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sqyyadina · 6 months ago

Text

wrap me in your arms like i'm made of glass.

Pairing: Lorraine Warren X Reader

Word Count: 7.5k

Tags: possessed!reader, exorcism, self flagellation / self harm, disordered eating, mommy issues, hurt/comfort!

Summary: You've been fighting an evil spirit on your own for months, until an angel falls on your doorstep, and you no longer have to fight alone.

Author’s Note: This one is sort of dark, ee!! Sometimes a girl just needs to write an exorcism, I guess!! This is my first go of anything horror/angsty, so uhm.. it might be kinda bad. This is also on my AO3!!

It hates the cold.

As do you.

Yet somehow, as you lay by the flung-open bay window, watching the tiny, crystalline flakes fall to cover your once-blossoming hydrangea bushes, you feel your head silence for the first time in weeks. The lightweight blanket draped over your knees isn’t much help to fight the tremble in your fingers, which are wrapped tightly around a mug of hot chocolate— you’ve been falling victim to your sweet-toothed cravings lately, considering this very well may be your last chance to do so.

The television across the room hums whatever country music variety show is on this early in the morning; a few cars pass by outside, splashing up muddy sludge into your front yard. You can’t help but wince at the action. You once dedicated so much time to perfecting your lawn, just for all of that hard work to become irrelevant in a few short hours. It’s probably been decades since this town last saw any snow. You’d never seen so much as a cold rain in your few decades of living. It seems that Hell’s finally frozen over. It’s a shame you never paid attention in church long enough to find out what to do in such an event.

You’re feeling weak. This isn’t a new sensation. Weeks’ worth of sleep interrupted by family photos flung off of walls in the middle of the night truly does begin to take a toll on a young woman’s body. Not that you ever had much energy to begin with, what with the early mornings spent tending to horses and late nights attending to sick barn cats.

It’s quite shocking just how much energy a demonic being inhabiting your body saps up.

It only takes a few minutes, lounged by the window and focus blurring out on the white mounds of snow, for you to loll off to sleep, cocoa spilling onto your favorite quilt, but you’re not lucid enough to notice.

It’s a very gentle knock at your door that rips you from your slumber. Your encounter with whatever beast has been haunting your every move has made you an incredibly light sleeper. At this point, you could be woken by a light breath against your face. You believe you already have, a few times now.

It’s incredibly difficult for you to stand from your position on your once pristine, now chocolate-stained sofa, but you make it upright eventually. The blood comes rushing to your head at the sudden swing upright, your feet heavy against the cold hardwood floor that you never bothered to buy a rug for. Your feet were calloused enough, there was no need for comfort for something already so broken.

You cling desperately to the heavy front door that, by some act of God, you manage to swing open.

The light you’re met with is blinding. You’re not sure if it’s the sun’s rays beating off of the snow and directly into your eyes, or if the woman at your doorstep just naturally emanates such a light.

“Hi there.” Her voice is so kind and warm that your entire body feels like you’ve been sat next to a fireplace. Once your eyes fully adjust to the light surrounding your savior, you notice that her face holds a slightly bewildered look, but like she’s trying to hide it. To remain professional, to not let you in on the fact that there’s quite literally a demon hanging over your shoulders.

You take her outstretched hand in your own, shaking it weakly, and as you do, her expression is replaced by a frown. “I’m Loraine Warren,” She hums, wrapping another hand around yours, seemingly trying to bring heat to the five icicles you call fingers. “and you’re freezing.” You muster up a lackluster smile, ruminating in the warmth from the hands wrapped around your own for as long as she’ll allow. Your visitor doesn’t pull back until you do, to let her into your home.

Mrs. Warren has clearly not come prepared for this entirely unforeseen snow, seeing as she’s dressed in a plaid, tea-length dress, with only a light cardigan hung from her shoulders. There wasn’t a single weatherman on any of your very limited channels that had predicted this sort of weather this far south of the Mason-Dixon.

“Thank you…” You begin, leading the taller woman to your living room, where you practically fall to your position on the sofa again. “For coming to meet with me, Mrs. Warren. I’m so very appreciative.” Your eyelids are heavy, and your cheeks hurt with the strain of a smile, but you still force yourself to engage as delicately as you can with this woman, both for the beauty that you find so enticing, and for the fact that she very well may save your life.

The affliction you’d been suffering for the past few weeks of your life… you weren’t entirely sure what it was. At first, waking up standing in the kitchen and holding a knife to your own throat was something you could pass off as a traumatizing night of sleepwalking. The sudden headaches and physical aversion to reading your leatherbound, heavily annotated bible made you think you had suffered a concussion from falling out of bed one too many times.

Seeing the Warrens on your favorite morning talk show was what led you to raise your own suspicions. The way they spoke of a young girl in Poughkeepsie who had begun levitating in the middle of the night, who began seizing when she was read the word of God… You couldn’t help but see the similarities.

You couldn’t have possibly called the demonologists sooner.

On the phone, you spoke to a man. He was much heftier with the way he spoke, clearly the extroverted salesman of the team. He seemed skeptical, and unwilling to leave his home in New England, as he had every right to be. You very well could just have the flu. But you knew, deep down, that you didn’t, and it had to be them. It had to be. You had no other hope of surviving against your oppressor if you had to fight it alone.

Your frantic begging must have been loud enough for the people close to Ed Warren to hear, because as soon as you finished your rambling about how miserable you were, a distant, soft voice came from the other side of the phone.

Ed, listen to her. She needs us.

The line then went muffled, he had placed his palm over the receiver in hopes to hide the fact that they had begun arguing about you. You couldn’t quite make out what was said, only that the woman, Lorraine, very much wanted to come to visit you, and Ed did not.

It was as if by miracle that Lorraine showed up at your door only a day after your phone call.

“Please, call me Lorraine.” The older woman returned, standing above you. “May I ask why you have the windows open? It’s just so nasty out there… it may affect your health, sweetheart.” There’s a little glimmer in her eyes when she presses the back of her hand against your forehead, which, much to her surprise, was just as cold as your hands.

A stubborn frown returned to her pink lips, and Lorraine quickly closed the two windows behind you.

“The cold helps.” You say plainly as Lorraine moves around your vintage furniture to close the windows on the opposite side of the room.

“What do you mean?” She returns to your side, placing your quilt atop your knees and finding another to cover your shoulders. She then sits on the sofa next to you, delicately maneuvering herself underneath your blanket as well.

You blush a little, hiding your face behind the large mug that you’d once discarded.

“This… thing. Whatever’s inside me… it hates the cold.” You reply, staring down at your feet, which wiggle to regain the feeling that the cold air had taken away.

“How do you know?” The clairvoyant muses, reaching up to pet the hair that’s turned into a mat behind your head. You’ve had a horrible go of taking care of yourself lately, with things as simple as brushing your hair disappearing from your mind for days at a time.

“It started snowing just last night… Since then, it’s been quieter. I’ve been able to take control of my life again, at least a little bit.” You hum, leaning into her touch, which has dropped to press comfortingly to your shoulder. “But as soon as I lit a fire, tried to get warm, it all came back. The chaos. The… evil.” You shudder to remember the noise that’s filled your head for the past few days. The screams, the whispered urges to harm yourself and others. It’s like you’ve been sent to your own personal Hell, like God finally punished you for the way that you look at women like Lorraine.

“You’re a very perceptive girl.” Lorraine offers you a smile, and you find that it may not only be the cold that calms you. Her presence has offered you more solace than any pain killer or chamomile tea has offered you in your entire life.

You try to giggle, try to accept her praise, but her warm touch, paired with your general lack of sleep, has made it truly impossible for you to remain at all upright. You slump over, dropping your cocoa once again, head landing on Lorraine’s shoulder.

“I believe you.” She whispers quietly, maneuvering your shoulders so that your head lays on her lap. The words are all you’ve ever needed to hear. To be assured that you’re not going crazy is all you need in order to finally fall asleep, and the hands that press warmth into your neck and forehead are the best medicine you could take.

You fall asleep in less than a second, your ears muffling all the noise in the room, yet you can still hear your visitor humming along to the tv as your muscles relax into the sofa.

♱

A soft whine escapes your lips before your eyes open. It’s a combination of bright light and tugging at the back of your head that wakes you up, and as much as you detest being stripped from the best sleep you’ve had in at least month, you feel rested enough to accept it.

“I’m so sorry. Keep sleeping, little one.” Your brain fights to register who the voice belongs to, but judging by the fact that you’ve only received one visitor in the past weeks, and the fact that no visitor you’ve ever met has had such a honey-coated voice, you remember right away. It’s Lorraine.

It’s Lorraine, and the light tugging you feel is a comb being pulled through the hair that hasn’t met such a thing in far too long. You’re hit by a sudden wave of embarrassment, knowing that the state of your hair must make you look so pitiful, like a child that can barely take care of herself. You hide your face in your hands, whining once again, hiding from the yellow light of a lamp above you, and from the fact that you look such a mess in the presence of one of the most well-kempt women you’ve ever met.

“I’m all done.” She purrs softly, running her fingers through your now untangled hair, tucking it behind your ear. You sit up, face beet red as you do so. You’re sure you’ve never felt more embarrassed in your entire life.

“Thank you…” You stutter out, voice heavy with sleep. “I’m sorry for falling asleep. I just… haven’t in quite a while. I hope I’m not taking too much of your time.” You glance up at her, eyes squinting to view the porcelain skin adorned by a smile. Lorraine Warren must truly have the kindest heart in the entire world to spend time taking care of someone she’s only just met.

“Don’t you dare apologize.” She says quite firmly, pressing her hand against your cheek, and you can feel yourself becoming addicted to her touch. “I want to take care of you.”

You feel a warmth in your cheeks, and a certain tingling in the pit of your stomach. You’ve never heard these words before, and the last time anyone had earnestly taken care of you was… well, you don’t really remember. It was probably in your early childhood, but even then, you weren’t too sure.

The butterfly wings in your stomach are quickly replaced by a different sensation, a large growling that just about reverberates through the living room. You’re filled with another bout of humiliation, and grip your stomach tightly. You’re also not too sure when you last ate.

A ginger hand presses against your stomach as well, and it dawns on you just how close to the older woman you’ve become. She’s pressed against you so much that you’re nearly sitting in her lap, and her other arm is wrapped around so very tightly around the small of your back. Lorraine is quite the touchy woman, and you couldn’t be more appreciative of such a character trait. You lean into her hands greedily, head tilting over to rest on her shoulder once more.

“Can you stand?” She hums, pressing her cheek to rest on the top of your head.

You nod slowly, not quite too sure that you’re telling the truth, but if Lorraine wants you to stand, you’ll stand. And you do, pushing hard into the ground, thankful that before all of this mess you were at least regularly active, and your body was fairly well maintained from throwing bales of hay.

“Good girl.”

The words make your knees go weak, weaker than they already are, and you falter a little in your steps. You thank God that Lorraine has such a strong grip around your waist and is able to keep you upwards.

“Show me your kitchen?” The clairvoyant asks softly, and while you do just as you’re asked, her steady gaze washes over each little family portrait, each corn husk doll, even the sunhats you’ve worn so much that they’re full of holes. One may see her wandering eyes and find her to be a terrible snoop, but Lorraine is doing her job, gathering every piece of evidence she can to use against your demon. She wants to know everything about your past and present so that she may rid you of this retched thing.

She gets no clue as to what suffering has conflicted this household from the photos of a quite happy family hanging from your walls, but she can sense it in the way the house creaks with her every step. There’s an evil lingering in these walls, and Lorraine can feel it.

“I’m… I’m not sure there’s even any food that’s still edible.” You speak gruffly as you arrive in the kitchen that overlooks your barn that was once such a brilliant red, and now stands with peeling paint and water damage. It’s a proper metaphor for your own status. You haven’t been in this room in many days, and the sight of wilting flowers and rotting vegetables depresses you immediately.

“I’m sure I can make do.” Lorraine shoots you that oh-so very reassuring smile once again, and leads you to sit at the dining table that’s only ever been set for one. “When was the last time you ate?”

It’s a dreaded question. A question that, once again, you don’t have a clear answer to. You think the last thing you ate was a handful of boiled peanuts… or was it oatmeal? Lately you had only had incredibly unpleasant dreams about food, and your brain has been so occupied by so many voices, that sustenance was the last thing on your mind.

“I’m not sure.” You muster in response, and Lorraine’s frown returns once again. She’s not mad at you, only furious at the creature that’s taken hold of you, keeping you from living a healthy life.

“You need to keep yourself fed.” Lorraine speaks softly, peeking out from behind the cabinet she’d begun rummaging around in. “Communing with the being, and an eventual exorcism, will take a lot of energy.”

She speaks so calmly about something that is so terrifying to you. You weren’t raised Catholic, and didn’t know much about their traditions, but the interview that you had watched of the Warrens spelled an exorcism out to be one of the most dangerous, mortifying acts that one could participate in. You trust Lorraine entirely though, and are filled with the knowledge that if she has to do such a thing, she will treat you delicately, and cause as little harm to you as possible.

It's only a few groggy minutes before there’s a plate laid in front of you, and by some act of God Lorraine has found another chair to sit in. She’s pulled up right next to you, and while you’re a bit surprised she hasn’t chosen to sit across from you, her choice is very welcomed. The heat from your plate warms your face, and you press your hands against it in hopes that they’ll warm as well.

“It looks delicious.” You look up to the women through your heavy eyelids, weakly grabbing hold of your fork to start lifting potatoes to your mouth. “I can’t believe you were able to make this so quickly! Thank you so very much.” You smile to her, licking your lips, stomach so very grateful to the woman beside you.

“I’ve always been a good cook. My husband is never very appreciative of my skills.” She laughs softly, but you can tell it’s something that truly upsets her. If you were lucky enough to live in a home with Lorraine Warren and have her food for every meal, you consider yourself to be in Heaven. From your short conversation, Ed didn’t quite seem to be a wholly grateful man. “You’re not married.” She then says, taking a sip from the old whiskey glass that’s now filled with water.

Her words are more observational than questioning, and it causes a twinge of discomfort within you. You’d always been questioned for your spinster-like nature, women in your church always wanted to set you up with their sons or nephews. You’re such a pretty girl, they’d say, why on God’s green Earth aren’t you dating anyone?

It was impossible to tell them that you’d never want to marry a man, even if someone held a gun to your head.

“No…” You reply awkwardly, and the word turns into a yawn, leading you to cover your mouth with one hand. “I’ve just… never met the right person, I guess.” You huff, kicking your elbow up on the table and resting your chin on your fist to keep yourself propped up. Who knew something as simple as lifting a fork to your mouth would be so difficult. “Or… Well…” You start again, feeling almost too comfortable in Lorraine’s presence to share a little more. “I’ve just, never really been interested in anyone.”

When you drop your fork to your plate with quite the dramatic tink, that same loving hand returns to your lower back. Lorraine has taken your fork between her perfectly manicured fingers, and lifts another bite towards your lips, which you not-so-gracefully accept.

“Well, that is a shame.” The brunette responds, and though you can’t see it, there’s the tiniest hint of a smirk on her face. She seems to be a bit too pleased by your loneliness. “I do hope you’ll find someone soon. You are so deserving of love.”

You’re not sure if you’re deserving, but you’re damn well desperate for it.

Lorraine continues to feed you, lifting small bites of vegetable to your lips while whispering her gentle praises after each bite. Your face is now permanently pink, with each of her cooing words turning you into a little mess beneath her. You’re connected at her hip once again, legs tangled around each other under your gingham tablecloth. You’re so very lucky that you never receive any visitors, for you deign to think of anyone’s reaction to your little displays of minute affection.

“I was hoping I might stay with you here. I always find it more helpful to fully integrate myself into the lives of someone I’m helping.” She hums once you’ve finished all of your food, and she can move onto her own. You lean against her shoulder once more, eyes closed, yet you’re completely awake. Her sentence is entirely shocking, yet you’re completely excited by it, and couldn’t possibly accept her request quicker.

“Yes, of course!” You hear the over-enthusiasm in your voice, and hope you haven’t come off too strongly. You sit up to meet her gaze, blushing just from the way she looks at you so sweetly. “I only have the one bedroom, I’m afraid. It’s a bit of a mess at the moment, but I can wash the sheets, and you can sleep there! I spend most of my time on the sofa anyway, I’m happy to sleep there.” You nod cheerfully, hoping with all of your heart that she’ll not be too deterred by your excitement.

“Don’t be silly.” She smiles, lifting her hand to gently pet your hair, her fingernails grazing your scalp in a way that sends a tingle down your spine. “I’ll take your bed, but only if you’re in it as well. If that’s alright with you, of course. I just want to keep an eye on you.” She winks, and it’s that moment that you feel your soul leave your body. You choke on your own saliva, coughing a few times. You’ve been sitting so close to Lorraine today, that you shouldn’t feel so strange about sharing your bed with her, yet it brings a worried feeling to the pit of your stomach. When you explore that feeling more, you’ll find that it’s really excitement, and a desperation to sleep next to another body that you’d never knew you had.

“That’s fine by me…” You stutter, trying to hide the eager smile that’s threatening your lips. You chew on the insides of your cheeks, your hands finding their way to some fabric, not knowing if it’s the tablecloth or your shirt or maybe Lorraine’s skirt. Whatever it is, you grip it tightly, trying to force all of your delight on an object rather than voice it. “It’ll be good to share each other’s’ body heat… it gets so cold at night even without the snow…” Your voice is trembling a little, betraying how fast your heart is racing.

You’re ready for the sun to go down now.

But you still have a few hours of sunlight left, and Lorraine fills it with questions about your family history, about your experience with this malevolent being, and just about your daily life. She wonders what it is that you do for fun in such a small town, and you feel shy to admit that you rarely leave the house except to go to church. That leads her to talk about her own religion, and it’s so mystifying to hear her speak about her passion for Christ. She speaks in such a profound way, like she’s spent time as a pastor, though you’d never once met a female pastor. Lorraine is certainly a better speaker than all the old men that lead prayer at church and quote the same bible verses into monotony.

She proudly shows you the rosary around her neck, explaining the story behind it with the most adorable sparkle in her eyes. When you take the metal in your hands, wanting to share in her passion, it burns. Burns like you’ve just pressed your hand flat into the cooktop of an oven. You recoil in pain, but when Lorraine attends to your palm, there’s no sign of a burn.

“It… It stings.” You whine, looking down at your hand in disbelief. You’ve never felt such pain, and the fact that it’s not left a visible mark is messing with your head so much that your eyes begin to well with tears.

“I know it does, sweetheart. I know.” Lorraine hums, holding you tightly, lifting a thumb to wipe at your tears. “Ointment won’t help it, I’m afraid. It’s the spirit reacting through nerve induction. It will go away soon. I promise.” The demonologist quickly stuffs the rosary down the neck of her blouse, wanting to hide everything that causes you pain. Lorraine hates to see you in such a state, and though you don’t comprehend anything about this spirit, her brain is working overtime to plot a strategy to rid you of this beast.

You sit together for another half hour, Lorraine consoling the pain that has long since disappeared thanks to her sweet whispers and distracting stories. You nearly fall asleep on the sofa once again, and she can see it, so without having to ask, she takes you up the stairs and to your bedroom.

“I’ll just go down the hall to get myself ready for bed. I’ll be right back, I promise.” She hums, pressing an innocent kiss to your forehead before leaving the room. Watching her walk away from you shatters your heart into a million pieces, but you know she’ll come back through the doors quickly. You trust Lorraine’s promise.

I need to change before she gets back, you think, but your body simply won’t allow you to move. You’re stuck to this bed, to this soft mattress that you once so adored, but now only fear for the horrible dreams it brings upon you.

You sit in this fear, for how long you’re not certain, before Lorraine returns. Her hair is combed through yet still has that lovely, silky wave to it, and she’s dressed in the prettiest white nightgown. She looks like an angel, in shiny white linen. She’s just missing the wings and halo. You feel a warmth rise to your cheeks, seeing her in this state, a state which she’d probably only ever been seen in by her husband. You feel so scandalous, like you should avert your gaze, like God is going to find you sinful for looking at her like this, but your eyes are locked onto this heavenly body in front of you, and you can’t pull away.

“I’m sorry I—” You begin, hands gripping at your shirt, trying to indicate to her that you’re upset with yourself for not getting dressed in her absence.

Lorraine only tuts at you, placing down her bag before rounding to your side of the bed. She helps you stand, and begins through your closet, looking for a nightgown for you to wear. Much to her chagrin, however, all she can find is dirty jeans and some oversized t-shirts, which makes her feel pity towards you, but also causes a small giggle to escape her lips because she finds the clothing choices so adorably fitting for a young farm girl. She settles on the least stained of all of your shirts before returning to your side.

“May I?” Her voice is low, knowing that you’re the only person in the world that needs to hear her. When you nod, she pulls your blouse over your head, and she develops a blush of her own to find that you’re not wearing anything beneath it. You try to hide, snaking your hands around your chest, a new warmth between your legs as you realize that Lorraine’s hands are wandering over your body, the pads of her fingers lightly prodding your exposed skin.

“You sweet thing. You just need someone to love you.” Your savior hums, delicately examining all of the bruises that cover your skin. You’re not even sure where they all came from, just that they developed fast. A few concern you more than the others: the ones shaped like fingers and teeth marks. They never hurt at night, but the fear that strikes you every morning when you reveal a new marking in the mirror is something that you never want to feel again.

Lorraine presses another small kiss to a bruise on your shoulder before helping you pull the sleep shirt over your head. She reluctantly, yet with the complete confidence that she’s carried herself with all along, pulls down your pants in one swift motion. You’re back in bed before you know it, Lorraine tucking you in tightly and making sure you’re perfectly comfortable before taking her own place beside you.

Your brain is rushing, not with the demonic thoughts that you’ve had all this time, but with so many feelings that you never knew existed before meeting Lorraine. You feel horribly antsy, like you have enough energy to run laps around the house. You miss the tiredness that had been affecting you earlier this morning, it was going to be quite difficult to sleep tonight.

“I’m so very glad you came to help me.” You whisper, voice shaky with nerves as you turn on your side to face the woman who’s already turned towards you. You can feel how close your bodies are, yet they aren’t touching, and your brain is working overtime to decide if you should close that space between you.

Luckily, Lorraine is making all of your decisions for you.

You feel the soft skin of her legs first, when they wrap around yours, holding them still. Her right arm is next, draping over the curve in your waist so gently, yet she has the firmest grip on you, like she won’t let you leave even if you tried. You’d never try.

“I…” You start again, shifting even closer to Lorraine, placing your hand on her chest so you can feel her heartbeat. You pray she can’t feel yours, for its beating is so quick it’s probably quite dangerous, and you’ve already worried her enough. “Since you’ve been here, my brain has been so… still. So quiet.” That’s not entirely true, as the angelic woman in front of you has only replaced all of your thoughts, but it’s close enough. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” She whispers back, voice so low and gravelly with her own sleep, so that you have to lean even further forward to hear her, and your noses nearly touch. “I haven’t done my job just yet.”

You tense, suddenly filled with worry about what will happen when Lorraine eventually does what she’s come here to do. If your still-burning pain from merely touching a symbol of the Lord is any indication, you’re in for a wellspring of hurt when you wake up in the morning.

As for now, though, you’re completely safe, protected by your guardian angel, and you can sleep soundly for the first time in far too long. You fall asleep under Lorraine’s grasp far quicker than you’d like, as you’d really prefer to stay awake and really cherish the soft circles she’s rubbing into your flesh, but your eyelids fall shut on their own accord.

Lorraine, however, stays up a bit later, watching your face for any sign of nightmares, wandering hands exploring your curves as if looking for clues, soothing you into the deepest sleep of your life.

Lorriane wakes groggily, yawning while rubbing at her eyes with balled-up fists. She notices first that it’s still not light outside, that she still has time to sleep. Though she won’t, because a panic rips through the woman when she registers your absence. She shoots straight up out of bed, body moving to wrap herself in one of your mother’s old house coats faster than her brain can function. It’s on sheer instinct that Lorraine wraps the rosary around her hand and stuffs her small Bible into her pocket.

She races through the creaky old home, feet freezing against the hardwood floors that whine with each of her frantic steps. Lorraine shouts your name and is only met by her own voice echoing back at her. She searches each room of your house, her eyes still blurry from sleep. She whips open cupboards and is even sure to peek into your attic, which you haven’t so much as thought about since inheriting the home.

A worry is settled across Lorraine’s face when she makes it into your kitchen, but her expression turns to true fear when she sees that the lock on your back door has come undone, and the door isn’t settled into its place in its frame. She searches for any pair of shoes she can find and settles for a pair of boots that barely fit her feet, but their steel toes will at least protect her from the elements. She’s shivering, and her eyes are watering so much that the tears turn cold against her cheeks. The demonologist places a hand over her chest, gripping onto her rosary for a moment, bracing herself for the cold, before she slings the door open and steps out into the night.

The snowfall has picked up tenfold, and there’s now a little under a foot of snow packed onto the ground. Lorraine pulls the small cotton coat around herself tightly, her hair whipping wildly around her face as she blinks back tears, searching for any sign of life. When she looks down, there’s an obvious set of footprints: kicked-back snow heading in the direction of the old, forgotten barn.

Lorraine follows your shoeless prints, still screaming your name into the void of night, her voice strained and muffled in the silence that surrounds her. There isn’t even the typical wee-hour birdsong that too frequently keeps you awake. No cars on the road make their habitual noise, no cows bellowing from across the street. Only the exhausted screams of a woman so frightened for your survival.

When she arrives to the barn, finding safety from the wind in its high walls, feeling so close to dropping to her knees and praying that she had never fallen asleep in the first place, Lorraine spots you. A frail, half-naked body illuminated by one flickering, dangling light that allow the older woman’s eyes little vantage.

She’s filled with relief that she’s found you, but that relief only lasts less than a second before she’s filled with dread. Dread that something is horribly wrong. Dread because you’re dripping with a slick, dark, shimmering liquid.

Lorraine falls to her knees beside you, taking your near-lifeless face in her hands.

“What have you done to her?” She yells, voice harsh and gravelly. She’s speaking to your demon, to the thing that has taken control of your legs and marched you out to this barn, that has treated you like such an animal.

You’re barely conscious, losing the internal battle to keep control of your own mind. All you can do is lean your pained body into Lorraine, trying to give her some sort of message that you’re still there, that you’re still swimming in your own mind, trying to breach the surface.

The clairvoyant asses your injuries, wiping the tears at your eyes and her own. Thankfully, the only damage is done to your back, the lashes across your spine that fuel Lorraine with so much hatred. When your shaking hands lift the riding crop to lay even more agony against your tender flesh, Lorraine wrestles it out of your tight grip and throws it aside, far out of your reach.

“We have to do this now.” Lorraine’s voice is significantly kinder, her hands holding your head close to her chest. She sits in her own fear for a moment, building a strategy to get this thing out of you once and for all. She whispers a prayer, and the words hurt your head, fill your brain with a terrible, searing scream, but there’s simply nothing you can do to stop it. Your livelihood now rests at Lorraine Warren’s feet.

Lorraine stands, guides you upwards. She’s shellshocked by the fact that she’s about to take on a task that she had never solely performed before, and it’s caused her knees to walk unsteadily. She takes the housecoat off and guides it over your shoulders, face twinging as she lays it against the open wounds of your back, but she’d rather you feel pain for a small moment than have your delicate skin come into contact with the weather. The woman ties the coat tight before picking you up, carrying you back through the strong winds, shoes clumping down on the piling snow.

When she replaces the darkness of the sky with the darkness of your home, Lorraine places you down on the sofa where she had once sat with you. You sit in a crumpled state, arms limp, though they fight to wrap around your body, subconsciously seeking heat. You’re impossibly cold, and the longer your toes sit with minimal blood flow, the angrier your beast grows. Your shivering only grows worse when Lorraine throws open the French windows behind you, allowing the snow to come in through the screens and settle in your hair.

“I know it hurts.” She whispers, trying to find some sort of life behind your glassy eyes. Lorraine has forced herself into seriousness, closed her tear ducts and is carrying herself professionally. She knows that treating this with any level of emotional attachment could be suicide for the exorcism, and though the near love that she’s developed for you still lingers at the back of her brain, she has to silence it, she has to save your life before she can worry about you anymore.

Sniffing back the wetness that’s come from the cold air beating against her face, Lorraine finds the Bible still sitting in the pocket of the coat draped over your shoulders. She holds her left hand against your forehead, and the cross casts a warmth against your face that you lean back to fight against, though you’re not sure if it’s of your own action or that of something else.

Lorraine begins reciting a prayer in Latin, that you’d surely be swooning over had you been at all conscious. You’ve nearly lost your battle, your body completely limp against the pillows, as though you’ve lost all muscle mass in less than a minute. You’ve lost all awareness of the situation and now exist only in your own mind, trying your damnedest to regain control.

Each word Lorraine yells with a cracking voice causes a new pain to emerge somewhere within your body, and the pain consumes you so much that you fall over, landing in a fetal position against the cushions of the sofa. Lorraine’s hands want to reach out to soothe you, to press their warmth into your blue skin, to replace your pain with her loving touch, but she restrains herself. She knows that you must feel this pain, that it will drive the presence out of your body and back to the Hell that it emerged from.

“I need you to fight it.” Lorraine interrupts her own prayer to press her forehead against your own, fingers gripping your jaw like her life depends on it. “Don’t give in, don’t let it take you.” She calls, holding the weight of your head in her hands, feeling how much authority you’ve lost over your own body. “Please, fight. For me.”

You’ve already done your fighting. Though you’ve been so horribly affected by this presence in your home, disrupting your livelihood, your sleep, your will to live, there’s not really been anything impacting your will to live at all in years past. You’ve simply been existing in this plane, doing your chores and going to church, following your routines for no reason other than it’s what you’ve always done. Your routines that are so set in stone that it took a demonic presence to shake them up. But you’ve had no one to share your routine with, no one to cook for, no one to compliment how beautifully your flowers have grown. You’ve had no one to fight for.

Your life is not one worth fighting for.

Lorraine Warren, however, feels the opposite. The way she’s holding you so tightly, on her knees in front of you, begging you to stay alive… though you can’t see it, aren’t cognizant enough to hear her begging, you can feel it. There’s a warmth against your chest that’s keeping your heart beating, and a light behind your eyes that’s pushing you to keep going.

So you do. You do as Lorraine asks, and the last little bit of willpower you have musters up into your fingers, and you grab onto Lorraine’s shoulders with an anemic grasp, trying to pull her closer. You force your eyes open, though it’s so very painful due to the rosary still swinging in view, and look up at Lorraine’s worried features. More than anything, you’re filled with hatred that you’re the one to cause her this anguish, that she shouldn’t be so concerned over a life as meaningless as your own.

It's the most beautiful smile you’re met with that causes the final push, that forces your beast out of your mind and into the wind that’s still blowing melting snowflakes onto your already freezing body. A sudden relief fills your body, the power over your own actions that brings back the feeling in your muscles. You sit up, blinking slowly, reliving the past few minutes over and over as you regain a full level of awareness that you’d been left without for the past months.

Lorraine allows you your time to rejoin the living world, slamming shut the windows behind you and throwing several blankets over your freezing body. She drops back to her knees to assess you once more, seeing the color back in your eyes and the warmth rising back to your cheeks. She had seen you in such a terrifying, corpse-like state that she’d surely soon have nightmares about, so the fact that your eyes were finally locking onto her own was an answered prayer.

You eagerly wrapped both arms around the woman’s neck, holding her as close as you can, thanking her over and over again, until the stinging on your back takes the brunt of your attention.

“Don’t thank me. It was all your own work.” She hums, trying to find anywhere she can hold you without wrapping her arms around your back. Lorraine then stands, settling on petting your hair, looking around for any other sources of heat that she may impress upon you. “Do you have any fire woo—”

She’s cut off by the swift action of your standing up, an action that she would surely advise against had she had the option to. But her lips are unable to protest, because they’re met by your own. You’re shocked by your own straightforwardness, and though the fear that she’ll run away and call you a freak is very prominent in your mind, you feel so swept up in thankfulness to this woman, so swept up in love, that the only thing you feel like doing is kissing her.

You internally thank God that she’s not pushed you off, and instead, once the initial shock wears off, Lorraine’s hands are gripping your cheeks and are tugging you forward into her. Though you’re near hypothermic, the warmth that radiates through you when you wrap your arms around Lorraine Warren’s waist is something truly heavenly. You can feel the ice melting away from your fingers and toes, even though you still stand within a house that’s currently running below freezing.

You try to stay attached to Lorraine’s lips for as long as you can, as long as she’ll allow, and as desperately as you both are to stay in this state, Lorraine’s overall concern for your health reigns supreme, and she pulls away to once again ask her question. You giggle softly, hiding your face against her chest, hoping she hasn’t seen how overjoyed your smile is. Though if you were to pick up your head, you’d see that she dons a similar expression.

You direct Lorraine to a closet, and she returns to build a fire. She sits you down right in front of it, and for the first time in far too many days, you feel warmth against your face. You’re not too sure just which direction that warmth is coming from, whether it’s from the fire or the woman sitting next to you, carefully washing the horrible scratches along your spine, but you feel a warmth unlike anything you’ve ever felt in all of your years of living. A warmth you never want to go away.

#𓏲🎀ꜝֶָ֢ annie's fics ⋆⸜ ‧₊˚#title is from a kacey musgraves lyric!!#lorraine warren #the conjuring #lorraine warren x reader #lorraine warren x you #lorraine warren fanfic #the conjuring fanfic #wlw fanfic #x reader fanfic #fanfic #lesbian fanfic #angst fanfic #horror fanfic #lesbian x reader

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xwonderfuldeath · 4 months ago

Text

.o| Halloween Special |o.

2o24 Edition

Warnings : Violence, injury, graphic depictions, cannibalism, home intruders

Please, read with caution under the cut as it contains truly graphic description of potential triggers. Stay safe !

Please, consider supporting me on Ko-Fi ! ♥

The rain is pouring down on your windows as you watch the brave children go by in the street.

It's about eight-thirty, you've got work to do, so obviously you couldn't join in the party going on under your windows. And after all, it wasn't a big deal - you didn't particularly like mingling with crowds. Your thing was to celebrate Halloween under a thick blanket, snug in the dark, without trying too hard. Horror movies, both animated and with characters, were your thing. Finally, you stopped your contemplation of the outside world. People didn't come ringing very often, and this year, a storm had even scared off the bravest in search of sweets. So there's no need to be on the lookout for a little cherub who's come to collect. You dig yourself out and make your way to the sofa, where your hot chocolate is patiently waiting for you, remote control in hand, ready to plunge you into the darkest hours, immersing yourself in the films as they roll by, shivering in terror for some, or just enjoying others.

The hours fly by when you're enjoying yourself, enough to realize that it's past midnight when the last one ends. A horrific novel, based on an apparently true story, of a group of people hunting down victims to devour at this party. Your bones creak as, at last, you unfold yourself, allowing yourself to drag your feet back to your room, taking one last look at the darkness of the night. The wind had intensified, rattling the branches together, making you feel as if you were in one of those famous horror movies. Quickly dispelling this sinister idea of potential monsters trying to get through your windows to come and feast on your flesh. A chuckle passes your lips as you roll between your warm, fluffy blankets.

“- Ridiculous, you're just ridiculous. There's no such thing as monsters.”

Sleep doesn't embrace you for long. The muffled sound of breaking glass wakes you from your slumber. You feel your heart pounding in your chest, reluctant to get out of the covers or just hide in them until the sun rises. A thief? A loose branch from a tree? Maybe even worse. A new noise makes you yelp, before you realize your stupidity. Your cat was there, adorable, purring. That moron must have broken a glass or a bottle. Your heart calms down, resuming normal beats before you extricate yourself from your blankets, groping for the light switch. You feel more reassured now that your house is light. You make your way to the kitchen, looking for any trace of glass on the floor, hoping it's just a glass and not one of your vases.

Finally, you find where a noise is coming from, your eyes rolling up to the sky as you casually bend over to start cleaning up, so your cat doesn't hurt itself on its mistake.

But something stops you. Leaning there, your heart starts beating hard in your chest again. You can hear it clearly, the wind whistling through your kitchen window, bursting a little further. Your eyes can't tear themselves away from this information. Someone had entered your house, hiding behind a glass that your cat might not even have broken. Your hands become clammy. Your short breath searches for a way through your lips, before you feel the weight of terror compress your ribcage. Finally, as if coming back to life, your body begins to function normally again. You sit up straight, aiming for the front door. You've got to get out of here, get back into the storm air, get help.

And just when you think you can get out of your house, the painful realization hits again, as your head slams against the wooden panel, shattering your nose in the process, ringing you on the spot as you're dragged by the hair, the echo of your scream reaching the wind outside.

“- What's taking you so long?

- Give me time, patience is the key to a good dinner, Jimin, but I've been hungry for an hour. And all you can say is wait.”

The small sound of an exasperated breath passes the lips of the older man, at least what seems to you to be the older man, as you come to your senses, though you don't remember passing out. The light is subdued, but it still manages to burn your retinas when you open your eyelids. You recognize your cellar, which has been slightly modified. In the center, a large table has been set, with everything that would constitute a good banquet, if you forget the strange fact that there was no food. Several bottles of wine had been opened, and three people stood around, moving to finish the preparations.

Your hands are bound behind your back, immobilizing you completely, while something has been forced into your mouth, preventing you from screaming or even speaking.

The coolness of the night is felt on your now bare body, and finally, one of the three men looks at you, holding your gaze with an almost kind smile, before he straightens up, making the other two stop arguing gently and turn with one body towards you. You feel the terrifying weight of the unknown: it wasn't one person who had penetrated your intimacy, but three. And you feel the tears welling up, praying that nothing too horrible will happen to you.

“- Our host is awake.

- At last, we can eat! We're going to be able to eat!"Have a little patience, Jimin, the others haven't arrived yet. But I'm hungry!”

The scene seems unreal to you, your throbbing not wanting to calm down, as the said Jimin straightens up, only to come and watch you more closely, his tongue passing against his lips, before the second one holds him back. You actually recognize them quite easily, now that you're wide awake. Everyone's talking about them, since they're one of the most famous K-pop groups of this century. Yoongi gently pulls Jimin back, kissing the top of his head, while Seokjin finishes sharpening several perfectly-bladed knives, which he places on a small table behind.

Finally, you calm down a little: they're renowned for their kindness and open-mindedness, and even if they've broken into your home, that doesn't mean it's a bad thing. Perhaps they were simply bored and looking for a bit of adrenaline by breaking into a house in this way. Unlucky for you. You try to reassure yourself as best you can, taking short breaths, before the rest of the group arrive. They're all neatly dressed, as if they've come to celebrate something.

“- Is everyone here?

- Yes. Thanks to Namjoon, who without him, we'd still be looking around.”

In a small cage, your cat. Your eyes widen, and you look at them, terrified. They weren't going to eat your cat in front of you, were they? You struggle under their amused gazes, and they forget all about you again, just long enough to finish the preparations. You look away, not wanting to see this barbaric act.

“- We're not monsters either. We're not going to do anything to the poor kid.”

This half reassures you, and you wrinkle your nose. It was already good news that nobody was touching the animal, but now you don't quite understand what all this means. No one answers your question; on the contrary, Taehyung and Jungkook lift you up, forcing you to lie down right in the center of the table, preventing you from escaping by tying you painfully to the ends. You beg with your eyes, hoping they won't do anything to you.

“- Well, since Jungkook is the one who found it first, he'll have the best share, at least his favorite.

- I'll have the thigh, then. Perfect.”

You watch Seokjin take the largest of his knives, intrigued by the conversation, before realizing the horror. No matter how much you struggle, it doesn't stop him from plunging the blade deep into your flesh, slicing you like one would a common animal, carefully depositing the slices of you on pretty plates. The pain is unbearable, your head spinning as they slice deeper and deeper into your flesh. They seem as surprised as you at your ability to stay awake. Yet they say nothing as they feast on your flesh, devouring you unscrupulously, cutting ever deeper, seeking ever more. You hope this hell will soon be over, finally feeling yourself slowly drift away, your eyes riveted to the ceiling as a pair of chopsticks advance towards your eyeballs, even this you are effortlessly denied. No more cries can pass your lips, just accepting your fate and the pain, before finally release comes. Finally, you're granted death.

“- What do we do with the cat?

- Jimin will keep it, we'll put it in the animal shelter in a month. As usual, Taehyung.”

The seven of them glare at each other, heading straight for the cellar where your mutilated body has been left hanging on the table, before exiting as if nothing had happened. The building goes up in flames once they're all out, and they're long gone by the time the fire department appears. Unable to find anything but ashes and the charred remains of your body.

“Today is the first of November and once again, this Halloween is marked by a savage attack. The mutilated body of… was found this morning. Like all the others, the person had been mutilated and eaten before being burned to death. Local police have launched an extensive search, but so far there seems to be no evidence. This is the fifth Halloween in a row that something like this has happened, and the investigating commissioner still has no serious leads to follow…”

#bts #bts os #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #min yoongi #park jimin #jung hoseok #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #halloween #spooky season #cw: gore

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rapturously · 3 years ago

Note

Can you please do a part 2 to the nurse one or something similar. But like a fluff of their everyday life and their romance forming. (Also Michael acting more like a cat)

┊ 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞-𝐢𝐬𝐡.

┊ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬 ( 𝐫𝐳 ) 𝐱 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫.

┊ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

┊ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝟐,𝟐𝟗𝟎.

┊ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭! 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭. 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐳!𝐦𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 — 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐮𝐧! 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲’𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲! ❤️

After Michael followed you home the night of his rampage at Smith’s Grove, he certainly stuck around when you thought he wouldn’t. Police were scouring Haddonfield constantly, but Michael was cunning enough to stay out of sight, stay hidden. He was your patient at one point, after all — you did harbor some strange attachment to him.

To you, he was someone who needed help, but others didn’t see it that way. Maybe you were too determined or just crazy, but either way, you were getting used to Michael’s presence.

It was an unusually blissful existence, letting him live with you. He didn’t sleep very much, and if he did, it was usually in closer proximity with you. If there was one thing you’d learned about Michael, it was his clinginess. You couldn’t tell if he liked you or merely enjoyed being with somebody who didn’t want to harm him or incarcerate him.

He reminded you of some big jungle cat, inquisitive yet predatory, sometimes too curious for his own good, and still ruthless, still capable of destruction. Michael typically came home each evening, and if he didn’t, he’d dump some gift on your back doorstep, likely from a victim, but you didn’t want to pry into that.

Michael did give you a severed head at one point, and your subtle disgust promptly ended that — no more gore, no more body parts. He scavenged for beautiful things instead, items that reminded you of him. The gory bits were merely some display of strength and not because you reminded him of a severed head, in the spirit of transparency.

That night, you were splayed out across the sofa, flipping through channels on the television with a pillow propped up underneath your head. It was a warmer evening, the sun having disappeared beyond the horizon. There wasn’t anything too engaging, no good movies, just the myriad of boring, made-for TV films that were wrought with campiness.

Just outside, you watched as a police vehicle rolled up just a few blocks away, stopping and parking, turning its lights off. You didn’t pay it any mind — it was another cop searching for Michael, you were certain of it. Dragging a palm across your face, you shut the television off, noticing a strange reflection in the glass.

You almost screamed bloody murder when you glanced up, finding Michael standing above you behind the couch, head cocked to one side. He was wearing a pair of mechanic’s coveralls, coupled with the orange, paper mask, flaxen tresses falling in a disheveled heap around his shoulders. At least he found something that fit him instead of wearing the too-tight shirts left behind by your ex-boyfriend.

“Michael,” You gasped, heart nearly ripping from your chest as you bolted upright, feeling the hulking man’s stare bore down upon you like a heavy weight. He didn’t appear to be bloody, which was both a curiosity and a relief, but you didn’t cling to hope. Instead, he held something within his left hand, clutching onto a sterling silver chain. “Hey.”

He never spoke — just surrounded you with an eerie stillness and silence. Michael sluggishly extended his hand toward you, knuckles and palm seeped in crimson, which immediately proved you wrong about his spotless appearance. The item he dropped into your hand happened to be a necklace, a little gemstone butterfly charm dangling from the end of the chain.

You didn’t ask where it came from, taking the necklace with a softer smile. There was concern present upon your face, especially with the state of his hands. “What happened to you?” You whispered, nursing instincts kicking in as you wrapped the necklace around your wrist for safekeeping. “Are you hurt?” Upon closer inspection, there were cuts and bruises that accompanied the massive amounts of red liquid.

Michael grunted, seemingly unbothered by the horrific state of his hands, but it did irk you as you clamored from the couch, rounding the sofa in order to stand in front of him. He was absolutely massive, all six feet and nine inches of him, towering over you like a brick wall. There was something tender about the way you cradled his hands, as if you would break him.

Once again, you didn’t ask, you didn’t pry into what exactly caused the injuries. You assumed the obvious, but kept it to yourself, his hand dwarfing yours completely. There was crimson caked underneath his nails, bits of a stranger’s skin. You were fortunate that you had a strong stomach as the stench of pungent copper filled your nostrils.

Dismissive of his own injuries, Michael let out another softer rumble, nudging his hand into your wrist, smearing blood across your skin in the process. He wanted you to look at the necklace, and you decided not to oblige him just yet. He didn’t seem to be in any pain, but that didn’t matter — you needed to help him as soon as possible.

“Not yet, Michael. Promise I’ll look, I need to get you fixed up first.” You nodded, lips twitching into a gentle smile, politely coaxing him toward the bathroom. He followed close behind you, a colossal shadow that eclipsed any sliver of light that graced your figure. Michael was obedient for you — he was back at Smith’s Grove, and that wouldn’t change now.

Turning the silvery knob atop the sink, a cascade of lukewarm water came sputtering out, filling the basin as you gently ran Michael’s massive hands underneath, watching the stream of blood go rolling off. You grabbed a washcloth and soap, gently scrubbing over his fingers, minding the cuts on his knuckles.

That glinting butterfly amulet hung from your wrist, wrapped thrice over to ensure that it didn’t go flying off. Michael was practically glued to your side, watching you take care of him in the most nurturing manner. He was used to this, used to you fixing up any injuries he received or cleaning the blood away, and it made him feel safe, for one of the first times in his life.

He was less of a monster, less grotesque around you. You saw him as a human being, not some hulking, murderous mute. In such close proximity to you, Michael realized just how small and vulnerable you really were, yet you expressed not a shred of fear or discomfort. It was a welcome change from the crude, crass guards at the sanatorium.

“Did you find those coveralls in a garage somewhere?” You asked, glancing toward the tattered state of the garment. It looked to be well-worn, which made you wonder who he took it from, but you received your answer when Michael grunted with a slight tilt of his head. “Better than the tight shirts, I’m sure.” You smile, nose wrinkling in amusement.

Curious, Michael gently lifts one hand, no matter the soaking wet state, prodding the collar of his coveralls aside enough for you to see — he’s wearing one of the shirts, still. He drops his hand back into the basin, thoroughly enthralled by your cheeky, exuberant grin. You let out a laugh, bemused by his antics as you go back to tending to his hands, carefully washing underneath his nails.

A spool of white gauze sits along the porcelain rim of the sink, which you promptly grab after cleaning his hands. They’re certainly in a much better shape than before as the dirtied, crimson waters swirl down the drain. You dry off his hands before wrapping his knuckles in the stark-white material, tying it off so that it won’t unravel if he moves too much.

“There.” Your work is complete, and you go about washing your hands too, cleaning up the sink with a disinfectant wipe. This is very commonplace for the both of you — tending to him, cleaning up, and going to sit in your bedroom. The more comfortable you become with one another, the longer he stays. “Come on.”

You’ve been letting Michael look at old photo albums of yours because he’s curious, which is a common routine, too. It’s either perusing photographs or watching television, and there isn’t anything that's worth watching. Michael sinks down onto the edge of your bed with a soft grunt, and you sit down next to him, sliding a smaller book into his hands.

Michael’s infatuation with you is understandable to people like Dr. Loomis — you’re the only one who’s shown him compassion aside from his mother and a select few individuals at Smith’s Grove. He’s chalked it up to you being a replacement for his mother, but that isn’t the case whatsoever. Dr. Loomis was vastly intrigued in the nature of your relationship with Michael, watching the both of you, how you reacted.

It was eros — romanticism, attraction, and lust.

Many believed that Michael didn’t possess such emotions, but he most certainly did, laying dormant until he met someone that he could trust. You happened to be that person, but there was an aura of obliviousness between the both of you. You weren’t quite there yet, in your blossoming relationship.

Michael likes perusing through your pictures — he likes seeing you. Many of the pictures after your high school graduation are happy, and you’re living a fulfilling life, it looks like. There’s a sliver of him which looks back on his past and yearns for things to change, but he doesn’t have regrets. There isn’t time.

That’s when Michael pulls something out of the pocket of his coveralls, a crumpled, folded photograph that he hands you, placing the album aside. He’s never shown you this before until now, where he’s most relaxed yet exposed, vulnerable as ever. Michael keeps the mask on — it’s his sanctuary, the place where he can’t be harmed or scorned, where he dwells as he hands you a very personal picture.

“What’s this?” You wonder aloud, gently unfolding it to ensure it doesn’t get damaged. You immediately recognize the pale, blonde-headed boy in the picture, who seems to be smiling, holding a chubby-cheeked baby in his arms. You are aware of Michael having a sister, the only one left alive during the Myers murders. “Is this you and your sister?”

Michael’s heart skips a beat — his sister.

He misses her terribly, desperately wanting to find her, and he knows he will, but Michael retains his stoic, impassive composure. Michael nods, watching you admire the picture, turning it over within your hands, holding it up to the light. Your smile is tinged with melancholy, and you cant your head to one side, digits tracing across the photograph.

“Thank you for showing me, Michael. It’s cute.” Your voice is akin to a pleasant lull and Michael is all too eager to succumb to it, a guttural, baritone rumble escaping him as he nudges into you. You aren’t exactly sure what he wants from you — he’s clingy and sometimes affectionate, but you don’t mind. He’s really growing on you, and you want him to stay.

Typically, your everyday routine would involve you going to bed as he hovers elsewhere, sits at the foot of the bed or leaves for the night, but something’s different — you don’t know if it’s you or if it’s him, but you don’t want him to go anywhere this time. A tremulous, quivering breath escapes you when he nudges his face into the top of your head.

You’ve only hugged him if he initiates it, like he did the day he broke into your house, thick arms twined around your hips as he said that you were his. However, you’re emboldened, careening inward as you settle your arms around his abdomen, pressing your head against his chest.

Michael tenses — he freezes up, but that wave of starvation consumes him like a blazing flame. He’s deprived of affection, he’s been devoid of it for most of his life. It’s something he isn’t accustomed to, something he’s only watched other people do. He’s observed plenty of handsy couples in the middle of the night, which intrigued him to no end.

He’s unbelievably warm, like his own space heater, hot to the touch as his chest vibrates with a grunt. Michael’s thick arms slowly wrap around you, reciprocating the hug as you relax into his grasp. You feel protected, you feel incredible, as if nothing could hurt you. Michael’s eyes are half-lidded, almost like a cat soaking up the sun’s warmth, face buried against the top of your head.

“Could you stay this time?”

Your whisper is breathless, heady — your mouth is parted, teeth tracing across your lower lip as you hold onto him. He’s so huge, hands big enough to crush you in an instant, but you watch him nod, visibly hesitant. Michael has never been asked to stay, he’s always left to wander Haddonfield and kill if the desire arises, but he wants to stay with you.

Maybe you don’t want to be alone, or maybe you really are falling for Michael — either way, he doesn’t move whatsoever, watching you slump into him with steady breathing. It continuously gets shallower, and before he knows it, you’ve fallen asleep, arms drooping loosely around his frame, and instead of shrugging you aside, his arms slip underneath you, practically cradling you.

Michael wonders if this is what it feels like — if this is what the first inklings of love are. It’s strange, and it feels foreign, it feels terrifying, but he simultaneously craves it with such an aching desperation. His cerulean glower flutters to your slumbering countenance, soaking in your features with a sliver of amazement.

And for the first time in what seems like forever, Michael lets his guard down — he lets you in.

#michael myers x reader #michael myers x you #slasher x reader #slasher x you #slasher fanfiction #slasher fanfic #rz halloween #halloween 2007 #michael myers fanfic #michael myers #halloween fanfiction #sunkendreams masterlist

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artsyhobi · 4 years ago

Text

Cursed

Divine Gods!BTS x reader

series masterlist

Chapter one, Calico Cat.

characters: mortal!fem!reader, god of the moon!park jimin, god of the sun!jung hoseok, god of death and darkness!min yoongi, god of the four elements!kim namjoon, god of time!kim seokjin, god of nature and life!jeon jungkook, god of mischief!kim taehyung.

a/n: hello ! i hope you enjoy this first chapter, i actually took inspo from Goblin (which is a kdrama i absolutely loved ;;) and i'm sorry in advance for my poor writing, but english is not my first language ...

trigger warning: mentions of blood, violence and death, curse words.

tag-list: @greezenini, @fangirl125reader, @motherofbludgers

Min Yoongi sat on the throne, his legs elegantly crossed as he rested his forearms on the armrest. He slightly raised his left arm so that the tip of his index finger could lightly brush against his lower lip, his eyebrows mildly furrowed in a focused expression.

The black-haired man continued playing with his lip, then reached for something in the pocket of his silk pants and held the object in the palm of his hand: it was a vintage pocket watch entirely made out of gold, with a ruby located right at its center. The hands of the watch moved mechanically, producing a “tic” sound that resonated in his mind like an irritating echo.

Yoongi hated time. What was ironic, though, is that he had too much of it: he had an Eternity.

Yoongi glared at the antique object once more. A satisfied smirk appeared on the corner of his lips, depicting anything but an innocent smile. He stood up, adjusting his coat and grabbing his black bowler hat in a swift movement before taking some steps forward: as he walked, the dark throne room surrounding him became gradually more distant and, in a matter of seconds, the man was walking in the busy and snowy streets of Seoul. The snow crunched under the soles of his shoes, the snowflakes that landed on his coat immediately melted, and as he passed by, nobody seemed to notice his presence.

The street was crowded with people rushing to purchase the last Christmas presents, couples holding hands, and kids eating strawberry cotton candy. Disgusting, thought Yoongi as he curled his nose.

“One minute and thirty-three seconds.” He murmured to himself, turning into a deserted alley after checking the correct street name on a brick wall nearby. As he walked, the bright white snow became dirtier until there were just a few clusters of it on the side of the path. It started snowing heavier.

“Fifty-eight seconds.”

“I told you there were consequences!” A hoarse male voice shouted in the distance. Yoongi stopped hands into the pockets of his coat. “You’re a worthless bitch!��

There was a loud bang, followed by two others, and a feeble female voice asking for help. No one could hear her, and even if her cries reached someone’s ears, no one would help her since - according to Min Yoongi - humans were nothing but greedy mortal souls that enjoyed the sufferings of others. They were too occupied with spending their money on materialistic goods and developing toxic, violent, and possessive relationships. They were human beings but had no humanity left in their hearts.

He approached the poor woman laying on the ground, her hand resting on her stomach: blood was gushing out of her bullet wounds, dripping down in a pool of crimson absorbed by the snow. Tears streamed down her face as she whispered the same words over and over again, “Help me”.

He crouched down beside her and tilted his head, observing her like a detective inspected a victim. He knew that her time was up and that she was destined to die there, alone, desperately waiting for someone to find her.

“S-Sir…” She mumbled, some blood running down from the corner of her mouth. “P-please help me…” Her hand desperately clutched the hem of his coat, smearing it with her blood.

Yoongi sharply exhaled and rolled his eyes, turning his head to the side.

“Fancy seeing you follow me everywhere I go, Jungkook.” He stated, reluctantly standing up to face a man leaning against the brick wall, his arms crossed.

“Did you miss me?” Jungkook grinned.

He seemed almost like an angel since the clothes he wore were entirely white. His blond hair brushed against his shoulders, and a pair of long crystal earrings hung from his ears, sparkling as soon as they moved. Yoongi, on the contrary, was his polar opposite: his short wavy locks were as black as pitch, and although his eyes were a dull brown, they almost felt like looking into two holes, black as a night without stars.

“Seokjin sent me here to stop you from reaping her soul,” he affirmed, playing with the many rings he wore on his fingers, “It’s not her time yet.”

Yoongi scoffed, slightly amused at his statement. “Don’t you see the three holes on her stomach… Or do you need a magnifying glass? I am the one who decides if she dies today, not that Doctor Strange wannabe.” He took some steps toward him until his face was a few inches away from his, “I don’t take orders from a teenager.”

Jungkook furrowed his eyebrows, the slight grin disappeared. “These are not my orders but his, and you know you must obey him.” He lightly shoved Yoongi’s shoulder without interrupting eye contact with him, trying to remain calm. He kneeled beside the woman and caressed her hair, a sad smile depicted on his pink lips, while Yoongi stared angrily at the two.

“Don’t even think about it, Jungkook, her soul is already mine.” He said through gritted teeth.

“It is, you’re right.” The blond whispered and delicately put his hand on the woman’s chest. “But not now, Yoongi, you will have to wait.”

“Wait!?” Yoongi exclaimed in disbelief, and then frantically ran a hand through his black locks, “This has to be a joke, is Taehyung with you?”

“He is not,” He responded as a gleam of light formed under the palm of his hand, turning brighter by the second, “I haven’t seen him in ages.” This time his tone was lower, and his expression had darkened. Yoongi nodded, having no interest in knowing what had happened between the two friends.

“I suppose you won’t tell me why Seokjin wants to spare her life.”

“He just told me to stop you, nothing more.”

Yoongi pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “Lies,” he snarled, “you are his little obedient puppy, Jungkook, we all know it.”

Jungkook inhaled the sharp, cold air and smiled as the woman opened her dark eyes. “I’m not here to fight, Yoongi, so you can insult me how much you want.” The blond took the now conscious woman into his arms and glared directly at his former friend. “But nothing will change the fact that you’re on your own now.”

Yoongi turned around, ready to argue back, but there was no trace of Jungkook.

The black-haired man remained still as he watched the empty spot, sighing, a strange feeling at the pit of his stomach.

20 years later

“Chung-Ae, we’ve already talked about this!” You groaned in annoyance, sinking your face into your Pikachu plushie. “I’m happy here!”

Chung-Ae sat on the counter, her arms supporting her as she gave you a stern look. You peeked, escaping the protection of your plushie, noticing that she wore purple lenses - although her stare was as scary as it had always been -.

“You’re a twenty-two-year-old living in an old house, with your three cats, and working in a cat-café.” She emphasized the “and” as if working in such a wonderful place was something to be ashamed of.

“That’s the best life!” You exclaimed as you sat comfortably on your sofa. “I mean, why would I need to move to Seul with a bunch of horny people when I could just spend the rest of my life in peace?”

Chung-Ae sighed loudly.

“They’re not just a bunch of horny people. They are my friends.”

You parted your lips to respond, wanting to remind her about the last party you both had attended, but she cut you off.

“Y/N, you live alone in such an abandoned area, it’s dangerous; it even takes you more than an hour to reach the café.” She slid down from the counter and sat next to you, putting her hand on your shoulder. “Trust me, I know that you’re attached to this place, but it doesn’t work for you anymore.”

She was right, you loved that place. Your grandparent’s house was located in the countryside, in a small rural village that was scarcely populated. The few young people remaining had started moving to bigger cities such as Seul or Busan, but not you. You adored waking up to the sound of birds chirping in the morning and the gurgling of the river. You got used to being alone, and you didn’t mind it. You couldn’t understand why Chung-Ae tried to force you to move with her, but she was rather determined, and you knew she was going to insist.

“Chung-Ae,” you reached for her hand and squeezed it delicately, a small smile forming on your lips. “You know I can’t leave, I promised my mother I would take care of this house.”

“You have to stop living in the past, Y/N.” She firmly stated. “This house is falling apart, and so is your life. Moving to Seul with me is your best option.”

Her eyes stared into yours for a few seconds, and you felt unreasonably guilty. You knew how much she cared about you, and you were constantly giving her “no” as answers. She retracted her hand, reaching for her purse right beside her, before standing up. “You still have time to think about it. You know that, right?” Her hand was on the doorknob.

Your mind wanted to decline her offer, but your heart told you otherwise, so you just nodded.

“Take care, Y/N.” And with that, she closed the door behind her, leaving you alone once again.

You finally took a deep breath running your palms down your face in an exasperated manner. Chung-Ae was your childhood friend, and she had always been by your side. You had met her in elementary school: she was popular amongst your class since her father was a renowned lawyer who worked for big celebrities, but you - on the other hand - weren’t as popular. You weren’t a social butterfly and preferred spending your time playing with the stray cats in your neighborhood.

You stood up and walked toward the kitchen, deciding to make yourself a homemade chicken noodle soup. You put the ingredients on the counter and started to chop the carrots into strings. As you were about to grab something, you heard a strange noise coming from outside: you reminisced Chung-Ae’s words and felt a shiver run through your spine, but you shook your head, mentally reassuring yourself that it must have been a wild animal.

You grabbed the celery from the fridge, deciding that you would drink some strawberry milk while waiting for the soup to cook. However, when you closed it, you were taken aback by a calico cat sitting on the floor, right in front of you. Your eyes were wide open in surprise since your three cats were all black, and you crouched down. “Hello, little one,” you gently smiled as you observed the little creature staring at you with a pair of light blue eyes, “I wonder how you got in…”

You inspected the room looking for any open windows but soon discovered you had closed everything. When you turned your gaze back to the cat, it was gone. Puzzled, you stood back up, massaging your temples. Am I hallucinating? You asked yourself before resuming your dish.

After literally devouring your delicious meal and doing the dishes, you headed to your room, where you found the windows wide open. You didn’t remember leaving them like that, but you also didn’t mind the fresh breeze coming from outside. It was a quiet night of July, and the moon was shining vividly in the sky, its brightness being the only source of light in the room. As you approached your bed, you couldn’t help but notice the shape of a cat on the window ledge, but when you came near, it had mysteriously vanished.

"Okay, Y/N, you're probably tired." You told yourself while sitting on the bed. As you laid down, feeling the freshness of your newly washed sheets, you heard another sound and then a chorus of meows coming from the living room. You sighed, reluctantly standing up, wearing a hoodie before walking down the stairs.

"What is it, guys, did you hurt yourselves?" You asked as your three black cats, Luna, Mars, and Pluto, continued meowing toward the front door. You groaned, "Alright, I will check."

You weren't ready for what you were about to see: you expected nothing but pitch darkness or that calico cat that was apparently haunting you now. But as you opened the wooden door, you froze on the spot at the sight of a man leaning his arm on the doorframe.

Because of the darkness, you could only see his silver hair reflecting the moonlight and a pair of light blue eyes staring at you in curiosity.

"Hello, little one."

#bts ot7 x reader #bts series #kim taehyung x reader #bts imagine #bts x reader #bts fanfic #park jimin x reader #kim seokjin x reader #kim namjoon x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #jung hoseok x reader #min yoongi x reader

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lost-in-the-80s · 4 years ago

Text

Winter Memories

Pairing: Axl Rose x reader

Words: 3,808k

Summary: The pressure of making a new album is finally hitting Axl. To get rid of some stress he decides to take a trip to Norway, however, he did not expect to meet a mysterious woman there. (smut + angst)

A/N: Hey guys! I hope you like it! Tell me if you want a part 2! There will be a few lines in norwegian, but the translations will be below in italics ;)

Warnings: Mature content, swearing and unprotected sex. (Use a condom, guys!)

Tag list: @roger-taylors-car @ladieswttda @teasid @metalheartofgold @slashscowboyboots @ginny-rose-sixx @rumoured-whispers @normatural add yourself to my tag list :)

Part 2

It had been a busy week and Axl's frustration was reaching extremely high levels.

Making an album was not an easy task, it required a lot of work and dedication, especially when the bandleader was Axl. Known for being a perfectionist, Axl expected nothing less than perfection for the band's third and fourth albums.

He understood why his bandmates were so tired, Axl had made them redo each song countless times and that was exhausting, but it was even more exhausting for him, who stayed in the studio for hours after his friends left, doing the vocals as many times as he could.

Axl realized he needed to relax when he ended up taking all his anger out on the supermarket attendant last week. She hadn't done anything much, just asked for an autograph, but the stress accumulated in his body made him be rude to her.

That night he decided that he needed time away from it all, that he needed time just for him so he could calm down.

It was December and the clear California sun was starting to get paler, accompanied by a cold breeze coming in the late afternoon. But he knew it wouldn't get much colder, after all, Los Angeles was one of the hottest cities in the United States.

Furthermore, he would not find peace in such a busy place. The chances of someone showing up at his door out of nowhere or calling insisting for him to go out were too high to risk.

Following the advice of a friend, Axl decided to go north, to Norway, more precisely. He wanted to see the snow again, wanted to feel the cold winter wind and visit a place he had never been to before.

After notifying the band and advancing some things in the studio, he left. Catching a plane on Friday afternoon, lusting to reach a small isolated town in the center of the country in the morning.

His assistant had managed to rent a room in a small, comfortable cottage near a mountain, where he could learn to ski.

After spending countless hours on the flight and two more hours driving a rental car to the place, he finally arrived.

The view was incredible, the contrast of the snow on the ground and the blue of the sky baffled him.

Entering the reception of the cottage, Axl was greeted by an old lady, who took him to his room while telling him about how the cottage had been built by her grandparents and that the house used to creak with the wind at night.

His room was very spacious, the walls and floor were the same types of wood, in the center of the room, there was a double bed with white sheets and a thick red plaid blanket. In front of the bed was a large fireplace, already lit by someone from the cottage.

The bathroom was on the left, next to the entrance door, it was small, but it had a large bathtub and the lady had assured him that the water was very hot. To his right was a large glass window that overlooked a vast field of snow-covered pines and a large mountain in the background. There was a small sofa under the window, accompanied by a small wooden table, the same color as the bedside tables.

It was different from what he was used to, but he liked the location.

After leaving his bags in the room and putting on another blouse, Axl decided to go down to the cottage's dining room for breakfast. Taking a large cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, he sat down at a table in the far corner, next to a window.

He hugged the cup with his hands, hoping the act would warm them up. He heard footsteps on the stairs and it was at that moment that he saw her coming. She was beautiful as an angel, her eyes looked like a cat's, which told him she was unpredictable, but her smile was sweet when she greeted the owner of the place.

"God morgen, Anna!" She waved to the lady.

"Good morning, Anna!"

“God morgen, Y/N! Du våknet endelig!”

“Good morning, Y/N! At least you woke up”

She laughed and Axl felt like he was in a trance. He didn't understand what she said, so he assumed she was a local.

Sensing his gaze, she finally looked in his direction. Her expression changed, the sweet smile disappeared and her eyes began to transmit lust. She looked him up and down before picking up her breakfast and sitting at a table.

Axl ate, but every little bit he found himself looking in her direction, only to realize that she was already looking at him, like a predator looking at the victim.

After eating, Axl got in his car and drove towards the mountain ski station, putting on the right clothes and getting a ski board, an instructor taught Axl the basic moves and instructed him to stay in a specific area, where the beginners stayed.

After a good 30 minutes, Axl realized that perhaps skiing was not his thing. He fell numerous times and was unable to move properly on the board. Irritation started to form inside his body and when he was about to damn everything to hell and go back to the cottage, he heard her voice near him.

"Flytt deg!"

"Get out of the way!"

He looked back just in time to see that she was approaching him at high speed, trying to get out of her way as fast as possible, Axl tripped on his own feet and ended up landing face first in the snow.

He heard her laugh again and when he noticed a small hand covered by a glove was being extended towards him. Axl looked up and saw her face, she was still laughing.

Accepting the offer, she helped Axl to get up again.

"Unnskyldning." She gave a small smile, trying to contain her laughter.

"I’m sorry."

"What?" Axl frowned, trying to understand what she had said.

"Ah, sorry, I thought you were from here!" Her accent made Axl smile, he found the sound cute.

"Well, I'm not."

"I am, Y/N, by the way." She offered her hand for him to greet her.

"Axl!" He shook her hand.

"I liked your name! Is this your first time here? ”

"It actually is." He scratched the back of his neck.

“I live in Oslo, but I come here every year at this time. It's nice to relax. ”

"I hope so!" He gave her a small smile.

"Having trouble skiing?"

"To tell the truth, yes."

"Do you want me to teach you?"

"Would you do it?"

"Sure, what kind of Norwegian would I be if I saw someone here without enjoying the best part of winter?"

He smiled at her.

For the next few hours, Y/N taught Axl as best as she could, always encouraging him not to give up whenever he fell or fell out of balance.

When Axl finally came down a small part of the mountain without difficulty, she clapped her hands and shouted at him, celebrating his victory.

"Now nobody else can say that you are a tourist." She laughed, making him smile.

We should go back to the cottage, it's almost three o'clock, it's going to get dark soon.

"Is it getting dark so early in here?"

"It's December baby, from now on the days will get shorter and shorter."

The nickname made him smile again.

"Are you driving?" He asked when they were returning the clothes and equipment to the company.

“No, I came by bus. I don't trust the roads much at this time of year. ”

"Do you want a ride to the cottage?"

"It would be great!"

In the first few minutes, an awkward silence came over the car, to break the mood, Y/N turned on the car's radio and turned up the volume when A-Ha started playing.

Axl glanced at her. "Do you listen to this shit?"

"They are Norwegian, we are crazy about them." She laughed, thinking about it. It was funny with her people, they had a habit of liking anything that was national.

He shook his head, but let a small smile take over his lips.

"I like your hair!" She said, staring at him.

"Thank you, I think!"

“No, seriously, I really like it. I think the color is beautiful. ”

"Thank you very much then."

He looked at her and his eyes met hers. A shiver went down his spine and he felt as if he couldn’t breathe for a moment, so he focused on the road again.

After a few minutes, he decided to start a conversation.

"What do you normally do here when you're not skiing?"

“I drink hot chocolate, read and go for a short walk in the city. They have some cool stores here. ” She shrugged.

He nodded in response.

After arriving at the cottage, the two agreed to go down to have hot chocolate together in half an hour.

Axl took a hot shower, letting his muscles relax with the warmth of the water. He contemplated shaving but changed his mind after thinking it over. His beard was slightly long, red hair adorned his face.

Down the stairs he saw her sitting on a couch, wearing a pair of black leggings and a red sweatshirt, her hair was tied up in a bun and she was using a pair of slipper boots.

"You Americans are always late." She noted when Axl sat down next to her.

"Sorry."

She gestured with her hand, as if to inform him that it was okay. "I already ordered the hot chocolate, Anna was supposed to bring it after you arrived."

He nodded in agreement.

"So, what do you work with?" He wanted to know more about her.

"I'm a lawyer. I deal with divorces. What about you?"

"I work with music."

"What kind of music?"

"Rock."

"Nice!"

Anna arrived with two large mugs, interrupting the conversation.

"Takk, Anna!" Y/N smiled sweetly at the woman.

"Thank you, Anna!"

"Thanks." He picked up his mug carefully, as he knew it would be hot.

"No problem." She smiled back at them both.

The two stayed there for over an hour talking, finding out more about each other.

Axl couldn't say why, but he felt comfortable around her, almost as if they knew each other for decades. He could tell that she felt the same way because after a few minutes she put her legs on his lap.

"You were right, her hot chocolate is delicious." Axl said after taking the second mug that night.

"I told you!" She smiled proudly.

Getting closer to him, she whispered in his ear. "I'm going up to my room now, if you want to stop by later, I'm in room 22." She rested her hand on his chest.

He looked into her eyes, they were both close enough to kiss, but there was a family with two children in the room, so he decided not to.

Nodding his head at her, Axl kept his gaze fixed on her back when she got up and went upstairs, leaving him alone.

The simple image of what he could do with her later made his member throb with anticipation. And he decided that after it was late he would knock on her door.

Returning to his room he realized that her room was two doors from his, on the same side of the corridor.

He tried to entertain himself at night, he went down to dinner and then tried to read a book he had brought, but he couldn't focus on reading, his imagination was running wild and all he could think about was her.

Glancing at the clock in his room, he saw that it was just after nine.

"Fuck it!" Getting up and locking his door as he left the room, he walked in quick steps to room 22, knocking three times on the door and waiting for her to open.

When she opened it, Axl's member pulsed again. She was wearing a black wool sweater three times the size of her, covering up to half of her thighs. Her hair was still tied up in a bun.

Before she could say anything, his lips crashed against hers, hugging her waist with one of his arms and pushing her slightly into the room, closing the door with his free hand.

She responded on the spot, her arms circling his neck while her tongue asked for permission to invade his mouth.

Allowing the intrusion, their tongues began to move as if in an aggressive ballet, fighting for dominance. She moved one of her hands to Axl's hair, lightly pulling the strands at the top of his neck, causing a low growl to leave his throat.

Her hands started to remove Axl's jacket, who broke the kiss for a second to remove his white shirt as well.

She admired the muscles in his abdomen, biting her bottom lip with desire.

Axl pulled her close by her hips, letting his hands find her butt cheeks and squeeze them tightly, making a small moan leave her lips.

He brought his right hand to her hair, removing the elastic that held her strands and letting her hair cover part of her face. Axl guided her to the bed, stopping when her legs hit the furniture slightly, creating a distance between them and removing her sweater, revealing the black lace lingerie she wore.

His member started to stiffen. Letting her fall on the soft mattress, Axl stayed on top of her, dropping his kisses to her neck, where he left light bites that would surely leave marks. She sighed like an angel when Axl lowered his kisses further, making a trail between her neck and the bar of her panties, taking off her bra in the process.

He propped her two legs up on the bed, kissing her right thigh, higher and higher, letting his beard run lightly over her skin and watching her sigh with the contact.

His cold fingers touched her skin, slowly pulling her panties down, making her shiver at the touch.

She leaned on her forearms, watching Axl closely.

Axl approached the center of her, licking her folds before spreading her legs further, granting him more access. His tongue started to make circular movements on her clit, at first they were slow and calm, but after a while, they started to get stronger and more accurate.

She grabbed the covers with her fingers, letting her head fall on the bed again allowing small moans to leave her lips.

"Axl" She whispered his name.

Seeing this as an incentive, Axl slowly penetrated one of his fingers into her, while his other hand came up and squeezed her breast firmly, causing a loud moan to come out of her throat.

After a few minutes, Axl inserted a second finger, curving them and reaching a different point inside her that made her moan louder.

"Right there!" She said between moans.

Axl started to feel her walls tightening, giving a sign that she was close, he applied more pressure to her clit, making faster movements with his tongue.

At that point she was already a mess, her left hand tightly gripped the cover under her, while her right hand was in Axl's hair, pulling his strands lightly and whimpering with pleasure.

He hit her point a few more times and was static when he saw her legs shaking slightly while a loud moan accompanied by a strong tug on his hair told him that she had reached her climax.

After receiving all the juices she had given him, Axl lifted his kisses, stopping at the level of her right breast, where he sucked with ease, lightly biting her nipple while watching the long, heavy breathes come out of her lips.

Going up a little further, he captured her lips in a hot, ravenous kiss. Her hands began to entertain with the buttons on his pants, telling him that she wanted him to get rid of them.

Breaking the kiss Axl removed his pants and underwear at the same time, freeing his already hard and completely erect member.

She licked her lips with desire, watching him as he stroked himself while walking towards her.

"Are you going to be a good girl and take everything?"

She nodded and he pushed her by the shoulders on the bed before pulling her closer to him by her legs.

He climbed on the bed and used his left hand to support himself, while his right hand guided his member to collect some of her juices. Axl moved his cock slowly over her clit, making her moan softly.

Slowly, he began to penetrate her, pausing for a moment when it came to an end, waiting for her to adjust to his size. The pressure created by his dick against her tight walls made them both moan in unison before they shared a lush kiss.

Moving slowly, he started to get in and out of her. His eyes locked with hers as the room seemed to get ten degrees warmer. Her hands tightened on his biceps tightly as he leaned down to kiss her again.

“Fuck, you look so hot taking my cock inside of you.” He groaned.

After a few minutes, Axl's thrusts became stronger and faster and Y/N's moans got louder and louder. She murmured things in her native language that Axl was unable to understand as her nails scratched the skin on his back, making him grunt and bite her neck hard.

"I think…. I’m going to…." She managed to utter between moans.

"I know baby, cum for me!" Axl ordered in her ear, making her even more excited than before.

She let out a loud moan, before shouting his name, reaching her climax. Her eyes rolled and her mouth was open, her mind was blank and an orgasm twice as strong as the first took over her body.

The image was a work of art in Axl's eyes. When she said his name again, this time lower, almost like a plea, he could no longer contain himself, reaching his own climax and pouring his liquids into her while letting out a loud grunt.

He collapsed on top of her and she hugged his waist with her legs while removing some strands of his hair from his face.

The two let the last moans leave their bodies, low and disconnected, due to sensitivity.

Axl stood up and slowly withdrew his member from inside her, watching their mixed liquids leave her body. His member shook with pleasure, but he could tell that she was too tired for another round.

After cleaning her, the two fell asleep in bed, Axl wrapped Y/N in his arms and admired her in the light of the fireplace when she slept. He didn't want to leave tomorrow, he wanted to have more time with her.

----

The next morning Axl woke up and the bed was empty. Sitting up quickly, he realized that she was sitting by the window, smoking a cigarette.

"I thought you were gone." He said as he approached, wearing nothing but his underwear.

She was wearing the same sweater as last night.

"Your smell is on my sweater." She said casually.

"Good to know!" He leaned down to kiss her lips again.

She didn't want to kiss him, she knew she was already too involved. He was from another country and the two would probably never see each other again. But there was something about him that made it impossible for her to resist.

One of her hands touched his face lightly, caressing him.

"Last night was incredible!" He sat across from her, lighting a cigarette for himself.

She nodded slowly while looking through the window.

"What's it? Did I do something?"

"No, it's just ... I'm leaving today." She didn't look at him.

"Yeah, me too!"

She looked at him and felt her eyes well up with tears, but she was not going to allow herself to cry. She had just met him, it was ridiculous to feel that way.

"Do you think we could exchange our numbers?"

“I don't think it's a good idea! You live on the other side of the world, it’s not good to feed that kind of thing. ”

He felt a tightening in his heart, but he understood what she meant.

"Yeah, you must be right."

He looked at the bedroom’s watch and realized it was close to ten. The sun was beginning to rise over the horizon, its timid rays illuminating the room.

"I have to get to Bergen by one."

"You should go then, or you'll be late!"

"Yeah, I should."

They looked at each other for almost a minute. Their looks saying what their mouths lacked courage.

Axl leaned over and kissed her one last time, his hands pulling her closer until she was on his lap, while her hands played with his hair.

They tried to keep the kiss as long as they could, knowing that when they separated, Axl would have to leave. But the oxygen came to an end and they had to separate.

Both stood looking at each other for several seconds, trying to record every detail of the other's face in their memories.

She got up and allowed him to do the same.

Axl put on his clothes and started walking towards the door, stopping before opening it. "Am I going to see you before I leave?"

"I think not."

He nodded and left, heading for his room.

She sighed, pulling the sweater close to her nose and taking in his scent.

----

Later that morning, Y/N saw Axl leaving the cottage and storing his suitcase in a black car.

A sense of sadness took over the body, but she couldn't say why. It was impossible for her to love him, wasn't it? After all, they had only known each other for a day.

Axl turned towards her window and saw her sitting in the same place as before. He waved at her and waited for her to return the gesture before he got in the car and left.

When he left the place he couldn't help feeling that he had left something very important behind. He knew what it was. It was her. But she was right, it would be fruitless to feed something like that.

Watching the car leave, Y/N touched the window and waited until the car was out of sight.

A single tear fell from her eyes. "Hvis det er ham, vil skjebnen få oss til å møtes igjen."

"If it's him, fate will make us meet again."

#axl rose #axl rose fanfic #axl rose smut #axl rose fic #axl rose x reader #axl rose imagine #guns n roses #guns n roses fanfic #guns n roses fic #guns n roses imagine #guns n roses x reader #gnr #classic rock imagine #harley writes

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nyctolovian · 4 years ago

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Summary: A study of the world after Jon and Martin cut the tether, and the safehouse they left behind. (It's one month since Mag200 and for some reason, this is my first fic since then hahaha! Very experimental writing tbh but I've had this image in my head ever since the end of TMA so here it is!)

And as the tower crumbled, the Fears dived through the cracks of reality on Hilltop Road. They smelled the scent of fresh blood and were ravenous for more, and so they left the old stale thing that was the ruined world.

It started from the corners of the world. Normalcy creeped back like a frightened creature. The darkness no longer sealed the badgers; mice were no longer being hunted down by titan cats; and humans could find soft earth once more. Sunlight—normal, warm, non-burning sunlight—peeked through the grey clouds, painting it white, and the grass and trees settled comfortably back into the earth and basked in the dawn.

The ruined world, bit by bit, became not-so-ruined.

Tears of joy and relief were shed. There were also sobs for what was lost, what would never return. A select few began to tremble and hide, for fear of what would happen when their ex-victims would find them. Others ran around aimlessly, searching for their loved ones from the mass of returning people. Some found the first person in sight—they'd feel familiar, the echoes of screams around them were still ringing in their heads like a bad dream—and they'd hold each other and weep.

It was over. It was all over.

And in the furthest corner of the world, up on a Scottish hill, where fluffy white clouds watched dolefully, sat a little house. Tiny and inconspicuous.

It was once a safehouse to an English policewoman, and then it was the safehouse for two lovers, who scarcely had time to breathe. Then, it was a cabin, deep in the heart of fear, where the Harbinger trapped themself.

But now, it was just a house on a hill where the sun shone bright and the breeze swept through soft green grass.

Untouched by the change, the freshly washed white curtains fluttered behind wide open windows that revealed the vast expanse of the earth. If one looked hard enough, one might be able to tell that the brown-black-white speckles in the distance were grazing farm animals. The house was peaceful at last but make no mistake—it was not empty.

A grey moth with lightly patterned wings had buzzed into the house and landed atop the windowsill. It tip-tapped its feet, spinning around and faced into the house.

Many things in this house came in twos. The two sofas that had been pushed to the side before the lovers arrived were now the centerpiece of the living room, angled to face each other slightly. Two half-read books lay on the tiny table between the sofas. In the kitchen sink were two unwashed mugs, two cereal bowls and spoons. Two medium-sized suitcases were left open and half-unpacked beside the bedroom door.

There were few things that only came in ones. First was a cutter and a parcel beside it, which was filled with cassette tapes and papers with statements, some of them fake, some of them painfully genuine. Then, spread across the dining table was a map of the local area spread across it. Little circles marked out with a red pen highlighted the map, and little notes like "maybe?", "biking", and "Flowers!"

The blankets on the bed was unmade. A cassette tape had slipped through the gap between the bed frame and the wall, but most of them were still well-behavedly staying atop the mattress. A few hair ties hung off the leftmost pole of the headboard. The sunlight warmed the bedsheets and gave a spotlight to the dancing dust in the air. And maybe, in this light, if one looked closely, one might see the faint outline on the bedsheets of where two people once lay.

The house was not empty.

Another moth flew into the house, fluttered about against the ceilings of the bedroom for a while, before settling down on the windowsill as well. This moth was a rich brown with a dark spot on the tail end of each wing. It tip-tapped a bit closer to the grey one until their wings brushed against each other. Both moths fluttered their wings in surprise before settling back down again.

#tma #magpod #the magnus archives #fanfic #tma fanfic #i... don't even know how to tag this tbh its so ?????#implied character death #post mag 200 #my writing

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jackidy · 4 years ago

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To Star Lake: Chapter 3

Rating: T Pairings: Todoroki Shouto/Sero Hanta Characters: Various Universe: Howls Moving Castle Au

Summary: A day of impossibilities starts with a mystery man, with mismatched eyes and cold hands, rescuing him in a dark alleyway as he attempted to go about his business and the pet name sweetheart being said a little too tenderly. It ends with another stranger cursing him in his own store after telling them to leave.

Things like this don’t happen to people like Sero Hanta.

AO3 Previous Chapter Next Chapter

----

“Stop fucking hovering, Deku.”

“He spent most of the night on that stool, Kacchan! What if he’s too sore to move?”

There’s the sound of something being set down, the crackling of firewood sounding endearingly angry as Sero is reluctantly pulled from sleep. Who or, rather, what was a Deku? His track record of meeting new people recently having been reduced to sentient inanimate objects, mentally running through a list of possibilities only to open his eyes and find not an object but a very, very human face.

Sero isn’t sure why he’s so disappointed by that fact.

It’s no surprise he’s as sore as he was the previous morning, if not more so, knowing he should be more concerned about the deafening crack his back makes as he sits up than he is, the concentrated pain in his spine seeming to bleed out into a more bearable ache that bloomed over his shoulder blades and rib cage. The kid, Deku if Bakugou was to be believed, was there in an instant hovering with his arms open, having absolutely no idea where to place them.

“I’m good.” Sero croaks, dismissing the kid with a wave of his hand, legs mid swing off the bed when someone knocks on the door, watching with humoured curiosity as the green haired boy runs down the stairs, back up them again, draping a cloak over his shoulders and changing his appearance with a pull up of his hood as Bakugou barks out what door it was.

How can it lead to Port Haven when Sero had come in through the wastes?

“Is the great wizard Frostfire present?”

His confusion of the name speaks volumes of how little information on magic had made it to the countryside, Sero pushing himself off of the bed with another grunt, smiling to himself when he notices his walking stick leaning against the arm rest of the sofa he’d previously been sleeping on. How had he gotten onto the sofa anyway? Surely that teenager at best hadn’t carried him over?

“He’s out at the moment, sir, but I’ll be sure to pass on any message.”

The glare of the morning sun makes him wince, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his free hand, blinking rapidly in the aftermath. He’d never seen the ocean before, never really left the small town he’d grown up in, living vicariously through Mina when she would talk so enthusiastically about everywhere she had visited to gather inspiration for the hat shop. He wonders, fondly, how mad they were going to be when he eventually came home and he revealed he’d finally left town, not because of them but because he had a run in with two wizards.

“It has been requested by his Majesty that all witches and wizards are to report to the capitol city at once for service in the war to come.”

How much of this would they believe though? The only reason he was due to the fact he was living it for how often did stories of curses, magic fires and scarecrows, and moving castles turn out to be true? Not often enough to be true. How many stories of Shouto’s supposed victims had been proven false now? Too many for the concept of him as a heart eater to really have any credibility but not enough to dismiss them entirely.

“Oh, he’s not going to be happy about this.” The kid mutters walking up the steps, carry a scroll he deposits on the table, the form of an old man melting back into him as he pulled the hood down and cloak off. He jumps upon noticing Sero staring at him, Bakugou laughing at the teens expense in a way that was more cackle than anything else. “I forgot to ask! What’s your name? I’m Midoriya Izuku, also how did you get in here? Are you a wizard too? Are you one of Master Shouto’s friends?”

“I’m Sero Ha-”

“KINGSBURY DOOR!” Bakugou yells, cutting off Sero and pushing Midoriya back into a slight panic, yellow cape back on and the old man he had been moments before came back into view. Weren’t they in Port Haven? How were they getting knocks in Kingsbury? Sero leaning over the railing as teenager took a breath and turned the small dial above the handle, the sound of seagulls and the near by port being drowned by the clamour of a busy city, the rumble of cars and the sound of people going about their day.

“Hello, is this the residence of the wizard Iceflame?”

First Frostfire and now Iceflame, how many aliases did Shouto have anyway and why would he even need them? Perhaps he should stop going down that train of thought now, nip it in the bud before it gets out of hand, he has his own issues to deal with without getting caught up in the dramatics of wizards anymore than he already has done. Conversation with the men at the door over, Midoriya closes the door, resting his head against it before changing the small dial again, the vibrance of the city melting away into the dull pallor of the wastes and the gentle sound of rain fall.

“Sero, I walked in, no and no.” He offers in hopes of melting away at least some of the stress off of the other’s face, only for it to be replaced with confusion, the teenager still wearing that face as he walked up the stairs and deposited yet another scroll next to the one he’d been handed not even five minutes ago. Even Bakugou looks on the sceptical side of confusion, making it perfectly clear he didn’t believe a word Sero had just said.

“That doesn’t make sense, most people can’t just walk in here, especially those who aren’t friends with Shouto.” Midoriya stated firmly, a determined look on his face, Sero half concerned he was going to challenge him to a fight despite any assertion Sero may give that he was right and that he did not know who Shouto was, just the rumours that followed him everywhere.

“I’ve never met the guy.” Sero states flatly, earning another strange reaction from Midoriya, this time one of confused surprise, and an oddly smug look from Bakugou. Was he missing something here that he should know, the old man sighing before moving to inspect the cluttered counters around them, frowning at the sight of potions mixed with food, parchments filled with recipes draped over crockery that were perhaps beyond the point of saving.

How anyone lived like this was beyond him, knowing full well he wasn’t the tidiest but he’d never let his messes get to this point, wondering vaguely which side of the line between too busy to clean and too lazy to try the occupants of this house fell under. It’s why its so surprising when Sero finally manages to find food, still fresh and edible, hidden partially beneath a cloche, eyeing the bacon and eggs hungrily before looking up and checking for other ingredients.

Carbs. He was missing carbs, bread being the best suited for what he had in mind but he would take any at this point in order add some bulk to the meal. Vegetables he’d given up on looking for, the only splash of greenery coming from the patches of mould attached to what was once food residue. How was Midoriya an image of health in conditions like this, he was feeling ill just thinking about what layer in the deeper layers of mess.

“What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast.” He replies like it’s obvious, gently extracting the basket of meat and eggs from the side, wincing at the clatter of plates as they fell into the gap left behind, hooking it into his elbow and grinning as he finally spotted a loaf of bread on the table, still fresh and, with any luck, not entirely stale. “Do we have anything to make tea with?”

“Yes, we have a teapot but Kacchan doesn’t listen to anyone bar Shouto and even then, its reluctantly!” the panic in his voice is palpable, Sero only acknowledging his statement with a click of his tongue, setting the food down on a stool by the fire demon, turning his attention instead to the collection of pans hung against the wall. The second from the left is his best option, Sero thinks, big enough for two portions, maybe even three at a push, eyeing the irritated fire and wondering if it even ate.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll listen.” Sero grins, perking up the way he always did when he was about to get Kaminari in trouble with Mina or vice versa, turning he cast iron frying pan in his hand. It’s a comfortable weight, pleasantly surprised that even with the aches and pains ridiculing his body he was able to hold it this easily, moving back over to the hearth, smile widening with every step as Bakugou started to look more and more like a pissed off cat. “Won’t you Bakugou?”

“Fuck off.” The crackle of fire wood and the floating specs of flame is more comforting than intimidating, Sero feeling more like he was in the presence of a friend than personified fire. “I aint doing shit for you.”

“I guess I’m telling Shouto of our deal then.” Sero smirks, voice dropping to a low whisper so Midoriya could not hear them, taking small joy from the way the fire seemed to still, looking away from the fire to the pan as he turned it in his hands again. He had become more daring with age, it seemed, knowing full well he’d have at least given it a second thought before speaking so brazenly with Bakugou. “Do I look like a man with much left to get fucked up by a wizard?”

The sound of steam, a billow of smoke, fire tempering down to a blue concentrated flame as Sero brings the pan down, flames kissing blackened iron and his hand hovering over metal to check how the pan was heating up. “Then have this curse from me, may all your food burn, bastard.” It doesn’t sting, no anger behind the words masquerading as a curse, Sero noting that the other seemed almost impressed again, electing to not comment on it.

There’s an awed whisper somewhere behind him of ‘Kacchan is doing what he says’, Sero shaking his hand as he moved it from the frying pan, finally hot enough, to the slices of bacon thick enough to be belly pork. Two or three? Two or three? He settles on three, unsure of if it was an apology slice to Bakugou or an extra one for Midoriya, a level of concern in him over the way the teenager stood shorter than him despite Sero having shrunk with age. Maybe this is why his friends referred to him as their dad jokingly.

Sero barely notices the creak of an opening door, the tap of footsteps on stairs, Sero too focused on the sizzling fat and inward lamentation at the lack of seasoning to give the new distraction his attention. “Master Shouto! You’re back early, you received summons from the palace as both aliases, what do we...” The teenager trails off before brightening again, Sero freezing as something cold radiates beside him.

Before a burning fire demon and yet it felt like all the warm had been sucked away, a shiver running down his spine as he looked up at the source of the drop in temperature and he feels himself freeze further.

Apparently, he had met Shouto after all.

It was the man from the alley way, the man who swept him off his feet and into the air, had let him float onto a balcony, kissed his knuckles and called him his. He’d not only met Shouto, he’d also been haunted by the man for the past thirty six hours, the curiosity over what it had all meant dying on his tongue as he remembered his bitterness from yesterday. It was Shouto’s fault he was in this predicament, Sero having only made the mistake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Obedience isn’t like you.” A quiet quip, a light laugh in his voice as the sound of a gas stove seems to increasing in volume, Sero throwing himself further into cooking so he didn’t become lost in that voice all over again. Flip the bacon? Check. Add the eggs? Check. Empty shells lay on the edge of the hearth, the sizzle of opaquing whites an all too welcome distraction as the wizard spoke again, this time addressing Sero. “And you are?”

“Oh! That’s Sero.” Midoriya chirps in, Sero thankful for the teenager’s interruption, still not entirely sure of what he wanted to say to the wizard. ‘Thank you for saving me, by the way, I appreciate that the price of not being mugged was being a pensioner’ was too angry, too antagonistic for this time in the morning, smiling at the memory of his grandmother telling him that aggression should not be spoken before breakfast, least they sour the food.

“Here let me-”

“No.” His voice is firm, the silence in the kitchen stifling, as Sero looks up at the wizard, look as set as his tone, tightening his grip on the panhandle, challenging the other to try and take it from him. “I don’t trust people who let their kitchen be this messy to cook for me.” Maybe his new found age had made him too bold, watching shock overtake Shouto’s face before he’s laughing behind his hand again.

“Okay, that’s fair.” He leaves Sero’s side then, scooping up the eggshells and moving them closer to Bakugou, turning on his heel to busy himself with something behind the old man. A clatter of ceramic, the whistle of a boiling kettle and the awed curiosity from Midoriya that spilled from his lips like a waterfall, Shouto answering every single one with patience.

Maybe the rumours were incorrect after all, Sero surmises, turning to the table, pan in hand, to find a corner haphazardly cleared, for how many Casanovas spent their time answering a multitude of questions on the properties of rosehip tea from a teenager that was made of curiosity and wonder. He’s barely taken three steps when Shouto is by his side again, strangely reminiscent of the alleyway only this time the cold hand is on his shoulder, not his waist, the warm hand brushing over his own holding the pan before gripping it just above the towel.

Why wasn’t that burning his hand? “Here, let me.” It’s difficult to not listen to what that voice, kitchen towel falling to the floor with a dull thump, hand slipping from his shoulder to the middle of his back to give an encouraging push forward. Midoriya is in the middle of pouring tea when he takes his seat, eyebrows raising in mild disbelief at the small bowl he is given in place of a cup, noting that the makeshift cups for both Shouto and Deku seem to be in a similar state of not being remotely cup or mug shaped.

Plate of food slide towards him, Sero nearly drops his head into his hands as Midoriya offers him a selection of two spoons and a fork, commenting a little awkwardly that he could only have one as ‘the rest are dirty’, Sero taking the fork, making sure to wipe it on his shirt before trusting it enough near his food. He’d been through the wastes and slept in this shirt yet he still trusted it more than this kitchen area.

“So, is there a reason why you’re in my kitchen, Sero?” His voice isn’t accusatory, just a gentle curiosity that takes Sero by surprise and renders him off guard. Shouldn’t he be more annoyed by this? Was a random man that much of a common occurrence in his home that he found no need to question it or was it something else? He daren’t entertain the idea that Shouto not only knew he was cursed but could see him as he actually was.

“I’m your new house keeper, Bakugou hired me.” There’s a choked noise from the hearth, Sero once again questioning where this boldness came from, focusing on looking at the cooling eggs as opposed to giving Shouto any form of visual acknowledgement. He’s going to end up in more trouble, the wave of confidence that came in the form of believing things couldn’t get worse seeming to have dried out already.

Things could get worse. There was still so much he could lose.

“It would be nice to have a more organised kitchen.” It’s Midoriya that speaks now, contemplative, Sero biting back a laugh at the offended noise from Shouto, feeling more at ease. He’s not sure what it is, something about the green haired boy is putting him at ease, the tension that was slowly building in his shoulders slipping away just as easily as it came. “Would probably stop customers commenting on everything.”

The younger pair slip into easy conversation, mostly one sided as Midoriya talked of practicalities within their art of magic, Shouto only offering the odd word here and there in either agreement of dismissal, Sero tuning out the conversation easily enough. Where would he even begin with a place like this? Eyes flicking from the pile of books and parchment before him, to the dire state of the sideboards, looking past Shouto to look at the hearth, grimacing. He hasn’t known Bakugou long but he already knows cleaning the mountains of ash and charcoal from the hearth was going to be an endeavour in and of itself. Maybe he should save that for last.

“Sero?” He jumps at his name, looking back to the magical pair and finding them both looking at him, Sero blinking owlishly under the mix of concerned and humoured looks. Why did Shouto look like that? What had he missed? “I asked you what was in your pocket.”

His pocket?

Wrinkled hands pat trouser pockets, bemusement clear as day when something crinkles under his touch, slipping his hand into his pocket to find a note. How long had that been there? These had been fresh out of the drawer when he’d put them on, his only handling of paper when he left the note for Mina and Uraraka, eyeing the purple note warily before placing it in Shouto’s extended, expectant hand.

Paper touches skin. Paper explodes into blue flame and ash, hands recoiling at the flash of heat as intricate details scorch themselves into the table, Sero quickly checking his hand for any burns before looking to Shouto, no longer weird in his welcome but aggravated, a tension building in his shoulders, something about the expression seeming weirdly familiar but Sero couldn’t place why.

The silence stretches as a pale hand presses against the table, the smell of acrid, burnt flesh filling the air as blue fire sparked to life around Shouto’s hand. Sighing deeply, Shout stands, the mark on the table gone and the hand that had been on the table now cradled to his chest, the remainder of his tea downed, his half eaten plate of food dumped into Bakugou’s flames.

“Move the castle seventy miles north, I’ll be needing hot water too.”

It’s Midoriya who first breaks the silence at the table, Bakugou cursing up a storm towards Shouto in the background as he turned to Sero, a set look on his face that the teenager was failing to not show as threatening. “Are you working for Dabi?” His voice is low, Sero growing more confusion at the sudden tension. He hadn’t known who Shouto was until about ten minutes ago, how was he supposed to know who this Dabi was?

“Kid I have no idea who Da-”

“Pass that on to little Shouto, would you.”

Something snaps in him then. A white boiling rage that was so out of character for him that it threatened to suffocate him. Dabi. Dabi was the man following Shouto. Dabi was the bastard who had done this to him. Slamming his hand on the table, he barely feels the pain from the impact, Midoriya jumping back from him and even Bakugou stops his tirade against Shouto.

“I do not work for Dabi.” He spat his name out like it was poison. “He’s the reason I-”

His lips seal, a pain developing in his vocal cords as he tried to speak of the curse, tried to tell the increasingly panicked looking teenager about how he wasn’t in his seventies but twenty four, how he’d been cursed for just being seen with his master. Sero’s attempts to speak of his predicament end with an angry sob, coughs wracking his sore throat, a warm hand rubbing his back as another cup of tea was slid towards him, the comfort Midoriya offered welcome but doing little to ease his mood.

“I don’t work for Dabi.” He repeated softly, the floral tea providing another performative sense of comfort, warming his old bones and easing the physical aches and pains that plagued him.

“I know, I’m sorry I asked.”

#todosero #seroroki #sero hanta #todoroki shouto #midoriya izuku #bakugou katsuki #bnha #bnha howls moving castle au #to star lake

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bansept · 4 years ago

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Protector

Part 2

Now this one... It’s a bit difficult to make a relationship believable, honest, not rushed and beautiful in 5 parts, but it’s the challenge! I won’t spoil anything, but I like writing fluff, and this fic is the perfect excuse for an overdose of it hehe

-----------------------------------------

If the outside of the house had seemed particularly old and invaded by plants, the inside of the small cottage-like house was modern, with touches of colors everywhere. Old and new objects shared the shelves, silly magazines and philosophical books scattered on the small coffee table in the main room. The entrance, the living room and what seemed to be the start of the kitchen were harboring persian carpets, intricate and deep shapes almost hypnotic.

Nature was not just an outside thing, with a pot of roses on a dresser, some small ferns hiding an old plushie, and more box trees scattered here and there, next to modern lamps.

It felt homey, comfortable. Lived-in. Nothing like Ichigo’s sad apartment, that he never really cared to decorate.

Orihime Inoue sat on her grey sofa, the soft red and white check plaid to her side, and patiently waited for Ichigo to sit down. The young man certainly didn’t make her wait, sitting in what seemed to be a Chesterfield-like armchair. The cushions were a great help soothing his back pains.

“Alright, um, Miss Inoue I only need you to tell me what happened at the bakery. Or anything you can remember.” He clicked his pen to life, taking a notepad from his vest pocket. Orihime seemed to frown a little.

“I thought you said you had already read a report on this?”

“I did, but only the official parts : who were the victims, what age they were and what were the damages. Knowing what you saw could greatly help my colleagues on the field.”

She nodded in understanding, hair bouncing on her shoulders, before getting more comfortable in her seat.

“I was doing my normal and daily routine : waking up, washing up and going for a walk before heading to the bakery. Not many people are there at the time, which was around 7 if I’m not mistaken.” Ichigo nodded, confirming silently.

“I arrived and waited behind Miss Parker. We were chatting and it was her turn before I heard a scream behind me. I turned around and ran to the place I thought it came from, but before I could do anything… It, it exploded. And the owners died, Miss Parker is wounded, I heard.” Her grey eyes blinked rapidly, as if to stop tears from falling. Ichigo awkwardly shifted, placing his pen and notepad back in his pocket before managing to get a clean and unused tissue to her.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all that, Miss Inoue. If it can make you feel better, I know none of the injured are in critical conditions now. Even older customers like Miss Parker will be fine.”

Orihime wiped a tiny tear off her eyes quickly, and Ichigo remarked with awe she was not wearing any kind of makeup. This woman was beautiful like that while doing nothing with her face… He cleared his throat to see her nod, taking a shaky breath before smiling.

“I hope the injured will be alright. And that the culprit will be caught.”

The steel in her eyes hardened, sending a chill down Ichigo’s spine. He had seen harsh looks, murderous ones and angered glares, but Orihime’s was by far the scariest. The man peeled his hand away.

“We will work hard for it. And thanks to your testimony, the investigation will be easier. Hopefully.”

She chuckled at the last word, and by all the goddamn beautiful things on this earth, he swore he was hearing some kind of divine bells. Like an angelic sound coming to bless his ears. He was not even going to think about how her face had crunched up at her laughter. The policeman scratched the back of his head quickly, nervously looking around.

He heard her stand up and tried his best not to follow her moving around in her dark jeans and pink oversized shirt.

“Would you like anything to drink? Or eat?”

Ichigo managed to not choke on air at the ask, because then his fear of being viewed as unprofessional would have come true.

“Um, yes, some coffee please.” His voice was shaky and he internally hit himself for being stupidly crushing over the girl he didn’t know anything about. Except that she was the victim of an explosion that had occured yesterday morning and he was there for WORK.

“Alright. Make yourself comfortable, Mister Officer.”

And now, Ichigo turned crimson, heart going too fast, but thankfully she was out of sight, he told himself, not knowing she was the same kind of absolutely wrecked by the other.

After the first talk in Orihime’s wonderful home, Ichigo had hardly let her out of his sight, only leaving her side to go to his apartment and gather some new clothes. Because, yes, as weird and delightful as it was, he was guarding the young woman day and night now.

Which meant being near her as long as the investigation was rolling.

According to Orihime, nothing or no one was running after her in particular : she didn’t have any enemies, nor was her work important enough for someone to physically act against her. In front of her beautiful grey eyes, Ichigo had decided to trust her, the honesty and sincerity shining bright through him.

Still, it didn’t explain why certain things happened.

One morning, Orihime found one of her shoes, who was always tidily placed near the other in the entrance hall, on a bookshelf, dust slowly growing on it. She had giggled a “silly me”, but the young police officer frowned : there was nothing silly about that.

Another time, a vase she loved had been buried in her garden, the only way to see where it was hidden being the stray cat that often visited the normally calm house scratching the ground curiously.

“You’re thinking too much of it! Really, sometimes I don’t remember where or why I put stuff in weird places.”

Her words did little to soothe him, and only her gentle hand on his arm got his mind out of his working gutter. Ichigo felt his skin react before his muscles, his face turning vermillion and his arm longing for more. More of her, more of those innocent stares and vibrant smiles.

The orange-haired scratched the back of his neck rapidly, scanning the room quickly before nodding, a timid smile on his lips.

“I-I guess…”

Orihime smiled again, even brighter, and turned her head to look at the clock, the auburn mass of hair sending a wave of mouth watering strawberry shampoo. Early afternoon, the sun was shining and that meant one thing to her : gardening.

He suspected her to work her actual job at night, when he was sleeping deeply in his own room, so Ichigo could not interrupt her, or sneak a look at confidential documents. Alone in her room, one light shining on the young woman while her eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, the time when her hyperactive brain could entirely focus on whatever an astrophysicist worked on.

The two walked out of the house, one with baggy clothes she wasn’t afraid to ruin with grass, dirt and others, while the other kept his pastel yellow t-shirt with his jeans, the best Ichigo could do against the hot weather of the late summer. Orihime immediately tended to the flowers, carefully handling them, talking to them like she would to old friends, making jokes to Ichigo. It was as if the two were friends since childhood, the discussions so easy it would scare the man.

“Do you believe in other lives, Officer Kurosaki?”

“Hm? Oh, well, I’m not much in religion, so I would say no.”

Her face shivered with a giggle, batting her hand as if to call him silly. He tilted his own head to the side.

“I meant… Other lifetimes. I used to not really think about it, but, since a few months ago, after reuniting with a long-lost friend, I started believing. And now..” Her eyes batted to the sides, probably looking for her gardening kit.

“Now… I start to believe that you and I might just have known each other in another life. A simpler one, with no-one to hurt good people while young and old people enjoy their lives.”

Head down, fingers playing with the stem of a voluminous pink rose. The sun radiating on their backs, hiding their reddening selves.

How much either one of them wished for that.

#bleach #ichihime #ichihime fanfiction #ichihime writing #ichihime headcanon #ichigo x orihime #protector #part 2

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gladdygirl18 · 5 years ago

Text

Some Well-Earned Revenge

This is my first tickle fic, so no hate plz! This will be an Avengers tickle fic.

Summary: Ever since Peter joined the Avengers, Sam and Bucky love nothing more than to tease and “poke” fun at the spiderling, just to see him smile and laugh. Peter comes up with an idea to get them back; by giving them a taste of their own medicine.

Word Count: 2607

Peter Parker, aka Spider-Man, is one of the newest members to the Avengers; and the youngest. Seriously, the kid is a walking bundle of joy. Just sitting next to him can put your heart at ease. His smile is so bright, the sun itself cannot compare; and his laugh is as melodic as a siren, and no one loves his smile and laugh more than the Falcon and the Winter Soldier.

Yes, Barnes and Wilson; close friends and the “annoying, older brothers” to Peter. Whenever they get the chance - which is all the time - the two of them always tease the kid, like:

“Well, look who it is... the itsy-bitsy spider.”

“Don’t forget your umbrella, spiderling. You might get washed away by the rain.”

Peter does not mind them poking fun at him, but man are they annoying! Rain or shine, day or night, the duo absolutely loves teasing him; in so many ways than one. Name calling, teasing about how small he is; you name it, they probably have done it; numerous times. Young Peter knows it’s their way of showing that they care, but the way they do it really gets on Peter’s nerves. The one thing that Sam and Bucky do that REALLY gets on Peter’s nerves is their surprise tickle attacks.

Oh. My. GOD! Peter cannot catch a break! Since the two veterans are stronger than him, Peter can’t really do anything to prevent their torturous fingers from kneading and squeezing his skin. Peter’s laugh could stop a war, it’s so precious. His smile is a sight to behold. But in all honesty, even though it’s annoying, Peter doesn’t mind Sam and Bucky tickling him. It’s one of the many reasons why the three of them are so close, the younger sibling and the annoying, older siblings.

It was Saturday morning, and the summer sun was shining brightly through the large living room windows. Peter was kicked back watching TV. Anytime he was alone in an empty room like this, he was always on high alert. Sam and Bucky love catching him by surprise and tickling him senseless; either that or make him admit something embarrassing or give something up. One or the other; or just to simply make the kid laugh and smile. The only good thing about Peter waking up early on Saturday mornings is that Bucky trains at the gym for most of the day and Sam sleeps in; I mean, who wouldn’t on a Saturday morning in the summer?

While Peter was watching the people move across the screen, he turned off the TV and leaned his head back on the sofa, closing his eyes and letting out a heavy sigh.

What should I do today...? Peter wondered.

Breathing out another sigh, Peter started wracking his brain for ideas to satisfy his bored and unoccupied mind. He then sat straight up when he came up with an idea. His lips curved upwards at the thought, pranks. Peter loved playing pranking his teammates, but he’s not one for being on the receiving end. In the end, everyone laughs about it.

Now, who should Peter prank? Cap? Can’t really prank a guy who has cat-like reflexes; plus, he was out for the next couple of days. Thor? Can’t, he’s out on a mission with Hulk, Wanda, and Widow. Tony? Nope, he’ll never let him live it down; plus, he’ll prank him right back. Hawkeye? Same thing with Tony; he’ll prank him right back. The only ones he left out were Sam and Bucky.

It felt like time stopped around the young web-slinger. He felt a Grinch smile form on his face. Peter SO wanted to get the two back for pranking and teasing him over the past few months.

Now that I know my victims, what kind of prank should I pull...? Peter pondered.

It didn’t take long for Peter to come up with the perfect prank. Knowing the two will definitely get him back, it’ll be worth it. Peter checked his phone and saw that it was half an hour until 12. Geez, he’s been watching TV for almost two hours; it’s almost noon.

Knowing Sam’s and Bucky’s Saturday schedule, Peter simply waited for them. After his workout, Bucky always rested in the living room for a while to relax his muscles, whereas Sam always watched TV to get himself up and moving; even though he’s just sitting down and watching TV hours on end. Point is, both men will be in the same room at the same time.

Checking the time, Peter flipped on the ceiling and waited for his prey to arrive. He then heard two familiar voices coming from around the corner, gradually growing louder as they drew near. Peter smiled like the Cheshire cat when he saw the Falcon and the Winter Soldier walk in.

“Hey Buck.” Sam greeted.

“Sam.” Bucky said casually.

Peter had to cover his mouth to prevent himself from bursting into laughter. When the two men sat down on the sofa, Peter gracefully jumped from the ceiling and landed as quietly as possible. Being the spider that he is, he crept up behind the two veterans. Remembering what Cap taught him, Peter karate-chopped an extremely sensitive pressure point on the men’s necks. Instantly, the two of them passed out.

“All going according to plan...” Peter muttered.

Knowing that Sam and Bucky were going to wake up soon, Peter quickly hogtied them with his webs. Peter pushed aside the coffee table and let out a sigh of relief when he moved it to the far end of the sofa. Now the space in front of the sofa was twice as big than it was before. Now, Peter was a strong crime-fighter thanks to his spidey-strength, but trying to get two grown men on the floor who were unconscious and hogtied was a struggle. Peter let out a deep sigh when he finally managed to get Sam and Bucky on the carpeted floor.

“I’m surprised they haven’t woken up after all that.” Peter said to himself.

Shrugging off the thought, Peter decided it was time to wake up the two Avengers. The kid crouched down in front of the two unconscious men and shook their shoulders. Bucky shook his head let out a deep groan. When he tried to rub his aching neck, he realized he couldn’t move. He looked behind him and saw that he was hogtied. He initially thought he had been kidnapped, but when he saw what he was hogtied with, he knew exactly who did this to him. Sam soon woke up and flinched when he saw the predicament he and Bucky were in.

“What happened?” Sam asked, concern in his voice.

“He happened...” Bucky groaned, gesturing his head upwards.

Looking up, he saw the grinning face of Peter.

“Peter, what’s this all about?” Sam asked.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” Peter said.

He soon laid on his stomach and rested his chin on his propped up hands, not letting the cold glares faze him. Their ice glares only made his smile grow wider.

“Mind tellin’ us why we’re hogtied like this?” Bucky asked.

“I told you already; it wouldn’t be a surprise if I did.” Peter said, placing his finger on Bucky’s nose.

Bucky growled and took a gamble to bite the kid’s finger. Being the quick thinker, he is, Peter retracted his hand when Bucky lunged his head forward.

“Geez, calm down Bucky. I’m not gonna hurt you guys.” Peter said.

Peter got used to calling the two men by their first names instead of their last names. He still had the urge to address his teammates with Mister or Miss. Everyone knew the kid was only being polite, but they told him that he does not have to address them in that way.

“Seriously kid, tell us why you got us hogtied like this.” Sam said.

Peter sighed and sat up on his legs.

“I think it’s better to show you than tell you.” Peter said, standing up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bucky asked.

Peter soon sat on his legs in between the two Avengers and rested his hands on their backs. Ever so slightly, he slid his hand down, inching closer to the men’s sides. When he fingers reached his target, he attacked, kneading the skin under the thin shirts. Bucky and Sam let out surprised gasps before laughter spilled from their lips.

“Whahahahahahahat thehehehe hehehehehehehehell?!” Bucky laughed.

“Stohohohohohohohohohohohop!” Sam cried.

Peter smiled and removed his hands. The two men began panting.

“What was that about!?” Sam asked, voice full of anger.

“My surprise, and my revenge...” Peter said with an evil grin.

Peter could practically see the fear in the Avengers’ eyes behind their cold glares.

“I had just about enough with you two tickle torturing me hours on end... I’m just here to return the favor,” Peter said.

“Hah! What are you waiting for? An apology? A confession?” Bucky asked.

“Whatever it is, you ain’t gettin’ it, Spider-Kid.” Sam said.

“And right there you just answered your own question.”

The Falcon and Winter Soldier looked at the kid with confused expressions.

“I’m getting you guys back for all the times you teased and tickled me. Like most of the reasons you guys tickle me...” Peter said.

When Peter dug into their sides again, Bucky and Sam let out streams of loud laughter.

“Simply just to see you smile and laugh!” Peter said over the men’s loud laughter.

Bucky and Sam squirmed in their bondage, but they weren’t going anywhere any time soon. Knowing how strong the two men are, he made sure he used a lot of webbing to keep them in place. Peter even added a few more layers of webbing to Bucky because of his metal arm.

“Kihihihihihihihihihihihid! Stohohohohohohohohohohop!” Sam pleaded.

“Cuhuhuhuhuhut it out!” Bucky laughed.

Peter shook his head in amusement and continued his tickle attack, and Sam and Bucky couldn’t do anything about it except laugh and squirm.

“You guys honestly think I’m gonna stop now? I haven’t even started yet.” Peter said.

Bucky and Sam shook their heads violently, trying to not think about the kid’s fingers spidering all over their sides. (pun intended)

“Peheheheheheheteherherherherherherherherher! Plehehehehehehehehease stohohohohohohohohohohop!” Bucky said.

“Sorry, no can do. This is exactly what you two deserve for tickling the life out of me all the time.” Peter said.

“We’re sohohohohohohoryhyhyhyhyhyhyhy!” Sam laughed.

Peter scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“You’re gonna have to do a lot better than a pathetic apology like that.” Peter said, slowing his fingers to a stop.

Bucky and Sam took in much needed oxygen when they were given a break.

“Honestly, I think I take tickling way better than you two.” Peter said, putting emphasis on the “way.”

“Wanna... bet?” Sam panted.

When Peter tweaked the man’s side for threatening him, Sam let out a giggly yelp.

“You are in no position to make threats, Mr. Wilson,” Peter said.

“We’re not scared of you, y’know that, right?” Bucky asked.

“By the end of this, you will be.”

Peter managed to slide his fingers underneath the two Avengers and began tickling their stomachs. The two men laughed out loud, squirming in different directions to try and escape the kid’s fingers. If anything, they were only helping the kid achieve his goal of tickling their abdomens.

“Cohohohohohohohome ohohohohohohohohohon! Quihihihihihihihihihihit it alreheheheheheheheheady!” Sam laughed out.

“Let me think about it...” Peter said, stopping.

Unable to keep the grin from growing on his face, he shook his head.

“Nah! This is way too much fun!” Peter said, continuing his assault.

Another round of laughter filled the room.

“Kid, plehehehehehehehehehehease stohohohohop!” Bucky pleaded.

Peter couldn’t help but laugh along with his fellow teammates. They were flopping around like fish out of water. Peter let out a sigh before stopping. The Falcon and Winter Soldier panted, still giggling from the recent tickles they had just received.

“Are you done yet?” Bucky panted.

“Huh, far from it, my friends.” Peter scoffed.

Sam placed his head on the carpet and breathed out in defeat. Peter looked between the two Avengers and nodded with a smile when he made up his mind. Leaning over Sam, Peter shot his hands under Sam’s arms and started wiggling his fingers. Sam threw his head back and let out loud, booming laughter.

“GEHEHEHEHEHET YOUR HAHAHAHAHNDS OUT! PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE!” Sam pleaded.

“Ah, so you’re like me. Is this your weak spot?” Peter asked, digging his fingers deeper into Sam’s hollows.

“YEHEHEHEHEHEHES! STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP IHIHIHIHIHIHIHIT!”

Peter let out a heavy sigh and removed one of his hands from Sam’s armpit. He then started tickling Sam’s hip, massaging the bone with his thumb. Sam’s laughter reached a new volume and octave after that.

“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! PLEHEHEHEHEHEASE STAHAHAHAHAHAP! I CAHAHAHAHAHN’T TAKE IT ANYMOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHORE!” Sam begged.

After what felt like hours, Peter finally relented. Sam felt beads of sweat roll down from his brow as he panted. With an evil glint in his eye, Peter looked over at Bucky and thought for a while. With a knowing smile, Peter then began raking his fingers up and down Bucky’s ribcage. Bucky flipped out. His once neat hair was now all messed up.

“NOHOHOHOHOHOHO! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOT THEHEHEHEHERE! PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE!” Bucky cried.

“Uh-huh, thought so.” Peter said.

Peter then lowered his hands and started squeezing Bucky’s inner theighs. Bucky lost it.

“OHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO MY GAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!” Bucky pleaded.

Peter laughed at the Winter Soldier’s state. Peter then stopped his assault and sat back with a smile on his face as he watched his two team members gasp for air.

“Peter, please... No more...” Sam begged.

“Huh, that’s funny, because when I asked the same thing to you guys, this was your response.” Peter said, digging into the man’s sides.

Sam pressed his head again the carpet to try and muffle his tired laughter. With a satisfied smile, Peter eased up.

“I guess you can say I’m done, but there’s one last thing I want to do before I let you two go.” Peter said.

“What’s that?” Bucky and Sam asked.

Cracking his knuckles, Peter started attacking their weak spots; armpits and ribs.

“AHAHAHAHAHA! PLEHEHEHEHEHEASE DOHOHOHOHON’T!” Bucky pleaded.

“STAHAHAHAHAP!” Sam cried.

“Did you just say “please don’t stop”? Well, if you insist.” Peter said.

Peter’s hands soon went under their shirts and clawed at the sensitive flesh underneath it. The men’s laughter was loud, it could probably be heard from outside the facility.

“I wasn’t going to stop anyway.” Peter said.

The men’s laughter soon fell on deaf ears. After fifteen more minutes of torturous tickling, Peter stopped. The Falcon and Winter Soldier panted like dogs.

“Are you... satisfied yet...?” Bucky asked.

“Unfortunately, I am not.” Peter said.

Fear was clear as crystal in the men’s eyes.

“But, unlike you two, I’m merciful. So I’m letting you off the hook, just this once.” Peter said.

When Peter was tearing away the webbing, he kept “accidentally” tickling Sam and Bucky. When they were loose, Peter quickly flipped on the ceiling and watched the two adults lay on the floor, catching their breath.

“See you guys later!” Peter said, swinging out of the room.

Everything in the room was silent, except for the heavy breathing coming from the two Avengers.

“I gotta say, that kid is a really good tickler.” Sam said, chest rising and falling.

“Yeah...” Bucky agreed.

The two of them remained quiet for a few minutes before facing each other.

“You wanna get him back?” Bucky asked.

“Oh yeah.” Sam said.

The two of them got up and sprinted to Peter’s room. Nothing could be heard except the kid’s melodic laughter.

Hope you enjoyed! Stay Safe, Stay Blessed!

#tickle fic #mcu #tickling #ticklish!bucky #ticklish!sam #avengers fic

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roseherondale · 4 years ago

Text

Sidekick

Summary: Jace invites Kit to help him confront a warlock who may be planning to commit necromancy but Kit reveals too much.

Word Count: 3147

Warnings: N/A

Read it on AO3 here

The golden swirls of the portal disappeared around him and he looked around at the familiar library of the New York Institute where he spent more time than he would admit to anyone, curled up on the sofa reading and studying, surrounded by the books on the high shelves around the room. His gaze landed on Clary and Jace, a couple of metres in front of him, smiling widely. He moved forward, hugging Clary tightly. Her red hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a band t-shirt for TMI: a band that her parabatai, Simon Lewis, had been in when he had lost his memories to the Greater Demon, Asmodeus. He had since quit, but it seemed that Clary had kept the merchandise; it was worn and frayed at the sleeves.

"Kit! It's so good to see you." He pulled back, grinning, and turned to Jace, who awkwardly squeezed his shoulder.

"It's good to see you too." He replied.

"Hey, Christopher." Despite being cousins, Jace had easily fallen into a big brother role regarding Kit, and his smile was warm and inviting, despite the gauche action. He was wearing a white t-shirt underneath a leather jacket, and jeans, which was his usual style.

"Kit. What did you need?" Jace ignored the remark about his name and gestured to the sofas in the centre of the room.

They sat down, and Clary and Jace exchanged a brief look from where they were sat opposite him when Jace spoke. "We know you don't have much experience in Downworlder politics, so we thought it would be fun for you to come with us whilst we scope out a potentially necromantic warlock."

Kit furrowed his eyebrows. "Potentially necromantic?"

"There have been rumours," Jace confirmed, "so we thought it best to check it out after everything that happened with Malcolm. So, what do you think? Are you in?"

"Sounds fun. When are we leaving?" Kit responded, trying to keep his face even so that they couldn't tell that he was worried about the necromantic part of their mission.

"About fifteen minutes, so we should go gear up." Jace said, and Kit subtly let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding.

When he returned, dressed in black gear, which he had to admit really suited him against his tan skin and golden hair, Clary was applying a rune to Jace's collarbone. He wasn't close enough to see the shape, but he watched as the inky black lines formed on his skin.

Noticing him enter, Clary smiled widely, but Kit didn't know why. "Ready?" He nodded.

She drew the rune for a portal in the air, and it formed once more, sending papers flying from one of the tables, and rustling the pages of open books beside them. Jace headed in first, then Kit, following a gesture from Clary, and she brought up the rear.

"Do you need any runes?" Jace asked when they arrived in a mundane street. Kit shook his head, staring around. On either side, townhouses reached the sky, and casted shadows so that the afternoon sun couldn't reach them. Kit shivered slightly. It didn't seem like a place where someone would commit necromancy; it was too normal.

"Are you sure we're in the right place?" Kit asked.

"We are," another voice confirmed, and Kit spun around to see Magnus Bane, dressed splendidly in a purple velvet jacket. "He has wards up."

Simon appeared from behind him, wearing a t-shirt that said 'may d4s be with you' and Kit couldn't help but chuckle at the pun. Simon winked at him, moving next to Clary and bumping his shoulder against hers, gently.

"Hey Mini-Jace." He waved and Kit pulled a face, but waved back at him, to Clary and Simon's giggles.

"Okay, so Kit and I will go in, scope out the area and call you in if there's any trouble." Jace said, crossing his arms.

"Sure." Clary shrugged, settling down on a wall to wait. Magnus pulled out his phone.

"I was just telling Simon about Max turning into a bat again yesterday. We had to catch him with a net; let me show you the video, biscuit." Despite wanting to see the video of Magnus and Alec catching their warlock son with a net, Kit turned away and followed Jace up the steps. He knocked on the door and stepped back, grinning at Kit, easily.

The door opened slightly, the chain still on, and a face appeared at the side. It was a middle aged man, dark skinned but looking normal for a warlock. Since Kit spent a lot of time with the extravagance of Magnus Bane, the green-skinned and horned Ragnor Shade, and the blue-skinned Catarina Loss, he frowned slightly.

"What do you want, Shadowhunters?" He asked, seeming frazzled.

"You're the warlock, Atlantes?" Jace asked, and he nodded sharply. "We'd like to come in and ask you some questions."

"Fine." He unlocked the chain and stood aside for them to come in. Kit immediately noticed a cat's tail behind him, flicking agitatedly. Well, that answered the unspoken question about his warlock mark. He was dressed casually, in sweatpants and a t-shirt; he clearly hadn't been expecting them.

"Jace Herondale; head of the New York Institute." He introduced himself, and Atlantes reluctantly shook his hand.

"You brought a child." He said, looking at Kit with disdain. Jace moved passed him, heading into the living room.

"Couldn't find a babysitter." Jace said, seriously. "Anyway, he's my sidekick."

"I am not your sidekick." Kit defended. "If anything, you're my sidekick."

Jace raised his eyebrows, then turned back to Atlantes, who had followed them in, and was now hurriedly tidying up the cramped space. "Well anyway, we're here because there have been rumours that you plan to commit necromancy."

He spluttered. "What? That's preposterous. Who's spreading rumours about me? It is Barnabas Hale?"

"It doesn't matter who it is. We just have to come and ask you some questions."

Kit zoned out from the conversation slightly and looked around the room. Atlantes had shuffled the papers into a messy pile, on the coffee table, but it was also littered with various jars filled with ingredients, and though Kit didn't recognise them, they were handily labelled. He turned away to a cabinet on the far side of the room and made his way over. Jace and Atlantes were arguing about the precedent that Shadowhunters had and whether they should be able to deal in warlock politics, so neither of them were paying Kit any attention.

The cabinet was glass, but there was a box inside, with unlit candles on either side, and a photograph of an old woman, also dark skinned with bright eyes and a warm smile. If the man was commiting necromancy, Kit suspected that he wanted to bring that woman back, and that her hair, blood and bone was stored in the box.

"Who's this woman?" Kit asked.

Atlantes smiled for the first time since they entered. "That's my dear mother."

"Is that who you're trying to bring back?" Jace asked.

"No, I'm not trying to bring anyone back and my mother is still with us." He sniffed, "I meet her every week for lunch." In that case, the warlock was very young; Kit had never imagined them as anything but ancient and wise.

He noticed a bag of white powder pushed behind a pile of books on the floor. Pulling it out, he placed it on top of the books.

"Is this chalk?" He asked.

"Yes." Atlantes said, glancing over, distractedly.

"What's it made of?" He questioned, knowing that chalk made from the powdered bones of a murder victim was one of the ingredients for the necromancy spell.

"I don't know; whatever chalk's made of." He turned to Jace. "The child is asking stupid questions." Jace glanced over Atlantes' shoulder and Kit gave him a pointed look.

Jace just shrugged. "He's not my child; I can't tell him what to do." Atlantes huffed, frustratedly.

"Is there anything else you need?" He asked.

"Yes, we need to do a thorough search of your property, but we can have a warlock do it if it's more comfortable for you." Jace said, ever the vision of diplomacy.

"You don't need to. I haven't committed any necromancy." He protested, his tail flicking back and forth.

"I'm sorry; I have to do my job." Kit didn't think that Jace sounded sorry at all; in fact he seemed amused at the annoyance the warlock was facing. The information incriminating him must have been reliable, as Kit had never seen Jace taunt an innocent person before. He supposed that it was Jace's way of telling him that he needed to find more evidence to rattle him.

Kit continued to walk around the room, this time feeling the eyes of the warlock on him. He picked up random items and turned them over in his hands, whilst he desperately searched for something else that could be used for necromancy. Kit would never have admitted out loud that there was something thrilling about the mission; trying to find a rogue necromancer whilst having dabbled in it himself. For once, he felt valuable and needed; he alone knew the ingredients for the spell. Only he could incriminate the man, and if he could stop someone from making the same mistake Ty did, he would.

He picked up a jar of ash and opened it to smell it. The familiar aroma of the incense from the heart of a volcano overcame his senses, and at once he was hit by the memory of being on the lakeside, the faint smell on the breeze.

"This is incense from the heart of a volcano." He said, towards the warlock.

Resembling a deer caught in headlights, he nodded, then quickly recovered. "It's good to make tea. It helps with colds and I've been feeling pretty run down lately."

"I don't know about that." Kit said, "but I know it's an ingredient for a necromancy spell."

Atlantes froze, his eyes fixed on Kit's face. He was convinced of his guilt now, and Kit had one more trick up his sleeve.

"What did you use as your object from another dimension?"

"What do you mean?" Atlantes asked, but his eyes were wide.

"Well, we used something from Thule, but I can't imagine it was easy to find something."

"Don't speak to me of that place." If it was possible, his eyes widened further, and he looked terrified.

Jace intervened. "So, what dimension did you use?"

He sighed. "Diyu."

"What's Diyu?" Kit asked, confused.

"It's a realm of Hell." He faced Atlantes, "I assume you went through when Magnus and Alec were closing the portals in Shanghai."

He sighed. "Yes."

Kit rolled his eyes and pulled out a sphere of blue mist from behind the sofa cushions. "It wouldn't have worked anyway; your catalyst is corrupted." He tossed it back down, avoiding Jace's eyes.

"You're an annoying child, but I'm curious as to how you know so much about necromancy." Atlantes said, surveying him closely.

"I read the list of ingredients from your pile of papers." Kit said and Jace laughed loudly.

"Come on then. It's off to the Silent City for you." Atlantes held his arms out and Jace handcuffed them.

"I can't believe you figured it out." He said, shaking his head, sadly.

"What do you mean? You had all the ingredients and the instructions all around the room." Kit said, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Still..." Atlantes said, trailing off.

Jace strolled over to the table. "Is this from the Black Volume of the Dead? How did you get this?"

"I don't have the book." He defended. "I was holidaying in LA; I like to go diving. I found a phone and I was curious as to who's it was so I could return it, but then I realised that the photo album was full of pictures of the book, so I kept it."

Kit felt the colour drain from his face, and he turned away so that Jace wouldn't notice. He had watched Ty throw it into the ocean and neither of them would have expected for it to end up in the wrong hands.

"That was a good strategy, Christopher." Jace praised, casually, and Kit tried to hide his smile.

"So, it turns out you actually are my sidekick." He joked. Jace glared at him, lightly, rolling his eyes.

"Go get the others." He ordered.

Kit headed to the door and poked his head out.

"Clary?" He called, and immediately the three of them stood and moved into his line of sight.

"You got him?" She asked and he nodded.

"Easy." He gloated. Magnus raised his eyebrows, but Simon looked impressed. They followed him into the living room, which was even more cramped with twice the amount of people.

"Good job." Simon said, taking the warlock from Jace. "Should we get him out of here?"

"Yeah, let's go now." With a brief kiss to Jace's lips, Clary turned and made a portal. "To the Silent City." She gave a little wave and disappeared into the portal, her hair bobbing in the ponytail. Simon shook his head fondly, and made to follow her, Atlantes restrained, though he was going easily, and he gave one last mournful look around his living room.

Right before they went through, Kit called "wait" and headed to the cabinet, taking out the photo of the warlock's mother and handing it to him.

"You should take this with you." He said.

"Thank you. You may have been annoying, but you're kind too." He surveyed him for a moment, as if he was shocked that one person could display more than one emotion, then gestured to Simon that he was ready to go through the portal. "Goodbye Jace Herondale and... Mini-Jace Herondale." They disappeared in one last swirl of gold, Simon's laugh trailing off into nothing.

"That was a nice thing you did." Magnus remarked.

"I felt bad for him." Kit said, shrugging. The truth was, the warlock had been out of his depth, just like he and Ty were, and he was just thankful that he could stop someone else from making the same mistake.

"Come on, Mini-Jace." Jace said, gesturing to the door. "Leave Magnus in peace whilst he collects everything we need." Turning back to Magnus, he lowered his voice and gestured to the table, "he had a copy of the Black Volume of the Dead, so we need to make sure that's the only version."

"Of course." Magnus said, gravely. "Though if he's given it to someone else, there may not be a chance of finding it. Either way, I'll get everything from the house and meet you outside."

Jace gently pushed past Kit and led the way outside, where he sat on the steps. Kit reluctantly followed and perched himself beside him; he knew what was coming next.

"When did you try to commit necromancy?" He asked, calmly, as if it were a simple matter of asking what the weather would be like or what they were having for dinner. For a moment, Kit just stared at him, and then he sighed.

"When I was in LA with Ty. We tried to bring Livvy back." Staring at the ground in front of him, he waited for Jace to respond.

"What went wrong?" Jace asked.

"The catalyst was corrupted; she came back as a ghost and now she's tied to Ty." He bit his lip and looked back up at him, "I tried to stop him. The whole time I didn't want to do it, but I didn't want Ty to do it alone and isolate himself from everyone, so I went along with it. I never thought he would get all the ingredients and then Shade refused to help us anymore and I thought he would give up. But then, he got his own catalyst and at the last second I had to at least try and stop him from doing it, but then we fought, and he did it anyway."

"Is that why you went to live with Tessa and Jem?" Kit nodded.

"I couldn't be there anymore." He didn't elaborate further, but he knew that Jace knew more than he let on.

"Who else knows?" Jace asked, curiously.

"Magnus. I think Jem and Tessa do; I kind of announced to Tessa that I hadn't committed any necromancy when she came to see me in the Silent City so, I think she's a little suspicious." He smiled, sheepishly, and Jace burst into laughter.

"Only you could do something like that." He remarked, between trying to catch his breath. When he recovered, he spoke seriously, "do you want to keep it a secret or can I tell Clary?"

"I don't mind you telling Clary, but can you please keep it between yourselves?" He asked, and Jace immediately nodded.

Before anything else could be said, Magnus appeared in the doorway. "I've collected everything now; let's get back."

There was a box marked 'important evidence' in capitals and glittery green pen, filled with papers, spell ingredients, and the box from the cabinet. With a wave of his hand, it disappeared, and Magnus turned back to them, forming a portal.

"He found Ty's phone." Kit said, and Magnus nodded.

"I know, I found it and I'll deal with it. After you, Mini-Jace." Magnus said, and Kit rolled his eyes, stepping through into the Institute library. Clary and Simon were waiting there, perched on a table beside the evidence and they waved at him. Jace and Magnus came through moments later.

"Well, I'm off to rescue my husband from our two little monsters." He said and headed out the door. Kit assumed he was heading to the office where Alec acted as the Consul. Since Idris had been taken over by the Cohort, he had set up a base in New York instead.

"Taki's for dinner?" Clary asked, wrapping her arms around Jace and he nodded, then pressed a kiss to his head. She pulled away, and she and Simon left, knowing everyone's favourite orders already.

Once the door closed behind them, Jace turned to Kit. "You did well today, Kit."

"What, no Christopher?" He asked, jokingly.

"Don't push it." Jace warned, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Are you really okay with everything? You don't see me any differently?" Looking down at his shoes, he resigned himself for Jace's disapproval, but it never came.

"Of course not. I always knew you were loyal." He ruffled Kit's hair, affectionately, "like a puppy."

"Hey!" He dodged out the way and fixed his hair, smiling back at Jace as they made their way out of the library. Kit laughed, feeling a million times lighter now that he had someone to talk to about everything.

Thank you so much for reading - I hope you enjoyed it. And thank you for all your lovely comments, the likes and reblogs on my last two works. I wish I could reply to you all but I’m on a sideblog.

I came up with the idea, planned, wrote and posted this all in one day and it may be one of my favourite things that I’ve written... I hope you all liked it too xxx

#kit herondale #Jace Herondale #shadowhunter chronicles #the wicked powers #the dark artifices #ghosts of the shadow market #clary fairchild #Magnus Bane #simon lovelace #original character #fanfiction

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mysterioh · 5 years ago

Text

ᕼEᒪTEᖇ ᔕKEᒪTEᖇ - [2/8]

Pairing: Cop!Bucky Barnes x Cop!Reader

Summary: The year is 1989 and what better to prepare for the next decade than with a killing spree? A string of gruesome deaths has thrust the city of New York into absolute mayhem and terror causing intoxicating fear to settle within the niches of the city’s underbelly. Having used up every trick in the book and earning nothing, Police Commissioner Stark seeks the aid of the NYPD’s most elite task force.

A force of two.

A reticent genius and a cheeky casanova.

WARNINGS: Death, Murder, Graphic Depictions of Violence and Gore, Language, Usage of Drugs, All the makings of a Crime Show.

Written for @captainscanadian 1k Writing Challenge!

Masterlist

A Recording

11:22 AM

New York City Police Department - 88th Precinct

Brooklyn, NY

Saturday, October 14, 1989

“You can’t do this!”

Tony slams his fist on the desk in frustration.

“I don’t see why I can’t,” Fury responds calmly through the phone.

“This is my jurisdiction, I run things around here,” Tony retorts with a sharp edge to his words. “I don’t need help, especially from two kids.”

Fury sighs deeply. “Really now?” he asks with a mocking chuckle. “And how far have you come in your own investigation?”

The line goes silent. Tony knows the answer, but he’s unwilling to reply. Despite his inadequacy, he remains obstinate in his opinion as he sits perched on his office desk. Teeth clenched. Lips tugged down into a scowl. Finger twisting around the telephone cord violently.

“Have you found the killer?” Fury asks another question. “I’ve checked the files, you have nothing,” he snaps at him. “I want answers, Stark. I need results. I need whoever the hell it is that’s running around killing people behind bars. And what have you given me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a slow exhale. “If you give me more time I know my team will be able to do it,” he assures. “I don’t need those two to do it.”

Fury chuckles haughtily. “You’re new around here, Captain,” he states. “This isn’t sunny Malibu, this is New York.”

“I grew up in Manhattan,” Tony replies boldly. “I know exactly what it is.”

“Then I suggest you quickly learn to accept help when help is given,” his stalwart says firmly.

“Those two are more than qualified for this job. They’re not kids, they’re fully trained and capable agents. Both the top of their class with mastery in the sciences and combat. They’re goddamn geniuses,”

Tony rolls his eyes and scoffs silently.

“If anyone is going to crack this case, it’s them, and if you do anything to get in their way. I can assure you it will not end well for you,” Fury threatens with emphasis on each word.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Tony sighs exasperated and turns his head to look through the blinds of the window. His eyes narrow, shooting daggers at the two detectives.

“Crystal.”

------

“So the last shall be first, and the first last.” Peter reads off the photograph. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a bible verse,” Bucky tells him. “Written in the gospel of Matthew. It means that those who have prospered through wickedness will fail in the end and those who do good works will earn salvation.”

Peter and a few other officers stare at him, silent but judging in their expression.

“What?” Bucky asks. “My grandma used to take me to church with her every Sunday when I was a kid.”

You shake your head with a sigh and examine the photographs pinned onto the bulletin board.

“Harold Tucker. Age forty-seven. Died October 6th.” you read off.

“Rebecca Reid. Age fifty-five. Died five days later.”

“Louis Clark. Age forty-two. Died October 13th.”

Bucky gasps. “And on Friday the 13th. What an unlucky day for her,” he shakes his head in pity.

“Oh god, don’t tell me you actually believe in that bullshit,” Tony growls as he approaches them.

“I don’t,” he shrugs. “But it seems to be more than just a coincidence.”

“Coincidence or not. They’re dead,” you deadpan. “Repeatedly stabbed in the chest and left to die.”

“But the writing on the wall?” Peter asks again. “What does it have to do with them? They’re just ordinary people. Law-abiding citizens.”

“Did you run a background check?” Bucky asks, turning through papers in Louisa’s file.

Peter nods. “Yeah, all clean. I think old Harry had a DUI somewhere but that’s about it.”

“Maybe it’s something not written on paper,” Tony suggests, coming to stand next to you. “Something more personal?”

“We all sin. Some more heavily than others,” he notes. “Maybe, the killer has his own sense of justice. He’s taking the law into his own hands.”

“That’s highly unlikely,” you shut him down quickly. He glares at you. “In a city of over a million, how would you even know who to pick?” you question. “They aren’t mindlessly killing people. These are targeted victims.”

“Y/N’s right, they must be connected in one way or another,” Bucky adds, “the writing on the wall speaks about justice but to the killer, it must mean more than that. It’s revenge. They are people who have done something to him and now it's his turn to get back at ‘em.”

Rhodey shrugs. “Makes sense to me.” Tony elbows him in the arm. He looks at him confused. “What?”

The captain sighs, returning to the board. “Moving on. Our lovely perpetrator decided to name themselves.”

“The children of Oedipus,” Bucky finishes.

“Oedipus was—” you started

“The man that killed his father and married his mother,” Tony interrupted quickly. “We know the story.”

You huff, returning his earlier glare.

“He had four children,” Bucky chimes in, trying to ease the tension between the two. “Eteocles, Polynices, Antigone, and Ismene."

“Does that mean there are four killers?" Peter asks.

You open your mouth to speak only to be stopped by the receptionist.

“Captain, we found this box outside the station,” she walks to the group with it. “It’s addressed to you.”

“Me?” he asks.

She nods and hands him a plain cardboard box with a white name label plastered on the top. He takes it with a raised brow, looking at his comrades before ripping the tape off. He lifts the flap of the cardboard box to reveal a single Panasonic Cassette Recorder wrapped in a newspaper.

He takes it out. “It’s a tape recorder.”

Rhodey scans the newspaper. “This is today’s paper,” he states.

“There’s a cassette inside,” Tony notes.

“Play it,” you tell him.

He places it on the table and presses the play button.

The black tape begins to roll and they all listen quietly to static, waiting anxiously for something to happen.

“Heyo! It's me, Polynices!” a spritely boyish voice greets.

“Don't forget me, Antigone!” a girl speaks from behind.

"We are the children of Oedipus!" he informs with pride."Cursed from birth and doomed for destruction!"

"Lemme guess your first question is who are we really?" Antigone asks. "Too bad, we can't tell you or it'll spoil all the fun.”

Tony scoffs with a turn of the head.

“Now that we finally have your undivided attention and some new faces to help,” Your head whips towards Bucky to find him just as confused as you. “How about we play a game, huh?”

"Let's play Cops and Robbers!” Polynices exclaims like a child. "Where you're the cops and we're the robbers. All you have to do is catch us. Sounds pretty easy right?”

“Super easy!” Antigone chirps. “Since this is our first time playing, we’ll give you an easy riddle to catch us in the act.”

"Let's see if you can get to 'em before we do, huh, Captain Stark?" she asks, her tone shifts dramatically from childish to taunting and dangerous.

“Here's the clue for today,” she states. "What walks on two legs in the morning, then four at noon, and three in the evening and never stops?”

“The hell does that mean?” Rhodey murmurs.

“You have till midnight tonight to solve our riddle,” she states. You can hear the wicked smile in her voice as she speaks along with the devil snickering in the background.

"Happy hunting!"

8:15 PM

Montague Apartments

Brooklyn, NY

Saturday, October 14, 1989

It's early morning, the sun comes out

Last night was shaking and pretty loud

My cat is purring, it scratches my skin

So what is wrong with another sin?

Music blasts from an old stereo that sat on the kitchen counter and bounces off the old stained walls of the apartment. High-pitched guitar riffs threaten the glass in the cupboards into cracking as the deep bass of the drums makes tabletops vibrate, rattling the objects around the house.

Charlie, the orange tabby, digs his face deeper into the blanket left in a pile on the couch as the raspy voice of the lead singer screams in his ears. You sit next to him, slouched into the squeaky sofa, feet resting on the rickety coffee table, completely unphased by the music. Your eyes were glued to the wall that was stickered with photographs and red lines of thread twisted around thumbtacks running in every direction.

Three hours left and you still couldn’t figure it out.

"What walks on two legs in the morning, then four at noon, and three in the evening and never stops?”

Her voice echoes in your head. They both sound young. Filled with energy and a lust for blood. You were beginning to question yourself. Was there a motive behind it all or was it just a game like the Captain had stated?

The bitch is hungry, she needs to tell

So give her inches and feed her well

More days to come, new places to go

I've got to leave, it's time for a show

Bucky walks down the hallway and catches the loud knock on the door. He opens it to find the landlady. A short, stout woman who swore she was still in her thirties, even when the wrinkles embedded in her face stated otherwise.

The brunette leans against the doorframe and gives her a wolfish grin. His blue eyes gleam under the stale white light of the hallway, charming the old lady. Her heart beats rapidly like a teenage girl under his alluring gaze.

Here I am, rock you like a hurricane.

Are you ready, baby?

“Mrs. P, how’s it going?” he asks smoothly.

She straightens herself and clears her throat. “I’m fine,” she replies curtly. “I’ve been trying to catch you all day. I’m here to talk about the rent.”

“The what?” he brings a hand to his ear, I can’t hear you! The music’s too loud!”

He can hear her perfectly fine.

“The rent! You have to pay me rent! It’s been a month!” she shouts over the music, “Please turn down your music! The neighbors are complaining!”

“I can’t talk right now. I’m in the middle of a very important case,” he replies, slowly closing the door. “It was nice talking to you though!”

“No! No, wait!” she shouts before he shuts it in her face.

He snickers as he crosses the living room and into the kitchen. He turns the music down, earning a snap of the head towards him. “Hey!” you protest with a shout.

“Do you want the neighbors to murder us?” he replies, opening the fridge to find it like usual.

Empty.

He slams the door of the fridge in disappointment. There’s no real reason to be disappointed. Both of them were experts in neglecting their household chores.

“Y’know, we should go do some shopping soon,” Bucky says as he walks back to you.

You grimace. “Someone is going to get murdered in less than three hours and you’re worried about food?”

“Are you kidding me?” he retorts. “Look at me!” he exclaims, lifting his shirt to reveal a lean torso. “I’m all skin and bones! You’re starving me to death here!”

You roll your eyes then get up. “I’m not your mother. Feed yourself.”

“But it’s your job to do the grocery!” he protests with an accusatory finger.

“Since when?” you ask incredulously.

“Since we started living here,” he reminds. “Stop acting like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

You click your tongue, walking over to the pantry and take out a bag of potato chips. You throw them at his face and walk back to the suspect board. “Now shut up and let me think.”

“Thank you,” he smiles warmly and you have a sudden urge to feed him a punch.

He opens the bag and begins chomping. He comes to stand next to you in front of the wall. “So got anything yet?”

“No,” you sigh. “You?”

“You’re smarter than me, Sis,” he remarks. “If you don’t have anything, how do you expect me to?”

“That’s not true.”

Bucky snorts. “Whatever you say, Valedictorian.”

“Shut the hell up, Salutatorian,” you smirked, side eying him.

He bumps your hip with his, earning a chuckle from you.

He enjoys the rare moments he can make you laugh. It makes him feel like a million bucks because if he can make the grumpy goth grandma laugh he can make every chick in the city laugh.

"What walks on two legs in the morning, four at noon, then three in the evening and never stops?” You repeat for the umpteenth time. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s the question that the Sphinx asked Oedipus outside of Thebes.”

“I know that,” you replied. “But what does it have to do with us?”

“The answer was man,” he takes another chip into his mouth. “And it ended up curing the city and made Oedipus king.”

You hum bringing a hand to your mouth in contemplation. “Wait a second,” your hand falls.

“What?”

“The riddle. It’s different,” you dash over to the bookshelf, scanning through them to find the collection of Greek Tragedies by Sophocles given to you by an old professor friend. Bucky comes over and looks over your shoulder. Flipping through the pages and skimming through the words with a finger, you stop when you find the scene of Oedipus and the Sphinx.

“See,” you show him the passage in the book, “here it’s a four-two-three progression. The stages of a man’s life. An infant in the morning, an adult in the afternoon, and an old man in the night.”

“They changed it,” Bucky says. "That means the answer isn't man anymore.”

"The "never stops" in Antigone's riddle was clearly added," you pointed out. "So they are alluding to a place that’s open twenty-four hours."

"This is New York!" Bucky throws his arms in the air in exclamation. "The whole damn city is open all the time!"

"Runs at two in the morning, four at noon, then three at night and never stops,” you repeat softly.

Silence settles in the room as the two of you dig deep into the crevices of your mind. Unfurling through files and tidbits of information that could give even a minor lead.

tick - tock - tick - tock

The clock echoes the beat of your heart. Eerily calm. Heavy and systematic. Achingly slow. Reminding you that every passing minute wasted here was the countdown to someone’s last.

Bucky’s head whips towards the map of New York hung on the wall by the suspect board. The bag of chips in his hand drops to the floor as he makes his way to it. Your eyes follow him in confusion.

"2-4-3,” he murmurs, scanning the map.

"What?"

"2-4-3!" he exclaims, turning back to you with a dopey smile.

"Speak words dumbass!" you hiss.

"Don't you get it?” he asks, a chuckle coloring his word. “The 2-4-3!"

Your eyes grow wide in epiphany. "The 2-4-3!"

Bucky runs towards the door, yanking his coat off the hook on the wall. "C'mon, let's go!" he shouts. "We don't have much time!"

A/N: No, I have not been listening to 80s music for the past three days.

TAGLIST (OPEN): @murdermornings @chuckennuggets1213 @miraclesoflove @marshyrebelcloud @fckdeusername @undiadeestos @spiderrpcrker @welovecaptainamericaass @flyingowls

#bucky barnes x reader #cbc1kwc #bucky barnes imagine #cop!bucky barnes x reader #cop!bucky barnes x cop!reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes

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sugar-petals · 6 years ago

Text

Your First Time With Yoongi

warnings ⚠️ femdom!reader, bondage, slapping, masturbation, name-calling, cunnilingus, wow yoongi gets NASTY

word count: 2.6k | hc

↳ ♡ NOTE › for anon who also inspired the ‘first kiss with yoongi’ post. look what you’ve done. writing this made me lose my cool. let’s dive right into it.

you’ll probably be fooling around watching miscellaneous videos from your feed

and sorting through some clothes for the upcoming friday dinner

at the cozy italian restaurant next door

when you see yoongi come home looking, maybe not concerned, but more lost in thought

it takes a day or more until you ask him about it

brooding yoongi always means he’s weighing the big decisions

that you already know

but how it could possibly be something sexual you didn’t expect at first

because the only thing he says is that your second monthiversary is coming up this sunday

you reply yoongi that’s such a funny term

he says yeah it just made him think

it takes another day until you realize that he’s been unobtrusive letting you read between the lines how you see fit

and make that decision vice versa

it is about time to bring the relationship to a next level

yoongi sees the way you look at him

the last few weeks were proof enough he was worth giving it a go. you both knew what you were in for

as of now, you did make out a little at hoseok’s last halloween party (yoongi was in such a cute ghost costume). and kissed a whole lot during your vacation in london all lovey-dovey. but you didn’t have a chat

so you nudge him at breakfast. what about friday?

after going out, you’ll have a whole evening to talk things over at home. no stress no pressure

agreed says your boyfriend

friday comes, you get a nice spot at giorgio’s rooftop terrace restaurant

literally it’s perfect to set the tone, the night sky is clear

after splitting the bill on antipasti for you and chili pepper pizza for yoongi the mood is right for some intimate talk and there’s no wine needed

but not in front of giorgio’s other guests alright

you return home flirting

to sit in your tiny courtyard garden with the fairy lights on

as long as no mosquitoes show up you have a long and frank conversation with a lot of surprising turns...

monthiversary sex on sunday it is

three cheers on that!

yoongi is giddy all saturday long and takes ten minutes more in the bathroom than usual, and five more in the shower

as if he isn’t dapper and groomed already

sunday afternoon, you do feel your hands getting a little sweaty yourself

the time has come

this will be exciting

you both prepare the living room for the evening, equip the center table with everything needed, eat some light snacks and drink plenty of water beforehand

the sun sets boom a leonardo dicaprio dvd goes right into the player

you’re both comfy on the sofa, intertwined, it’s fucking cute

you feed yoongi some more pretzel sticks

he makes you laugh

and nuzzles into the nape of your neck cuz cat behavior

the atmosphere slowly changes when the movie does

with leo getting all frisky and sweaty on screen, yoongi’s hands also begin to fumble at your hips, your skirt

and eventually

with you just murmuring just enough hot ideas in his ears

slip down to spend their time caressing between your legs

yep yep

the party is getting started

his hands are only shaky until they find the right spot.

a pianist is merely on edge until he hits his favorite key indeed. and yoongi is that pianist.

you can tell by his movements how he considers you music. now let that sink in

you’re his favorite tune

RIP panties. those huge bony fingers know how to soak them

phew

they have endurance, too

you already know that this will be a passionate night

leo goes through twenty character arcs on screen while yoongi is still flicking those tips

really. getting. into it. stimulating you with one, two, three fingers at once, curling, rubbing, stroking, dipping

miss clit says thank you

no finger cramps in sight with mister ‘miraculous’ min yoongi

meanwhile, poor leo falls victim to the pause button

you repeat the safeword to each other

‘two’

(because second monthiversary ok)

and here we go

flustered yoongi sits up, you pulling that FG shirt off, him then leaning against the backrest of the couch with legs splayed laxly

you climbing on top face to face

hot hot hot

yoongi wants restraints, he said. restraints he gets. a dozen feet of loose hemp rope are waiting on the table already.

you bind his hands before the chest, mainly knotting the rope around the wrists with an extra simple tie that keeps it foolproof.

you do have safety shears on the table also

it took some time to remember the knot but it was some interesting stuff to learn

and... we’re talking yoongi’s sexy hands

what won’t you do just to see them tied fuck yes

a kiss follows

long, deep, and increasingly lewd

only interrupted by you taking off your top and panties. the skirt stays on although it’s getting a little shoved up

yoongi remains seated as he is, starstruck as hell cuz your body has him fucked up

in the meantime you turn around to press your ass right against yoongi’s crotch

with a some more audacity right there

not taking any chances beyond this point

the poor guy

steady ruts and gyrating are sure to fry his brain with you taking all the time in the world to rub your core all over his growing boner

the skirt only provides more friction to the whole game

“you’re so cruel, please, oh my god”

someone’s worried he blows his load way too early

well oops

“take it. lil’ sucker”

you gaze back over your shoulder. sweet, suffering yoongi has his eyes closed and bites right down on his lip.

he looks more concentrated than when he produces something in the studio i’m telling you

with your every push and rub, the tent in his blue shorts gets more upright, the fabric even more tense

and his voice whinier

and your pussy much wetter

that’ll be quite a bit of laundry tomorrow

with every new grind you realize

better have mercy and slip a condom on before he does cum in his pants

regardless you decide that your new favorite hobby is to tease the living hell out of him

by just how stiff he really is you can tell there are in fact two people enjoying that

holy shit when you get his pants off there’s a sight to behold

honey boy loves the cruel girls

it’s no secret yoongi is a fan of all things technology but damn he really is a master with the electric razor those are some pube gardening skills on fire

and he smells so good

and that juicy dick

is just one of a kind

UGH

the lube that’s been waiting on the couch table... will have to keep waiting forever

hallelujah you’re dripping

“that’s... not going to be a long ride, yoongi”

“i, i know”

(just how much of a han solo is he!)

“should we wait for a minute?”

“probably better”

the boy gets the best of you it seems

oh, sweet horniness.

a two minute TLC break gets the racing pulse down and the suspense up

admittedly just cuddly stuff with yoongi doesn’t make it any better

he. really. smells. so. good.

sandalwood, jasmine, something herbal, whatever it is, that mix makes your mind implode

“yoongi. i want you.”

so bad.

just seeing him with his big dark teddy eyes and bound hands is kind of a fucking lot to take in okay

not to mention his voice just getting that extra deep edge when he tells you he wants you too

FUCK

the two minutes are so hard to bear, you just want to get going and ride him and hear all those slutty moans

and corrupt his every inch

as per friday evening you know yoongi doesn’t plan to fall short on the vocal department whatsoever and who can blame him. his raspy baritone is a surefire way to make your thighs tremble

and by virtue of profession, rappers aren’t known for staying silent when it comes to issues they’re passionate about aren’t they

rolling down the rubber you grabbed from the table is challenging enough because good heavens you’re touching him this way for the first time it’s just hard to believe and hard to the touch

his breath accelerates big time

you’re careful but also firm enough to ground him

“ok, shall we?”

yoongi’s desperate hum in reply comes with two quick nods

slow, slow, slow, take it slow you say to yourself

but your wetness doesn’t lie.

yoongi’s piano hands were like an open sesame to your walls

they went pop

let’s get down to business bring that cock

you crave that filling BAD

when you align and slip him in with one not so steady hand cuz jesus christ you’re completely high-strung

those teddy eyes are on you like big brother

because yoongi monitors hard for any discomfort you might have

he probably realizes that he’s not a desert-dry 9:50 PM tampon on the fifth period day when the backsides of your thighs cushion down on his loins

WHEW, THAT SLIP

better than any conditioner out there

he’s in

it stuffs you so well, you can’t help but moan out

yoongi’s hypervigilance still hasn’t entirely faded though

“is that okay, does it hurt? is it—”

“shush, bun. watch.” testing, you give yoongi a good first bounce, far up and down, that baywatch slow motion... mother of god, your labia have a sweet time stretching around him. “it’s very okay.”

“a-alright,” he says

oh god yeah

another bounce on that. it’s already an addictive feeling

that’s what yoongi meant by ‘seesaw’

you rest your hands on his shoulders — and they’re made for that, i mean they’re just that broad — and really feel into how he glides in so nicely

with a slick and noisy plunge

gotta make sure to really savor all of those facial expressions from him ‘cause they’re pretty damn intense you have to give him that. never did you even fathom how his eyebrows could just escalate like this

yoonaerys targaryen!

that cock’s too good

so sleek. and comfortable

advantages of having a perky lil dick

he fills out your walls so perfectly

this is getting so heated, watching his body become so twitchy, his tied hands

with all those red blotches at his neck.

it doesn’t take many more movements, no matter how playful the edge

that you have to pull off and enter phase 2 of TLC breaks with yoongi’s dick resting against his stomach all sensitive

this time you french kiss

that’s how you know yoongi is not just a sucker. he’s a sucker

obsessed with nibbling at your lips and guzzling your saliva like wtf that’s not a break yoongi that’s making your girlfriend cum like new year’s eve fireworks

are all daegu boys freaky like that what is in the groundwater there?

you have to stop his hungry mouth and take a long damn breath

why is yoongi such a sex bomb

though what’s not to love about it

seriously you can’t take it much longer and he sees that

“you wanna use your fingers, babe?”

“if you allow me,” he licks his lips, which means adding fuel to the fire, he can’t help it.

“say please.”

“please.”

you start to fiddle with the rope knots

yoonaerys targaryen soon has free hands

rope marks suit him so well, that shit just turns you on even more

time to switch it up then the final is around the corner

changing spots on the sofa, you recline, legs apart

yoongi slowly rubs you off with his flat palm to keep the pressure light

and not to overstrain his wrists too soon

then comes the infamous naughty tongue lowering down to your pelvis... nipping, swift and staccato. you have rightfully dreaded this moment because geez he hooks you on it

next comes

the tip of his cock. i know right, good grief. guided by keen hands, rubbed against your clit, patting it, poking it, glazing it until it’s all coated all wet and pulsing like mad, what the fuck yoongi

he makes you completely swollen

and repeat

it’s a triple t(h)reat technique adapted straight from the realms of fiery hell

palm, tongue, cock rubbing against you. palm, tongue, cock. palm, tongue, cock.

YOONGI HAS YOU SCREAMING AND WINDING

that demonic trick is guaranteed not to go on for very long

point of no return says hiya, i’m here to mess you up girl

next turn his curling tongue comes to visit and dips between your labia

you can’t hold back anymore

and blow up in his face

whatever control there has been in your legs has now shut down entirely

yoongi has to deal with the full dose of slowly oozing jizz cuz boy he just buries his face even deeper once he sees the contractions starting

at this point he has solidified his sucker reputation

mister miraculous min just keeps eating and slurping while you cum your soul out. the pleasure is like a current taking over

making you curse

until you’re running of breath

with ‘point of no return’ handing the baton to ‘dizzy overstimulation’ you pull yoongi’s head out from between your thighs by the hair

yoongi kneels before you ruined

man... his face is dripping

he even got cum in his lashes

“shit, yoongi!”

“please. punish, i want, i, please”

seldom that yoongi’s rapper mind says sorry i’m out like that

looking back it makes sense. who orders a flaming chili pepper pizza for date night but a grade a masochist

cue friday evening protocol

you fumble off the very slippery condom and grip his cock by the base. hard.

with your other hand just in reach of his face

in comes a ringing slap to his right cheek

“a—ah, ah! more!”

slut yoongi is back in town and his cock really has to stay strong

because holy hell you jerk him off fast

getting greedy and erratic

yoongi cries out his orgasm with a whole white milky mess landing on his stomach, his thighs, your hand, your skirt, who knows he might have shot a constellation into the sky if it wasn’t for the ceiling

with the last drops gushing out, a giant fatigue pulls the plug on him

oh man

his hair goes in all directions. his face is slapped red, his wrists are marked, he came all over himself.

100% sex wreck

you can barely keep yourself steady either

but you can at least reach for the soon-to-be-dirty-laundry towel on the table

and clean up your salivating puffy teddy

only to pull him close to you

two fucks covered in sweat all slack on the sofa, worn out

but happy

yoongi keeps on babbling and breathing hard

seeking out closeness to your belly

you let him lie down his head on there

time to pull a blanket over the two of you right there once everything cools down

yoongi gazes up at you a bit cheeky even if he’s super tired

“kinda know what you’re thinking”

“that’s what a monthiversary has to be like”

“nothing to add”

“except: repeat tomorrow”

wrapping up the weekend all sloppy is a good luck charm for monday

“my bad. of course”

“you’re just amazing, you know that.”

“i was gonna say that to you”

safe to say that guy has your heart

“so... same time, same place, different movie?”

“sure babe i’m in”

while you both doze off, intertwined just as before

you can’t help but think

man that was life-changing

#bts smut #bts headcanons #yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #bts x reader #bts #yoongi headcanons #yoongi first time #long post

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kriscme · 4 years ago

Text

One Life to Live

Hi, sorry for the delay if you’re following this story on Tumblr. The chapters that have been put on AO3 have at last caught up with the chapters here. New chapters will go up weekly from hence on. You might find it easier to read on AO3 though. I’d link if I knew how. I’m Kris22 over there.

As always thanks to Ronja for allowing me to write fanfic of her Hunger Games fanfic “The Chance You Didn‘t Take” available on AO3 and FanFiction. Chapter 30 “Marcus presents well on TV, doesn’t he? You wouldn’t guess how much he hates it.” My hand stills as I focus on the screen and Buttercup nudges his head beneath my palm in protest. I absently go back to scratching him behind the ears and his chest rumbles in contentment. “Yeah, well, you soon learn to fake it,” replies Johanna from the other end of the sofa. “You should know that better than anyone.” “Yeah,” I say. Fake or not fake, real or not real, on television who can tell the difference? “That’s where Gale and I used to meet to go hunting,” I tell her. Cressida had Marcus stand with his back to the valley, using the mountains in the distance as backdrop. The sun was directly behind him and it shone through his golden-brown hair and set it aflame as if it were a halo. Man-on-fire, I can almost hear Cinna say. He’s the darling of the media now. I don’t envy him. I nervously wait for the moment Cressida interrupted the interview to ask me how I feel about a national park but it’s like it didn’t happen. It’s been edited so seamlessly that no one would guess there’d been a break in the dialogue between Marcus and herself. True to her word, there’s not even the slightest glimpse or mention of me anywhere. And nothing either in the separate feature she did on District 12 that had aired immediately before.

I let out my breath in a long exhale and feel the tension ebb from my muscles. I imagine Marcus in District 13 having the same reaction. We felt sure that if there were any compromising footage it would come out either before the interview was broadcast or during. And apart from that . . . um . . . incident in the woods, what else could they have on us? Only that Marcus was a guest in my house but that was a very reasonable arrangement given the circumstances. Otherwise, it was all very circumspect. No public displays of affection, no chaining naked to trees, no fights with logging companies. Only Johanna knew the extent of our relationship, and I doubt she’d have told anyone. Peeta’s engagement to Lace would have made a juicy story, but thankfully he’s protected, having done nothing to attract publicity to himself – either through his own actions or through association with another. “Looks like you’ve dodged a bullet,” says Johanna. She reaches for the remote to switch off the television and then settles back onto the sofa. A plate of Peeta-made cookies is on the coffee table delicately iced in Peeta’s signature style. She takes one and scrapes off the icing with her teeth. Johanna likes the icing best. If you let her, you’d end up with a plate of cookies that look as if mice had been at them. “It would seem so,” I reply. I wish I could feel more certain, but if I’ve learned anything from my experiences is that life seldom is. In fact, feeling safe almost guarantees that you’re not. I forget to stroke Buttercup again, and tired of my erratic attention, he decides it’s time to move on. He drops to the floor and ambles over to his favorite lounge chair, tail swishing. He leaves behind a layer of cat hair on my dark green trousers. “I told you nothing would happen,” says Johanna. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the fantasy they’d put so much effort into perpetuating, would they? I stand naked against a tree for a good cause and the media goes berserk. You get caught shagging against a tree with the current golden boy and then nothing.” “You know that’s not true,” I say, exasperated that she still thinks like this. “Maybe at one time, when it would have made the Capitol look stupid if the truth came out, but not now. They’ve had no compunction giving Marcus bad publicity in the past so I can’t see why it would be different just because I’m involved. We were mistaken about what we heard that’s all, and then we let paranoia take over.”

I’d agonized over whether I should tell Marcus about Remus and the knowing look he gave me when I returned to camp. In the end, I decided that he should have all the information just in case he needed to be prepared. That was a mistake. Between Cressida’s return to the Capitol the following day and Marcus’s for District 13 a week later, our waking hours were spent alternating between optimism that we had nothing to worry about and then dread that we had everything to worry about. Marcus was petrified that another scandal would put his mission in jeopardy. As there’s no official mandate from the central government to establish national parks, he depends on the goodwill and co-operation of individual districts and a negative association with me – any association with me, actually – could have that support withdrawn. Especially in 13 where my name is anathema. For me, it was the terror of a media onslaught, that what had happened before could happen again – my private life no longer private but entertainment to be analyzed and exploited. That the careful re-building of my life as plain Katniss Everdeen would all come to naught. That it might impact on Peeta, who’s only just now finding himself after what Snow did to him. We had our first ever real argument. I told him it was his fault for breaking his own rule and luring me into a clandestine meeting with him for sex. And he said it was my fault for . . . he couldn’t quite articulate why it was my fault but it had something to do with being Katniss Everdeen. It seems if I’d been a nobody we could have fucked in the main street (his words) and while it would likely have had us arrested in 12 it wouldn’t have merited even the smallest mention in the Capitol. Because, you know, we’re just ignorant hayseeds and they are so much more sophisticated than we are and they have no morals (my words). Oh, and he wasn’t exactly a nobody either. In fact, that was the problem. We did calm down and apologize to each other and had make-up sex, which was nice, but it wasn’t how I imagined we’d be spending our final days together – tense, fearful, with each blaming the other for our predicament. It wasn’t until the night before he departed for 13 that we came to a mutual understanding. Neither of us were at fault. We were victims of our celebrity – a celebrity that neither of us had sought. Mine was thrust upon me, and his was a regrettable consequence of his life’s work. But I did tell him he was partly to blame. If he had been fifty, pot-bellied and bald instead of young, handsome and with eyes the color of maple-syrup that could melt any women’s heart, he wouldn’t attract a fraction of the media attention that he does. And then he told me that if I had been a scraggy, wrinkled old bat instead of young and nubile with eyes like silver moons and hair evocative of midnight, all the Games prowess in the world couldn’t have made me the cultural icon I’d become. We were just too good looking for own good. And then we laughed and had sex – playful, affectionate, I-want-to-remember-this-forever sex.

But the worry was still there when we lay in each other’s arms that night, and the next morning when we said our goodbyes. It was a bitter-sweet ending to what had been an unforgettable interlude but as I watched him pass through the Village gates for the last time, rucksack piled high, long legs in hiking boots striding purposely towards the next wilderness to be saved, I was struck by the rightness of it. It was how it was always going to end; how it always should have ended. Johanna tosses a denuded cookie back onto the plate and picks up a fresh one. She ignores the pained look I send her way. “Would you have gone with him?” she asks. “If you could?” I brush cat hairs from my trousers to give me a few seconds to think about it. I’d honestly never considered it since I can’t leave 12. But there was a time when I could have happily left everything behind and followed him around the country, hiking mountain trails and making love at every opportunity. It was at the concrete house by the lake, the morning after we’d made love for the first time and there weren’t enough superlatives in the world to describe how wonderful I thought he was, although now I find it hard to determine exactly what I did feel for him.

“No,” I say eventually. “Even if didn’t mean being in the public eye again, I still wouldn’t. We don’t want the same things.” I hesitate, wondering if I should say anything, but then blurt it out. “I don’t think I’m normal.” I brace for the sarcastic response I’m sure to get, but to my relief it doesn’t come. “None of us are,” she says grimly. “You don’t go through what we have and come out normal at the end of it.” She’s silent for a moment, but then rouses herself. “But if you want me to comment further, you’ll have to be more specific,” she adds. I sigh. I don’t know to explain it to myself, let alone to someone else. “Well, it’s about how I felt about Marcus. I mean, it wasn’t that long ago when I would have done almost anything for him. He made me feel so . . . so . . . “ “Turned on?” she smirks. I feel my face grow hot. I should have known the real Johanna couldn’t be too far from the surface. “Yes, but more than that. Wanted. Desirable. And we had so much in common too. But when he left, I didn’t feel much of anything. I should have been devastated, shouldn’t I?” “Rebound.”

“What?” “It was a rebound. It’s when you haven’t got over one relationship and you dive straight into another. Marcus gave you the validation that Peeta didn’t. It’s not so complicated. Pretty simple, in fact. Happens all the time.” “It does?” “Yep. It goes like this. You feel like shit because you’re still hung-up on your ex so you’re looking for a distraction – something or someone to make you feel better. So along comes Marcus who is clearly attracted and you transfer the feelings you don’t think Peeta wants on to him. Only it doesn’t last because it’s not based on anything real.” But some things were real. I really did like him, felt a connection with him, even. And I liked the sex, but maybe that’s just a physical thing. I haven’t been with enough men to know if it’s different when it’s with someone you truly love. “A rebound is bad then?” I ask. “Depends,” she says. She takes another cookie from the plate. “Has it made you feel better or worse? And then there’s the person on the other end of it. It’s generally considered not fair to them. But, if you had to pick the ideal man to have a rebound with, you couldn’t have done better than Marcus. I told you at the beginning– one track mind. Nothing competes with saving the forests for him.” Gale. He was like that. The cause is more important than any relationship. As soon as Gale heard about the uprisings in the Districts, he no longer wanted to escape with me into the woods when just minutes before, he’d been so keen. But Peeta, he would have gone with me, even though he knew it was a bad idea. “He told me he doesn’t keep girlfriends for very long. I guess that’s why,” I say. He’d also have figured out what a liability I’d be to him. And I certainly wouldn’t want the kind of life a relationship with him would entail. That final week had been an eyeopener for us both. But at least it ended well, all things considered. I put out my hand for a cookie but change my mind when I can’t find one that hasn’t had the icing scraped off.

“You’re disgusting,” I tell her. But I can’t keep from laughing. It’s part amusement, part relief. No repercussions from that lapse of judgement in the woods and an explanation that makes sense to me about my feelings for Marcus. I feel a sudden rush of affection for the woman who’s helped me through this – and more besides. Once I compared her to an older sister who really hates you. I guess I have to revise it to an older sister who sometimes seems to hate you but really doesn’t, and you can always depend on to have your back. “I’m going to miss you,” I say. “Yeah, I know,” Johanna replies casually as if she were picking lint off a sweater. “But my reason for coming here in the first place was to help Marcus out and he’s gone. Peeta doesn’t need me anymore either. So even if I hadn’t been asked to, it still would have been time for me to go home.” “You’re going to be great mayor.” “Thanks, but I’m not mayor quite yet. I have to be elected first. It’s the way it’s done now.” Before the war, District mayors were appointed by the Capitol but now all governing roles are decided by vote. It’s the republic Plutarch had talked about, just like in the history books. The people elect their own representatives. “You’ll get it,” I say confidently. “They love you in 7. They wouldn’t have asked you to run, otherwise.” Who’d have guessed that Johanna would be destined to be Mayor of District 7, but when you think about it, it’s the perfect fit. She’ll bring passion, commitment and integrity to the role. And essential for a career in politics, a thick skin. “So, have you thought about what you’d like to do on your last night here and to celebrate your candidacy?” I ask. “How about drinks first at the pub and then dinner at that restaurant you like or maybe see a movie. Or we could do all three. Anything you like. “ “Anything I like?” she asks ominously. Images of pub crawls, strippers and naked sprints through the streets flash through my mind. “What I’d like is dinner with just the four of us. You, me, Peeta and Haymitch.” I groan. This is far, far worse. “You more than anyone know the circumstances – “ “I don’t care,” she says flatly. “Ever since I got here, I’ve been stuck between the two of you. Haymitch has too. Why don’t you think of other people for a change and how it affects them? You and Peeta are Haymitch’s family! What do you think it’s been like for him?” “He hasn’t said anything,” I say, on the defensive. “How can I know if – “

“It should be fucking obvious! How brainless can you get?” She gives me a look filled with contempt. I guess she’s back to being the older sister who hates you. I hadn’t considered it from Haymitch’s perspective. He’d have missed the dinners, I suppose, but it’s not as if they could continue forever. They were only intended to help us establish a routine. And besides, it was Peeta who showed the first signs of breaking from them. “It’s not like I started it.” As I say it, I realize how false that is. I was the one who put a complete stop to the dinners and made things awkward between Peeta and me. All because I couldn’t handle him being with Lace. “I don’t care who started it,” she says, but less angrily than before. “It’s time for it to stop. Is this how you’re going to live the rest of your lives? Forever trying to avoid being in the same place at the same time? You’re neighbors, for fuck’s sake. You’ve been in two Games and a war together. You don’t throw away a bond like that because he fucked another woman when his brain was mush. And now that you’ve fucked another man, you’re even. There’s nothing standing in your way now. So, what’s stopping you? It can’t be Lace. She’s gone.” Gone, but not forgotten. Not by me, and not by Peeta either. But Johanna does have a point. If Haymitch is a kind of father figure to us both, then that makes us his children. And having two children who don’t get along and won’t join in any family activities if the other is there too, can’t have been easy. For my own part, it has been a strain avoiding Peeta when we live so close, work similar hours, and have Haymitch in common. But it hasn’t been just me. Peeta stopped seeking me out like he used to when he found out that I’m in love him. Nothing about our situation has changed, Lace or no Lace. He stays away from me because he knows that I’m in love him and he feels bad that he can’t love me back. And I stay away from him because I know that he knows, and feel humiliated that he does. But if . . . “You’re right,” I say. “It is ridiculous. You make the arrangements and I’ll be there.” “And now that Marcus is out of the picture – “

She stops suddenly, confused. “You will?” “Yes. In fact, I can hardly wait. It’ll be fun.” I rise from the sofa to gather the cups and the plate of ruined cookies to signal that the visit is over. Johanna looks stunned as if she can’t believe how easy that victory was. She was probably all primed to go into battle and then it failed to materialize. How disappointing that must be.

“Oh, Johanna!” I call out cheerily just as she’s about to walk out the door. I’ve just remembered something Haymitch told me. “Maybe we should let Peeta do the cooking. He likes to do it. He’d always take over when we had our dinners.” If I have to do this thing, I at least want the food to be good. “Sure,” she says, still dazed. And then she’s gone. I wonder if Peeta has already agreed to it, or that she still has the job of guilting him into it too. I decide that it doesn’t matter either way. Peeta will be motivated by the same reasoning as me. The present situation can’t continue. It’s funny, in the way that’s weird rather than amusing, that mine and Peeta’s situation is now reversed. In the days following the Games and before we embarked on the Victory Tour, he avoided me for pretty much the same reasons I avoid him now. And, in turn, I avoided him for the same reason he avoids me. It’s the discomfort of being around someone whose feelings you don’t return. But there’s one crucial difference. Peeta had hope. I know that now from what Haymitch told Peeta before the prep teams arrived. He could afford to wear his heart on his sleeve knowing that there was a good chance that if I was given the space I needed, it was only a matter of time before I felt the same way. I have no hope. Therefore, my strategy will have to be different. This is about survival, not about capturing Peeta’s heart.

Peeta will have to believe that whatever I felt for him, I no longer do. That’s the only way we can be at ease with each other. I may never stop loving him, but I know how to bury my feelings so that they don’t show. I’ve had plenty of practice at it. After my father died. When I was reaped. When he started going out with Lace. I can do this. I can put on a show. I don’t even have to be good at it. In the Games, Peeta was convinced I was in love him because he wanted to believe it. So now I do the opposite and he’ll believe because he wants to believe. And if he can’t do that, he’ll pretend. We’re both very good at pretending. Chapter 31 Venia purses her lips at the state of my nails. “There’s not much I can do with these apart from a polish. If you want artificial nails, you’ll have to come back when Octavia’s here.” “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I mostly just wanted my hair trimmed.” The shape Flavius had cut into my hair has nearly all grown out. Working at the school during the week, and out in the woods with Marcus on the weekends hadn’t left much time for trips to the beauty salon. I ask, “Where’s Octavia? Not sick, I hope.”

It’s unusual not to see Octavia at her station, her auburn head bent over her task. Since Venia re-united with her coworkers, each has settled into their former specialties as beauty therapists. Flavius is hair and makeup. Octavia is the nail expert. And Venia is skin treatments and waxing. “She left work early,” smirks Flavius. “She has a date.” Venia collects a few tools from the nail station and returns to my side. While Flavius cuts, Venia smooths and buffs. It reminds me of my days as a tribute when all three of them would be working on various body parts at the same time. “We weren’t busy, anyway,” says Venia. “You’re the last customer for the day.” I know. That’s the reason I chose to come at this time. I didn’t want to take the chance of running into Lace when she’s having her roots done. “Anyone I know?” I ask. “Possibly,” replies Venia. “He’s from 12. Thom something. Bick? Hick?” “Hickory?” “That’s it. Hickory. Octavia’s had crushes before but she’s got it really bad this time. I caught her looking through wedding catalogues.” Venia pauses mid-buff. “I’m worried for her.” “How come?” Thom is a nice guy. He was a friend of Gale’s who helped with the clean-up of 12 and gave me a ride home in his cart when I was too weak to walk home. That was the day Peeta came back. “Because of . . . you know, of what we did before the war.” I don’t miss Venia’s use of “we”. If Octavia is accused of being a facilitator of the Games, they all are.

“But doesn’t Thom already know? He was in 13 at the same time as you.” All the survivors from District 12 actually. But Venia shakes her head. “Octavia didn’t know Thom then. We didn’t mix very much with the people there. We thought it safer to keep to ourselves. Especially after the bread.” I suppose being shackled to a wall and beaten for simply taking an extra portion of bread wouldn’t exactly endear the populace to you.

I try to reassure them. “You do know that I’d vouch for you if it ever came out? And tell them how you helped prepare me for the rebellion propos and Snow’s execution?” “I know you would. And maybe we’re worrying over nothing. But we risked a lot coming here and 12’s our home now. Flavius has met someone too – he’s from the Capitol, so that’s not a concern but if we had to leave . . . And Lucia is settled in school and has made friends and Cicero has a good job at the medicine factory . . .” And so Venia goes on. Flavius chimes in too. He tells me they’re set to take on two apprentices and once the tailor has moved out, they want to expand the salon –

“What? Arthur’s leaving?” This is the first I’ve heard of it. But maybe that’s not so surprising. I haven’t seen much of Arthur lately. It’s been only been Max, Johanna and me at pub nights. Arthur is obviously spending his Saturday nights elsewhere. “Oh, he’s not going far,” says Venia. “Just to another store on the main street. He says it’s better situated for passing trade and with the dressmaking shop next door it will likely bring more business to them both.” “I don’t think more business is the only thing those two want from each other,” says Flavius with a suggestive wink. “Flavius!” chides Venia, but she can’t conceal a smile. “It’s true, though. We misplaced the stone we use for sharpening scissors and Octavia went to ask Arthur if we could borrow his. But no one was there even though the door was open. So, she went through to the back, thinking that’s where he’d be, and she caught them red-handed, kissing, and his hand was up her skirt. Octavia forgot all about the stone.” The two of them collapse into giggles. “We didn’t think he had it in him,” says Venia, when she’s able to speak. Neither did I. I can’t laugh about it though. Peeta will be devastated when he hears that Lace has moved on. And so soon after their break-up too. But as badly as I feel for Peeta, I also can’t help feeling happy for Arthur. If there was ever a man who deserves reward for long devotion, it’s him. I only hope that Lace proves worthy of it. One thing I do know is that Peeta isn’t going to hear of it from me. I’m done being involved in his love life. It’s brought me nothing but trouble ever since he made that confession to Caesar Flickerman years before. My only objective is to get over him if I can and make sure that he thinks I have. And that makes this dinner tonight so important. It will set the stage for our relationship going forward. We’ll be friends. Not necessarily close friends. But at least friends who can enjoy social occasions together and feel comfortable in each other’s company. Johanna wants us to dress up so I guess that means I’ll have to wear a cocktail dress. I have one already in my closet. It’s the emerald green dress I wore to the party in 8. But it’s long sleeved and in a heavy fabric and that makes it too hot for this time of the year. I’ll have to go down to the basement where most of the Cinna clothes are stored. There’s a whole rack of cocktail dresses to choose from. But what do you wear when you want to show that you’ve made an effort, but don’t want to appear as if you’ve set out attract anyone in particular – and by anyone, I mean Peeta.

I begin by eliminating colours that are evocative of sunsets or flames. That takes care of anything orange, red or yellow. And then anything that Lace might choose. If Lace is Peeta’s idea of feminine allure then I should make sure to do the opposite. Therefore, no pastels, ruffles and especially any kind of lace. No. No. No, I think as I reject one dress after another. And then I find it. The perfect dress. And so different from the girlish or jeweled frocks that Cinna usually dressed me in that it’s almost as if he knew that one day, I might have a need for a dress such as this. It’s in unrelieved black. Simple and unadorned in slinky silk jersey. I really like it, but Peeta, who loves colour, probably won’t and it’s sure to send a message that I didn’t dress to please him. I accessorize it with black high-heeled sandals and silver and jet earrings. The dress comes to just above the knee with a deep halter neck. It’s impossible to wear a bra without it showing, so I leave it off. I turn around to check how it looks in the mirror from the rear. The clinging fabric does set off my best asset, but since it’s a dinner and I’ll be sitting on it, no one will see it. The burn scars, although much improved from the skin treatments, are still noticeable on my back. I decide to draw attention to it by putting my hair up in a kind of messy bun. This will contrast with Lace’s unblemished skin and immaculate hair and will surely show Peeta that I don’t care at all about being attractive to him. I arrive at Peeta’s door at the same time as Haymitch. He’s wearing a dinner suit, but his white shirt has already untucked from the waistband and his tie isn’t around his neck but dangling from his breast pocket. His eyebrows rise as he takes in my appearance and his lips curve in a sardonic smile. If I needed any confirmation of how incongruous I look in this get-up, I just got it. Johanna answers the door, elegant in a wine-red fitted dress with matching shoes. She appears to have paid a visit to the salon too, because her hair is now a uniform color and has been restyled to lie flat against her skull and frame her face instead of the usual red-tipped spikes sticking up all over her head. “I like your new look,” I tell her. “Yeah, it’s more conservative than I usually go for but I figure I have to start looking the part of mayor sooner or later. But what about you? What have you done with Katniss Everdeen?” I smile and shrug. I’m unsure if not looking like myself is a compliment or not. Peeta stops short when he sees me, his mouth gaping, but he collects himself quickly. “You look beautiful,” he says.

“Thanks,” I murmur. He sounds sincere but I know how easily Peeta can fake it. “You look good too.” And he does, in a cream suit designed by Portia. We move into the dining room. Johanna’s gone to a lot of trouble. I can almost imagine we’re at one of those fancy restaurants in the Capitol. Fresh flowers, dim lighting, the furniture polished to a high sheen. The table is resplendently laid out with the finest dinnerware and gold cutlery. These came with the house. I have them too but I’ve yet to use them. I wonder if Peeta recognizes the pattern on the plates as the same as those that accompanied our feast in the cave. Johanna and Haymitch take seats at opposite ends of the table. That leaves Peeta and me to sit across from each other.

White wine is poured into cut-crystal glasses and starched linen napkins are laid across laps. I wait for either Johanna or Peeta to start bringing in the food but they stay seated. How are we to eat if the food never leaves the kitchen? I eye the woven gold basket filled with soft rolls in the center of the table. Is that all we get? Just then, Cass enters the room carrying a large silver tray. “Good evening,” he says, as places a bowl of soup in front of each of us. “I hope you brought your appetites with you. Don’t forget to save room for dessert.” And then he’s gone. Presumably back to the kitchen. “What was that?” I say to no one in particular. “Cass is doing all the cooking tonight. He’s a qualified chef. He can cook all sorts of things - not just pastries and desserts,” says Johanna. “Yes, I know that. But what’s he doing here?” Peeta answers. “Johanna thought it would be nice to have a professional do the cooking so we could relax and enjoy ourselves.” Right. I just wish Johanna’s idea of relaxation was drinks at the pub, or a barbeque in the backyard. Any place where I didn’t risk locking eyes with Peeta at any minute. We can scarcely look at each other. Every time his eyes chance to meet mine, they flit away. It’s like being back at school. We’re doing a very poor job of acting at ease with each other so far. I’m a lousy actress at the best of times but I expected better of Peeta. Clearly the knowledge that I’m in love with him freaks him out to the extent that he’s forgotten all his acting skills. The food is a welcome diversion and I tuck in. The soup is creamy pumpkin sprinkled with slivered nuts and little black seeds. Sublime. I recognize it as one of the soups at the Capitol feast. It’s followed by those delicious little roasted birds filled with orange sauce. Then fish swimming in a green sauce flecked with herbs. And then, oh, I don’t believe it! Lamb stew with dried plums! On a bed of wild rice!

That makes me think of our feast in the cave, of course. It’s even served on the same patterned plates. My eyes instinctively search out Peeta’s. Do you remember it? You must, surely. How excited we were when that parachute arrived. How careful we were to eat only small portions so we wouldn’t be sick after so many days of hunger. And then how we whiled away the time until we could eat again – snuggled together in the sleeping bag, my head on your shoulder, your arms wrapped around me, imagining our life together if we survived the Games. You, me and Haymitch, you said. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games tales. You must remember it!

But Peeta doesn’t look my way. His gaze flickers between Johanna and Haymitch without it ever landing on me even though we’re sitting directly across from each other. And he laughs just a little too loudly at Johanna’s poor taste joke about prunes and how we’ll all shit well tomorrow. He remembers our feast in the cave, all right! I’m certain of it. He just doesn’t want me to know that he does. To spare me the humiliation, probably. I want to kick myself. Gawping at him like a love-sick idiot – practically begging him to remember one of our most intimate moments together. At least Peeta has his wits about him, not letting on that the stew holds any particular significance.

I quietly return to my stew. It’s not as good as I remember it and I can only manage a few mouthfuls. Saving room for dessert, I tell Johanna, when she comments. Unfortunately, there’s a long break between this course and the next. I suppose Cass wants our stomachs to have a rest before he brings out the dessert which is sure to be spectacular. But it makes the pressure to appear congenial and unaffected by Peeta’s presence that much harder when I don’t have the food to distract me.

Since I got here, Peeta hadn’t spoken a great deal, and me even less. The conversation has been carried mostly by Johanna and Haymitch. She’s been picking his brain about the challenges of town planning and the provision of services such as garbage collection and road maintenance. Johanna had better get this job for mayor. She already acts as if it’s hers. That’s why it’s a surprise when the focus of attention turns to me. I’d been occupied twisting my crystal glass around by the stem watching the colours change across its facets. Anything to keep my mind off the person sitting opposite me. “You’ll step in, won’t you, Katniss?” Johanna asks. My head jerks up. “Hmm? What – “ “She doesn’t have to,” says Peeta quickly. “Step in for what?” I ask, directing my question to Johanna. “To watch the tapes with Peeta.” says Johanna. Before I can respond Peeta interjects again. “There’s no need to bother Katniss. I’ll be fine with Haymitch.” “You won’t,” says Haymitch. “The tapes labeled ‘to be watched with Katniss’ are all that’s left. It’s probably why the content has become repetitive lately. Aurelius has obviously run out of material I can help you with.” “You need to watch all the tapes,” Johanna adds. “You don’t know what memories are missing until you do.” “Katniss has already done her share. I’ll be fine watching on my own,” says Peeta. Johanna shakes her head. “You know that’s not how it works. You need someone to put it into context. Besides, the tapes were her idea to begin with. She should see it through.” Peeta turns to me for the first time. “There’s really no need.” He’s almost pleading with me. I really want to accept his offer to not watch the tapes with him. I know he’s giving me an escape but if I go along with it, it gives the impression that I’m afraid and that’s not good either. It has to appear as if I have nothing to hide. Which I don’t. Except the part that I’m still in love with him, of course. I can see where he’s coming from. After my slip-up with the stew, he’s worried that if I’m compelled to watch the tapes with him, I’m sure to give myself away. He’s protecting me from myself. I look coolly into the blue eyes of the person who is now my greatest opponent and I promise myself I will defeat his plan. Johanna is right. I should finish what I started. Remember that my primary objective was for Peeta to find himself. And if those tapes hold the final pieces, then I’m determined that he shall have them. I will watch those tapes, no matter how bad they are, and he will never guess from my reaction that I still carry a torch for him. It’s the only way we’ll ever be able to act normally around each other. “I’m happy to help,” I say. “Same time and place?” All eyes are on him. He’s trapped and he knows it. Peeta’s nod is almost imperceptible. What a timely moment for Cass to bring out the dessert. It’s a tower of pastries filled with different flavored custards, welded together with chocolate and studded with raspberries and sugared violets surrounded by an immense web of delicate spun sugar. There’s enough for at least a dozen or more people. But the best thing about it is that its position in the center of the table effectively blocks out my view of Peeta. So, Dr Aurelius has sent tapes that he wants Peeta to specifically watch with me. I wonder if I was ever going to be told about them. Probably not if it had been left up to Peeta. He’s obviously anxious about what’s on them. That makes me think that he has most, if not all, of his memories back. Enough, at least, to guess at how I feel about him. It seems that the tapes have progressed from those which showed me either indifferent or acting a part to when I began to return his feelings. And the irony is that it’s made not a scrap of difference. I’m glad now that Dr Aurelius sent the compromising tapes first. I had never stood a chance with him, even without Lace.

Cass comes out to clear away the dessert plates and the remains of that pastry thing. He frowns at how little impact we made on it. But it really was huge. To make him feel better, I ask if he can wrap it up for me to share around the staff room tomorrow. Max will probably make some joke about chocolate covered balls and phallic symbols. We finish with tea for Peeta and me and coffee for Johanna and Haymitch. Haymitch takes from his pocket a silver flask and pours a generous slug of whatever’s in it into his cup.

The dinner finally comes to an end. I pull Johanna aside before I go, ostensibly to say goodbye to her. I won’t see her tomorrow. The train for 7 leaves very early and Peeta has offered to walk her to the train station.

“The whole night was a setup, wasn’t it? To get me to watch the tapes with Peeta again?”

She doesn’t bother denying it. “Yep. Someone had to give the two of you a nudge in the right direction.” She gives me one of her stern big sister looks. “Don’t waste it.”

“I won’t,” I say. She doesn’t have to know that I have something completely different in mind to her.

I hug her goodbye and wish her luck. I don’t know when we’ll meet again. Not with me stuck in 12 and Johanna busy being mayor but maybe she’ll find time in her schedule to visit at some point.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she calls out as I leave. Where have I heard that expression before? Ah yes, Plutarch. They were the last words he spoke to me before he left the hovercraft that brought me back to 12. Thankfully, even after that scare with Marcus, that’s exactly how it’s stayed.

“Never,” I call back. No one could ever be the little sister that Prim was. But maybe I’ve gained a pretty good substitute for an older one.

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dragonrajafanfiction · 5 years ago

Text

Dragon Dancer: Collision Course

The sun set over Tokyo and the lights went up in the Takamagahara. I rolled my fishnets up over my knees and fashioned them with clear tape for insurance. My eyes turned to a small TV in my room. The news depicted a car full of dead bodies. People shot to death at a traffic stop.

I turned down the volume. “Johann!”

I barely had to raise my voice for him to hear me through the thin walls. He always stood guard outside my dressing room.

He opened the door and froze up.

“How do I look?”

He turned his eyes away, a pink color coming to his face. The stockings were all I had over my legs. The rest was its usual risque, this time black leather. “Don’t look so shy. As a ballet dancer I didn’t wear much more than this.” I turned back to the mirror opening my compact. “I have a mission for you.”

His eyes turned back to me, his gaze unwavering. I sighed. Missions were to Johann what laser pointers were to cats. “The situation out there isn’t improving. It’s getting worse. I worry about Lu getting caught up in the violence.”

“I need you to go to Minamoto Heavy Industries and infiltrate as far as you can to try to find Lu Mingfei. If you can rescue him? Great. But you’ll be alone. If it looks too dangerous to get him out, you need to come back here right away. Understand?” I turned to look him in the eyes.

“It’ll be fine. I’m used to working alone.” He replied.

“That’s not what asked.” I turned to the mirror and chewed my lip. “Johann, you’re accustomed to taking risks to yourself to get the job done. But I’m not going to allow you to do that this time. If it comes down to risking your life to complete the mission or the mission fails, then I want you to choose to fail it. Understood?”

I felt like I was giving him a puppy dog look, because maybe I was. If he took issue with the request he didn’t show it.

“Understood.”

He was gone before my show started. I was playing the part of a cutesy and clumsy dominatrix. I was wondering who came up with this stuff when there was a commotion at the entrance of the building. People were running to get off the sidewalk.

A man shouted. “They’re shooting people out there!”

------

Observation was the easiest method of infiltration. After getting his orders from Meixiu, Johann took on his usual delivery boy disguise. It was a typical weeknight and he accepted the part of a food delivery boy after pilfering the uniform from a nearby restaurant.

As he watched employees leave for the day he listened closely for a name. It wasn’t long before one employee shouted to another. “Hey! Tell Ishizaki-san that if he stays another late night, he’ll have to marry his desk chair!”

Johann took the hot food box in his hand and strode up to the intercom. He pressed the button. “Delivery order for Ishizaki-san!” He sang out, deliberately cheery.

The bored security guard at the desk glanced up and after a second, the door clicked open. He walked right in, past another leaving employee.

A shot rang out, and that employee collapsed. Johann dove to one side and whirled in time to see the security guard reach for his weapon only to stagger back under a hail of bullets. Johann took cover behind a sofa in the lobby.

A crowd of people pointed their pistols ready to shoot anything that moved. Johann stayed where he was.

“Three of you go and secure the back door! We’ll secure the elevator! The other three stay here and guard the entrance!

Brave of them to attack here of all places.

Johann assessed the situation. So long as he stayed hidden, then there wouldn’t be any danger. Once the elevator doors closed he watched those at the entrance. One immediately noticed the abandoned take out. “Woah, hey! What’s this?”

For a moment, they were all distracted by the food. Johann darted for the stairwell, unnoticed.

If he were going to keep a kidnap victim, he’d keep them in the basement level.

------------------------

From the passenger side of the car, Chisei’s phone rang, he picked up. “They’re actually attacking Heavy Industries? Have they lost their minds? Have Kaguya take control of that area. We’re on our way there.” He hung up, then he used his phone to send a text message to Akira Ryuu.

“There are Devil Clan members at the Heavy Industries. I’m on my way there. You have my permission to defend yourself. But don’t be reckless.”

Akira received the message as he was playing a game of Street Thug against Erii and losing. She was on video cam, her intense eyes staring at him. She noticed he was distracted.

He signed to her. “Devil Clan attack. I need to log off.”

Her expression didn’t change.

“I might need to hide or run or fight. Once it’s safe, I’ll play.”

“I’ll come help you.” She typed in the chat box

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Be safe” She gave him a prayer hands emoji.

He pulled the headset off his head, turned off the monitor and computer and switched off all the lights. He opened the wooden box of swords. They were all so different and likely were good in different scenarios. He picked one that most resembled a katana. The blade didn’t have a sheath to it so he wrapped it in a dark colored shirt.

He approached the door to his room, soundlessly turned the handle and pushed it open into a darkened hall. He kept the door open, holding his breath to listen. The hall opened up to his left around a corner. Around that corner, approaching footsteps.

Blood rushed from his heart to his head. He slowly removed the blade from the shirt and started to advance, automatically stepping forward in a way that rendered his moves silent, measuring the distance between himself and his target as the sound of the steps grew louder. He was nearly to the corner when the person came into view.

He was looking the other way down the hall. Akira had never seen this person before and lifted the blade to his throat. “Stop. Who are you.”

The man’s head turned, revealing those golden eyes.

He was captivated for a second and then his blade was parried by another!

He didn’t even see the other man draw. This man was taller than he was, the way he stood was confident, commanding. This wasn’t an ordinary guy. An assassin? He would have to take him out fast.

Their swords collided, Akira focusing his whole body into the point of impact. The ferocity of it caught his opponent off guard and he backed away. Akira pursued him, striking at his throat, head, chest! Each of his blows were deflected. Akira was already panting, sweating and he hadn’t got a hit in, but his opponent was breathing harder as well.

“Mingfei?” His opponent said, confusion on his features and lowered the point of his sword.

Akira took that as an invitation. He feigned going for an over head strike and then turned it at the last moment. The edge of the katana was so sharp, he barely felt the resistance of flesh. He saw more in his enemy’s anguished expression, the way he staggered, clutching his side.

Akira gave a triumphant little laugh. He got him.

More voices were echoing in the halls. Evidently they’d attracted attention. Akira looked down the hall. “I’m not part of the Execution bureau. I only have permission to defend myself. I’ll let Aniki decide whether you live or die.”

The man was breathing hard, trying to stem the flow of blood. “Who is... Aniki?”

Akira drew himself up, proudly. “The High Patriarch of the Hydras! Chisei Gen! If you know what’s best for you, you’ll get out of here while you can!”

“You joined the Hydras? Why?” Johann leaned against the wall.

“I have no reason to speak with a Devil like you.”

“What about Carli? Why... why would you betray her? How could you?” The man had his golden glowing eyes fixed on him.

Carli... The name echoed, sounding deep down into him and reverberating like a bell. There were memories there and they drifted up, singing like ghosts. Carli...

He remembered these things but it was like they were happening to someone else.

“Mingfei!” Gun fire erupted upstairs. No doubt the Hydras had arrived. The man held out his hand. “Come back to me. We’ll get this straightened out.”

His name... what was this guys name? Akira couldn’t remember. No, he didn’t want to think about it. It was too much to take. He turned and fled back to his hiding spot and shut the door, barricading it with a chair.

#Johann Chu #Chisei Gen #Lu Mingfei #Akira Ryuu #Erii Uesugi

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