the impulse to invite a guy to go inside your place but maybe now you do

“mhmm. drive safe.”

okay

:-)

“good night, y/n. call me whenever.”

classes were a bit rough today because you’re still easing yourself on getting back to the groove of things, but it was tolerable!!!

you’re getting your key out of your backpack when a lock clicks open a couple doors away from you, the hinge noisily squeaking

it’s jimin who leaves it, with seri who’s the actual occupant of the dorm leaning on the doorframe

“y/n—!”

he squeaks the moment his eyes land on you

your hand automatically waves, the same meek smile for him to see

“jimin.”

( ♡ )

the last interaction you had with him is still on jimin’s mind, a whole week later

it’s been bothering him recently that you know what it looks like the last time around!!!! but he could swear up and down that it wasn’t

he just feels this great urge to explain even if you haven’t asked

“oh. so we have to move out for the time-being?”

jimin clarifies with namjoon, the head of the frat, and he’s met with a solemn nod

it makes sense!!!

the house got checked today and there were mULTIPLE fire hazards!!! and it needs to be fumigated anyway under new campus protocol so it indeed makes sense

practically everyone's going home because it’s a long weekend anyway because of a holiday

and he’s not sure if he wants to take the same route.

“hi.”

jimin squeaks the moment you open your door, surprise evident on your face but not shock to the point you’d close the door on him

“jimin?”

okay maybe he’s gonna go straight to explaining

“frat house needed to be closed because of some complications, and it wouldn’t be open to us for another three days. most of the guys are coming home,” jimin clears his throat, his head down while he shyly scratches the back of his ear, “i have one, but i’m not sure if i wanna.”

it’s that problem

it takes one, two seconds before it all registers in your head, nodding surely

“you can take my bed. i’ll take the couch, it’s a pull-out anyways.”

you open the door for him widely and the only thing you ask if he’s had dinner and if he’d like some

god you’re really throwing him in a loop here

it’s after a batch of your cooking that jimin’s only ache is why you were the way that you were, half-dazed the whole time he’s met you properly

“why do you never ask me?”

“hmm?” you hum as you dry the dishes that you’ve used, wanting to get it done as soon as possible so your full attention would be on him

no, actually. jimin WANTS you to pry!!

he wants you to worm your way into his privacy and into the confines of his mind

but it seems like you’ve already did without even asking.

“ask me why i’m called the cherry king.”

you tilt your head in confusion, that time playing in your head of why jimin looked confused when you didn’t continue to ask further

maybe you’ll indulge him

“why are you called the cherry king?”

jimin smiles, leaning to your couch with his arms relaxed

“we did secret santa for christmas at our frat house. taehyung thought it would be nice if he pranked me by gifting me a jar full of cherries, but i thought that was his actual gift, and i liked it to the point that i finished it in one sitting.”

tHAT’S ACTUALLY PRETTY ENDEARING

cute, even

“ask me why i came out of seri’s apartment last week.”

oh that’s.,.,. that’s a bit higher in level compared to nicknames

“why did you come out of seri’s apartment last week?”

“because seri’s the ex-girlfriend of hoseok, my frat brother, and he wanted me to return all her stuff because he doesn’t want to be reminded of his cheating ex.”

well that was definitely weighted

jimin plays with the hem of his shirt, the words tumbling out of his mouth

“ask me why i love you.”

why do you wHAT

your mouth drops open, the new position you took on the other end of the couch taking an impact on him

“w-why do you love me?”

jimin’s a lot of things but he’s not drunk tonight

he doesn’t know why he’s letting his feelings slip either, but it’s the bottomless need that he feels when he’s around you

“i feel wanted. i feel needed.”

he smiles cheerfully even if he feels shy dropping this on you all of a sudden

“not sure if you want me nor need me, but i feel welcome with you if that makes sense.”

“you just make me feel loved, i guess.”

jimin looks at you for the first time since he’s opened his mouth, an equally fond look on your face

you said no words but what jimin receives is a gentle tug, your hand on the side of his face until he’s leaning on your shoulder

“i wanna know what's up there.”

he points a finger to your temple, an amused lilt to his tone, “surprise me.”

it’s an unfolding of things that was weeks in the making but months in developing, the distant glances leading you to recognize jimin in the shop in the first place

“i feel the exact same with you,” you answer honestly and it makes his laugh from his chest, his cheeks warm and his heart content

and you just wanna suspend yourselves in this moment forever

“oh! and if i were to lose my virginity to anyone at the moment, it'd be you!!”

...

....

jimin swats at your shoulder to which you only giggle at, a toothy smile on display as this is the warmest he’s ever felt

“i wasn’t kidding!!!”

you yawn when you defend yourself, predicting that you’d fall asleep sooner or later on the couch, but for the time-being, you just stroke jimin’s hair to soothe the both of you

jimin is now the furthest thing from sleepy

"what? you told me to surprise you!!"

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parvulous-writings · 4 years ago

Text

Ashe // SFW alphabet

Request: Okay, okay. So I read your McCree SFW alphabet and WOWIIEEEE! I love it, so so so so much! I was hanging onto every word, and I 100% agree with everything that you put on there. So I kinda just wanted to request a lil something... 🥺Could you possibly do Ashe next? Like, she's amazing too. I love Ashe I mean like HhNnnng- An Ashe SFW alphabet would be SOO cool! If you actually take this request, THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU! I'm sure good writers like you get tons of requests, so I'll just leave this here. ��😚

Requested by: Anon

Summary: A sfw A-Z for Elizabeth Caledonia "Calamity" Ashe, from Overwatch!

Warnings: mentions of alcohol.

Notes: Would you be shocked if I told you this is my second request in nearly two months or so? Also some of these are a little short, so I do apologise- My requests are currently open! My pinned post (found here) contains both a list of characters I write for, and a masterlist!

Not my gif

A - Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

When it comes to affection, Ashe is like two sides of the same coin. In public, she doesn’t show all that much affection to anyone. Even you can’t make her stray from that mindset- she doesn’t want people to think she’s gone soft. In private though, very different story, for the most part. She can sometimes be a bit awkward with affection, be it giving or receiving, but she tries her best.

B - Best Friend (What would they be like as a best friend? Where does the friendship start?)

Ashe is very much a no-nonsense sassy friend.She’d tell it to you straight, leave out everything that’s necessary to her point. The bond between you would probably start when you where speaking to Reyes about McCree. She’d jump in to tell you a few embarrassing tales of him before she informed you of the practical backstabbing he’d done.

C - Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Ashe isn’t too much of a cuddler, or a hugger for that matter. She was deprived of physical affection for most of her life, so affection is often very awkward. She’d attempt to cuddle you with your head on her chest, but she finds it a little bit easier to cuddle and hug from behind.

D - Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking, cleaning, ect?)

No. Ashe is most certainly not a domestic woman- she can just about cook, never really bothered with cleaning as she didn’t need to, and she has never thought about settling down properly, even with you.

E - Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

She’d be blunter than the butt of her rifle- again, no nonsense. She wouldn’t beat around the bush, she’d would get straight to her point. Life’s too short for euphemisms.

F - Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? Do they wanna get married?)

Commitment, like settling down, was nothing that Ashe really considered. And to be honest, she probably still isn’t considering it.

G - Gentle (How gentle are they both physically and emotionally?)

Not overly gentle. She can be pretty rough- linking to both her upbringing with absent parents and gang activity. She will try, rarely, when she thinks it’s needed.

H - Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it, and what are they like?)

She isn’t keen on hugs, either. (See C- cuddles).

I - I Love You (How fast do they say the “love” word?)

Like hugs, cuddles, and most forms of affection, the L word isn’t one Ashe eagerly wants to let past her lips. She has said it to you once or twice, when she thought you were asleep, and wouldn’t hear her.

J - Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What are they like when jealous?)

Ashe is an incredibly jealous woman. She gets very angry, and very confrontational when jealous too. Not always the best emotions to course through the hot-head’s veins, but she doesn’t shy away from her negative emotions at all.

K - Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Quick, heated, passionate. When they do happen at least. Usually her kisses come before some very lustful scenes, so.. There’s that.

L - Little Ones (How are they around kids?)

Please keep Ashe away from children. Please. She is not good around them, at all. Not even as a family friend.She is not a good role model in any sense of the word.

M - Morning (What are mornings like with them?)

Ashe is usually up pretty early, and doesn’t hang about too long- she doesn’t like wasting daylight. She’ll occasionally stay for a few minutes longer for a cup of coffee, but apart from that she’s usually gone just after you wake up.

N - Nights (How are nights spent with them?)

She’ll spend a lot more time with you in the evening, winding don with you by her side. When I say by her side, I mean at least vaguely around her.

O - Open (When do they open up about themselves?)

Much like McCree, almost never. Though, if you gave her enough whiskey, you could probably wrangle at least a few details out of her.

P - Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Needless to say, though Ashe tries to be reasonable at times, she has a very short fuse. Almost anything can set her off- a small, repetitive noise, someone telling her to repeat herself or even just waking up in a bad mood.

Q - Quizzes (How much do they remember about you?)

Almost everything. She knows your star sign, your favourite colour, the way you have your favourite hot beverage, and every date important to you. Just because it seems like she is absent doesn’t mean it’s entirely true.

R - Remember (Favorite memory with you?)

Her teaching you to shoot glass bottles and porcelain plates with her rifle. It was a fun day, for both of you. You have a picture of it too, and she keeps a copy tucked on the dash of her bike.

S - Security (How protective are they?)

Very protective. She is aware that you, in theory, could fight your own battles, but insists on doing them for you regardless. It was almost no effort for her, her sphere of influence was larger than it may first appear.

T - Try (How much effort do they put in?)

About average, overall. When she’s out, not all that much. When it’s just the two of you alone, she tries her best to put her heart out to you, though it’s hard for her.

U - Ugly (What are their bad habits?)

Swearing, violent tendencies (though not towards you), and manageable drinking.

V - Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

She does put some effort in, but she isn’t precisely vain. Her looks come naturally to her.

W - Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

She would certainly feel like something is missing from her life, for a little while at least. She would eventually move on,

X - Xtra (Random HC)

Ashe had B.O.B tear off McCree’s arm because he was looking at you “With heart eyes, dove.”

Y - Yuck (Things they don’t like either in general or a partner?)

Too much back-chat- she doesn’t like getting sassed.

Z - Zzz (Sleep habits)

Ashe is a rather light and restless sleeper, hence why she always gets up so early. She wakes up at first light and can’t get back to sleep.

#ashe #ashe overwatch #ashe x reader #overwatch x reader #sfw alphabet #x reader #x reader requests

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hit-me-with-a-ladle · 4 years ago

Text

Ch.11 Creepypasta x Fem! Reader

Four days had passed since their first brawl. Toby had observed her staggering improvement and powerful determination to learn. He hadn't seen that kind of behaviour in a long time. As nightfall came they began to clear up and head back. Both tired from the long day of training, Toby walking in front of her as they went on their way. The walk was peaceful, the night sky illuminating from the dense array of trees as the crickets chirped their lullaby. The sky was littered with beautiful stars and the girl couldn't pry her eyes away from them, looking up in amazement like a child on Christmas day. Toby on the other hand wasn't paying any attention to anything around him, with his hands in his pockets and head down, eyes focused on the patchy road ahead.

The walk to the cabin was beginning to feel longer than usual, the air now becoming tense from all the silence, but the girl still didn't bother to speak up as she knew it was futile. Toby was a man of few words, always keeping to himself, there would be days where they would only say two words to each other. This was a drastic change from what she was usually used to with the others, especially Ben. " So." Her thoughts were cut off as she looked at Toby, who had now slowed down and was walking in since with her. " Um yeah." She sighed out, looking ahead both hands in her large pockets. " Ab-about the necklace." He continued still trying to put his thoughts into words. " What about it." Her eyes widened a little, not expecting him to bring that up as she looked at him pulling it out from underneath her jumpsuit and holding the tiny bottle between her rough fingers. " D-di he tells you wh-why he gave y-you it?" He asked in his usual bored tone. " Yeah, he did. It's for safety and protection. He gave it to me almost two weeks ago and I usually wear it most of the day." She answered honestly softly smiling as she looked at the pretty plant inside of it. It calmed her looking at it. " Interesting." He said to himself not wanting her to hear him but she still managed to.

Her eyebrow raised, why was he so interested in the necklace all of the sudden. " So...do you and Ben get along or...?" She said trying to further the conversation while they walked to the cabin. Toby was hesitant with answering the question, as he took a moment to think of the right response to such a subject. " Yes a-and no. But more n-no. I te-nd to avoid that blab-blabbering idiot but h-he has his moment at ti-times. Very few a-a-and in between but st-still there non the l-less," He answered simply glancing at her direction as he did.

The girl was intrigued by his answer, she assumed he despised him as they were the polar opposite. The assumption wasn't unprompted either, as Toby didn't seem to like most people. " But then ag-again, he tries t-to hard. He acts too m-uch like a child. It's frust-rating." He finally finished his thought, looking back at the road and softly closing his eyes as he walked, admiring the cool night air. He hadn't felt this clam in a while, he enjoyed the feeling. So much so as a small smile crept up his lips. It wasn't noticed by the girl standing next to him but he didn't mind.

In the distance, they could make out the cabin, relief washing over both their bodies like a title wave. " Almost there, finally I can rest." The girl announced dramatically, sighing. It made Toby eye her watching her hunched form drag her feet while walking. Almost close to collapsing. He grunted, at this rate they'd reach it till next morning, clearing his throat he hunched down sweeping her off her feet. She was startled by the sudden action as her eyes widened in surprise, now settled in his arms bridal style. " WHAT! What the hell are you doing? Put me down." She shrieked flailing her arms. But it was to no use as she was too tired to do any harm. Toby grunted as she thrashed, waiting for her to stop and when she did, he smiled softly picking up his pace.

The girl was surprised at how he was able to hold her weight, as he looked quite thin, but as her back pressed against his arms she could feel the defined muscle. Toby didn't say anything, he seemed like the extra weight didn't even affect him. She could hear his heartbeat, it was slow and quiet. The soothing rhythm made her relax even further melting into his arms. They finally reached the cabin, but Toby didn't bother to put her down, no he managed to open the door with her in his hands and she barely noticed. Walking inside, warm air hit his face making him sight. Going to the living room he carefully set her down on the couch and stepped away.

The girl sat upright, her whole body resting as she softly smiled. It had been a while since she could get some rest. Toby had walked to the kitchen slowly lowering his mask and pouring himself some water, looking into the living room while he drank it. He could see the back of the girls head. " Did you also have to train as I do?" The girl's voice broke his peaceful trance. He cleared his throat pondering on his answer as he usually did. " Not r-really." He simply said rinsing the cup and putting it back into the self. " What do you mean by that?" She perfused, wanting to know him better. " Well," He sighed putting his mask back to place and walking towards her, sitting down on the armchair next to the couch. " You have y-y-your duties so you ne-need a different type of trai-ning and mentors. M-my mentor was much wo-worse than we a-a-are."

The girl let out a snort when hearing the last part, looking at him with a curious look. " Really, how so?" " He i-i-is a being co-comprised of pure e-evil so you could imagine it your-yourself." " Pure evil? Is this the Operator man everyone is talking about?" " Bingo." Shed started to get frustrated by how short his answer always was, shed has to ask multiple different questions to know the smallest thing. " What's up with this Operator fella? If he's so powerful why does he need a human guarding his forest?" " Easy. A human is a b-b-basic, morally grey, being. F-for example, you we-were chosen be-because you weren't all t-that good bu-but not all that bad, in the mi-ddle aka The middle-man. So it d-doesn't matter how po-powerful h-he is if there's no real ba-lance in the fo-forest and your j-j-job is to hold that balance." He finished taking a big sigh and slouching on the couch, making it clear that he didn't feel like talking anymore. Soon he would fall asleep.

The girl watched him thoughtfully, eventually getting up. They had finished a little earlier than usual, at this time she would be heading back to eat and then go to bed but something was telling her to look around the cabin, something she wasn't able to do. There were no bookshelves. Its walls were all very sterile and plain. Same for the kitchen. But something in her gut was telling her to go up the stairs, slowly approaching the railing she sighed, with every careful step she would look behind her to make sure Toby was asleep. Reaching the final step she let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, the narrow hallway felt longer than before, and she felt strange not immediately heading to the left.

Turning her body to the other side of the dimly lit hallway at the end was a door, she hadn't noticed it before. ' Was that there?' She asked herself approaching it and reaching for the gold knob. The door was painted in a thick layer of black paint, scratches and carving covering its whole surface, one of the larger carvings was crossed out circle. A chill when up to her spine when she noticed it quickly pulled back her hand. Taking in another harsh breath and mustering up the courage she turned the knob, but it didn't budge. She pressed her whole body on the door and began to push but it still wouldn't work, finally, she got frustrated and began to hit and thrash the door handle. But it still didn't move, so she had to reluctantly give up.

There was something important they were trying to hide and she made it a point to find out what it was.

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iam93percentstardust · 4 years ago

Note

i was about to ask you to continue your marvels unsolved ‘verse but then i saw your specific ships so i’m going to ask for a fantasy au with winteriron!! but tbh you should do whatever makes you happy it’s your birthday month!!! (happy birthday! your writing makes me so happy thank you so much for it)

Thank you so much!! I’m so happy you like my writing!!!

I ended up being inspired by the magical flower shop AU I wrote last August, but that’s not necessary to read to understand this fic. Since tumblr is still having issues with links, I won’t include the link here but if you’re interested in that one, it’s Chapter 27 of AU-gust

As always, this fic can be found on my ao3!

Roses and Rowan

It’s storming when Bucky drives past Ravenspoint’s limits. The rain is coming down hard enough that he almost misses the sign for the little town in all the gloom, but then there’s a flash of lightning, illuminating the foreboding faces of the town patriarchs glaring down at those who would dare enter their town. Bucky shivers, resolutely turning away as he continues on his way.

He’s not here for them anyway. The patriarchs are long dead, their only descendants long since fled. There’s another flash of lightning, this time illuminating the hill off to the left and the old manor on the hilltop. From what little bit he can see through the storm, it looks like it was once a stately mansion but it’s falling into disrepair now. Bucky blinks and suddenly he can see the golden glimmer of the wards around the whole hill, sealing the house and grounds off from the would-be adventurers brave enough to test their mettle against the ghosts of Rosewood Manor.

Another shiver runs down his spine. The magic is strangely familiar, though he can’t place where he might have seen it before. He blinks again and the golden glimmer of the wards disappears from his view. “Spooky,” Bucky mutters. In the passenger seat, Alpine mraows her agreement. He reaches over and scratches under her chin, grinning when she purrs loud enough to drown out the music coming from the car speakers.

They pull into town a few minutes later, only knowing it by the stoplight Bucky just barely manages to make out through the sheets of rain pounding down. He would have missed it otherwise, the storm too heavy and the buildings too dark to see in the night. Ravenspoint is a small town with a population of only three thousand people, exactly one stoplight, and two streets that run the length of town, connected by a series of smaller cross streets. It’s exactly the last place Bucky ever thought he would find himself and yet here he is, searching for someone who had made it clear he didn’t want to be found.

“What am I doing, Alpine?” he asks the cat. “He told me he didn’t want me to come after him.”

Alpine can’t respond but she rolls over, exposing her belly to him, and he gets the sense of reassurance through their bond.

“I know,” he responds. “Tellin’ people he wants to be left alone when that’s usually the last thing he wants. But let’s be real here, this place is pretty far off the beaten track.”

Another pulse of reassurance.

“Well if you ask me—” the helper figment starts to say.

“I didn’t,” Bucky interrupts before it can say anything else. Damn figment’s been more trouble than it’s worth this whole trip. “Where’s the turn?”

The figment gives him a sullen look. “In five hundred yards, off to the right.”

Even as the figment says it, Bucky spots the glowing lights of the shop in the distance. He slows down and pulls over into one of the parking spots off the street, peering up through the rain at the shop sign above the door.

“Bluebells and Belladonnas,” he reads. “He always did like alliteration.”

“Great,” the figment says waspishly. “Can I go now? I got a hot—”

Bucky flicks his fingers and the figment disappears back to whatever dimension figments come from. Alpine flicks her tail lazily, giving off a sense of amusement and a little bit of hunger. Bucky laughs and scratches her chin again.

“Yeah, I would’ve let you eat it if it wouldn’t have given you indigestion,” he says. “’nother couple of minutes. I’m sure he has fresh tuna for you.”

He sighs and looks at the shop again. The sign on the front says it’s closed but there are lights on inside both in the shop itself and in the apartment above the shop, telling him that the owner is probably still working.

“So what’re you doing sitting out here?” he asks himself. He gives another baleful look at the stormy clouds and the rain still pouring down, groans, and then shrugs his hood up over his head. Nothing for it. The rain isn’t supposed to let up for another couple of hours and Bucky doesn’t feel like sitting in the car that long.

“You gonna be good out here?” he asks Alpine. She blinks slowly at him. That’s a yes, then.

Quick as he can, he gets out and dashes for the cover the awning provides. Once there, he throws his hood back and then knocks on the door. He waits about a minute before knocking again, this time a lot louder. It takes a moment before he sees a person-shaped blob behind the water-streaked glass. He knocks for a third time. The person gets larger as they move closer and then the door unlocks and swings open with a wave of the person’s hand.

“What—”

“You know,” Bucky says, stepping over the threshold. He bites back a shiver as a wave of magic washes over him, verifying that he has no ill intent. “You are a hard person to find.”

“Yeah, some people would take that as a hint,” Tony Stark states flatly, crossing his arms over his chest as he glares at Bucky.

Bucky is born with the ability to see magic. Or, at least, that’s the sfigmentlest way to explain it, if not the most accurate. Just about everyone can “see” magic but what they see are actually just the effects of magic—what was produced or what was done. Bucky has the ability to actually see the threads of magic. It’s a Barnes family gift, although none of the Barnes mages have had this ability in nearly two centuries. Bucky is the first in a very long time and because of that, he ends up having to go to school rather than being trained at home by the family mage (also known as Ma to Bucky and his sister).

It's at school that he meets his best friend, Stevie, and Stevie’s other best friend, Tony. Tony is a bit of an oddball, not that Bucky and Steve are incredibly popular either. Steve should be popular because of his dragon heritage and the power that brings him but he comes into his inheritance late and has a strong sense of morality and that gets him into trouble, more often than not. And Bucky just ends up following behind him.

But Tony—Tony is hard to pin down. He has incredible amounts of power, which is unusual in a mage from the Jarvis line. He’s a lot younger than most of the other kids, which isn’t so unusual for people with a lot of power—Bucky can think of a couple examples off the top of his head of people who went to school early because of their powers—but all those people went to school early because they didn’t have control, and Tony is nothing if not controlled. He doesn’t much look like either of his parents and the way he acts sometimes… it’s clear that he’s been through a lot, is all.

It’s not until their fourth year that Bucky starts putting the pieces together, and it starts when he finds out that Tony doesn’t actually get his powers from the Jarvis line but from the Carbonell line instead. He wasn’t supposed to overhear that but he and Steve had gotten in trouble again and were sitting outside the Headmistress’s office while she finished up a meeting with the Jarvises.

That’s when he’d heard it: “The Carbonell magic is strong in Tony,” the Headmistress had said, and that had been all Bucky had heard as the pieces had started falling into place. It had always puzzled Bucky how Tony’s magic, so suited to big things, had come from the Jarvises, both of whom were more skilled in household charms and enchantments, but if Tony was adopted… Adoption was rare in magical families, as magic was so often tied to filial lines, but it wasn’t unheard of, and that explained so much about Tony.

He spends some time in the library after that, researching the Carbonells. They’re an old line, originating in Italy, before coming to the Americas in the late sixteenth century. They’re known for producing powerful mages with the exact same proficiency in metallurgy that Tony’s always demonstrated. The last of them, Maria, had married one of the Starks, a newer family with a proficiency in elemental magics—another of Tony’s skills, Bucky realizes—and that’s where the trail goes cold. He never finds another mention of the Carbonells, or the Starks for that matter, in any of the old history books.

But there has to be more to the story, Bucky knows. Because there’s Tony, who looks just like Maria Carbonell, and that means there has to be more. However, he never brings it up. That’s Tony’s story, and if he doesn’t want to tell them, he doesn’t have to.

He never stops hoping that Tony will, though.

Tony is looking at him now, eyes dark and arms crossed. Bucky has changed into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt he’d brought with him as his clothes had ended up drenched, even from just the short run from the car and back out to grab Alpine and his travel bag. His clothes are drying by the fire now as Alpine explores the apartment, sniffing around curiously. Bucky is curious as well, but he’s been so busy drinking in the sight of Tony after almost two years of nothing that he hasn’t taken the time yet to look around.

“What are you doing here, Bucky?” Tony asks eventually.

He shrugs. “I came to find you.”

“Thought I made it obvious I didn’t want to be found.”

“I thought we had unfinished business,” Bucky says quietly. He gazes at Tony steadily until Tony squirms and turns away, busying himself with the coffeepot on the counter. He prepares two cups of coffee, one with more sugar than most people can stand and one with more milk than coffee, and hands the one with milk to Bucky.

Bucky takes one sip and blinks in surprise. “This is decaf,” he says.

“Yeah, and?”

“Tony, you don’t drink decaf. You called it the devil’s brew.”

There’s a hint of a smile lurking around the corners of Tony’s mouth as he raises his own cup to his mouth. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“Seems like you’ve forgotten a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“Like how I promised you I’d follow you anywhere.”

Tony stills for a moment before he puts his cup back down on the counter. “Bucky—”

“Tony, why?” Bucky asks, not even bothering to hide the anguish in his voice. It’s how he’s felt every day since Tony disappeared two years ago. “You told me we’d talk the next day, only I woke up to find you’d run. Did I push too hard? Was it not what you wanted?” He stops, frustrated and upset, and scrubs his hand over his face.

“Bucky, no,” Tony says, dismayed. He moves forward, taking Bucky’s hands between his. “It wasn’t you. You have to believe me. It was never you.”

“Then what was it?”

Tony bites his lip, hesitating. Even without using his Sight, Bucky can see golden magic swirling under Tony’s skin, pooling at his hands where they’re touching Bucky’s. He blinks and now he can see his own magic, cool silver, gathering at his fingertips, aching to reach out and touch Tony’s. Their magic has always been compatible, always stronger when they’re together, even before Bucky figured out his complicated feelings for Tony.

“Doll?” he asks, immediately regretting the pet name when it makes Tony flinch. He doesn’t take it back though. This is who he is, a little old-fashioned and a little flirty and a lot in love with Tony Stark.

“It’s me,” Tony eventually admits, looking down at their hands as though he can see the magic too. “I got scared. It’s—I’m not who you think I am.”

“Not what? Not a Jarvis? Tony, I’ve known that for ten years.”

Tony’s head jerks up so fast Bucky’s own neck aches in sympathy. “What did you say?”

“Tony, I know you’re not a Jarvis,” Bucky says again, patiently. He’s never admitted this to anyone before, let alone Tony. He can afford to be careful right now.

“How did you know that?” Tony breathes. “We’ve never told anyone.”

“Except for the Headmistress,” Bucky points out. “You prob’ly had to tell her so she could help you with your abilities.”

“We did,” Tony whispers.

He shrugs. “Stevie and I overheard her one time. She said your magic came from the Carbonell line. I got curious, thought it might explain why you and the Jarvises are so different, so I looked it up.”

“You didn’t think that was invading my privacy?”

The words are harsh but Tony doesn’t look upset. He looks—hopeful, almost, like he wants to believe Bucky knows everything about him and doesn’t judge him for it. It makes Bucky bold and he steps forward, right into Tony’s space, as he tugs one of his hands free and uses it to tuck one of Tony’s curls behind his ear, fingers brushing against his cheek.

“You are a puzzle I’ve only ever wanted to solve,” Bucky murmurs, bowing his head to rest his forehead against Tony’s. His hand cups Tony’s cheek for the briefest moment and then falls to his shoulder. Tony closes his eyes and inhales shakily. “But the moment the trail went cold, I stopped looking. It didn’t seem right to keep digging.”

“What did you find?” Tony asks.

“Two names: Howard Stark and Maria Carbonell, that’s it.”

Tony nods. “Those were my parents.”

“Were?”

“Could be are. I don’t know where they went after they left me, but I stopped calling them mine the moment they were gone.”

“What happened?” He feels Tony tense under his hand and quickly adds, “If you want to tell me. Don’t feel like you have to.”

“No, it’s—I want to,” Tony says, sounding frustrated. The space between his brows furrows in irritation. “I’ve just never told anyone and—I’m not sure I’m ready to tell the full story yet. It’s a lot.”

“Whatever you’re ready for, then. And when you’re ready for the rest, I’ll be right here to listen.”

Tony takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “I was born at Rosewood Manor,” he says quietly.

“That place outside of town?”

“Mmhmm. That’s my magic you probably saw guarding it.”

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath. “Tony, that place looks like it hasn’t had anyone living there for fifteen years.”

“Over twenty actually. I was three when—when that happened.”

“You were three? And you had that kind of control?”

Tony laughs humorlessly. “Believe me, that night I had no control at all.” He falls silent. Bucky waits for more, but Tony seems to be done talking for tonight, so he turns his head and kisses the corner of Tony’s mouth instead.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says.

Tony grimaces. “Not like I told you much of anything.”

“You told me what you were comfortable with. Believe me, doll, after two years of nothing—”

“You keep doing that,” Tony interrupts. “Calling me doll.”

Bucky hesitates. “I thought you liked it when I did that.”

Tony looks away, a bitter twist to his mouth. “I left.”

“Yeah…”

“I left right after you kissed me because I was scared and couldn’t face up to what was going on between us even though I promised we’d talk.”

Bucky waits, sure that if he stays silent, Tony will explain further. It’s a trick that he’s used in the past and it’s always worked. Sure enough, after another couple moments:

“You know, I was so sure you were dating Steve? Let me finish please,” Tony says calmly, holding up a hand when Bucky opens his mouth. “You don’t know what it was like. I might have met Steve first but it was so clear that you two were a lot closer than I would ever be with him. So yes, I was convinced you two were dating and that I was alone in my feelings and when I found out I wasn’t, I panicked. I thought it was Tony Jarvis you liked, not—”

“I like you,” Bucky interrupts, unable to keep hearing Tony talk about how he’d thought Bucky wasn’t serious about him, when he thinks maybe it’s the only thing he’s ever been serious about. “I like you as Tony Jarvis, Tony Carbonell, Tony Stark, or just plain Tony.”

“Like?” Tony asks shyly.

Bucky grins and kisses the other corner of Tony’s mouth. “Do you think I would have kept searching for you for two years if I didn’t still like you?”

Tony leans back for a moment, searching his eyes for something before he eventually says, “And what about Tony Barnes?”

Bucky’s heart about stops. He wheezes out, “You—”

“It’s not—I needed a name when I came back to Ravenspoint. I didn’t want anyone to know who I was and it’s a small town. People know every other name I go by, but—I didn’t think you’d mind or I wouldn’t—”

Bucky can’t stop himself anymore. He frames Tony’s face in his hands and kisses him soundly. It’s closed-mouthed and chaste and it’s still the best damn kiss he’s ever had, next to the only other time he kissed Tony. Tony’s hands flutter in the air for a second before wrapping around Bucky’s waist, clutching him to him.

“I love you calling yourself by my name,” he says hoarsely, pulling away long enough to get the words out before he kisses Tony again. “And one day, I swear I’ll give you that name for real, forever and always.” This time, it’s Tony who whfigmenters and kisses him again, sucking Bucky’s tongue into his mouth as Bucky’s hands slide back into his hair to hold him right where he wants him.

“Wait,” Tony pants, struggling against Bucky’s grip to move away. Bucky lets him go reluctantly, gratified when Tony only moves a couple inches. “How did you find me?”

“Your magic,” Bucky tells him, trailing kisses across every inch of his face. “It’s been callin’ out to me since the day you left, leavin’ me a trail to follow.”

“Lucky me,” Tony whispers.

And as Bucky kisses him again, unable to resist for a single second, he thinks to himself, No. Lucky me.

#alle writes #winteriron #birthday prompts #if you like please consider reblogging #alle answers #jkirk09

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bitchin-beskar · 4 years ago

Text

honey and clementines - chapter one

Rating: T (eventually changing to M)

Warnings: brief mentions of injuries/blood, but nothing too graphic.

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: hey all!! this is my first ever Marcus Moreno fic!! this is one-hundred percent the fault of @mxndoscyarika, she is my thot twin and an enabler and I love her so much. y’all need to check out her series, Honeydew, which is a beautifully written Marcus Moreno x OC fic. it’s seriously one of my favorite M.M. stories ever!!! I really hope y’all like this story!!!

Please consider reblogging and leaving a comment! I love hearing what y’all think!!!

“Have a good day at school Missy!”

You waved to the young girl as she dashed into the building, her backpack disappearing inside the doors just as the warning bell rang. Slumping back in your seat, you sighed, scrubbing a hand over your face. This morning had not gone according to plan, and you’d barely managed to get her to school on time. It wouldn’t be the first time Missy was late, but you always felt guilty whenever she was. Usually her teachers were pretty understanding, what with her dad being the Marcus Moreno, afterall, but you tried to avoid tardiness whenever possible.

Pulling out of the drop-off lane, you began the short drive back to the Moreno household, mentally going over the list of things you had to accomplish today. Marcus had some late meetings tonight, so you and Missy were going to be on your own for dinner.

You were mentally going through the list of ingredients you’d need for spaghetti when you pulled into the driveway. Grabbing your purse, you shut the car off, climbing out and locking the doors behind you, double-checking with a quick yank on the handle.

So lost in your thoughts, you nearly tripped over a package sitting on the front porch, placed dead center of the welcome mat. Sighing, you bent down, picking it up and tucking it under one arm as you unlocked the front door, and stepping inside. You needed to be more aware of your surroundings, isn’t that what Marcus always told you?

Shutting the door behind you, you dumped your purse and keys on the table in the foyer, walking on autopilot into the kitchen. You set the package down on the counter and grabbed the notepad you always kept sitting beside the bowl of fruit, beginning to write down the things you needed to pick up when you went to the store.

You were startled out of your scribbling by the feeling of your phone vibrating in your pocket. Pulling it out and glancing at the caller ID, you smiled. “Hey Marcus, don’t worry, I got Missy to the school in time–”

“I need you to listen to me carefully.”

Back straightening, you jerked up in surprise at the low growl of Marcus’ voice. He sounded scared, which worried you, a lot. When the leader of the Heroics sounded scared, you knew it was serious.

“Was there anything suspicious laying around when you came home? Is there anything out of place?”

You quickly scanned the kitchen and living room, looking for anything strange or out of the ordinary. You couldn’t see anything, everything looked pretty much how you left it. In fact, the only thing that looked any different was the package you’d brought in–

Marcus could hear you suck in a sharp breath over the phone, and his frantic voice crackled through the speakers. “What? What is it? What do you see?”

“I–I brought in a package–” You stuttered, slowly backing away from the counter where the small brown box was sitting innocuously. “I–It was sitting o–on the front porch–”

“Get out of there! Get out! Now!”

Turning, you dashed for the front door when there was a sudden explosion of sound and heat, and your world went dark.

***

Marcus stared horror-struck at his phone, the sound of an explosion still ringing in his ears, even though the screen showed that the call had dropped.

He was standing at his desk in HQ, phone held limply in his hand as the giant screen at the front of the room flashed with the warning they’d received from Explosivo only minutes earlier.

B I G S U R P R I S E S C O M E I N S M A L L P A C K A G E S, M O R E N O.

His heart had stopped when he’d first seen the message, and his first thought had been to call you. When you’d answered, he’d breathed a sigh of relief, but the panic came back full force when he heard the explosion just before the phone went dead.

“Moreno?”

Granada’s voice cut through the haze, and he jerked his head up frantically to look at her.

“Send a team to my house and Missy’s school. Now.”

He didn’t wait to see if she listened to him, turning on his heel and sprinting out of the room. He called Missy’s school to warn them of the potential threat as well as the fact that a team was on their way to secure the building as he raced towards his car.

He probably broke every single traffic law in existence in his effort to get to his house as quickly as possible, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His heart sank when he saw the multiple fire trucks and ambulances parked outside, as a team of firefighters worked over the smoldering ruins of his home.

Screeching to a stop, he ripped his seatbelt off and threw his car door open as he practically fell out of the vehicle in his haste.

He frantically scanned the people milling about outside the caution tape, trying to spot you. He finally spots you, sitting in the back of an ambulance, a shock blanket wrapped around your shoulders, a paramedic tending to a bloody cut on your head.

His feet are moving before his brain can even process what he’s seeing, and in what seems like seconds he’s standing just behind the paramedic, eyes roving over your figure as he tries to see if you’re hurt anywhere else.

***

You winced as the paramedic dabbed at the cut on your head, your fingers tightening in the scratchy grey fabric of the shock blanket one of the many first responders had draped over your shoulders. You were still shaky and a little dazed from the explosion, but miraculously, you weren’t too badly hurt.

Your eyes drifted shut for a moment, and when you opened them again, you saw Marcus standing in front of you, just behind the paramedic. Eyes flying wide open, you went to stand, the paramedic placed a hand on your shoulder to keep you still.

“Marcus–!” you gasped, and he jerked forward, coming to stand next to you, his hand hovering just above your shoulder, hesitant to touch you.

“Are you okay?” He demanded, eyes frantically flicking between you and the paramedic who’d just finished bandaging your head. “Is she okay?”

The paramedic nodded, before turning back to you. “You’re gonna be just fine, ma’am. The cut on your head isn’t as bad as it looks, head wounds tend to bleed a lot, but you won’t need stitches. You’ve got some bruises that’ll be tender for a few days, but nothing worse than that. You’re incredibly lucky ma’am.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, and he nodded again, closing up his medical bag, and stepping away, leaving you and Marcus standing alone at the back of the ambulance.

You barely had time to open your mouth before Marcus was pulling you up and into a frantic hug. His grip was tight and unyielding, and he pressed his face into your neck as you felt him take in a deep, shuddering breath. Your own arms came up to grip the back of his leather jacket in your shaking grip.

He holds you for a long time, longer than is probably appropriate. You can tell he’s reluctant to pull away, and you’re reluctant to let him go. But eventually, he does pull back, only to cup your cheeks as he turns your face to both sides, eyes scanning all the little superficial cuts and scrapes along with the larger, bandaged cut on your forehead.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” He murmurs, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “I’m so sorry, I called you as soon as I got the warning–”

“I’m okay,” you reassured him, letting him check you over to confirm for himself. “How did you know? What– Am I allowed to know what happened?” You knew that unfortunately, being a civilian, you weren’t always allowed to know what threats the Heroics faced, even with your connection to Marcus.

Marcus sighs, and releases you to drag a hand over his face, and you faintly notice that he looks exhausted. “It’s a new supervillain,” he starts, speaking quietly so as not to allow the emergency personnel milling about to hear him. “Calls himself Explosivo, has a fascination with bombs and explosions. He sent HQ a message that mentioned me directly, right before I called you. I don’t know why he’s targeting me specifically, I’m so sorry–”

You placed your hand on his chest, stopping his apology in its tracks. “Don’t you dare apologize, Marcus Moreno. I knew what I was signing up for when you hired me as Missy’s nanny. This is not your fault.”

You can tell by the look on Marcus’ face that he doesn’t believe you, but before you can argue, a team from Heroics HQ arrives, and immediately descends on the ruined house. You watch, dumbstruck, as heroes use their powers to begin repairs immediately, undoing the damage left behind by the package bomb.

Suddenly, your eyes widen, and you frantically grasp at Marcus’ arm. “Wait, what about Missy? Is she safe?”

Marcus’ eyes widen, and he quickly yanks his phone out of his pocket, frantically checking for any messages. He lets out a sigh as he sees a message from Granada confirming that Missy is safe and waiting for him at HQ.

“Missy’s safe at HQ,” he confirms, and you let out your own relieved sigh. “I’m gonna take you to HQ too, until the house is repaired and the security is updated.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the look on Marcus’ face killed your arguments. You let him maneuver you towards his car, knowing that Marcus isn’t going to rest until both you and Missy are safe. You know his wife was killed in a supervillain attack, and you’re not surprised he’s being so protective right now. You’ve been Missy’s nanny for close to five years now, and you’ve grown extremely close to the leader of the Heroics.

The drive to HQ doesn’t take long, something for which you’re grateful. Now that you’re no longer in immediate danger, the adrenaline is leaving your system, leaving you feeling drained. Your whole body aches from being thrown into a wall, and you feel slightly dizzy from the blood loss.

Marcus is driving, but his right hand is resting lightly on your knee, thumb rubbing small circles as though to reassure himself that you are indeed sitting beside him in his car, and not in a bloodied heap of twisted limbs and broken bones under the rubble of his house.

He’s not usually this tactile, preferring to try and keep a more professional relationship, what with you being his daughter’s nanny and all. But right now, touch is a comfort he’s willing to indulge in, and you’re certainly not going to complain, no matter how your heart is going to hate you for it later.

When you walk into HQ, you’re nearly bowled over by a tiny, curly-haired freight-train named Missy. She wraps her arms tightly around you, burying her face in your stomach as she tries to get as close to you as physically possible. Immediately, your own arms come up to wrap around her shaking form, smoothing over her hair, already whispering reassurances.

Marcus just stands back and lets the two of you have this moment. You’ve become almost like a mother to Missy in the five years you’ve been her nanny, and he couldn’t be more grateful. You love her like she was your own flesh and blood, and Missy adores you.

He tries not to think about all the times Missy has begged him to ask you out so that the three of you could become a real family.

He’s much too old for you, in his forties with a child of his own. You’re barely thirty, not even considering you were only 25 when he first hired you. You’ve got so many options, so much still ahead of you, he’s not going to try and ask you out and ruin things between you.

He’s content with how things are, secure in the fact that you’re not going anywhere soon, and that he’ll have you in his life for as long as he can convince you to stay. He’ll do everything in his power to keep you safe. He already lost the first woman he loved, he’s not about to lose you too.

Permanent Tags: @theocatkov, @cosmicbug379, @marydjarin, @perropascal, @mxndoscyarika, @hayley-the-comet, @phoenixhalliwell, @ahopelessromanticwritersworld, @pedroepascal, @roxypeanut, @rynadjarin-reading, @anerdydragon, @justanotherblonde23, @rosiefridayrogersunday, @meshlamando, @sunsetmando, @bucketbunny, @mudhornchronicles, @huliabitch, @nerdypinupcrystal, @blackmarketmummy, @dinsbeskar, @mischiefnevermanaged94, @randomness501, @bisexual-space-slut, @lucifer-, @captainmunroe, @liadamerondjarin, @tulipsun-flower, @marvgrrl, @waatermelon-sugaar, @pedrospunk, @areolanya, @computeringturtle, @starlite41, @driftllocked, @gallowsjoker, @firstofficerwiggles, @pedro4ever

Marcus Moreno Tags: @tulipsun-flower, @captainmunroe, @thevoiceinyourheadx, @snow30285, @pedro4ever

If your name is crossed out, I couldn’t tag you! sorry!

#marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno fic #nanny!reader #series #fic #marcus moreno x you #this chapter is pretty tame #but don't worry #smut is coming #hehehe #chapter 1 #honey and clementines

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mischiefandspirits · 4 years ago

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Six Eggs in the Nest

Bruce returns from his trip through time to discover that not only had his kids grown, but so had his family. An old face had reappeared in his absence.

Part of the Six for the Age of One AU

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

“How are you feeling?”

…

“Come on, Bruce,” Clark sighed. “As subtle as it might be, your heart rate still changes when you wake up.”

Bruce grunted, not opening his eyes.

“Good to know your trip through time didn’t affect your language skills.”

“What did I miss?”

“Nothing of note on the League’s front,” J’onn reported and Bruce finally opened his eyes to see the martian was looking over Bruce’s vitals.

“Just business as usual,” Diana agreed from the doorway.

Bruce turned to Clark, who was sitting in a chair next to Bruce’s hospital bed. “Gotham?”

Clark gave a soft smile and answered the unasked question, “The kids are fine. They’d be here, but I guess Ivy and Freeze got into a fight just as they were about to leave and Penguin tried to use the distraction of the fight to move cargo or something.”

“I checked in with them just before you woke,” Diana said before Bruce could get worked up. “In Oracle’s words, I threw Harley at Ivy and Nightwing, Signal, and Corvid smashed Freeze’s helmet so that fight’s basically won. Batwoman reported that her team had taken down Penguin and were supervising the cargo’s transport to the evidence locker before heading in.”

Bruce nodded, relaxing. “I’d assume Batwoman is Stephanie. Nightwing… Dick?”

“Yeah,” Clark said, looking smug. “And Corvid is Damian. Tim’s going by Ghost Bat now.”

“When you disappeared, they all stepped up to become heroes worthy of your legacy,” Diana said. “You would be proud of how strong they’ve been.”

“I am proud.” He simply wished he’d been there to see them through the transition. “How long was I gone?”

“A year,” J’onn said, apologetically and Bruce nodded.

That was longer than it had been for him, but not by too much. A year though…

He’d missed most of the kids’ final year of high school. He’d missed their graduation. He’d missed helping them sign up for college.

Was Duke enjoying his literature studies? Did Stephanie go through with her plans to start the pre-med track or make good on her jokes about taking a year off? Was Damian able to decide between a business or veterinary medicine major? Had Tim figured out what he wanted to do? Did Dick change his mind about not continuing school?

And little Carrie was still so young. Would she even remember Bruce?

“What’s the cover story for Bruce Wayne’s disappearance? And Batman’s?” Bruce asked, pushing the rest down. “I’ll need to figure out how to spread out my appearances so no one becomes suspicious.”

The three shared a look and Bruce’s eyes narrowed.

“It’s not that simple,” Diana said slowly.

“I’ve been standing in for Bruce Wayne with Timothy’s help,” J’onn said. “It was Duke’s idea. Richard had taken up your mantle, but he wasn’t able to convince those who really knew Batman so I was going to pretend to be you until enough time had passed that we could fake your death without it being connected to the change in Batman. Then Timothy and Damian found evidence that you were alive so we’ve kept up the ruse.”

Bruce nodded. It was a good idea, even if Bruce didn’t exactly feel comfortable knowing the martian had been impersonating him for so long. Something else caught his mind, though. “If Dick is Batman, why is he also going by Nightwing?”

“Dick was Batman for a while, but… someone else is Batman now,” Clark said, uncertainly.

“Who?”

“We don’t know. The children won’t tell us,” Diana said. “They’re as stubborn and secretive as their father.”

“About six months ago Batman just… changed,” Clark explained. “We didn’t notice at first since Richard was still the one showing up for Justice League stuff, then Nightwing appeared in the news. It was pretty obvious Nightwing was Dick. We thought that maybe he was setting up his own hero for when you came back, but Batman was seen working with Nightwing and all the rest of the boys. He’s also more…”

“Vicious?” J’onn offered. “And dramatic, but in a grim way. His fighting style is firmer as well, in a way Dick couldn’t manage no matter how much he held himself back. His Batman is more genuine than Dick’s. To the point that, from what we’ve gathered, those who realized he had replaced you already think you’re back.”

“We tried asking Dick the next time he came up for a meeting, but all he’d say was that he wasn’t ready to see us,” Diana added. “Clark went to Gotham -”

Bruce glared at the kryptonian.

“I know, I know. Your kids caught me within minutes and Stephanie gave me a lecture you’d be proud of. And don’t act like you’re not burning with curiosity. Do you even have an idea who it could be?”

“Did you find out anything?” Bruce redirected and Clark shook his head.

“I couldn’t see much because the cowl is as lead-lined as you always had it and he got out of there fast once Stephanie intercepted me. He was tall and broad like you and what skin I saw was fair, so he couldn’t be any of the boys.”

That… didn’t add up. Who would the boys have trusted with Batman? “I need to get home.”

All three looked like they wanted to argue, but J’onn unhooked him from the monitors.

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

The cave was empty when Bruce teleported in, though the still-warm cup of tea next to the Batcomputer’s keyboard and the lit-up screens showed that Alfred had recently been monitoring the comms before stepping out for a moment.

“- anything yet?” came Robin’s -- Nightwing’s -- voice when Bruce hit the button to unmute the main comm line.

“Wonder Woman said he was still unconscious when she checked in,” Oracle answered.

“Batman, Batwoman, and I will be at the cave in a minute. The two of us can head up immediately and report back,” Ghost Bat offered.

“Speak for yourself,” Batwoman huffed. “You can hang around Wonder Woman smelling like a sewer all you want, but I need a shower.”

“You will wait for us or I will give all your sweatshirts to Goliath as nesting materials, Ghost!” Corvid snapped.

“Nah, Goliath can do better than G’s hoodies. Besides, he’ll just go steal some from Metro. I’m pretty sure half the ones he’s got now are clone boy’s anyways,” laughed a voice Bruce didn’t recognize. Batman’s, he assumed. Something about it nagged at him, but he couldn’t place it. He was sure he knew the person though. Was he altering his voice for the suit like Bruce did? It didn’t have the growl, but maybe he was just making his voice deeper. If his voice was higher…

Bruce was torn out of his musings by a snarl. He turned to see a large groenendael stalking towards him. Behind the dog was a massive pillow with five other dogs atop it. A Great Dane was stretched out regally at one end, wagging his tail but otherwise not paying Bruce any attention. A lab and a pit bull were flopped over each other limply in the middle, fast asleep. A German shepherd was standing on the other end, just as alert as the groenendael without the aggression. A Chihuahua was similarly eyeing Bruce from her spot tucked under the Great Dane’s chin, kept quiet and still only by the larger dog’s presence.

Bruce wasn’t surprised the dogs had invaded the cave in his absence. He could only hope Goliath and Wiggles had continued to be cut off in their separate portions of the cave and Alfred the Cat hadn’t been allowed to torment the bats.

He knelt and held out his hand. “It’s alright, Jane. It’s just me.”

The groenendael quieted at his voice and continued approaching him. The closer she got, the more relaxed she became until she was close enough to cheerfully lick and nuzzle at his hand as an apology for growling.

“It’s okay, girl. You’re doing a good job protecting the cave while everyone’s out.”

Ace was at his side in an instant to sniff him over for injuries and nose his neck in a greeting Bruce easily returned. Titus yawned and turned away as things calmed down, which allowed Ami to leap to her feet. She gave two quick yaps at Bruce, then stomped over to curl up on a corner of the pillow. Haley and Hazel slept on.

A moment later the roar of an engine echoed through the cave, heralding the arrival of the Batmobile. Bruce’s spot was slightly hidden from the vehicle bay, so he had the chance to observe the three that climbed out.

Batwoman’s suit wasn’t too dissimilar to the one Barbara had donned during those two short years she’d held the mantle. All Stephanie had altered was swapping out the red on the bat, belt, cape lining, and wig for her signature eggplant.

Ghost Bat’s suit was black, sleeveless, and made from the same lightweight armor Tim and Dick always used. A grey bat was across the chest, the color matching his gauntlets. He wore a cape and cowl like Batwoman’s, though the cape lining and wig were grey. The wig was also cut short to match Tim’s chin-length locks instead of Stephanie’s chest-length curls.

Batman’s suit, at first glance, looked exactly like Bruce’s. On closer inspection, though, it appeared thinner, closer to the medium bulk armor Damian and Stephanie used. There were also knives hidden across the suit and the cape was shorter than Bruce kept it. His build appeared to be just as Clark described, but Bruce knew the suit enough to tell it was making him look broader in the shoulders and the boots’ soles were altered to make him look shorter. Bruce estimated him to be a few inches taller than himself and around Duke’s width. The visible portion of his face was a pale beige, distinctly different from Dick’s olive tone or the other boys’ darker skin colors.

“- soft and roomy!” Ghost was arguing. “It’s no different than you stealing Bruce’s!”

Batman shot him a perfect Bat-Glare, as the kids called it. “I don’t have any of his sweaters!”

“That’s because after you steal them, Alfred always washes them and puts them back in B’s closet,” Stephanie snorted, pulling down her cowl. She gave him a wink when he turned the glare on her. “Just because you only wear them to bed doesn’t mean we don’t notice. Also, Tim’s stolen horde isn’t just Kon’s. He also got some of mine, Cassie’s, Duke’s, Damian’s, and yours in there. Dick’s and Cissie’s aren’t baggy enough and Bart’s are scratchy. He’s also got one of Kori’s because he took it thinking it was Babs’ and now he’s too embarrassed to give it back.”

“STEPHANIE!” Ghost shouted as Batman snapped, “Is that where my green hoodie went?”

Stephanie snickered as she turned to head deeper into the cave. Her eyes caught Bruce’s and she froze.

“What’s wrong?” Batman asked and he and Ghost followed her gaze.

“Kids,” Bruce said after a moment of trying to figure out what to say.

Batman stiffened and Stephanie smiled. “Hey, B.”

Ghost shot forward, but stopped just before he reached Bruce, looking like he was barely holding back from throwing himself at Bruce.

Bruce took the decision away from him by pulling the boy into a hug. He pulled down the cowl to press a kiss to the top of Tim's head as the boy started to shake slightly with silent tears.

“So B’s here,” Stephanie said and he heard her voice echo through the comm in Tim’s ear.

“What!?”

“He’s supposed to be resting on the Watchtower.”

“Of course they couldn’t keep Father contained.”

“We’re on our way.”

“You’re here,” Tim whispered and Bruce pressed another kiss to his head.

“I am. I’m so sorry for being gone.”

“Tim’s the one who found you,” Stephanie said as she walked up. “Or, well, he’s the one who made it possible for the JL to find you.”

“I heard. I’m so proud.”

“Damian helped,” Tim muttered, burying his reddening face further into Bruce’s chest.

Bruce rubbed his back for a few seconds, then pulled away so Tim could pick up the Chihuahua nudging up against his ankle. He made sure Ami was helping Tim calm down before nodding at Stephanie. However, he soon found his gaze shifting back to the unknown factor.

Batman was still standing where he’d been the last time Bruce checked. He looked frozen in place, only his hand having shifted so that it could rest on Jane’s cheek. The groenendael was staring up at him as she licked and nuzzled at his wrist and hip in an effort to draw him back from wherever he was, though Bruce doubted he could feel it through the suit.

She must have realized it too as a moment later she stood up on her hind legs with her forepaws on Batman’s chest so she could lick at his chin instead, snapping him out of it enough that he looked away.

It was then that Stephanie glanced over her shoulder to see what Bruce was staring at. “Shoot.”

“What?” Tim asked, tucking Ami to his chest. He looked at Stephanie, then Batman, then his eyes shot to Bruce. “Oh. Crud. We really meant to do this slowly.”

“Are you two going to introduce me?” Bruce grunted.

His eyes were still on the stranger, but he could see both eighteen-year-olds open their mouths to respond. Before they could, Batman nudged Jane off and reached up to pull down his hood.

Bruce’s breath caught in his throat.

“Hey, Dad,” Jason said, running his fingers through his black and white hair.

Ace nudged Bruce’s side, just under his ribs.

He took a breath, then another.

“What part of do this slowly didn’t you get, Jay!”

“We all know he wasn’t going to rest until he figured out who I am. I’m just ripping off the band-aid.”

“This isn’t my Earth,” Bruce said.

The three shared a look and Tim pressed into Bruce’s other side. “It is.”

“My Jason is…”

“Dead?” Jason finished. “Yeah, it, uh, didn’t take. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Not the time, Jay!” Steph sighed. “Come on, Old Man. You look awful. We’ll explain once you’re sitting down.”

Bruce’s hands itched to grab Jason. To grab him and pull him close and never let him go again.

He kept his hands to himself as he followed the kids to the meeting table. They had just enough time to get settled when the elevator dinged and Alfred stepped out with a fussing Carrie in his arms.

The butler took in the group, then gave Bruce a pointed look. “You are meant to be resting.”

“I had to check on the kids.”

“Of course you did.” Alfred came forward to deposit Carrie into the arms of her honorary grandfather then set a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “It’s good to have you back, Master Bruce. We’ve all missed you.”

Bruce nodded and looked down at the toddler.

She blinked up at him before smiling and poking his cheek. “Boosie back!”

“Yeah, Sweetheart, I’m back,” he said, voice hoarse.

Three motorcycles shot into the cave, the boys on them quickly jumping off. Bruce set Carrie on his knee as he took in his rapidly approaching sons.

Nightwing’s suit was similar to Ghost Bat’s, though his had sleeves and he had just a domino in place of the cape and cowl. The suit was black with a cobalt V across the chest that resembled a bird. The wings stretched all the way to the shoulders then ran down the sleeves to end at the tips of his middle and ring fingers. The blue color carried over to his domino mask and the trim of his boots. A pair of escrima sticks poked out from behind him and black pouches were connected to the waist of the suit like a built-in utility belt.

Corvid’s suit was black with a matching utility belt and carried the same moderate bulk Damian preferred. A long, hooded jacket sat over the suit, sleeveless and colored sapphire with white trim. It sat open, revealing the white outline of a bird stretched across his chest. The suit was finished off with a black domino mask with equally black lenses and tall emerald boots.

Signal’s suit looked the same as it had when Bruce was sent away, and Bruce took comfort in the fact that not everything had changed.

Stephanie ducked down for a quick hug, then removed her daughter from Bruce’s lap so she wasn’t crushed when Nightwing threw himself into it a second later.

“You’re so stupid for running off from the Watchtower, but I’m glad you’re back.”

“I’m fine,” Bruce said, holding the boy close with one arm as he reached out to grab his youngest’s hand.

Corvid squeezed back as he glanced over Bruce, then let go and left to take a seat.

After giving Bruce a quick hug around Nightwing, Signal went to grab his own seat as well. He pulled off his helmet and looked pointedly at Jason before turning back to Bruce. “Guess it’s storytime, huh?”

“You couldn’t even keep it a secret for five minutes?” Damian tisked after he’d removed his mask.

“He was ripping off the band-aid,” Tim mocked.

“We all know how obsessive B gets when someone puts a mystery in front of him,” Jason huffed, throwing his hands in the air.

“It is something you’ve all inherited from him,” Alfred hummed as he began to set cups of tea in front of everyone except Carrie, who got a sippy cup of warm milk.

Dick squirmed around so he could remove his mask and accept his cup of tea, then made himself comfortable in his father’s lap.

“You’re getting too old for this,” Bruce teased, wrapping his arms around the eighteen-year-old, and Dick shushed him.

“Where should we start?” Stephanie asked.

#batfam #batman #bruce wayne #Jason Todd #Robins are the Same Age AU #fanfiction #64ao1

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ickle-ronniekins · 5 years ago

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luck of the irish

request from @stars-shaped-clouds: Hi! If your requests are still open I would like to request for Fred Weasley! :D maybe meeting Reader the first time and fred is all like it’s like love at first sight thing? I really love your writing!!!!

request from @keoghans: Hi! I love your work sm!!!! I wanted to ask for a Fred one, where the reader is a Beater in the World Cup finals, and is a friend of Oliver Wood, and he’s all giddy looking at her play and stutters a lot when they meet and yeah, idk, flustered, stuttering Fred gets me hahah thank you love! ♥️♥️♥️

pairing: fred x reader

word count: 2.9k

A/N: yo what the FUCK i loved these requests—also i know wood doesn’t play for ireland but let’s just ~pretend~ and also i knoooow that in gof they don’t go home for the christmas holidays because of the yule ball but again let’s just ~pretend~ and go weak for flustered, head over heels, desperately adorable fred and his love and first sight with a professional irish quidditch player

tag list: @mintlibri @seppys-return-to-madness @how-do-life-does @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @semmelsemi @bobduncanlover @cottageoflove @laneygthememequeen @snakesonaplane-7 @lupinsx @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove @dreamer821 | message me if you’d like to be added darlings!!!

Fred finds himself rather excited to get back to school. Not for the work, of course, but the mischief! He and George had also heard through the grapevine that this year is supposed to be more exciting, more chaotic—something will be happening, but what, he doesn’t know. He just has to sit tight and wait until the feast, where Dumbledore will undoubtedly give them a clue as to what’s about to happen. Fred can hardly handle the wait.

But when Fred ends up at the Quidditch World Cup with his father, siblings, and friends before he heads off to Hogwarts for his sixth year, the last thing he expects is to meet someone who makes him want to push off school for as long as he possibly can. He’s expecting the laughs and teasing and Butterbeer and Quidditch puns and stories shared with old comrades. Which, he supposes, he is getting, but also with something else, too. His twin makes sure to add in some extra teasing.

Fred’s skimming the campsite for a familiar face, and he finds himself becoming aggravated when he can’t spot who he’s searching for.

“Where the bloody hell is Wood?” Fred asks, searching desperately through the very large crowd gathered outside their tent. “I thought you said we’d be seeing him before the match?”

“I did,” George tells his twin, also skimming the sea of people in front of them. His voice gets lost in the crowd, “Could’ve sworn he told me so..”

Suddenly, Harry’s voice echoes loudly. “Oliver! Good to see you!”

George and Harry are giddy at the sight of Oliver Wood, their former Quidditch teammate and captain. The tall, lanky bloke stands outside of their tent, pulling both men into tight embraces. It’s been quite a while since they’ve seen him, in fact.

It’s when he begins blabbering on about the Quidditch World Cup that Fred notices his arrival.

“Mate! Finally! How are things?” Fred says, seizing his hand for a firm shake. “Thanks again for setting this up,”

“Not a problem at all, glad you lot could join! Been ages since we’ve seen one another,” Wood beams, now offering greetings to Ron, Ginny, and Hermione respectively. Turning back toward the twins and Harry, he asks, “How was your travel? Okay? No hiccups?”

“Not a one,” George says brightly.

“Good,” Wood says, sticking his hands inside his pockets. “Really glad you guys could make it—I know it’s mad as a hatter, here, but I reckon that’s what makes it more exciting.”

Harry laughs at this and offers, “Going to be really wicked watching you play professional, you know.”

But Fred is no longer listening to the conversation in front of him; instead, you seem to have caught his attention, and to his surprise, you’re making a b-line right toward him! He feels as though his throat is closing up; it’s not until he realizes that you’re actually headed toward Oliver that he begins to breathe properly again. If you’re not the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen—

“Merlin! Wood, we’ve been looking everywhere for you. We’ve got to head to the changing rooms in a bit. Reckon Lynch will want to give us a good chat beforehand.” Both you and Oliver erupt into chuckles, leaving Fred nearly breathless at the light, airy sound of your laugh.

“Who’s this?” Fred asks shyly, watching your eyes sparkling at the sight of all of them.

“Speaking of playing professional—” Wood begins, introducing you to the lot around you, “this here is Y/N. Wicked good Beater, started out just this year for the Irish National Quidditch team.”

Fred suddenly feels his insides constrict; you? A Beater? On a professional Quidditch team? You can’t be more than seventeen years of age, and the smile tugging at the edges of your lips as you shake hands with everyone nearly sends him to the ground in a flustered mess. Suddenly, you take his hand in yours and he feels the electricity almost immediately. He can hardly contain the nerves. He’s starting to believe in this whole ‘love at first sight’ thing—

“Fred and George are Beaters, too,” Wood explains to you, and Fred’s delighted to see an impressed look on your face, “really wicked, they both are. And Harry, here, what a brilliant Seeker.”

George playfully slaps him across the arm. Everyone around begins to laugh when he teases, “Stop it, Oliver, you’re embarrassing us.”

“You can’t be more than sixteen,” Fred says to you without fully registering what’s happening. He’s saying things without thinking. He apologizes, “Sorry—erm—what I mean to say is, you look so young to be playing professional Quidditch. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I—I mean—” he’s finding it hard to now create coherent sentences when all he can hear are annoying snickers from his brothers behind him.

“Color you impressed?” you ask, and he feels his knees go weak. He offers a nervous laugh when you continue, “I’m flattered. Seventeen, actually. But, yeah, I reckon I’ve just gotten really lucky for my age.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Oliver cuts into the conversation, “you’re brilliant. Just wait’ll you see her play—madhouse, she is.”

You begin to laugh and turn back to him, “Neither one of us will be playing if we’re late—Lynch is looking positively dreadful, reckon we’ll need to go and give the pep talk ourselves?” Wood agrees and picks up his broomstick he’d placed on the ground. You turn back to everyone, “It was nice meeting all of you. See you after the match perhaps?”

“Yeah!” George begins excitedly. To Wood, he says, “Mate, when your team undoubtedly wins, come back here for a drink, eh? It’s the least we could do to thank you.”

The nerves are bubbling up inside Fred; he’s hoping Wood will agree and bring you along. Something tells him he’s not quite finished talking with you yet.

Wood looks at you and both of you shake your heads. “Alright, then! We’ll see you in a few hours time!”

Shouts of luck echo from everyone in the group, including some people nearby in surrounding tents. Can’t this evening last forever? The thoughts of Hogwarts, and whatever’s planned for this year, have seemingly left Fred’s mind, now that you’re here. Before you leave with Wood, he says to you, “Good luck! But from what Wood says, it doesn’t sound like you’ll need it.”

You grin broadly at him. “Thanks, Fred. Keep your fingers crossed for me, though. We still need all the luck we can get if we’re going to crush Bulgaria.”

From behind George and Ron, Wood yells with delight, “We’ve got the luck of the Irish—it’s all we need!”

— -

The match is underway, and Ireland is absolutely crushing Bulgaria. When he flies close to them, Fred’s excited to see a very large grin plastered across Oliver’s face. But there’s still a long while to go, and plus—the Snitch is nowhere to be found.

But why is it, Fred thinks to himself, is he feeling so nervous? Perhaps it’s the heights. He’s standing with his family up near the top of the pitch, what looks like millions of rows of spectators beneath them. Are they in the highest one? He’s too nervous to move and find out; he’s nearly rigid.

He realizes, though, that it’s not the height that’s got him feeling jumpy. An incoming bludger is headed straight for the Ireland Chaser hovering right in front of them, and Fred feels as though his entire soul is on fire when you quickly fly past, pummel the Bludger to the other end of the very large pitch (much larger than Hogwarts’), and send a wink his way before heading in the complete opposite direction, nearly vanishing in thin air.

George notices this and laughs. When Ginny and Ron question him on this, he nearly replies, “Just having a laugh,”

“Why?” Ginny and Ron ask together. Ron continues rather anxiously, “You worried Bulgaria’s going to catch the Snitch before Ireland, too? That Krum is absolutely wicked—”

“No,” George laughs again over the crowd, “I’m having a laugh at Fred. Someone here,” he continues, pinching Fred’s cheeks, “is a bit flustered over one of those famous Beaters.”

“Am not.” Fred replies, a twinge of annoyance in his voice. He pulls at his long hair, trying desperately to cover up the cherry red color now flooding his cheeks. George just cocks his head to the side, as if to say, Really, Fred? You’re an awful liar. He can feel his insides tighten at the thought of it. God, you’re brilliant. He wouldn’t mind having you wrapped around him for the rest of the evening after Ireland’s impending win. He finds himself watching you with dazed eyes and a lazy smile, not even paying attention at all to the match in front of him. Instead, he’s counting the times you fly near them and meet his gaze. Fred swallows thickly and then agrees, albeit begrudgingly, “Fine. So what? She’s gorgeous—”

“—and sweet,”

“and our age!”

“and plays professional Quidditch.”

Fred rolls his eyes at the mocking yet truthful statements coming from his friends. George opts to continue, “It’s no wonder you’re in love, Freddie.”

Ginny squeals, “Putty in her hands, he was!”

“Would you lot shove off?” Fred asks, eyeing Mr. Weasley curiously, thankful to see that he’s deep in conversation with Amos Diggory. “Make fun of me all you want, but for Merlin’s sake, don’t let dad hear you—he’ll absolutely never let me live it down.”

“All the more reason to keep teasing, mate,” Ron tells him, turning toward Harry and Hermione before the three of them erupt into a fit alongside George and Ginny. Again, Fred just rolls his eyes.

But he doesn’t really care what they think. Not now, anyway. Not when you’re hovering near them again and he notices the tight grip you have on your broomstick, the thin line of sweat at your hairline, the dimples in your cheeks when you grin brightly at another goal for Ireland. You turn and glance at them again, wiggling your eyebrows at him before pummeling another bludger straight toward a Bulgarian player, and Fred can’t contain these feelings of both admiration and jealousy bubbling up inside him as his eyes try to follow you all around the pitch. All he can remember is the way your hand felt in his when you introduced yourself just a few hours ago. All he can think of is how bloody adorable you look in those Quidditch goggles and robes. And all that’s flooding through his mind now, as he watches you slam yourself against a Bulgarian Chaser and call out to the other Ireland beater across the pitch, are the grins he keeps eating up each and every time you make so to fly by his seat in the stands.

— -

“Holyhead Harpies, for sure. They’re brilliant!”

“Couldn’t agree more. And Puddlemere United?”

“Merlin, no—don’t tell Wood I’ve said this, but they’re bloody awful. Just like the Falmouth Falcons. How about the Chudley Cannons?”

“My family’s exclusive to the Cannons, actually.”

“Knew I liked you for a reason, Fred.”

He lets a soft laugh escape his lips as he watches you tip your goblet backward and drink hastily the rest of your Butterbeer. Your cheeks are flushed; is it Ireland’s win? The copious amounts of Butterbeer you’ve consumed? The fact that the tent is so bloody warm? Fred doesn’t know, but he gets a sense that it might be something else when you bat your eyelashes at him and bite down on your lip to keep from smiling too much.

He’s feeling much more confident now—nothing a few drinks and slaps on the shoulder from George couldn’t fix! He’s surprised at how.. normal you seem. He’s hungry and desperate to learn more about you in your fleeting time together that he’s not even letting anyone else chat you up for a bit. Not that you mind, really. It’s not like you’re itching to get away from him. Actually, Fred thinks to himself now as he watches you, you might just be inching closer—

“So tell me then, you’ve been a Beater since your first year at Hogwarts, yes?” you ask, and Fred nods his head, eager to hear more, “you and George. What about the other two?” you nod in the direction of Ron and Ginny, who are animatedly chatting up Oliver Wood now. “Your other siblings don’t play?”

“Not those two,” Fred says, grinning a bit, “They’ll join us for little games we have at home, but not for school. Although, come to think of it, Ginny’s kind of brilliant actually—maybe she’ll play for Hogwarts one day..” he thinks fondly on memories of the last summer when they’d finally let Ginny join in on some of their matches.

“And what about you?” you ask, the glittering of your eyes very evident in the moonlight poking through the tent, “plans for after school? Pranks, maybe? Professional Quidditch, perhaps?” you tease him a bit, nudging him in the ribs.

Fred beams again and sips his drink slowly. He absolutely loves that you want to know more about him. “You joking? Follow you after that brilliant match? I reckon you’d have quite a laugh.” Which you do. You laugh at this, and he’s positively melting into the ground beneath him, itching to hear your laugh more and more. “George and I have some.. plans up our sleeves. Creating mischief at school isn’t just a hobby, you know.”

“No?” you inquire, sipping again on another Butterbeer, “is there such a thing as ‘professional pranksters’?”

“If there is, that’s exactly what George and I are.”

The two of you fall into a fit of laughter, grabbing the attention of the other group nearby. George wiggles his eyebrows at Fred, who feels the nerves bubbling up inside him again and shakes his head at his twin, before turning back toward you.

“So tell me,” Fred begins again, soaking up as much information as he can before the night’s end, “you’ve won. You’ve won the bloody Quidditch World Cup—” the both of you giggle lightly, and he watches as you nervously pull at your hair and bite down on your lip again, “—what’re your plans now? School, holidays?”

“I’m going back home tomorrow, to visit with my family,” you reply, and Fred digests this. “My parents are here tonight, but they’re off somewhere with my aunt and uncle—tomorrow’s when I get to go and see my extended family.”

Fred nods, taking this in. He just has to ask; it won’t sound strange, will it? “Yeah? And where’s home?”

“Ottery St. Catchpole,” you tell him, twirling the Butterbeer in your hands, and there’s a catch in Fred’s throat at your words, “right in Devon, if you’re familiar?”

“You’re kidding,” he replies breathlessly, and he sees you waiting with bated breath for his next words, “that’s where we are. How’ve we never run into one another in the village? We live just across the large hill!”

You sit back, surprised, and Fred’s happy to see an enormous smile on your face. You open your mouth to speak, but just then, Wood calls to you from the entrance of the tent, noting that Ireland’s captains would like to have a quick word before reuniting the players with their families.

Fred feels his insides tighten; he doesn’t want the night to be over, and he finds himself clutching his goblet rather tightly. He glances at his watch; Merlin, it’s nearly one am! How long had you two been at this? He peers at you, the rosy color of your cheeks still evident in the moonlight, and he wonders if you’re feeling the same way. When you turn back toward him and glance at him with sullen eyes and a weak smile, he realizes you just might be. You tell him, “I’m sorry the night has to end.”

“Me, too.” he admits, continuing to twirl his Butterbeer in his hands, “I’ve had fun.”

“Me, too.” you echo him, standing up from your seat and stretching in your Quidditch robes. Fred’s feeling rather woebegone at your impending departure, but suddenly he feels his spirits lift a bit.

“Can I write you?”

You peer at him with admiration in your eyes. A large grin spreads across your face. “Absolutely. Is that a promise?” you wink.

He laughs cheekily and hope he doesn’t sound as positively giddy as he feels, “It’s definitely a promise.”

He watches as you look around the tent and pull at your robes. Then you ask him, “Could I maybe.. maybe see you for Christmas?”

He’s beaming again; he feels that fire coursing through his veins once again. He stumbles over his words and clears his throat, “Y-yeah—that sounds great. I’d like that.”

You grin and place a hand on his arm. “Good.” And much to his surprise, you lean in and place a gentle kiss upon his cheek before squeezing his arm once again and making your way to bid farewell to everyone else, and then toward the entrance of the tent. Once more, you turn back to him, raise a hand in farewell, and nearly vanish into thin air.

Fred doesn’t even realize that George and Wood are standing beside him; he’s merely feeling the electricity buzz through him at this very moment, and is already beginning to count down the days until the Christmas holidays. When George pokes him in the ribs and interrupts his thoughts, he’s brought back to reality and notices everyone watching him now—each of them winking and chuckling lightly at this new relationship he’s seemed to have sparked. He can feel a chill wash over him when Wood leans in and says to him before leaving,

“I’m telling you—it’s the luck of the Irish, mate.”

reblogs & feedback are much appreciated lovelies, thank you for reading and requesting x

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pikemoreno · 5 years ago

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if you ever wanna be in love

Chapter I: Coffee Cures All Ills

a/n: Here it is folks! The first part of a Marcus fic heavily inspired by the Netflix rom-com Set It Up.

It’s more structurally and conceptually inspired and not an exact scene-for-scene remake because a) I was interested in the idea of this not even really being an AU. This is extremely canon-compliant and you’ll see more of that as we continue on. 😏And b) because I had lots of ideas that spun off from watching Set It Up that I just liked better for the purpose of this fic. So that’s what you can expect. It’s gonna be cheesy and fun and great.

The first couple of chapters are a lot of, well, set up (which has been infuriating). But we’ll get into the meat of it soon. My outline says so.

As a side note, a lot of the gifs I’m going to be using are from the movie, but these are not my face claims for any of the characters. I’m using them simply for the ~vibe~ of the chapter. Reader is not a small white girl... Or she might be. She is you. Or whatever OC you’d like her to be. Period.

And that’s it. Let’s go, I guess.

pairing: marcus pike x f!reader

word count: 2k (probably one of the shortest chapters we’re gonna see out of the 14-ish lolz)

warnings: none, and i don’t expect there to really be any serious ones in upcoming chapters either. this is just fun.

Marcus Pike never wanted to fall in love.

He’d seen what it had done to him in failed relationships including everything up to a failed marriage. Some would argue that it wasn’t love then, that love doesn’t fail, so it couldn’t have been. But he disagreed. He knows it when it hits. It comes on you like lightning, bright and fast. You accept it, letting it run through your veins, and risk suffering a fatal blow to your heart. And it most definitely can fatally fail. It can cause joy and pain in equal measure. He’d already been struck so painfully once, the blow of the electricity going straight to his heart. He was beginning to hope to the high heavens that he wouldn’t be so unlucky as to be struck a second time, just in case it should reach his heart so painfully once more.

Marcus Pike never wanted to fall in love.

He felt that especially strongly as he watched Adrian go through his recent break-up. He felt for his fellow agent, he really did. Adrian was completely convinced Sam was the one, sold to the point of going ring shopping soon. But one brief mention of an engagement sent Sam running for the hills. He’d been moping around the office for a couple of weeks now and, as much as Marcus understood the pain, he was already really looking forward to Adrian’s rebound or some similar distraction. He was needing his friend’s signature fire back right about now, not to mention his focus. His work had gotten sloppy in this mourning period. He was constantly distracted. Marcus was dreading getting him on this case today, but maybe it was just the push he needed. He hoped. He stepped up to Adrian’s desk, watching the glazed over look in his eye.

“Hey, Adrian, do you mind getting a head start on this? I’d really like you to be our head man on--” he slid the file onto his desk, but was cut short by Adrian’s response. A response that had nothing to do with anything Marcus had just said.

“I’m gonna die alone,” he muttered, hands supporting his chin, elbows on his desk. Marcus let out an exasperated sigh that he didn’t seem to notice.

“You’re not gonna die alone,” he played along once again, rubbing his temple.

“Maybe I’ll go be a monk. They never have to worry about this shit.”

“An honorable profession.”

“Yeah.” Adrian blinked out of his dream-like state. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?” Marcus nodded rigidly. “Sorry, Pike.” He opened the file, nodding slowly, “Yeah, I’ll get on this.”

“You look exhausted,”

“I am,” he admitted sheepishly.

“I’m making a break room run to get coffee, you want one?”

“Please.” Marcus nodded his understanding and made his way down the hall to the break room. He doubted a case and a coffee could get his friend back on track, but he could hope, right?

***

If you had to listen through one more of Wendy’s mood swings, you might just scream. You love the girl, you really do. She’s your friend and the best boss you could’ve asked for, but Lord Almighty, had she been in rare form. Some days she was perfectly fine, strutting around like she didn’t care that her asshole boyfriend Daniel gave her an ultimatum instead of a ring on their last anniversary. Other days would see her doing a complete 180, shutting herself in her office and weeping into suspect files. Your least favorite days, though, were days where the heartbreak made her angry, where thinking about Daniel saying “It’s me or your job” made her border-line vengeful. But, unfortunately for you and the rest of the team, he wasn’t around to take the beating.

You couldn’t say you entirely understood. The short catalog of even shorter flings that you boasted brought largely apathy rather than heartbreak. You couldn’t say you’d ever been in love like Wendy had been. You’d never felt anything quite that strong-- and thank goodness for that. It wasn’t something you particularly looked forward to, at least, not the way you’d seen it lately. It was an uncontrollable force, dangerous and all-consuming. You liked control, liked being in your right mind. If love was to take up it's unfortunate residence, you could only hope it was for someone worth losing your mind over. You hadn’t seen anyone of the sort so far.

Unfortunately, it was already too late for Wendy Harrod. The already intimidating head of the Jewelry & Gem Theft Program in Texas was in rare form. You watched as an HR intern ran from her office in near tears. Poor Randy. Her sharp “come in” in response to your knock on her door made you wince.

“Harrod, I have the results of that house search you requested if you--”

“No, no! Absolutely not, I cannot handle this right now,” she was absolutely raging, leaving you grasping at straws for a response.

“I-- Uh-- Of course. I’ll just leave it right here whenever--” you placed it gently on the end table by the door before being interrupted again.

“Ughhhhh,” she groaned out before flopping into her desk chair, the red leather creaking as she let sit spin her around once, “I’m sorry. I’m being mean.” There was your Wendy.

“Just a little.”

“Sorry, sorry. Bring that here please.”

“What can I do for you? As your friend, I mean. You--” you weighed your words carefully as you hand her the report, “You haven’t quite been yourself since…” you stopped that thought, “Well, lately.” She sighed, shaking her head.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I need,” she began to skim the report before looking back up with you with a tight lipped smile, “Maybe a coffee? For the more immediate problems anyway.” You laughed.

“Now that I can do. I’m headed there now. Break room coffee ok?”

“That’d be perfect.”

“The usual?”

“The usual.” She yelled after you as you walk down the hall, “You’re an angel!”

She wasn’t gonna be saying that when you came back without coffee.

The sign on the coffee pot reading “out of coffee” was going to seriously ruin your reputation and Wendy’s sensitive mood. You ran through the options: you couldn’t leave to get her a Starbucks; there were some bottled iced coffees in the fridge, but Wendy hated them; you could wait for someone to make a run at lunch and pass on the order, but this was too urgent. Then it hit you. Everyone knew the sixth floor had the better coffee stock anyway. The art freaks loved their fancy stuff. You could always just waltz down a floor and snag two cups from their stash. 5 minutes in and out. No harm done, no questions asked.

Or so you thought.

The sixth floor break room was already occupied when you walked in, finding another agent also brewing a morning cup in a single cup coffee maker.

They really did have everything here: multiple pots, another much fancier looking machine that looked like it might come to life and attack at any moment, recyclable coffee cups, every type of creamer. You name it.

You’d have to sneak over here more often.

You stepped up to the larger coffee pot, rinsing out the carafe before reaching for the container of grounds. Empty.

They had everything here. Except coffee.

Was the whole damn building in a coffee famine? You didn’t have time to check.

“No, no, no, no,” you panicked, frantically searching the cabinet for another container. In your peripheral you could see the other agent look at you like you’d grown two heads. You couldn’t be bothered with his judgement, but you met his eyes to ask, maybe a little too frantically.

“Is that the last of it?” you questioned, eyeing the cup he was brewing.

“Well, yeah, sorry.” It was obvious he meant it, but apologies were not what you were needing right now.

“Shit.”

“Withdrawals?” he laughed a little at your panicked state, but it wasn’t demeaning. He was genuinely amused, and maybe a little concerned, but it made you narrow your eyes at him all the same. You were not in the mood for the mocking, no matter how light-hearted it may be. No matter how much it was softened by the bright smile next to you.

“It’s not for me. It’s for my boss. My very upset boss who needs just one small ounce of joy in her life right now. The kind of joy that can only come from the fueling of her caffeine addiction, so if I could please just have that cup?” You blinked at him innocently, but his dark brown eyes widened as he shook his head

“What? No. I have a friend who needs this. If I don’t bring him this, he won’t be working for the rest of the day.”

“If I don’t bring my boss a cup of coffee in the next two minutes, I will probably not be working again. Ever. I will be dead. Do you want to be complicit in a murder, Agent--” you glanced at his badge, “Pike? Can you really live with that?”

“You’re awfully dramatic aren’t you?”

“I wish it was an exaggeration.” He inspected your badge then too.

“Jewelry and Gem Theft. Floor 7, right? What brings you down here to steal our coffee?” The argument was pointed, but his demeanor was anything but. He was smiling, enjoying this. A little too much, you seethed. You couldn’t stand around arguing all day.

“We’re out too.”

“Try another floor?”

“Time is of the essence here, Art Squad.” There was no room for addressing him politely now, he was riling you up on purpose.

“If you didn’t stand here arguing with me you could’ve tried another floor by now, Jewels.”

He must think he’s so clever.

“Please. This is DEFCON 5.”

“You do know DEFCON 5 is the good one, right?”

“You know what I mean. Please.” He looked at you and then the newly brewed cup, biting the inside of his cheek, thinking through the problem.

“Tell you what. I am willing to split this if you are. Maybe it’s enough to fix both of them.” The crease between his eyebrows was deep as he studied your face, “I know Adrian is too out of it to notice he’s getting jipped, not sure about your boss.” You shrugged.

“Wendy will manage. It’s enough to keep her from throwing something at my head next time I walk in.” He dutifully split the coffee between two of the recyclable travel cups and handed one to you. You took it gratefully.

“I hope this keeps you from… Dying? What’s up with that anyway?” You’re not sure what made this person that was essentially a stranger so interested in your life, but something about it feels nice.

“She had a really bad breakup: anniversary, thought it was going to be a proposal, instead it was him being a piss-baby. She’s a little all over the place right now. They’d been together for years and now there’s just… A hole. She doesn’t know how to deal with it.” Pike’s nod in response is emphatic, giving the cup in his hand a little wave.

“Same with him. Terrible breakup. He didn’t see it coming at all. She broke up with him on a voicemail… Then moved. ‘Course it just put him in this crazy funk, though. Doesn’t wanna work or do much of anything. No violence. Yet. But it’s sad to see.” You winced.

“That’s a rough one. Best of luck with him, Art Squad. Thank you. I owe you one. Seriously.”

“You definitely do, Jewels.” His smile is blindingly bright as he jokes. It makes you smile back.

“See you around.”

series taglist: @whiskeyslasso @ahopelessromanticwritersworld

forever tags: @acomplicatedprofession @hdlynn @makaela27 @space-floozy @catfishingmorales @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @princessbatears @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @findhimfives

#im not in love with this first chapter but hey!#gotta start somewhere #marcus pike x reader #iyewbil #bri writes

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whenimaunicorn · 5 years ago

Text

The Heart of Admiration - Part 4

Charles Vane x OFC slow burn - Part One - Part Two - Part Three

Note: since this story is getting so long, I’ve decided to convert it to a third person OC. She’s really acquired too much specific backstory to be a Reader insert already. So meet Hope Wickham, who hopefully feels like a natural extension of the same character! I’ve never done this before, hope I’m pulling it off gracefully.

Chapter Summary: Acceptance by Vane’s crew comes along with a little drunken violence, but who would expect any less from pirates? Treating Vane’s wound brings more intimacy than Hope bargained for... CW for combat and giving someone stitches.

This episode’s prompt: “I wonder what will get you killed first – your loyalty or your stubbornness?”

The tavern is dark, and so thick with smoke that Hope’s eyes are burning around the edges. But the ale is strong, the company is spirited, and all she sees are wide grins around the table. That’s all that matters to her.

The Ranger crew is celebrating again. They’ve just taken port in Tortuga after their third successful hunt since finding themselves on Miss Guthrie’s shit list; the leads she had provided them since the night Captain Vane stormed out of her office had been more insulting than if she had given them none, and so they put their heads together and sought their prizes outside of the neighborhood of Nassau. The takes were smaller, so far, and not everyone here already knew their reputation, yet, but it was well worth it to keep on feeling free.

“This one’s for that Guthrie bitch,” Anne Bonny growls as she thrusts her tankard up for another toast. “Just ‘cause we all know she wouldn’t want us to have it.” Grunts and guffaws answer her around the long, creaking table that the Ranger’s officers and most sociable crewmen have crowded around. “Don’t matter if we can’t fence our prizes, so long as we can drink ‘em!”

That gets a round of cheers and splashing clinks of pewter tankards. Hope drinks deep to that one, short-sighted as she finds the sentiment to be. Because the real point is, with takes like these they’ve managed to keep the morale of the crew up, despite setbacks. They hadn’t lost one capable sailor over the humiliation Eleanor had tried to deal them. In fact, the experience appeared to be knitting the crew tighter together, with Hope right in there with them.

Her expertise helped, as Jack had predicted. The Ranger’s crew had a reputation for idiocy and belligerence once they got into the drink on shore, but every sailor respects the skill of a navigator that can not only lead them right to the richest prizes, but also point them straight back towards a port where they can waste those riches as quickly as possible. It also helped that Hope had drank a few of them under the table that first night, that her wit was only sharpened by liquor, and oh yes, that she had found a few choice words for Nassau’s despot herself on that evening.

Shane, the Ranger’s boatswain, elbows her deep in the ribs. “Tell us again,” he slurs, drinking entirely too fast as he so often does on nights like these, “how you gave the Guthrie woman a piece of your mind last time we was in her joint.”

Hope presses her lips together in a restrained sort of grin. She resists the urge to glance at Captain Vane; if she looks too worried about his reaction it will only set him off worse. But any mention of Eleanor tends to sour his mood, whether negative or neutral. (Positive mentions simply do not happen among this crew). Her eyes travel as far as Jack Rackham, seated beside the captain, and she can see he is checking on him already. When no flash of concern lights up the quartermaster’s eyes, Hope feels safe to at least start telling the story. “I don’t know what she was thinking, approaching me like that.”

Even though she speaks quietly, many of the side conversations cease, heads up and down the long table swiveling around to pay attention to her tale. It seems like no matter how often this episode comes up, there is at least one crewman present that has not yet heard her tell it from her own mouth.

“She had already failed to perturb the Captain, with whatever she said in that private meeting she called him into after we cashed in her lead,” Hope continues, setting the stage.

“Thought she could drag him in by his ear, like she was his fecking mum,” one of the gunmen interrupts. Nods and grunts of agreement pass around the table. Hope just loves the way the men so gleefully rehash the same old stories when they’re in their cups, loves even more that she’s started to be in them.

“He’s not fallin’ for that shite anymore,” Shane piles on, sending a look up the table at Vane that’s half approval, half challenge.

As usual, Captain Vane chooses the path of least words. “Bitch can rot,” he growls over the rim of his cup. His eyes simmer with more complicated feelings than those three words belie, but only to someone who’s looking.

“Which is what he told her, more or less.” Jack’s melodious voice smooths the story along, taking the attention off the uneasy topic of the crew’s feelings about their captain’s… entanglements. “So on to Plan B, Miss Guthrie went.” His eyes turn back to Hope, and most of the crew’s follow.

“She comes by my table, just stands there at first, stiff as you please. Like I’m just going to jump up as soon as she notices me.”

Anne rolls her eyes.

Hope remembers the way her stomach jumped at that point, her respect for Miss Guthrie not yet lost, but there is no reason to recount that part of the story. “Then she does this little cough, when I keep on drinking, take my next turn throwing the dice.”

“It was a good throw, too,” someone pipes in from further down the table.

“It was,” Hope agrees, “and I had a stack of coin on it.” She takes a swig of ale. “But she just stares at me. And as soon as my hand is on my winnings—‘may I have a word with you, Miss Wickham.’” She does a passingly fair imitation of the woman’s voice, higher and snootier than her own.

“What did she want?”

“She told me she was going to get me on another ship.”

The room always gets quieter at this part of the story. A warm, tingling sort of feeling blooms in Hope’s chest, at the way her new crew takes such pride in this exchange. It reassures her more deeply each time, that she made the right call when she took Eleanor’s offer as an insult.

“’It’s terrible, what Vane is doing to you,’ she has the nerve to say to me. ‘But the Nightingale is coming in tomorrow. And the Walrus.” Groans all around the table. They always groan at the mention of the Walrus. “I’ll get you set up with a crew that’s more civilized.” And every time she repeats that line, there is less booing and more harsh, prideful laughter. Hope scoffs. “Like I’m already in her pocket, a piece to move around on her chessboard as she sees fit. She says to me: ‘Vane can’t force you to do anything.’ And I look right back at her, take the drink out of her hand, and say ‘no, he can’t. And neither can you.” Her neck prickles at the way the men look at her when she tells this part. “I like his ship. I like his crew.’ I lean in, sip a drink out of her own cup, and say, ‘I think I might even be starting to like him.”

More cheering, and fists hammer on the table. They love that part. Everything had felt so crystal-clear in that moment, when Eleanor Guthrie patronized to her like that. Hope didn’t want to be protected, didn’t want to be sheltered or assigned. She wanted to earn what she’d got; and here was a crew she was already bonding with, (drunkenly at least) and a captain who respected her skills so much that he’d gone out of his way to get her on his ship, and respected her mind so much that he’d rushed Jack to make sure she felt she could leave.

“So take your fake concern for my wellbeing, I said to her, and go fuck yourself with it. Since Vane’s not at your beck and call to take care of that for you anymore, either.” It wasn’t exactly what Hope had really said. But every story gets larger in the retelling of it, does it not?

Tankards are banging on tables, toasts are being raised, and Shane whacks Hope on the back in comradely approval. “And that’s the night you became one of us.”

She can’t read anything in Vane’s stillness as he regards her from the head of the table.

Hours later, Hope and Anne are staggering back into the tavern, arm in arm, coming back from a piss ‘round the back of the building. In this town a woman’s got to have someone right there watching her back before she can even think of squatting down. “Where’s everyone?” Anne slurs, her brows furrowing as she inspects the corner where the Ranger crew used to be sitting. Her head swivels toward the other side of the room, Hope’s following rapidly after.

Many of the crew appear to have moved along to some other establishment, or perhaps staggered down to their tents set up on the beach. Jack and Captain Vane are still here, though, sitting at a table with two men Hope doesn’t recognize. All four of them are positively bristling.

Their Captain waves the women over when he spots them. Anne lets herself be tucked under Jack’s arm, and Hope cautiously takes the open chair next to Vane. The strangers at the table look surly, one with long hair tied back into a disheveled tail, the other’s brown locks cropped closer but no less messy. Their once-fine coats, stained and inexpertly repaired, mark them for fellow pirates.

“Captain Mackinaw,” Vane introduces, wrapping a hand over the top of Hope’s shoulder as he does, “meet Hope Wickham, my navigator.”

She braces herself for the long-haired man to comment on her sex, as so many men do, but this Mackinaw is too preoccupied to do more than nod vaguely in her direction. “I can’t just let this stand, Charles.”

Vane nods. Hope has never known him to be a sloppy drunk, but she can feel his inebriation in the careful way he removes his hand from her shoulder and reaches out for the ale on the table. He lifts it for a long, contemplative sip as his fellow looks at him expectantly. “You want me to back you up?” he offers, in slow, measured tones.

Mackinaw looks relieved. “They’re at the north end of the beach. If we make a show of numbers, I reckon they’ll hand it back over without a fight.” He takes another long pull of his own drink, the gesture much sloppier than how Vane had pulled off. Hope resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“And if they don’t?” Jack asks.

Mackinaw smiles sharply. “Then they’ll learn what it means to cross them that used to sail with Edward Teach.”

“This is a terrible idea,” Hope growls through her teeth, hefting the cudgel of broken wood she’d picked up on their way down the beach.

“Nonsense,” Jack replies. “It appears they have things well in hand.” Less than twenty paces away, Vane and Mackinaw square up against an even-scruffier captain and two of his largest crewmen. Vane’s body language is bristling, and Mackinaw’s looks mocking even from here.

“I don’t believe Charles Vane has ever been known for his ability to talk his way out of a fight,” Hope retorts. She shifts, squaring her hips, attempting to add to the impression that a full crew of violent, capable men is poised to storm down the moonlit beach at a moment’s notice.

“Good,” Anne hisses, sparing one contemptuous glance for Hope as she brandishes both her knives in the direction of the tents. Mackinaw’s rivals are rousing now, recognizing the threat. “I’ve an appetite for blood tonight.”

Hope’s not even sure why she’s here. This could get every bit as bloody as a vanguard charge, if someone says the wrong word, takes things a step too far down there. Violence is not in her skill set; if anything, she should be handling this part, the negotiations that so often stop swords from crossing. But she doesn’t know Mackinaw; barely even understands the grievance he has with the other man on the beach. Something about a horse, or a woman, or a horse that belonged to a woman… and now good men might get hurt, or even killed, because Vane feels loyalty to a man he once sailed with when they both served under the notorious Blackbeard.

An angry shout. Anne takes a step forward; most of the crew lined up behind follows suit. Vane hadn’t rounded up quite all of his men from their carousing around the town, but combined with Mackinaw’s crew they look like a veritable army ready to surround the other crew’s camp.

Said crew is forming up ranks of their own, however. Mackinaw’s rival does not appear ready to back down, puffing up his chest and speaking loudly enough for her to hear the tone of blustering confidence. Hope knows a failing negotiation when she sees one. “Blood it is,” she says wryly.

She doesn’t intend for anyone to hear it, but Jack cocks his head at her.

Vane’s hand has crept to his sword. Mackinaw’s head tilts; the shabby captain grimaces, glances back at his crew, and then throws himself at his rival. The two captains struggle in the sand, pummeling each other.

Is it going to stay between them, or is everyone about to brawl? Hope catches movement from one of the big men who had been backing that captain up. He takes a step that puts him more fully behind Captain Vane, who had turned to watch the men rolling on the ground. “Watch!” she roars, in inarticulate, impulsive warning.

The men behind her surge, evidently interpreting her shout as their signal to advance. They loose themselves down the beach, stampeding Hope along with them.

She grips her cudgel tight, keeping pace with her crew to avoid being trampled. Her face and limbs flush so hot they’re prickling. She managed to see Vane turn before his attacker could strike, ducking under the blow and knocking the man in the gut with the pommel of his sword as he drew it, but after that she loses him in the jumble of bodies rushing past the both of them, to engage the charging Ranger crew.

Hope runs until she’s stopped, feeling like she’s part of a wave crashing into a craggy shore. She sees the shape of a man, arms raised in threat, and she swats at it with her cudgel. The impact of it thudding into him throws her more off-balance than she expects. But the untampered momentum with which she had hit him is enough to knock the man to the ground.

Anne roars beside her, a ferocious sound, triumphant. She kicks that man across the jaw to keep him down, then thrusts her face close to Hope’s. “Atta girl!”

And after that Anne’s bloodlust is infectious, as Hope finds herself suddenly eager to pick her next target to bludgeon. Her crimson-haired crewmate keeps pace with her, seemingly amused by Hope’s sudden spirit.

A man missing more than a few teeth looms up in front of her, and lands a blow that glances off Hope’s head. She falls back, but Jack Rackham catches her from behind and heaves her right back onto her feet again. Her attacker wasn’t expecting her to come up so fast; nor was he expecting her foot to land so heavy in his gut.

She wants to get to Vane. She doesn’t have time to consider why, only knows that the direction that she should force her feet through this fray is over to where she saw him last. She ducks under fists and shoves bodies away from her. Anne and Jack appear to have the same idea, and they’re better at it, too. Hope hears the crunch of a broken nose to her left, turns in time to see a man dropping to his knees, howling. Blood trickles down Anne Bonny’s forehead, and she doesn’t wipe it away when it reaches her open-mouthed grin.

The fighting ends just about as suddenly as it began. “Yield!” comes the voice of the enemy captain, and his men, for the most part, stand down. When the throng clears and Hope can see Charles Vane again, something in her chest loosens even though the side of his face is puffy and his hairline is stained with blood. He’s holding the shabby captain from behind, sword under his throat, and Mackinaw is gloating in front of them.

And as far as the Ranger crew is concerned, that’s the end of it. No loss of life, and not too many injuries to show for the impulsive brawl. It could have been so much worse. Hope still doesn’t even understand what it was all about. She follows her captain back to their own beach camp. She follows him through the camp, settling the wounded, watching him check on every man without slowing down. Watching him favor his left leg the whole while, and otherwise ignoring his own obvious injury entirely.

When she notices that the size of the bloodstain suffusing the fabric of Vane’s trousers has definitely been growing, Hope finally approaches him. “It’s nothing,” he grunts, waving her off. “Now where’s Jensen? He came down with us, didn’t he?”

“You’re no good to him, or any of the men, if you pass out from blood loss,” Hope scolds.

Vane looks down at himself, mouth set in an ornery line. He brings the lantern in his hand close to his thigh, and wet blood glitters. He grunts, then puts all his weight on that injured leg and gives her a pointed look, brows raised high. He’s still drunk, she realizes. “It’s fine.” His usual growl grinds tighter across the words, though. And when he tries to take a normal stride past her, the leg buckles.

She reaches out to steady him and finds herself wrapped firmly underneath his arm. He lets her support his weight for just a moment, their faces so close as he studies her expression. His jaw still has a stubborn set to it. Her palms feel hot against his body, particularly the right, which landed close to his heart. “Back to your tent,” she orders. “Let me tend to it.”

His brows furrow and she pushes him up the beach before he can argue further. He takes one step with his weight on her, then shakes off her support while muttering something about the men watching. “Jensen?” he roars, still looking around the maze of tents.

“Sleeping it off,” someone shouts in answer, and only then does Vane turn back to Hope, ready to cooperate.

She scowls, shaking her head a little as she accompanies his limping path toward his own tent. “I wonder what will get you killed first – your loyalty or your stubbornness?”

Vane doesn’t answer. He may not have even heard it. When they reach his tent, he pushes aside the flap and all but collapses inside. Hope pauses for one steadying breath before bending to follow him in. The captain seems the type to be a very difficult patient.

The lantern he had been carrying is set just inside the entryway. Vane settles onto his bedroll, a weary noise escaping his lips now that there’s no one left to observe him but Hope. She’s going to want more light, to examine that wound properly. She looks around for another lantern amongst the smattering of personal effects he’s brought to shore.

There’s rustling behind her as she gets another light blazing. When she turns around, Vane’s got his shirt off, resting back on his elbows and waiting for her.

“I’m glad to see you’ve gotten yourself more comfortable,” Hope says dryly, “but that’s not the half of your body that I need to take a look at.”

Vane grins, and Hope tries to stop herself from blushing. His sun-darkened skin glistens in the lamplight, creating an all-together different effect on her than all the other times she’s seen the man stripped to the waist while sailing. He dips his head in acknowledgment of her words and lifts his hips to remove his trousers.

Her eyes register a long line of pale white skin being revealed to her gaze before she whips her head away, belatedly realizing he’s not wearing anything underneath. The image of the side of his bare ass is going to be hard to get out of her mind now, and she makes an irritated noise at the man. “Cover yourself, please.”

She waits, probably longer than necessary, before turning herself back to face her entirely nude captain. He’s lying back against a cushion once she’s gathered her nerve, with a blanket pulled over only his uninjured leg, and his unmentionables. And is the bastard smirking? She should march herself right out of there.

But then Hope’s eyes fall on the wound that’s been revealed and she forgets her modesty. “Uglier than I was hoping to see,” she mutters, worried, and drops to her knees beside his bedroll.

Vane makes an offended noise. Did he think she was talking about his body? How drunk is he? Hope is a little concerned that he doesn’t seem concerned about the wound in his thigh, slashed down the outer edge about a foot up from his knee. She brings the lantern closer and pokes at the bright red edge. When he doesn’t flinch, she presses a little harder, moving the flesh around to try and get a better idea of the depth of the wound.

“It’s not too deep,” she reports when she’s completed her assessment, “but it could use some stitching.”

“Told you it was fine,” he says gruffly. When she glances up, he holds her eyes. He’s given her many unreadable looks since she’s come to know him. But this one, while he’s laid out naked underneath her, with the flickering light so soft and warm, sends tingles through her body. “You good with a needle?”

Hope blinks. “Yes, yes,” she stutters, searching her pockets for her sewing kit. It’s another feminine role she’s tried to avoid getting stuck in, being the one who mends, but for Captain Vane she’ll make an exception. “Hold the lantern.”

She marvels that his arm doesn’t even waver as she cleans out the wound, holding the light up steady for her above his leg. His face remains almost serene, gaze already on her each time she glances up at him, as if watching her work is all he needs to ignore the pain. She pushes the errant thought away; more likely he’s just drunk enough to feel numb.

She can see the entire length of his body, bare from the swell of his shoulder, down his sculpted waist, over his hip bone and all along his pale white leg. It’s distracting, the way the eye is pulled to the crease where his thigh meets his belly, and—

And perhaps he’s not the only one who’s still a little drunk.

“Hold the lantern closer,” she says, and squints in closer to where she’ll begin her stitching. Tells herself not to think about the body that this leg attaches to.

She thinks she hears a little hiss of air the first time the needle goes in, but it might have just been the wind. When she dares look up again, Vane still has a straight face, contemplating hers.

“It was a foolish risk,” she says as she slides the needle in a second time. “If you took this slash just a few inches in toward the artery, you could have been bleeding out.”

His voice rasps only a little worse than normal. “But I didn’t. And reputations are maintained. It was not an insult Mackinaw could let slide.”

“And his name is worth our risk?”

Vane’s eye narrow. “He would do the same for me.”

“Are you sure?” The needle goes in again, and Hope feels the barest flinch in Vane’s limb. “I’ve known many that wouldn’t care a wit for the suffering of former crewmates.”

“Teach’s crew was different.”

Hope is the one to look levelly up at him, now. She’s heard tell of how Edward Teach came to leave Nassau’s harbor. “Perhaps so. But I would not expect they would still feel that way about Charles Vane.”

Her words cut him, she can see that. He flinches in a way that her prodding at his physical wound could not have caused. “Mackinaw had left before all that,” he says simply.

Hope nods, and drops her eyes back to her work. Just two more stitches ought to do it. Was he trying to make up for that betrayal, was he happy to sacrifice what he had in service to any member of that old crew that might forgive him for having helped Eleanor drive Blackbeard out of Nassau? These are questions she does not dare ask.

“Tonight was foolish,” she says again, after completing the last stitch. She bites off the end of the thread. “Foolish, but noble.” She still feels a small amount of shame when she thinks about the dispersed crew of the Starling, about being one of the handful who now serve under the very captain that had taken their ship and exiled her brother-in-law (although from the letters her sister sends, it seems that he is supporting her just fine pirating out of other cities). She can understand those complicated feelings, the ones that have no easy answer, when facing the fallout of one’s own choices. Any action that smacks of amends must feel like a breath of cool air. Now, exhausted and sobering up in the dim of Vane’s tent, brushing her arm over his lifted knee as she wraps his wound up tight, she finds that she may actually be admiring him.

Part V

Taglist: @pleasemelafook-outta-ere @ladyhubris @summertimesadness101 @acebreathesfire @kind-wolf

#charles vane x ofc #charles vane x oc #charles vane imagine #black sails fanfic #charles vane slow burn

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songfell-ut · 5 years ago

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Chapter 14 is gooo

Taking a short break after this. My hands hurt. Yep

The moment Sans appeared outside of Alphys’ laboratory, he knew he was going to hate this. He took in the good ol’ Hotland ambiance – mostly rocks, lava, and being too damn hot – then kicked the snow from his slippers, brushed off his overcoat, and banged on the heavy door.

It peeked open, and a yellow snout showed in the crack. “C-come in,” a voice said apologetically.

Sans rolled his eyes as best he could. “It’s me, Al. Move it, will ya?”

“Sans!” The door flew open, and the reptilian scientist backed up to look at him fully. “It’s r-really you! I thought the h-humans g-got you!”

“They did. I got better.” The giant skeleton bobbed his head at her as he stepped inside. “How’ve ya been?”

She smiled weakly. “Um...”

He nodded and went ahead into the main area, Alphys shuffling after him. The building was three stories, constructed of brick and steel in order to keep any mishaps contained. Now that he was using his sense of smell, it stank in here; Frisk’s workroom smelled like books and priestess and green things growing, but this was something acrid that made the magic of his nose and throat sting. “I’ve been w-working,” said Alphys, somehow phrasing it as a personal fault. “W-would you like something t-to drink? His M-Majesty brought t-tea.”

Sans came to a halt as he spotted a large shape moving from the back storeroom into the nook by Alphys’ first-floor library. The King of the monsters flipped a witchlight on, and it burned so bright that Sans had to shut his eyes. The humans’ lights really were a lot dimmer. “Welcome back, Sans,” Asgore said jovially, seating himself on a couch and gesturing for the skeleton to take the biggest armchair. “It seems you’ve had quite the adventure. How are you feeling? Would you like some tea?”

“No, thanks, Yer Majesty.” The larger boss monster wedged himself into the chair. “I’ve had a hell of a time. What all did the others tell ya, if I may ask?”

Asgore smiled thinly. His beard was longer than Sans remembered, and his hair looked like something had been nesting in it—as if they needed more evidence of how useless he was on his own, Sans thought. “It was quite a story,” said the King. “Would you mind telling me what happened again, please, from your perspective? But first…” He gestured over Sans’ shoulder.

Sure enough, Alphys was hovering behind him, holding something in one shaky claw. “Um,” she explained.

Sans scowled at her. “Don’t gimme that look, Al. I’m not gonna bite ya.” He extended his hand. “That’s a truth stone, right? I don’t care. I’ve got nothin’ ta hide.” Much.

“It’s m-mostly to check for any residual human m-magic that may be affecting you,” the scientist said, presumably truthfully. She allowed him to pluck the cobalt sphere from her grasp and skittered away with a speed that hurt his feelings a little. He and Alphys had never been the closest of friends, but…well, Frisk and her flagrant lack of fear had obviously spoiled him.

Crap. Whatever was in the stone was pretty damn potent, because thinking of Frisk made him want to say things that he had no intention of letting out until he absolutely had to. Asgore was suspicious enough of him having been around the High Priestess and other humans for so long; what would happen if he found out Sans had fallen for her like a ton of bricks?

“Now…” Asgore poured himself another cup. “How did you come to be in the humans’ grasp?”

Sans hadn’t minded telling Undyne all this stuff, but sitting here fiddling with the stupid rock while the King sipped his tea and watched him as if Sans was going to explode—that, he did mind. But he did it, starting with how he’d been out hunting poachers for a couple days straight without eating anything, getting weak enough to eventually be captured, and failing to kill the High Priestess when she came to make him that fateful offer.

Asgore was frowning, one hand to his chin. “She was sincere about taking you as her apprentice, with no attempt to harm you or steal your magic? Didn’t that strike you as odd?”

No shit, King Fluffybuns. “Yeah, it did, but she never even tried anything like that.” It was true; Gaster was the one who’d purloined a bunch of his magic. Sans wasn’t going to muddy the waters by bringing him up just yet. “I could tell she knew what she was talking about with the potions and stuff. She’s pretty sharp.”

“Yes, of course. Forgive me, but I want to be very clear: she subdued you without harming you, single-handedly?”

Sans’ socket twitched. “Your Majesty is correct,” he said stiffly. “She’s the High Priestess fer a reason. Her barriers are stupid powerful. I don’t think you, me, ‘n Tori put together could crack one.”

As he’d intended, the casual mention of Toriel made Asgore twitch right back. From her position behind Sans’ chair, Alphys cleared her throat nervously. “Are you s-sure? A human sh-shouldn’t—”

The skeleton held up the blue sphere, tapping it with one phalange. “Yeah, I’m positive. If humans had anythin’ like boss monsters, she’d be one fer sure.”

Asgore put down his cup. “And this extraordinary young woman also happens to be the child we knew as Kris? Is that correct?”

“Yep. She’s proven it beyond any doubt ta both me and Undyne.” Somehow, Sans doubted Asgore had made her hold the goddamned rock while she talked. “The others forced 'er to lie about bein’ a boy, but everythin’ else about her was real. She didn’t wanna leave here at all, and as soon as she got her memories back, she started figurin’ out how to come back with me. It happened sooner than we planned ‘cause the King tried ta sell some monsters out from under her. She got so pissed off that she broke the law and brought ‘em here on her own.”

“Got her memories b—ah, yes. Undyne said they were taken from her at the convent.” Asgore’s foot patted the floor a few times. “How old was she when she first visited?” he asked, with a new edge to his voice.

Sans frowned. “She said she was ten. She just looked a lot younger ‘cause they weren’t feedin’ ‘er. Why?”

Another slow pat, pat of fur on carpet. “Undyne overheard someone say the High Priestess was King Stephin’s illegitimate daughter. Do you believe this to be true?”

The giant skeleton looked at the blue stone, studying the patterns swirling in its depths. “I’ve seen how the King acts with her, and the guy I was talkin’ to had no reason ta lie. Puttin’ everything together, yeah, it makes total sense.”

There was no response. Sans glanced up. To his surprise, Asgore was staring into his teacup, his brow furrowed; the King set the cup and saucer down so hard that it sloshed all over the table. Sans had never seen him spill his tea before. “What about her other personal connections?” he asked brusquely. “Other friends and family?”

“Uh…” Sans craned his neck around to see if Alphys understood what was going on, but she was pushing her glasses up and looking at him in equal bewilderment. “Well, she’s got a bunch of half-siblings from the King, but she’s not real close with any of ‘em. One actually tried to kill ‘er while I was there.” Asgore blinked in astonishment, and Sans nodded grimly. “She doesn’t have any other family. She said ‘er mom was dead, and I haven’t had a chance t’ask her any more about it. Not many friends, just some lady she knew from school an’ a lot of guys wantin’ ta marry her.” He wrinkled his nasal ridge. “A lot of guys.”

Asgore nodded again. “I see. Thank you.” He finally noticed the puddle of tea, and used the hem of his already-stained cloak to mop it up. “You’ve spent a great deal of time with her. What do you believe are her true intentions? What does she gain from freeing monsters and antagonizing the other humans?”

“Frisk doesn’t think in terms’a what she can get, Yer Majesty,” Sans said irritably. “I know she sounds too good ta be true. I thought so, too, at first. But she really wants to help us, an’ she can do it better than anyone else. She’s already taught me how ta make fertilizer and a bunch of other stuff to improve our crop yields, and she’s got a whole plan t’get us outta slavery fer good—I’ll let ‘er lay it out for you whenever ya talk with ‘er.” He tossed the sphere from hand to hand a few times, then curled his fingers around it. “Did Undyne tell you about the farm on the river?”

The King stroked his beard. “She did, but I have difficulty believing it. I’ve seen that property myself, and I can’t fathom anyone buying it out of pure altruism.”

“’s not just altruism. She wanted t’do it before she even knew she’d been here as a kid, but now she remembers us an’ how much we all cared about her.” Asgore half-smiled in acknowledgment. With considerable effort, Sans forced himself off that tangent, concluding, “Frisk’s the real deal, Majesty. Turnin’ her down ‘cause she’s human would be the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”

The King sat back, eyes narrowed, and Alphys made a more-than-usually nervous sound. Sans fidgeted with the sphere. “Anythin’ else, Yer Majesty? I wanna get back home.”

Asgore’s gaze shifted from him to the diminutive scientist. “Do you have any questions, Dr. Alphys?”

For the first time, Alphys came around to stand in front of Sans. “Um…d-do you think she’d let me s-study her magic? I just c-can’t believe a human could be that p-powerful.”

Sans shrugged. “On the way here, she hid us with a barrier that kept people from seein’ or hearing me ‘n the wagons for over ten minutes straight. They couldn’t even tell the barrier was there.”

The King looked him, and at the sphere. Sans was rolling it around on his metacarpals at Alphys’ eye level, daring either of them to say he was lying. When Asgore remained silent, the scientist asked, “What else have you s-seen her do that m-most humans can’t?”

“Be a good person,” Sans mumbled, but the stone’s magic prodded him, and he had to add, “Here’s somethin’ weird. I was checkin’ on ‘er after she used up all ‘er magic on that barrier, and I ended up givin’ her a bunch of my magic by accident.”

Alphys’ jaw dropped. “You did what?” the King demanded.

Fuck. “Not like havin’ a kid or anything,” the skeleton said hurriedly. “I just…she’d been sick right before we left, so she was already a little run down, an’ I didn’t want us ta be stuck out there without ‘er magic.” That was true enough, but he had to physically stop himself from saying exactly how worried he had been. “I picked ‘er up, and next thing I knew, she was fresh as a daisy ‘n I was passing out. The exact same thing happened a few hours ago, right before I zapped us inta the Ruins.”

“I see.” Somewhat mollified, the King stroked his beard again. “Was she able to use any of your abilities, or did she convert your power into magic of her own?”

“She put a barrier up with it, so it was all her.” As he’d told Frisk way back in his prison cell, monsters were useless when it came to barriers; even if a human stole their magic and tried to use it to fuel a barrier, it wouldn’t stick. “Givin’ it away didn’t hurt me at all. It was jus’ like I’d been workin’ really hard, and I was fine the next day. I’m still a little tired from last time, but I feel like I just need ta get home ‘n go to sleep.”

“Hm.” At least Asgore looked thoughtful now, not angry or alarmed. “Has she ever passed any magic to you in a similar fashion?”

Something came into his mind and straight out his mouth: “No, but we did share a dream where she was able t’touch me, even though we were way far apart. Think that has somethin’ ta do with it?” Argh, that stupid fucking stone—

Luckily, this information didn’t seem to make as big an impression. Asgore just shook his head, looking helplessly at the scientist. “What do you think of all this, Doctor?”

“Hmmm…” The reptilian monster folded her arms. “The humans’ royal family has always had the g-gift of magic. She didn’t get any training as a ch-child, did she?” Sans shook his head. “That means it kept growing until she c-came to the Underground, and this environment p-probably stimulated it further. Humans who don’t use their magic as children will usually h-have more power as adults, and her magic didn’t manifest as anything d-destructive, so she was able to w-wait until the optimal time to learn how to use it.”

The King picked up the teapot. “How is she able to turn a monster’s power directly to her own use? And what about the shared dream?”

“I d-don’t think she’d be able to do that with a regular m-monster, Your Majesty. I think it’s because a boss monster’s S-SOUL is powerful enough that he had magic to spare, and his intention for her t-to have enough magic to p-protect them was the impetus.” She turned to Sans. “Have you been in proximity to her at another t-time when she needed m-magic and you wanted her to have m-more, or was this the first time those c-conditions existed?”

The skeleton thought it over, and had to shake his head. “Nah, this was the first time we were in that bad a situation. So, it’s not gonna keep happenin’ at random? It’s just ‘cause she needed it an’ I wanted her ta have some?” And we were cozying up? he managed not to add.

“I th-think so. It doesn’t hurt that you’ve spent so much time around each other, or that she’s been to the Underground and already l-likes monsters. Given that and your naturally strong c-capabilities, that could explain how her body was able to internalize your magic and express it for her own p-purposes. The same factors would facilitate physical c-c-contact in your dream.”

Sans nodded as calmly as he could, clamping his jaws shut as the truth spell urged him to say something about wanting to give her a lot more magic on purpose.

“Fascinating,” Asgore murmured. He absently picked something out of his beard. “All things considered, it doesn’t sound like she poses an immediate threat to any of us, and we may well benefit from her presence. Therefore, I will trust your judgment and Undyne’s, and allow her to stay for now. However, I will hold both of you responsible for her actions. Is that clear?”

“Sure, Yer Majesty.” Sans held the stone out to Alphys, who slipped into her coat pocket. “I’m gonna get goin’ now, if that’s all right.”

“Absolutely,” the King said, getting to his feet. “Welcome back.” He started to extend his hand, but withdrew it as Sans hopped up and started toward the door, hands in his pockets.

“I-I’ll see you out,” Alphys said quickly, covering the awkward moment. “If you’ll e-excuse me, Your Majesty—”

Asgore nodded, sinking back to the couch. A glance over his shoulder puzzled Sans: instead of being mad at the deliberate slight, the King was scowling and staring at nothing again, obviously back to his unhappy thoughts.

For once, Alphys went straight ahead of him, holding the door wide and closing it right behind them. “I didn’t w-want to ask this in f-front of King Asgore,” she stage-whispered up at him, and Sans obligingly knelt to hear her better. “Everything you were saying about exchanging your m-magic—are you…um…”

Sans gestured impatiently. “Spit it out, Al. Like I said, I’m not gonna—”

“A-are you in love with Frisk?!”

…Well, shit. Sans had forgotten how invested Alphys could get in any kind of narrative, and how quickly she’d pounce on any hint of romantic feelings between anyone, fictional or not. When he failed to immediately deny it, the scientist’s face nearly split in triumphant glee. “I knew it! The way y-you were going on, trying not t-to say too much—it was b-better than a whole p-play!”

“Shhh!” he hissed, though no one was even in sight, much less earshot. “Come on, Al! What would that even matter?!”

“Are you k-k-kidding me? Direct magical c-conversion doesn’t happen every day! It’s only possible between m-monsters in a reproductive context, and I’ve never heard of it at all between a monster and a h-human! Y-you gave it to her and sh-she used it twice!” The scientist slapped her own face and rocked side to side so gleefully that Sans thought she was going to keel over. “Everything I said to His M-Majesty was true, b-but there’s n-no way your magic could be interchangeable unless your SOULs had developed an incredibly strong b-b-bond!” Something like a tiny squeal. “I c-can’t b-believe this! You’ve g-g-got to promise me to b-bring her here tomorrow so I can s-see it for myself!”

“She was gonna come visit you anyway!” Sans protested. “I’m not puttin’ a show on for ya, okay? You can just study her magic!”

Alphys dropped her arms and gave him a look that made him more nervous than the entire interview with the King combined. “What?” he asked warily.

She held up one claw, then pulled a small device out of her coat. It was a square of glass set on a rod only a few inches long, framed with stones in eight colors. The scientist rubbed the white one and held it up as the glass came alive, flowing and surging within its frame like a drop of oil on water. “Hold s-still, please.”

Sans allowed Alphys to peer through the glass to check his SOUL, wishing more than ever that he could see it for himself. “How’s it lookin’?” he inquired carelessly, fooling neither of them. “What’s my LV?” A remarkably stupid question: it had been 20 for four or five years now, and LV didn't go any higher than that.

The scientist stared for so long that Sans had to reach down and tap her on the head. “Hellooo? Alphys? Ya there?”

Alphys didn’t move, except to say, faintly, “It’s 17.”

A very long pause. “I must be misunderstandin’ something,” Sans finally rumbled, “‘cause yer makin’ it sound like I lost a few LV. That doesn’t happen.”

“Be honest,” said Alphys, still staring. “How many p-people did you k-k-kill when you were with the h-humans?”

“Uh…one. Just…one. Someone who was tryin’ really hard ta murder her right in front’a me.” It was true, no matter how hard he thought about it. He hadn’t killed that group of poachers on his way back from bringing Snowdrake to the Underground, or even the fucking bastard who’d said something about her and called him names right to his face. “What does it matter? How would I even lose EXP? It’s not like I un-killed anyone!”

Alphys was starting to grin again. “I, er, w-won’t ask too many p-p-personal questions, but…do you feel…nicer when y-you’re around her?”

Sans scowled, but it was hard to keep up. “Are you sayin’ I’m gettin’ so mushy that it’s knockin’ my LV down? Remember the part where that’s literally impossible?!”

“These don’t l-lie, Sans.” The scientist waved the device at him. Sobering, she said, “I don’t th-think we should mention this to Asgore. He’s still a little, um, t-touchy about humans and m-m-monsters.”

“Agreed,” Sans mumbled.

She grimaced, and fiddled with the device, staring at the ground. “Um...d-does she still like p-plays? At all?”

Sans didn't know what to say. “If it'd make you happy, then yeah, I guess she does.”

“Hmm. I think y-you're probably right.” Alphys smiled in a quiet way he didn't usually see, then gave him that knowing look again, tucking the glass back into her coat. “I have a p-proposition for you. Just let me track your LV when you come here with Frisk tomorrow, and I won’t s-say anything strange to her about your SOULs. D-deal?”

He didn’t bother accusing her of blackmail: it was blackmail. Sans tried to look very scary, but she just folded her stubby arms at him until he stood up, said, “It’s too fuckin’ hot out here. See ya,” and was gone.

“Wow,” said Undyne. “That’s…wow.”

“Indeed,” murmured Toriel. She took another bite of apple, dabbing her mouth with the household’s single clean napkin. “You opened the box, and reclaimed your memories?”

Frisk nodded, cheeks glowing. “It’s been very hard,” she said, unable to keep a little quaver out of her voice.

This was honestly not what she'd had in mind. She'd planned to tell Toriel everything that had happened with Sans, explaining her mission and her plans for humans and monsters, and what a peaceful future could look like; instead, the former Queen had asked a few questions about her personal life, and now Frisk couldn't stop talking about it.

Toriel took her hand, breaking her out of her guilty thoughts, and Frisk smiled at her gratefully. “I think I’ve cried more in the past week or so than I have in the past year,” the priestess confessed. Not to mention more hugs in the last three weeks than the past three years. “So far, the second fortune seems to be coming true. Making it to the Underground was one of the hardest parts, so we’ll see how my plan might work from here on. And…” She coughed. “I’m not ashamed of what else might happen, I just…”

The air in the room got a little more heavy, the silence more complicated. They were sitting around the table in the chairs Undyne had charged out to grab from someone else’s house; Frisk had been feeling so emotional in general, and so grateful to have two other women to confide in, that she’d told them nearly everything, including the fortunes and the bit about having a child very soon. Undyne was visibly working up to the giant, inevitable question of “Who?” when the boss monster shook her head. “I hope, Frisk, that you’ll think very carefully before you make any decisions of that magnitude,” Toriel said disapprovingly.

Frisk was about to answer when all three women stopped, looked at the kitchen, glanced at each other, and did a sort of collective shrug. Toriel cleared her throat. “Besides abstinence, of course, do you know the steps you should take in order to avoid that outcome?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Frisk replied. Undyne looked lost, but Frisk wasn’t in the mood to explain human biology and birth control—it was awkward enough having to say why she needed to bring her bag with her to the bathroom. She also planned to never ask Toriel whether she thought a run-of-the-mill contraceptive would be sufficient against a boss monster’s magic.

“Well,” Undyne said firmly, moving on, “if it’s a big damn family you want, we’re not going anywhere.”

“Stop it, or I’m going to cry again,” Frisk scolded her, and they chuckled.

There was a more comfortable silence as they finished the last of the apples. “I hope this goes without saying, but if there is anything I can do for you while you are here, my child, you need only ask,” Toriel said, dabbing at her fur again.

“Actually,” said Frisk, “I would like a favor. We brought two wagons with us. One of them has gifts for everyone, and the other has a few provisions and my herbal supplies. Could you please check whether they’ve been inspected, and when we can go unload them?”

Toriel hesitated. Frisk understood why: it was a more official duty than Toriel had performed in a while. “I know it’s a lot to ask,” the human said, “but…”

“For you, dear, I will.” The boss monster sighed deeply. “I’d better do so now.” She folded the napkin and pushed her chair back. “Will you take her home with you, Captain?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I—” Undyne’s face fell. “Oh. Uh. Actually, my house is…”

Toriel sighed again. Frisk couldn’t help grinning. “Did you burn it down, or wreck it?”

“It was a training exercise that got too awesome,” the Captain said proudly. “I regret nothing! But, uh, I don’t have a house. I’ve been crashing with Papyrus.” She thumped the table. “Don’t worry, Frisk, I’ll stick with you. I’d do it even if His Majesty hadn’t ordered me to!”

Frisk winced, recalling what Sans had told her about the royal pair’s falling-out. A moment later, the fish monster caught herself and winced.

Sure enough, the former Queen’s hands were now gripping her robe, her eyes distant. “Did he?” she inquired. “How typical. Heaven forfend he speak to you or protect you himself, my child.” The boss monster shook her head. “You may either stay here or at the inn tonight, but starting tomorrow, my child, I’d like you to stay with me in the Ruins. You’re very welcome, too, Undyne.”

“But—” Frisk wished she could stuff the word back into her mouth as the monsters looked at her curiously. Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to say that that was too far from Sans. “We’ll see,” she said lamely.

Undyne nodded. Toriel studied Frisk for a moment before saying, “All right, then. I’ll check on the wagons before I head home. Good night, dear.” She got to her feet, giving Frisk another hug. “Sleep well, Undyne—” She raised her voice. “I don’t know why you’ve been lurking back there, Sans, but I hope you also sleep well.”

“Yeah, I know it’s your house, boss, but eavesdropping is creepy,” Undyne said in the kitchen’s general direction. “Good night, Your Majesty. It’s, uh…it’s good to see you again.”

Toriel smiled a little, and let herself out.

The giant skeleton emerged from the back room, grumbling something about privacy. “Oh, bullcrap,” the fish monster retorted. “It’s not our fault your magic’s so damn strong. A kid could’ve felt it when you came in.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sans went into the living room and stretched out on the floor, looking at them upside down. “I see Tori got my note. Must’a woke ‘er when I knocked.”

Frisk and Undyne exchanged nods of agreement to not tell him what’d happened. “How’d it go with Asgore?” asked the latter.

“Pretty much what I expected. He made me use a damn truth stone, but at least now he knows I wasn’t lyin’ about Frisk wantin’ ta help everyone.”

Undyne scowled. “That sucks.” She sniffed. “You know what? It reeks in here. I don't mind it, but Frisk deserves better. C'mon, pu—Frisk, we're going to the inn.”

The priestess glanced at Sans, who looked as irate as she felt. “Maybe—”

“That's great. Night, boss!”

It was no use. Twelve minutes later, Frisk was staring at her reflection in the hotel's bathroom mirror, listening to Undyne's energetic nighttime routine in the next room.

The human sighed as dramatically as she could, turning out the light. Oh, well. At least she'd be able to get some sleep.

Frisk was too tired to sleep.

For one thing, her brain just wouldn't stop berating her for not sleeping, and for being at all unhappy. She'd made it Underground! She was home! She'd hugged Toriel just a few minutes ago; Undyne was in the next room; the abused monsters were all safe with their families; Sans and Papyrus' house was in easy walking distance...

It was wonderful. It was everything she'd wanted so much as a child that she'd had to forget it to even function again.

...But she couldn't sleep, because she couldn't scoot over and curl up against her giant, grouchy apprentice, which he...probably still was? They hadn't talked about that. They hadn't talked about several things that they really should have already. She'd been exactly brave and tipsy enough the other night to convey her intentions, but that had been pretty one-sided. Just for fun, Frisk tried saying it to herself: I gave him homework to do before he can have sex with me. It...didn't sound better in her head.

She heaved a sigh and burrowed under the thick hotel pillows to escape her own thoughts. Could this situation be any more ridiculous? How many steps had they skipped in a normal courtship? Was it even a courtship if he was both desperate and terrified to touch her?

She didn't care. She just wished he was here.

Frisk must have dozed off like that, because when she sat up, the pillows tumbled off the bed. “Sans?” she whispered.

Something rustled by the door. The priestess fumbled for the lamp, but her hand encountered bone as he reached it first.

It should have been a lovely moment, but the light clicking on forced her to throw the covers over her head. Sans chuckled, giving her a little shiver. "Nice ta see you, too," he murmured.

Now Frisk was squinty and self-conscious. There had been just enough room in her satchel for her oldest, frumpiest, most easily wadded-up nightgown; she'd also forgotten to pack a hairbrush, and the hotel only had huge, saw-toothed ones for monster fur. “What are you doing here?” she asked, sounding more petulant than she meant to.

Pause. "Leavin', I guess," he said in evident displeasure.

"No!" Frisk flew out of the covers and grabbed for his wrist. "I'm sorry! Don't—"

"Hey, hey, easy," Sans said gently, sitting on the floor and smoothing her hair out of her eyes. Frisk moved over on her knees to bury her face in the white fur of his collar, and he rested his hand on her back. She missed the soft, disbelieving smile that crossed his face. "Just wanted t'check on ya. 's kinda weird bein' back in my stinky ol' bachelor pad with just me 'n Pap."

"I bet," Frisk said, petting the fur on his collar. "I wish we could find another bed big enough for you. Mine's been in that room for a couple of centuries at the very least, so it's not going anywhere."

He snorted. "I don't think my room's even big enough ta hold it. The whole room'd just be bed." They both considered this, and he said, "Honestly, I'd be okay with that," to which she had to nod agreement.

It was quiet, except for the snoring next door. "Is Papyrus still asleep?" asked Frisk.

"Yeah. I hope Tori got the wagons taken care of so we can feed 'im tomorrow." Sans lifted both pillows back onto the bed. "I'd be okay, 'cept ya went an' got me used to eatin' every day, so..."

"I'm not sorry." Frisk yawned. She was getting hungry for something more substantial than apples, but knew better than to ask. It was impossible to forget the fear of not knowing when she'd eat again; she had to remind herself that she wouldn't die from missing a couple of meals, and that the monsters had been living this way for years. If she had her way, it wouldn't be for much longer!

Sans was playing with the ends of her hair. "So..."

"Mm-hmm." Despite herself, Frisk was relaxing, her legs complaining about having to keep her upright. It'd been a very long day, and the little tugs on her scalp felt wonderful.

The giant skeleton nodded vaguely. "Alphys wants t'see ya," he mumbled. "She missed you, a'course, but she mostly doesn't believe me 'bout your magic bein' super-duper amazing." Frisk made a pleasantly indifferent sound. "And..." She felt him tense up. "You were right."

"About what?" she asked, opening her eyes, not quite looking up at him.

"Alphys checked my LV—ever heard of it?" She shook her head. "It stands for 'level of violence,' which is exactly what it sounds like. Monsters figured out how ta quantify it a long time ago, 'n mine's been 20 for years an' years. If it could go higher than that, I'd probably be in the forties or fifties by now. Well..." Deep breath. "It's gone down to 17."

"Hm." Frisk scratched her nose where a few white strands were tickling it. "Is it usually difficult to lower it?"

That must not have been the reaction Sans was looking for: he growled at her under his breath, withdrawing his hand. "It's not 'difficult,' kitten-pants, it's impossible. LV is what it is. There's no take-backs on killin' people. I shouldn't be so spoiled by livin' in a nice place with a nice lady an' nice food that I somehow got less evil. It doesn't work like that."

"You're not evil, Sans. You're not perfect, and you have done a lot of terrible things—" He grunted, and she persisted, "—but that doesn't mean you're irredeemable. If you were, you wouldn't care if you were evil or not."

He grunted again, which was not the answer she was looking for. Frisk poked his sternum. "I think you're looking at it the wrong way. You've been absorbing years of accumulated negativity down here, haven't you? What if you've been...I don't know, negating it with better emotions, or maybe sloughing it off like Gaster said? Would that account for your LV going down?"

He just shrugged, and she retaliated with more poking. "Then tell me this: did you kill anyone yesterday, before Undyne attacked you?"

His massive ribcage swelled, carrying her outward and back in as he sighed. "No. One guy said somethin' gross, so I stabbed 'im in the foot. That was it."

She believed him. "And if you'd encountered him a month ago, would you only have stabbed him in the foot?"

The orange of his eyes dimmed. "...No. I'd'a killed him an' all of his buddies, no questions asked."

"All right, then." Frisk absently ran a finger down his ribs, pausing halfway down as he twitched. Was he ticklish? "That's another thing: if your magic's poisonous, why didn't I get sick and die when you gave me some of it?"

The skeleton laughed, short and harsh, nudging her hand away. "I barely even know how ya got it in the first place, sweetheart. Don't ask me why it worked or didn't work a certain way. 'm still not okay with just goin' for it the ol'-fashioned way an' hopin' you'll be fine."

That was the second time he'd called her that. Frisk's heart was in her throat. There was no wine or home-ground advantage here; she had to jump right in. "So..." She tried to sound playful, and was pretty sure she just sounded nervous. "Is that a 'no' after all? You don't ever want to try it? I know you haven't had much chance to practice what I asked, but..."

He had stopped moving—no breathing, nothing. The priestess pulled back a little. "Sans?"

"Then what?" he rumbled.

Frisk's hackles rose. "What do you mean, 'then what'?"

"I mean, what happens if we do it 'n I don't kill ya? Then what?"

It was a reasonable question, and she'd just been telling herself they needed to talk about it. Now that she had to answer, though, her mind was a roaring blank. "...Then...that would be...good?"

His hand flattened across her back and shoulders. "Yeah. At the very least, you could cross it off the list of stuff that's gotta happen for monsters t'go free. Sucks that gettin' knocked up is part of the deal.” Snort. “Maybe it's not too late ta find someone you'd actually want the kid to look like. You've still got a zillion guys ta pick from. There's, what, a month left before the timing starts t'get—"

The priestess pushed away hard, ignoring the pain in her chest. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded, sitting back to stare up at him. "Is it supposed to be some kind of joke? Or are you saying I'd sleep with anyone in order to make everything else happen?"

He blinked, realizing exactly what he'd said. "Uh. When ya put it like that..." The skeleton tried to shrug. "Heh. Nah, I was...I was just kiddin'."

"No, you weren't!" She jerked a hand upward and snapped her fingers twice, creating a bubble in which she could convey her thoughts at the proper volume. "I know what a joke sounds like, and that wasn't it!"

Sans scratched the back of his skull, bone grating on bone. "Fuck. I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean what?" Frisk was too tired and hormonal for this! "What kind of shallow, selfish, irresponsible moron do you think I am, Sans?!"

"I don't!" The giant skeleton held up his hands, scooting back against the wall. "Wouldja calm down? Yer not dumb, or shallow, or whatever, and ya gotta be the least selfish person ever! Jus' forget about it, okay?"

"No!" She glared at him till he couldn't meet her eyes. "What were you trying to say? Was it, 'Frisk, I am concerned that you're rushing a major life decision for both of us based on something someone told you at a street fair, and I would like to discuss the long-term consequences, such as the ramifications of a child being half human and half boss monster'?"

"Yes! Exactly! ...Pretty much!"

"Then why didn't you say that? Why frame it as me being a shallow, selfish, irresponsible moron?!" The pain in her chest was getting worse. "No, don't answer that! Here's a better question: are you really that insecure? Do you honestly believe that the only reason anyone could ever love you was because they had to?!"

Sans looked as if the universe had crashed to a standstill. His eyes had gone blank, and his mouth moved a little, but nothing came out.

Frisk cleared her throat and swept her hair behind her ears, face burning. "I know you can't change how you think of yourself overnight, but until you do, I'm not going to sit here and let you insult me or you like that," she said, soft but firm. "Is that understood?"

No answer. His gobsmacked expression didn't change; in fact, he wasn't moving at all.

Despite herself, Frisk wanted to laugh. Poor Sans. He hadn't expected that word, had he? Purely to snap him out of it, the priestess said, "If you really can't make up your mind, then tell me so I can find someone e—"

"No!"

It was Frisk's turn to sit very still as the echoes died away. The boss monster glanced up at the barrier. He shook his head violently, scrubbed his face in both hands, and let his head drop back against the wall. "Look, I'm...I didn't think I was still so damn scared, okay? I thought I was gettin' over it, but when we're actually talkin' about this stuff, I—"

"You don't think I'm scared? I'm the one who's having a child!" If she had to spell it out for him further, then so be it: "Listen to me, Sans. I'm not doing any of this because a fortune told me to. It just helped me figure out how to get what I already wanted. Do you understand?"

His sockets slowly widened, his entire skull reddening, and now her face was hot again. "It's your turn to say something," Frisk mumbled.

Her apprentice rolled his head sideways, eyes flicking toward her, as if he'd scare her off by looking for too long. "So...ya really..." His voice faded and didn't come back.

Frisk desperately wanted to hug him again. Instead, she sighed, rubbed her breastbone – was it heartburn? – and summoned all her priestessliness to say, "Here's what I'd like to happen, Sans. We'll still be friends, I'll be your teacher, and you'll remain my bodyguard until we both decide otherwise. If you make up your mind and decide you want more than that,you need to tell me when you're ready. I won't bother you about it again."

Sans shifted his weight, but didn't answer. The priestess turned onto her side away from him, cuddling a pillow to her midsection—stress always made her cramps worse. "It's very late. In fact, at this point, it's very early. Please go and see if the wagons have been brought in, and have the gifts and the herbal supplies moved to Snowdin. The food can be distributed wherever it's most needed." She didn't hold in a yawn. "I'm going to sleep in for as long as Undyne lets me. We'll come to your house as soon as we're both up. All right?"

No response. "All right," she said. A click of her tongue, and the barrier was gone. Frisk got under the covers, rearranging the other pillow under her head. "Turn out the light, please."

Silence. The light clicked off. She heard him move toward the bed; something smooth touched her cheek, and without thinking, Frisk reached up and clasped his forefinger. "Good night, Sans."

His hand slipped away. Her chest hurt so much that she wanted to cry again.

...He hadn't gotten up yet. Could he tell that she didn't mean the calm, logical things she'd said, and how much she wanted him to stay?

No, it wasn't his job to read her mind, and at least one of them had to be sensible about all of this. Frisk stayed quiet, burying her face in the pillow as she heard him climb to his feet.

But instead of the whisper of magic taking him away, there came a shuffling sound and a soft thump, and another shuffle and thump; a whooshing sound, the smell of leather—the boss monster was removing his slippers and his overcoat, tossing them on the floor. Frisk sat up, trying to see him in the total darkness. "Sans, what are you—"

There was a strange feeling in the air, and a sort of grunting sound, analogous to a human trying to break wind. "There. Think I got it," he said after a moment.

That was strange; he hadn't moved, but his voice sounded much closer. Thoroughly confused, Frisk edged away as he sat down on the bed. The pain in her chest had almost disappeared, but she forgot to breathe as Sans shifted even closer. The mattress creaked, and his shoulder bumped hers as he reached across her lap, resting his weight on her other side and bringing his face just a few inches away.

Frisk's heart was thumping so hard that she couldn't think straight; she didn't understand what was so different about him until she reached up to touch his cheekbone, just below the light from his sockets. Suddenly, it hit her: she could spread her fingers and cover almost the entire side of his face. "You shrunk?" she squeaked.

Sans chuckled again, and Frisk felt-lightheaded. "Ya wanted me t'work on that, right?" He placed his human-sized hand on hers. "Ta-da." Pause. "Man. It's like wearin' clothes that're way too tight. Dunno how long I can keep this up."

Still in disbelief, the priestess rubbed her thumb across his nasal ridge, feeling his breath on her forearm. That explained why his eyes were only about a foot above hers now—it was convenient, but extremely disconcerting, to say the least.

"Till then..." He took her wrist. "Here's somethin' else I wanna try."

Frisk shook her head. "What do you mean? Something like—yeep!"

"Shit!" Sans dropped her hand like a piece of red-hot metal. "Did I bite ya? 'm sorry, I—"

"No! No, I just thought..." She tried to look at her palm, which of course she couldn't in the dark, wondering if she was losing her mind.

Sans let his head drop to her shoulder; she had the impression that he was getting ahold of himself before he sat back up and reclaimed her hand. Frisk tried not to jump as it happened again: he pressed her palm to his mouth, and instead of bone, she felt something warm and soft, exactly as if he'd kissed it.

She now had no idea what to say or what to expect. It was a huge relief to be drawn safely against him, his arms winding around her, stroking her hair and down her back. "So, yeah," he murmured into her hair.

At this size, his touch was a little less gentle than usual, not as light or careful, and he was holding her tighter. Her heart was doing the glued-together thing again; like every other part of her body, it reveled in being held like this, but it wanted her to move even closer and let him squeeze her harder. "Yes?" she managed.

"So...what all did you want me t'do again? Fix the size thing, make up my mind, quit hatin' myself?" The bones of his arms and ribs were starting to dig into her as his grip tightened. "Is..." He exhaled. "I still don't like me that much, so...is two outta three okay?"

Frisk's heart soared. She put her arms around him – all the way, for once – and let him bury his face in her neck, nearly crushing her against his ribcage. He was definitely hurting her now, but she didn't care—if anything, it wasn't enough. "Maybe," she said into his shoulder, playing with the folds of his shirt, which he obviously hadn't figured out how to downscale with the rest of him. "You don't have to be as confident as Papyrus, but are you willing to at least tolerate yourself?"

The skeleton shook his head a little, as if trying to rattle the words loose, then raised it enough to say, "I 'unno. 'm pretty lazy, an' it sounds like a lotta work."

"There you go again!" Frisk tugged on the shirt for emphasis. "You're not lazy. You've done so much for me and for the other monsters—would it kill you to do something for your sake?"

A long pause, ending on a shaky sigh. "Can I start with yer sake, maybe work up to mine?"

She closed her eyes, melting a little. "Deal." It was incredibly tempting to tell him how cute he was, but she didn't want to risk embarrassing him enough to start a full-blown pout. And as long as they were doing this... "Would you turn the light back on, please?"

A short pause. "Don't wanna."

"Why?" Inspiration struck: "I know I look awful, but you can just close your eyes."

"Wha—what kind of stupid crap is that? You—"

"Ha! You see?" She poked him in a random rib. "See what it's like?"

"Ha, ha, lady," Sans growled in her ear, making her pulse flutter again. He shifted his weight without letting her go. "'s not you, dummy. 'Sides, I can see pretty well in the dark already, 'member? I just figure I look goofy as hell, all bones and then this fleshy stuff hangin' off my mouth. At least ya can't see my tongue when I've got it out."

"Your...oh." Frisk's face was even warmer. "So that's what that was." Well, that was good to know. If he was worrying about how he looked with lips on, then that meant he planned to keep them on, which meant...

"Yep. I figured it out from bein' human. Wasn't that hard." Sans ran his phalanges over her scalp, and stopped dead at the sound she made. "Wouldja knock it off? I can't think straight when ya do that."

"Do what?" A sudden, kittenish impulse made Frisk run her nail down the back of his skull.

He growled again, much deeper. "That does it." Before she could react. Sans' fingers wound themselves into her hair, metacarpals spread in a loose grasp on the back of her head. She swallowed very hard, but let him tip her face up to his and lean in. His mouth brushed her lips, the lightest touch—

Frisk made another small sound, and to her frustration, his head snapped up. "What's wrong?" he demanded. "'s not my fault I don't know what I'm doin', I'm just tryin' not ta—"

He stopped as Frisk took his head in both hands. "Nothing's wrong. Now do it again," she whispered.

With a blink, and a deep breath, Sans let her pull him down to touch mouths again, but only for a moment before he ducked his head and dropped both hands for the first time. "You know...maybe this ain't such a good idea." She'd never heard him sound like this—not angry, but so self-conscious that he couldn't bring himself to look at her, even in the dark. "There's gotta be other stuff I can do fer—"

"Sans," she said, and when his eyes cut back to her, Frisk rose on her knees, groped around for the back of his skull, and leaned down to kiss him so hard that he had to catch himself before she knocked him over. Whatever magic he was using felt real enough to her: warm and yielding, it offered just enough resistance for him to kiss her back as his arms came up again, almost shyly.

She enjoyed the slow, deliberate movements for several seconds, then paused, silently daring him to stop; she was almost immediately rewarded with a hand threading its way back into her hair, pulling hard enough for a very nice twinge of pain. His other arm circled her waist, and Frisk scowled as his head moved down again. But a moment later, something sharp grazed her neck, and she cried out, grabbing blindly to keep him there.

Luckily, Sans seemed to have gotten the point. He chuckled, an almost predatory sound; something hot and damp trailed up the curve of her throat and along her jawline, his grip on her hair holding her in place so he could lick her neck again, and again, pressing his tongue hard enough to send chills and heat racing through her.

The boss monster let his teeth drift over her skin once more, a little edge of fear sharpening the pleasure. He nipped here and there, careful to lick anywhere he'd bitten too hard, until he misjudged and made her gasp aloud. When he paused to check on her, Frisk shook her head and leaned into him, humming the tiniest bit of encouragement.

That was all the invitation he needed: the world spun as Sans lowered her to the mattress, shoving the pillows aside and discreetly hitching up his baggy trousers. Frisk allowed him to settle himself most of the way on top of her, breathing deeply into the crook of her neck and giving it a few gentle laps. "You didn't mean it, didja?" he said, barely audible.

The priestess swallowed, trying to remember what the hell he was talking about. "I don't—"

He nuzzled her cheek, his phalanges tracing her collarbone. "I know ya didn't really mean it, findin' someone else if I couldn't make up my mind, 's just kinda..."

Frisk sighed impatiently. "I meant literally everything I said except for that."

Tap, tap went his fingers on her shoulder. "Everythin', huh?"

"All of it." Frisk rested her cheek on him. Compared to the incident in the bathroom, when all that had set him off was a glimpse of bare skin, he seemed in complete control of himself; maybe that was another reason he'd wanted the lights off. Either way, she wondered what would happen now. Was he going to go back to his house right away? Cuddle with her till Undyne got up? At this time of the month, it wasn't as if they could—

"'Kay," said Sans, with a different note in his voice. He shifted upward and kissed her again, more confident. Frisk started to speak, but forgot it when his tongue flicked against her lower lip, his hand working its way under her head. Her arms draped around his shoulders as her lips parted, and the feeling of his tongue sliding into her mouth made her whole body turn to plaster itself against him.

Letting him taste her was so absorbing that it took Frisk a minute to realize what his other hand was doing. The backs of his fingers stroked down her neck and along her collarbone, but they didn't stop there; his phalanges deliberately traced the side of her breast, and she was tingling in anticipation when his hand kept right on going to her waist, reaching under her thigh to pull it up so he could—

Frisk went rigid and shoved at his clavicle. The moment her mouth was free, she emitted a steady stream of "Waitwaitwaitwait!"s that brought him up short.

Very reluctantly, he sat up, and she grabbed a pillow to hold between them as an extremely ineffectual barrier. "What the fuck?" the boss monster snarled.

She could have slapped him. "Don't give me that!" she snarled right back. "No one said we were going any further than that, and we can't right now!"

Sans was panting so hard that she could feel it heating the entire pillow. "Okay," he said, trying very poorly to sound reasonable. "Right. Asgore, destiny, can't get knocked up yet blah blah—"

Well, at least she was too angry to be embarrassed. "It's not just that! I've got my period, Sans. You know, menstruation? Did you come across it in any of my books?"

He blinked again, this time in thought. "Yeah. Is that how you say that word? I think I was drunk when I read about it." He shook his head. "So you're...what now?"

God damn it. "I'm bleeding from the exact place where you were going. It's technically possible to go ahead and have sex anyway, but I'm tired, and it already hurts a little, and it would make a horrible mess, and I would completely hate it. That's why the answer is 'no' for at least four or five more days, and then there's Asgore and destiny blah blah. Understood?"

Sans' ardor seemed to have cooled. "Yeah, I get it," he said grudgingly. "Here, close yer eyes."

Frisk thought he was trying to go in for another kiss, but a moment later, the light clicked on. From behind the pillow, she felt another strange pulse of magic. "There. Man, that's better." His clothes shuffled; when her eyes had adjusted enough to look at him, he was back to his usual stature.

She waited, very patiently, and he eventually glanced at her. "So...d'ya want me ta leave?" A beat of silence. "Forever?"

"Of course not, unless you want me to think that you're not interested anymore," Frisk said before she could stop herself.

Squint. Glare. "Is this another thing where you're makin' up stupid crap ta prove a point?" She looked away, and Sans smacked his forehead. "Shit on a brick! No, I'm not ditchin' you 'cause I can't get laid right this second! I just figured..." Squirm. "That was really...y'know..." He sat down again, face glowing. "'m sorry. Did I hurt ya?"

Frisk winced. Now that the mood was officially gone, her neck was starting to feel distinctly chewed-upon, but she didn't want to talk about that. "No, I just meant my period. It's normal to have some pain or discomfort as your body's getting rid of certain things. Basically, it's Nature's punishment for not having a baby yet."

"Wow. That sucks big time." Scratch, scratch. "So...what can I do right now to not get in any more trouble?" he asked slowly.

The priestess gave him a wan smile. "That's an excellent question, but the answer is that you're not really in trouble. If you hadn't stopped when I said to..." She drew a finger across her throat. "But you did, and the rest of it was...fine." She smiled wider, though she couldn't quite look at him. "I think we should go to sleep now."

“Agreed.” Her heart sank as Sans stuck his feet into his slippers and retrieved his overcoat. The lamp clicked off. "Don' mind me," he said abruptly, and turned onto his side, the orange light of his eyes fading.

Frisk sat there for a moment, then climbed over the second pillow, to where his head was resting on the floor. "Good night," she said, and pulled the covers loose from the foot of the bed to get under them from the wrong end.

There was no response, but she felt him reach over to touch her cheek again. She squeezed his forefinger again as his hand rested on the bed; neither of them quite let go as they lay back down, and both swiftly fell asleep.

Bam. Babam. BambamBANG went the door.

Frisk jerked awake as light streamed in from the hallway. "What's wrong?" demanded Undyne. "Are you sick, or—"

There was a perfectly frozen moment as the Royal Guard Captain, in her fish-print pajamas and comfiest eyepatch, stared at the High Priestess, resplendent in her rumpled nightgown and a severe case of bed-head, and then at the bleary skeleton on the floor. Then there was no skeleton on the floor, only Frisk reaching for the lamp. Undyne blinked. "Uh..."

"Good morning," Frisk said, not being casual or sheepish, because why would she? "What time is it?"

Undyne scratched her neck, sweeping her loose hair aside. "It's almost eight o'clock. Don't expect me to let you sleep this late again." She glanced at the floor, as if doubting herself. "Rough night?"

Frisk looked at her, and she said, "Yes."

"That sucks." The fish monster came into the room and opened Frisk's satchel. "Not a lot to pick from, is there? You could borrow some of my stuff, but I don't think anything would fit. You're still pretty shrimpy."

"I'd argue if I could." Frisk yawned. "I'll see if I can go shopping later. In the meantime, I should have at least one clean outfit left."

Undyne did a quick, professional sniff test, locating the gown in question and turning to hand it to her. "Here. We've got a busy day. The wagons are ready to be unloaded, and I already had 'em take out...the food...for. Uh." Her eye widened. "That's...wow."

The priestess had been feeling fairly confident that she'd avoided any awkward questions for the moment, though she was dreading the hints Undyne would drop when they got to Sans' house; that wisp of security evaporated under the Captain's stare. "Wow," she said again. "I...damn! Seriously?!"

Frisk had no idea what she—oh. Oh, God. Oh, no. No no no no no—

Undyne had the decency to let Frisk run to the bathroom and stare at herself in the mirror for the count of twenty; then she sauntered in, allowing the human time to snatch her collar up to her chin. "Yep," said Undyne. "Here's your dress." She set it on the counter.

Frisk had another pathetic little hope that that was it, until she glanced in the mirror and saw that her friend's face was completely contorted with the effort of not grinning her giant, toothy, giant grin all over the place. "Really?" Undyne asked rhetorically.

"Shut up." Frisk stared dully at the bruises and occasional tooth mark ringing her neck. "Please, please shut up."

"Pffft! Like I have to say anything!"

"Shut up, please!"

Undyne was shaking her head, not as a threat so much as sheer disbelief. "I—seriously? No offense, but, Sans? I don't believe this!" Her grin faded a little. "Well...” She shrugged. “Not that it's anyone else's business, but just so you know, this is gonna mess some people up pretty bad." The grin faded to a smirk. "There's no way we can tell Her Majesty about this, or she'll turn him into a million toothpicks." It faded a little more. "I dunno how serious you guys are, but..." The smile was gone. "I don't think His Majesty would take it that well."

"Undyne, please don't tell anyone yet," Frisk said urgently. "Sans and I agreed not to let things get too far before I've spoken to Asgore about a peace treaty, and don't give me that look! This is as far as we got!"

The Captain held up her hands. "All right! All right! I know how serious you are about makin' peace, and about all of us. I won't mess that up." She straightened and gave a sort of salute, looking very stern in her pajamas and comfiest eyepatch. "My lips are sealed."

The High Priestess nodded. "Thank you." She examined her neck again in the mirror. Undyne closed the door, still shaking her head; when she was gone, Frisk finally permitted herself to smile.

#songfell #welp there we go #guess what also happened to me yesterday

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ooops-i-arted · 5 years ago

Note

“Who told you that?” For the 101 AU please

Din scanned his room, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. His armor was on, he’d packed extra weaponry onto the Crest, and he had extra supplies on board just in case his trip and stay on Coruscant took longer than expected. Skywalker had promised that he’d make sure Din got anything he needed and even offered his own place for Din to stay, but even though Din respected the Jedi Master well enough by now, he still preferred to be self-reliant.

He found the Mandalorians squeaker toy Ika’ika was so fond of under his bed and tucked it into a pouch on his belt, hoping it wouldn’t make any noise at the wrong time. All that was left was to retrieve his littlest one, and then they could depart.

The kids were outside, being entertained by Skywalker - they loved playing their sorcery games with an adult who could actively participate, not just repeat “Don’t lift me up!” - but Din had left Ika’ika in his crib because he was asleep, and needed the rest before the trip. He walked over to the bassinet in the middle of the room. “Ika’ika. Are you awake?”

He looked inside. Ika’ika was not there.

Din sighed. Impossibly tiny, so many genetic abnormalities Din didn’t even know if he would survive another year, only started crawling a few months ago, and he was still the finest escape artist of the entire clan.

Well, at least he’d grabbed the damn squeaker. “Ika’ika,” called Din. “Ika’ika. Come here.” He squeezed the toy, which squeaked obnoxiously. Nothing.

“Ika’ika.” He squeaked the toy again, pacing quietly through the room. “Ika’ika, I’ve got your favorite toy for you.” He activated his HUD, scanning for tracks, and to his surprise saw not Ika’ika’s miniature prints, but one of the older kids’ larger footprints.

“Ika’ika?” The tracks led to the hallway, over towards the kitchen and into one of the cabinets. Din switched off the HUD and squeaked the toy again. This time, a returning squeak came from the cabinet, along with a “Shh!”

Din crouched down and opened the cabinet, finding his oldest and youngest tucked among the foodstuffs. Ika’ika squealed happily, drooling down his front and immediately reaching out for Din, but Yod’ika shrank back, clutching Ika’ika tightly in his arms.

“What are you two doing in here?” Din asked. Yod’ika kept his mouth pressed tightly shut, clinging harder to Ika’ika, who giggled and squirmed.

“You need to be gentle with him,” Din reminded Yod’ika. He reached out a hand. “Give him here.”

“No!” said Yod’ika, to Din’s surprise, scooting further back into the cabinet.

“Yod’ika,” said Din, trying to sound both stern and patient. Yod’ika was never more prone to acting out than when Din was about to leave, but much as Din wanted him to be reassured he didn’t want Yod’ika thinking that delaying the trip was acceptable. “You know Ika’ika and I are leaving with Skywalker this morning. You need to give him to me.”

“No!” cried Yod’ika, yanking Ika’ika away and shoving himself further back into the cabinet. “No, I won’t let you!”

Now the light reached Yod’ika’s face and to Din’s surprise, he could see tears welling up in his son’s eyes. “Ad’ika? What’s wrong?”

The tears spilled all over Yod’ika’s face. “You’re g-gonna take him a-away!” wailed Yod’ika, clutching his littlest brother close. “Y-you’re gonna g-give him t-t-to doctors and they’re gonna keep him in a lab and - and -” He dissolved into sobs, unable to finish.

Din was torn between concern and sheer bemusement. “Who told you that, ad’ika?”

“I h-heard you and M-Mister Luke and M-Miss L-Leia t-talking about it!” cried Yod’ika. “Y-You’re gonna take h-him away and leave him there!”

“Of course I wouldn’t do that,” said Din.

“Yes you would!” screamed Yod’ika.

It was like a vibroknife had gone straight through his beskar. Of course, why would Yod’ika think otherwise? Hadn’t he taken Yod’ika - a little, innocent child who knew nothing about bounty hunting, only a Mandalorian he already loved enough to save him from a charging mudhorn - and left him in the hands of demagolke? Din had never figured out what had happened during those terrible few hours he’d left Yod’ika there, but the equipment he had seen and the fact that Yod’ika never, ever spoke a word about what he’d faced had been enough to convince Din it had been horrible.

Without thinking, Din scooped them both up and held them close. Belatedly, he wondered if he’d only scared Yod’ika more, but his son clutched tightly to his jumpsuit and cried, face buried in Din’s cloak. Ika’ika reached out for the toy that had fallen from Din’s hands, and it floated up into the air until he was able to nab it and start gnawing on it.

Din adjusted them both so he could pat Yod’ika’s back, rubbing circles on it and murmuring soothing things until finally the crying died down to sniffles, trying to think about how to explain everything to Yod’ika. He couldn’t leave like this, not with his son sobbing and afraid for his brother.

Carefully, Din set Ika’ika in his lap, making sure he was occupied enough by the toy and trapped in Din’s legs so that the clan’s master escape artist would have trouble trying to run. Hearing Yod’ika stop crying, he placed his eldest on his knee, wiping away tears from his face. “Listen, ad’ika,” he said. “I promise, I promise I won’t let anyone hurt Ika’ika. I am not leaving him. I am going to stay with him, and bring him back home. I promise.”

Yod’ika sniffled hugely, swiping at his tear-streaked cheeks, looking doubtful.

Din took the corner of his cloak to wipe his son’s face some more. “Do you remember what I told you? About why you have all your brothers?”

“Y-yes.” Yod’ika swallowed, scrubbing at his face, and continued, “You s-said they took my genes a long time ago, when I don’t ’member. From my b-blood or something. And they made lots of copies of me.”

“Yes, they cloned you,” said Din, his chest hurting. No child should have to know this, or have it explained to them.

“B-but when they made my vode they changed my genes,” said Yod’ika. “So they’re the same as me. But different too.”

“Yes, that’s right. Lots of differences, some you can see, some you can’t.” Din scooped up Ika’ika, keeping him from crawling up Din’s leg and setting him back safely in his lap. “Like what color your skin is.”

“’Cuz we’re all different,” said Yod’ika, nodding. “But especially Ika’ika.”

“Yes.” Din glanced down; Ika’ika’s almost-white skin was stark against the dark blue onesie he was wearing. All the kids were varying shades of green from genetic manipulation, or so the files he’d stolen from Kamino said, but where the others were subtle variations, not noticeable at a glance, Ika’ika’s pale green stood out. “Especially Ika’ika.”

Din chewed at his lip, trying to figure out how to phrase it and get Yod’ika to understand. “It’s not just color, though,” he said. “And not just the Kaminoans who changed the genes. The sample from you they had… as they got older, they degraded.”

“What’s de-grade-ed mean?”

“Um…” Din glanced around, thinking, then said, “Starting to break down. Like my old cloak, the one with holes in it.”

“Oh.”

Yod’ika nodded thoughtfully and seemed to understand, so Din continued. “The gene sample was breaking down when they made Ika’ika. So his genes aren’t just different, but some of them are… not the way they’re supposed to be either. Broken, or without the right copies he’s supposed to have. And because of that, he’s not as healthy as he should be.”

Yod’ika’s ears drooped as he looked down at his younger brother. “But you take care of him, Dad,” he said. “He doesn’t need anyone else…”

“Well, I don’t know everything, ad’ika,” said Din. He scooped up Ika’ika in a bout of need to hold the tiny precious infant; the baby rolled over in his hands and squealed in delight, unperturbed by the serious conversation his father and brother were having about him. “I can’t do a good job taking care of him if I don’t know what he needs.”

Yod’ika leaned forward; Din tilted his hands so Yod’ika could peer at his little brother, who was now entertaining himself by grabbing Din’s fingers and trying to eat them. “He looks fine. And he’s happy.”

“I know,” said Din. “And I want to keep him that way.” He caught Ika’ika before the baby could flop right out of his hands. “Remember he got a rash from that first kind of diaper we got him? And how he got sick from some kinds of food? It might get better as he gets older, or it might get worse. If someone looks at his genes, they can maybe tell me what kind of help he needs.”

Yod’ika scowled fiercely. “You are taking him to a doctor! In a lab!”

“Well, her title is doctor. And yes, she works in a lab. But she’s a geneticist.” Din stroked his son’s head reassuringly. “That means she knows about genes. She can help Ika’ika. She’s not going to hurt him.”

Yod’ika shook his head, starting to cry again. “You can’t take him there, Dad! You can’t!”

“Listen to me, ad’ika.” Din set Ika’ika down in his lap and cupped Yod’ika’s face in his hands. “This is not like the place I took you to before. Or the place where we found your brothers. Master Skywalker told me this place is safe, and I believe him. I would never take Ika’ika there if I thought he would be hurt.”

Yod’ika sniffled, glancing down at Ika’ika. “What if it is bad? What if they try to take him away from you?”

“Then I’ll shoot them.”

“What if there are lots and lots of bad people? Too many for you to shoot them all?”

“Master Skywalker said he would help me.” Din wiped a stray tear from Yod’ika’s cheek. “He knows about how we found your brothers. He promised he would tell me if Ika’ika felt too scared in the Force, and that we could leave any time we wanted to.”

Yod’ika scooted closer, curling up at Din’s side. “You won’t leave Ika’ika there? You promise?”

Din hugged him close. “I promise. Haat, ijaa, haa’it.”

Yod’ika leaned into the hug, staying there for a long moment before he reached down and picked up Ika’ika instead. “It’s okay, Ika’ika,” he said, clumsily rocking his brother, who giggled at the sensation. “Dad will take care of you.”

“Is he scared?” asked Din. Yod’ika in his oldest brothers were very good at picking up on what the babies felt, a skill he relied on frequently.

“No,” said Yod’ika. “He likes being with you.”

“Then he’ll be happy. Because he’s going to stay with me, no matter what,” Din told Yod’ika firmly.

Yod’ika held Ika’ika for a long moment, but then finally handed him over to Din.

#i was gonna do something funny and then thought no. let's do trauma!#101 yoditos au #the mandalorian #fic #ika'ika

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itsnotokbutwereallright · 5 years ago

Note

Oh! Oh! If you’re taking prompts from the Drabble list, could you do a #38/39?? Or your choice!!

This rambling brought to you by writer's block, margaritas, and a sudden urge to write instead of working from home.

*****************

"I'm just tired"

"It just...hurts"

The capacity for want had been beaten out of Natalia and the other Red Room girls early. They were taught that wanting something meant it could be used against them. Money, fame, and the attention of a beautiful woman were the most common desires of their targets; the Red Room trained them to ensure the third became the only. Natalia quickly became adept at manipulating men (and sometimes women) to succeed. They were taught first not to express wanting. If a girl wanted a specific weapon, it was used against her. If they asked for an extra portion, they went hungry. And if they asked to rest, the girl never came back to her bed. Instructors repeatedly hammered into the girls that their only desire should be to serve the Soviet state; anything else was a weakness, and there was no weakness allowed in the Red Room. The girls learned not to ask for anything, and they learned to accept what they were given.

One time, at the end of what had been a particularly bloody mission, she caught herself wishing she had more discretion about who died at her hands. She made the mistake of asking her handler why even those in their beds had to die. Her arm was broken and she was forced to sleep in a concrete cell for a week without medical care for questioning the orders she was given. It was a painful, but effective, lesson. Wishing led to wanting.

It wasn't until a man in black with a fucking bow and arrow was chasing her through Eastern Europe that anyone brought up wanting with Natalia again. When he finally cornered her in Budapest, panting against a wall with blood in her eyes and an arrow aimed at her heart, Hawkeye asked, "Do you want to hear an offer that doesn't end with an arrow in a vital organ?" She'd been planning to catch her breath so she could break his hands. The recruitment offer had sparked a pain in her chest that she'd grit her teeth against as she nodded.

The next few days were a blur of questioning, testing, and more instances of that chest pain than she was willing to acknowledge. People kept asking her what she wanted, so Natalia did what she had been taught to do - manipulated them into giving her an indication of what they wanted and pushing that agenda forward. It was determined she was able to be released to the SHIELD base at large after only four days. When she walked into the cafeteria for her first meal outside of a cell, all eyes were on her until she slipped on a friendly mask and went through the line. The agents cautiously turned back to their meals, except for Hawkeye (Agent Barton, she reminded herself). He studied her with those cool blue eyes and a wry twist of the mouth as she sat, then stole the pudding cup off her tray. It was a game she'd been playing for as long as she could remember, and she knew better than to show a reaction. It turned that twist into a frown, but Natalia ignored it as she ate the vegetables off her plate and diverted him with asking about the various facilities. He'd want her to take an interest in her new home.

Clint would needle her into making choices between two things - pineapple on pizza or no? Milky Way or Three Musketeers? Cats or dogs? He normally did it at a time where she was focused on something else - once, memorably, as she was hanging out the passenger window trying to blow out the tires of an SUV that was chasing them through the streets of Puerto Vallarta. She'd been annoyed about that one and took it out on him on the mats - in the middle of the night, after she dragged him from his bed. Afterwards, as he lay panting on his back, he gasped out the logic. If she didn't have time to think, if he could get her brain to turn off, it became more of a gut instinct. She couldn't play off of what people wanted to hear, he'd said while side-eyeing her. The searing pain in her chest stopped her from acting on a want right then. She'd strolled to the locker room only to collapse with shuddering breaths as soon as the door closed. Natasha resolved that she would get rid of this trigger on her own. No matter how long it took.

Six months later, she hadn't progressed much beyond smacking Clint's hand away from her pudding cups and stealing his fluffiest blanket when she came to his room. There would be plenty of times that Clint flashed that grin at her, the one so sure of itself, that she had to step back to keep the pain from showing. The smile dimmed a little, but it made Natasha work harder for the day when she could show how she felt.

A year after that, Natasha had started stealing the cookies off his tray, and was firmly team pineapple. She was able to go to him on particularly rough nights (the hospital fire, waking up to the smell of smoke in her nose and a ringing in her ears) and ask to stay - always on his couch. He didn't ask about the bed after her first vehement rejection of the idea.

It was another six months before she could say the words to her mirror. The day that Natasha convinced herself to say them outside of her room, she walked into breakfast to find him sitting hip to hip with an agent named Bobbi - sharing a muffin. The heaving in her stomach had never been a sign of a trigger before, so she could only blame herself. Natasha dipped her head courteously as she nabbed an apple and headed back out to the gym. Stupid girl - wanting is weakness. The faintly Slavic accent couldn't be ignored, no matter how much Natasha had changed since the Red Room. They were right all along. It would just have to be packed away and ignored. She'd done it this long, she could keep doing it.

Except that she couldn't close Pandora's box once it had been opened. Every laugh, every secretive wink, every time Clint showed up to a briefing late and flushed, it was like a dagger to her heart. Natasha pushed herself as hard as the Red Room had taught her and tried desperately to forget. The risks that she took on missions became greater; Coulson and Clint side-eyeing her in briefings but unable to argue with results. And that pain in her chest became more and more frequent, until it was just a continuous pain that made her want to scream that Clint was HERS. Still she kept quiet, though the distraction of Clint and Bobbi started causing mistakes. Little ones at first that only she noticed, but they gradually became larger. When they were panting in a warehouse in Istanbul (not Constantinople, dammit Clint for singing that on the way here) it was clear she had Fucked Up. They had found temporary cover and Clint was cursing in several languages as he tried to staunch the bleeding from her abdomen.

"What is going on with you?! You've been in black ops for as long as you've been alive! What the hell were you thinking?!"

She shook her head. She hadn't been thinking. At least, not of the mission. She'd been thinking about the slim gold band she'd seen Bobbi Morse wearing in the cafeteria this morning. One that matched the ring on the chain Clint stashed in his locker on the Quinjet before they disembarked. "I'm just tired."

He snorted at her. "Oh, spare me the bullshit. You could beat these assholes with only your pinky toe if you had your head in the game." They heard the roaring of ATVs at the same time. "Keep the pressure on that. I'll take care of this and then we're going home to figure this shit out." She shook her head again, but he ignored her and moved to high ground to take out the gang they had been assigned to monitor. Once that was done and the emergency evac was on its way, Natasha pretended to pass out to avoid the discussion. She did actually pass out from shock at some point, she assumed, as she woke up in a white room in a med bay with fresh stitches and an IV. Clint had his dirty boots on her bed as he played an invisible drum set to music only he could hear. It was just another thing she lo-

Sharp pain, gasping as she came off the bed. Clint jerked up and tried to grab her so she didn't run. "Tasha, Tasha, I'm here! You're safe! It's okay!" Shallow, rapid breaths as she tried to focus on something other than the necklace that she could glimpse beneath his collar. "Come on, Nat, deep breaths," he tried to soothe as he reached to jab the nurse call button.

"Back. Up," she managed to force out as she slapped his hand away from her remote. A panic attack. God, if Ivan could see her now. Yelena would kill her in a heartbeat. Clint jerked back, more from surprise than anything else. Hurt showed in his eyes, but he stayed with her. Natasha forced her breathing to regulate. If this is what her body was forcing her to, she would have to fess up. It took several minutes to get her breathing under control, but Clint stayed the whole time. "Sit down and stop staring at me," she grumbled at him.

"Excuse me for being concerned," he snapped, but he sat. "Does this mean you're ready to explain?"

Natasha closed her eyes and nodded. "You don't get to say anything until I'm done." It wasn't worth checking for a response. "I love you, Clint. It's not fair for me to say that to you, not with what you and Bobbi have, but I can't not tell you. It just...hurts. I've wanted to say something for two years, but I was trying to break the conditioning and I couldn't even out, and then when I could it was too late, and ever since then it's just been pain and I feel so weak and I hate it," her breathing started speeding up again and she had fistfuls of the sheets as she tried to anchor herself but couldn't and she ruined everything and…

Clint placed his hand over hers. "Two years?" Natasha slowly nodded, not loosening her grip on the sheets. "What a mess," he sighed. Natasha squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to cry in front of him. "Tasha, I've loved you since that day you let me steal the pudding off your tray without breaking all of my fingers. I waited for you to be ready. No one should go through what you've gone through. You survived, and you deserve to set your life on your terms. Bobbi and me? It was a bet that escalated really quickly. She's got her sights set on some British hot shot, and I've been busy pining after my partner." A tear leaked out of her eye and was brushed away, causing her to open them. "I want you, Natasha."

Finally, finally she could say the words. "I want you, too." He moved to capture her lips and she put a hand on his chest. "I also want a shower. And some food. Like pineapple pizza."

"Aw, Nat," was Clint's answering whine.

"And then? We'll see what else we find out I want."

He laughed, loud and long, and was allowed to push the button to call the nurse. "Let's get out of here."

#clintasha #writing #fanfiction #prompt response

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callboxkat · 5 years ago

Text

A Little Nightmare (part 7)

Author’s note: Here’s some quarantine reading for you all! I hope you are all staying safe, healthy, and relatively sane in this very weird time. Enjoy the chapter!

Warnings: Fear, arguing, injury and illness, death mention, (kind of) lying, peer pressure, food mention, and a dog

Word count: 2700

Infinitesimal Masterpost!

...

“So, should we go do this once you’re done with your coffee?” Joan asked, probably wanting to do the whole let’s-meet-the-totally-not-murderous-dog thing before Remy changed her mind.

“After my coffee… and my nap.”

“Your nap? Didn’t you take one earlier?” Joan asked.

Remy frowned up at them. “What, are you policing my naps now?” Her headache was not improving her already short temper. “I did almost die, you know. I think I’ve earned the right to be a little tired.” And while the coffee should have been helping with that, it didn’t seem to be, which was frustrating as hell.

“No, no—sorry. ‘Course you can take a nap. You don’t need my permission. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that.”

“Hm.” Remy settled back down, grabbing her coffee cup. “If you say so, babes.” She put the aluminum foil cup to her lips and hummed in satisfaction, her eyes closing.

“I’m glad you like the coffee,” Joan offered. “I did also get the caffeinated kind, if that’s something you like. Maybe you can have that tomorrow morning?”

Remy opened her eyes with a startled noise and stared up at them. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, I—”

Remy cut them off. “What do you mean, you also got the caffeinated kind?”

Joan’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. They didn’t seem to know what to say.

“What, you think I just drink this stuff for the taste?” she snapped. That was part of it; obviously, she sure as hell wasn’t going to drink something that tasted bad; but she wanted her caffeine. “I asked for the good kind of coffee, not the fake kind!”

“I’m sorry,” Joan said. “I’ll… um, I’ll get you new coffee. The caffeinated kind.” They reached forward as if to take the tray.

“Get out,” Remy snapped. “Let me take my nap.”

Joan hesitated, then started to get up, the guilt palpable in their expression and the way they moved. They paused. “So… are you still going to see Marco, or…?”

“I don’t know, maybe!” She glared at them. “Now get out! And don’t come back unless it’s with my caffeinated coffee.”

Joan wiped a hand across their face. “Okay… is an hour long enough?”

“Two hours,” she said, already bundling herself back in the blanket.

“Two hours,” they reluctantly agreed. She heard them pick up the tray, then walk to the door and open it. “Sorry,” they repeated once more, before shutting it behind them.

…

Remy opened bleary eyes to the sound of knocking.

“Five minutes,” she mumbled, closing them again and snuggling further into the blanket. She was warm, cozy, and pleasantly sleepy. Her responsibilities could wait.

The knocking came again. “Nunya?” a muffled voice called.

Remy shifted, remembering where she was. She pushed her face into the blanket with a groan.

The door opened.

“Coffee?” Remy asked, lifting her head and watching them grumpily.

“Yep, I’ve got it,” Joan said, holding out the tray in their hands. “And I got you more ice. Mind if I leave this stuff here, and go get Marco? I want to take him outside real quick.”

“That depends. Is it caffeinated coffee this time?”

“Yep, it’s caffeinated, as promised.”

“And am I going to be interrupted by your mutt?” Coffee and dogs did not go well together, which Remy felt should go without saying.

“No,” they sighed. “I’ll put his leash on in my room, take him out, and keep it on until he’s back in my room. No chance he’ll come in here.”

“Good,” she muttered, starting to push herself up. “Now bring it over, girl, I don’t have all day.”

Joan carried over the tray, which held the same sugar cubes, shot glass of milk, single small cookie, and aluminum foil cups as before. The second shot glass, the coffee, had been refilled. It looked the same, but if Joan were to be believed, should now hold proper, caffeine-infused coffee. They set it down before her and put the baggie of frozen peas next to it.

Remy started to get up, noticing that her headache was much better than earlier.

“Need anything else?” they asked.

“A new rib cage would be nice,” she commented, although her words weren’t as biting as they might have been. She waited until they drew back, then moved towards the coffee. She pressed a hand to the shot glass. Still warm, but she supposed they could have just reheated the same stuff.

She looked up at Joan. “If this is more of the same un-caffeinated sh*t, we’re going to have words,” she warned.

“It’s caffeinated,” they assured again, looking weary, before gaining a slightly mischievous glint in their eyes. “I’m sure you’ll see, with how much of it you drink. I swear, you’re a bottomless pit.”

“Fair,” she granted, almost smirking at the sass they shot back at her. She scooped up a cup of the coffee and drank, nearly burning her mouth. Delicious.

“Alright, I’m gonna go get the boy. See you in a bit.” They looked her over for a second, as if making sure she had everything she needed, before they left.

…

“So what’s this brilliant plan of yours?” Remy asked, in between munches of her cookie. “The one you said I wouldn’t like?”

Joan, standing just inside the room and still wearing the jacket they’d put on to take Marco outside, shrugged. “Well, I was thinking that the kitchen would probably be the best place to do this. The best way would be if Marco had a crate… but I got rid of it about six months ago.” They shook their head, as if they should have somehow foreseen this situation. “But since he doesn’t, I was thinking that you could sit on the counter; and he’ll be down on the floor, away from you. The, uh, blanket sled thing seemed to work pretty well yesterday, so I thought we could get you there that way.”

Remy could see the glaring problem. “And… how exactly am I getting on the counter?”

“Yeah… that’s the iffy part. I’d have to pick you up and put you up there.”

“What’s Plan B?”

“Um.”

“Right,” she sighed. “I thought we agreed—no carrying.”

“We did,” they admitted.

“So?”

“Well—” They shoved their hands in their pockets. “I thought maybe you could make an exception. Just one. Or, I guess, two, technically.”

Remy gave them an unimpressed look before taking another bite of her cookie.

“I’ll get you more coffee?” they offered. “Let you drink some on the counter?”

“You already got me my coffee.” She still had some, in fact. And unless Joan was going to threaten to take that away, they couldn’t use that as a bribe or leverage.

“Um… is there, I don’t know, something else you’d do it for?”

“I don’t know. Impress me.” She couldn’t fold her arms with the baggie of peas resting on her chest, so she just gave them an expectant look.

Joan thought for a long moment, then seemed to get an idea. “You like the taste of coffee, right? Not just the caffeine?”

“…Yeah? Why?”

“Have you ever tried coffee ice cream?”

…

“How do I know this coffee ice cream of yours is really even a thing?” Remy asked, not for the first time, standing off to the side while Joan shook out the blanket to use as a sled. She glanced at the open door behind them a couple of times, despite knowing that the dog was still locked in Joan’s bedroom.

“Have I lied to you yet?”

“How about that fake no-caffeine coffee?”

“Okay, fair. But I did bring you coffee. Twice. I didn’t lie then, why lie now?”

Remy grumbled something under her breath.

“Alright, I think you’re good to get on.”

Remy took a deep breath, then walked forwards, towards the blanket. At the edge, she stopped, and looked up at Joan. “I’d better not regret this,” she warned.

Joan nodded, and she sat down, clutching the coarse fabric in her fists.

“Ready?”

She looked up at Joan, who held the other end of the makeshift sled aloft, and nodded apprehensively.

“Cool. I’ll go slow. Just tell me if you want me to change the pace or anything.”

She let out a small, shuddering breath, trying not to think too hard about what they were doing. “Okay.”

Joan started walking, and the blanket tugged taught before beginning to drag Remy behind the human. It was a somewhat jerky ride at first, the blanket bumping over the carpet, until they reached the hall. Then it was much smoother, other than the occasional ridge where one floorboard ended and the next began.

Unlike last time, when she hadn’t felt well enough to do much except hold on to the blanket, Remy looked around at the hallway they were in. It was painted a soft, warm beige, picture frames and art covering the wall across from the bedroom doors. As with any human structure, it was quite large, but it must have seemed more homey to Joan.

Joan went very slowly over the threshold into the kitchen, since there was a larger bump there.

“Anywhere specific you’d like to be on the counter?” Joan asked. “I’ll bring you as close as I can on this.”

“Um…” Remy spotted a part of it with a container full of spoons, a bread box, and a toaster. It seemed to have the best prospects as far as hiding spots went, in case something went wrong. “There,” she answered, pointing as best as she could without hurting her chest.

“Right there?” Joan pointed at the same spot.

“No, on top of the fridge.”

Joan chuckled. “Just checking.”

Remy made a thoughtful noise, ignoring the thrum of anxiety growing within her. “You know, maybe that’s not such a bad idea. It’s up high. Plus I’ll be even taller than your freaky giant-ness”

“He’s a dog, not a giraffe,” Joan joked. “And I’m actually pretty short, believe it or not.”

She frowned. “What’s a giraffe?”

“Never mind.”

Remy dropped it, but put the question aside for later, just in case it turned out to be important.

“So, can I bring you over now, or…?”

“Mmmm-hm,” she responded, tightening her grip on the fabric

Joan started walking again, bringing her right up to the wall of cabinets before stopping. The hum of the fridge was easily audible beside them.

Remy took a moment to steel her nerves. Joan didn’t object.

“Don’t touch me,” she requested. “I know you’re going to, like…” she swallowed, “…but don’t touch me. Please.”

“Can I pick you up in the blanket?”

Remy swallowed, then nodded, tensing. Joan knelt down and started slowly gathering up the blanket. Remy let out an involuntary squeak of fear as she felt herself move, and they froze.

“Did I hurt you?”

Remy’s voice was rather shaky as she responded, “Oh, girl, you’ll know if you hurt me.”

“Do you want to stop? We can figure out another way.”

You’re going to get coffee ice cream, she told herself. It’ll be worth it for the coffee ice cream. And who knows? Maybe Joan’s actually right. Maybe it really will be easier to relax once you actually see the dog.

(Not likely, she thought. She was mostly doing it for the coffee ice cream, obviously. And to see if she could figure out for sure what had driven those other littles out of here. But mostly the ice cream.)

They hesitated for another second before continuing what they were doing. Remy’s heart pounded as she was carefully scooped up and lifted in the air, but she managed not to make another sound. The few seconds that passed before she was set down on the counter felt far, far too long.

She waited for Joan to draw back, catching her breath. She silently registered that she was in fact unharmed, or at least no more harmed than before. Then she got up, stepped away from the blanket, and sat down on the counter top, looking around the kitchen as she did. She made a point of fixing her outfit, so she looked and felt more put-together.

“I’ll go get him, then?” Joan said, clearly wanting to know if that was okay with her.

Honestly, she wanted to wait, or to just call it off altogether. But prolonging this might only make it worse.

“Just get it over with,” she forced out.

Joan nodded, and walked back down to the hall. Just before they disappeared from sight, they said, “If it’s too much, let me know, and I’ll get him out of here.”

“Yeah… sure.”

Joan returned a few minutes later, preceded by the sound of jangling collar tags and tapping claws. Remy’s fingernails dug into her legs.

The dog came around the corner, and Remy’s eyes were immediately glued to it. It was… not what she had expected. It was a lot smaller than she’d feared, much more fluffy, and kind of silly looking. But it was still a dog, and it was still much larger than she was. She was very glad to be on the counter, and not on the floor.

Joan had the dog—Marco, she remembered—on a short leash, all but about a foot of its length wrapped around their wrist and hand. The dog was hopping as much as the leash allowed, excited, looking up at his master. His pink tongue lolled, his brown eyes bright and his ears pricked. Remy was mostly focused on the teeth.

“Heel, Marco,” Joan said in a stern voice. The dog immediately calmed down, or tried to. Mostly. “Good boy.”

They stopped at the other end of the room. Remy had scooted back at some point, her back against the bread box.

“Sit,” said Joan. Marco tapped his paws on the floor, looking up at them, then did as they commanded. “Good.”

Remy swallowed. The dog looked away from Joan, and then finally spotted her. Both of them froze. Marco’s tail started twitching, but he didn’t get up.

“This okay?” Joan checked.

Remy’s mouth was dry. She couldn’t look away from the dog. Sure, it was a short, goofy-looking thing, but a lifetime of ingrained instinct was hard to ignore.

…

At the tiny young woman’s silence—not even a sarcastic retort—Joan bit their lip. They took a step back. This might not have been their best idea, after all.

At the movement, Marco glanced quickly up at them, then back at the girl on the counter. He let out a small, excited whine, his tail sweeping the floor.

The girl’s face paled. A moment passed.

Marco seemed to realize that his new best friend was afraid of him. He stilled, his ears going down slightly. He paused, then lay down, putting his head between his paws. His tail swept shyly across the floor, and his big brown eyes occasionally flicked up towards her before looking away.

Joan could just imagine him saying, “Look, see? I’m not scary! I’m a friend!”

Joan looked back to Nunya, wondering if they should get Marco out of there, or if it would just make things worse if the dog moved. For now, they just shortened the leash a little more, and waited, hoping for the best.

Slowly, slowly, she seemed to relax, at least a bit. She inched forward, away from the bread box, looking down at the dog.

Joan was tempted to say something, to encourage her; but they held their tongue. Marco was waiting hopefully, his tail the only part of him moving.

She stopped a few inches from the edge of the counter.

Marco sniffed in her direction, ever-hopeful to make a friend.

“Um… hi,” she said awkwardly.

The dog seemed to sense the change in atmosphere, and he got to his feet. The girl on the counter flinched slightly, but she clearly intended to pretend it hadn’t happened, and Joan didn’t mention it.

“Are you okay?” Joan asked.

“No, not really,” she said. “But, hey, he hasn’t eaten me yet, so there’s that.”

“I’m sorry. This was… maybe not my best idea.”

She laughed dryly. “That coffee ice cream had better be good.”

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