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hellfire--cult · 2 years ago

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Baring Teeth {Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader} - Ch. 6

Picture for Banner: pitifulbaby

Chapters: Masterlist (Go here to see list of chapters.)

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers, Non-Traditional Omegaverse, Slow burn, Modern!AU, Mechanic!Eddie

Warnings: Ab*se, Violence, Mental Health, Cursing, Smut (mild), treat it as a normal Enemies 2 Lovers book, but the A/B/O dynamic will appear at some point. Trauma, manipulation, dirty talk, omegaverse topics.

Crossposted on: Wattpad & AO3

A/N: All comments and reblogs help with the engagement, I appreciate every single one! ❤️I cannot thank you enough for all the follows and new people I met on here, you're all too sweet, and hopefully I can introduce you to this trope as soft as possible! Also, should I put this down as Mature category? Or do I just do that on the chapters that will contain one of the warnings above? I am new to posting on Tumblr, so I don't know how to do much of the interaction and engagement here!

Anyways, Enjoy!

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Chapter 6

“He’s not coming again?” You heard Nancy exclaim angrily as she took her phone out and started typing away with her fingers. You bit your lip nervously as you side eyed Robin and whispered to her.

“I can leave, I mean, I already had drinks with you guys yesterday–” Steve heard you from across the table and shook his head and then directed his head towards Nancy.

“He is a big boy. She seems to have bigger balls than him because she actually dares to face him after their fight.” A sense of pride surged in your chest, but honestly you dreaded Eddie's appearance. You could always ignore him, and that’s what you planned to do in case he did show up, but for the second night in a row, he didn’t, and you knew it was because of you.

“I know! That’s why I am trying to make him come down here!” Nancy spat as she stared at the phone and let out a loud scoff, slamming it face down, her eyes going directly to you. “You are not going anywhere, if he wants to be a baby, so be it.” You were actually surprised that Nancy was taking your side, as well as Steve, who were the closest with Eddie.

“But, I mean, I can risk a night out–” And that’s when Robin stopped you from talking, swaying her beer around with a frown in her face.

“Don’t. He has to put the big boy panties on at some point.” You looked down at your beer and sighed, taking a sip of it. You were all sitting in the same booth as you always do, and the reason for going out for drinks two nights in a row, was because Jonathan was having anniversary happy hours. His bar opened two years ago, and he is celebrating with a full week of discounted drinks, which was getting him a really big clientele.

“Don’t think too much about it.” Steve says to you and Argyle nods next to him, taking a sip of his beer.

“Yah, that dude can be pretty hard headed when he wants to be. But he always comes around.” He says with a nod and you sigh, looking at him.

“Argy, sweetheart, I don’t know if you remember, but coming around this is not something I am hopeful for or want. We despise each other. I thought that was clear.” You said while looking at Argyle who was smirking while staring at you.

“There is a fine line in between Hate and Love, brochacha.” You winced at that, shaking your head at him.

“Hell no Argyle. The day Eddie Munson and I become friends, it’s because one of us lost their mind, or both.” You explain and it was Robin’s turn to roll her eyes with a giggle in her lips.

“Oh come on, everyone remembers your googly eyes at him when you first met him. Attraction never goes away.” As she was saying that you had the fantastic idea to take a sip out of your beer, only to be spat slightly at the word ‘Attraction’.

“Jesus!” Steve yelped, moving away to not get any beer on his polo shirt.

“Sorry, Steve, but Robin, what the fuck?” You exclaimed, feeling a certain not in the pit of your stomach start to form. You did look at Eddie that night, it was hard not to, he just simply stuck out like a sore thumb out of the bunch.

“I think the two of you just need to fuck your hate away.” She said this time with another sip of her beer. You knew she was getting drunk now, but to say those things about a man who made your life a living hell the past year? It was too much.

“I prefer to eat a raw unpeeled sea urchin than think of Munson’s dick, thank you very much.” You said taking a big sip out of your beer. You heard a big sigh on your side as Nancy put the phone down from her ear, and you knew that she listened to an audio message, probably from Eddie.

Even if your friends were defending your honor basically, you couldn’t help but feel like a nuisance. You felt like you were a splinter, just poking and bothering whenever it pleases. You didn’t want the group to be on bad terms, even if you knew all of them saw Eddie outside these gatherings, you still couldn’t shake the feeling of him being cast aside because of your quarrel.

Maybe tomorrow you can make up an excuse of not going out with your friends so that Eddie could take your place. Why do you even care about that douchebag? You know he wouldn’t give two shits about you if it were the other way around.

But you know loneliness too well. So you can’t ignore it.

Not even for Eddie Munson.

—-—————————————

You had your arms full of papers, walking down the hallways at your workplace, trying to reach your office. Robin had a terrible hangover today, which made you angry as hell because you had a deadline of bringing in your project next week, and you were feeling like you were handling it all by yourself.

“Fucking Robin, stupid alcohol, stupid happy hours–” You were so in your own little word that you didn’t see where you were going, nor the person you just rudely ran into, making your stack of papers fall to the ground. Your ass fell straight to the floor at impact, making you groan in pain, your eyes closed from wincing.

Great, what you needed. A stupid bruise, from someone that was stupidly in the middle of the way–

“Are you okay?”

Your eyes immediately opened, registering the voice, and slowly looked up. Worried light blue irises were looking at you, inspecting your body as he crouched in front of you. The black leather pants made a creasing sound as he did, and you sucked in a breath when you saw the button up shirt he had on, which had all the buttons on his torso opened up.

And dear god, he smelled divine.

“I– What?” You were awestruck, taken completely aback by his beauty as he frowned in confusion, tilting his head. Oh, you were making an idiot out of yourself, you had to snap out of it. You had to stop staring! You shook your head to concentrate once more, his words registering in your brain as a deep blush from embarrassment covered you from head to toe. “I– Uh, yeah, I just… Wasn’t looking where I was going.” You say shyly, recovering yourself, kneeling down on the floor to start picking up your papers.

“No, no. It’s my fault too, I was just standing in the hallway… Got lost again.” You looked up from your papers to see Billy Hargrove smiling slightly at you. He remembers you. Oh god, he remembers you from last time, even if it was a small interaction.

“I should give you a map.” You say, wincing in your head at your poor choice of words, but he chuckled nonetheless and started helping you with the papers.

“Maybe…” He says and you bit your lips as you both got up, helping each other by grabbing your elbows. “Or you can be my guide.” He finished with a soft smirk on his lips. Your eyes slightly widened at that because, was this really happening? Is he flirting with you? Maybe he flirts with every girl he meets, he is a model, he knows he is good looking so of course he might be taking advantage of that.

If there’s anything your life taught you before, was to not be naive, no matter how good looking someone might be, how charming they can be. A pretty face can be a mask for so many lies and secrets that you don’t even want to figure out what it is.

“Oh, but it’s so close. Just like last time, the floor above you is where you want to go.” He seemed taken aback by your response. Of course he was. Billy Hargrove was used to women becoming putty in his hands as soon as he said the word ‘Hi’ to them. He thought you were another one of those catches of course, by the way you smiled dumbly at him last time he met you.

‘This one’s easy.’ He thought to himself that day.

“Well, you see, last time I even got lost on that floor as well, this office is just too big.” He replied to you with a small tug on his face. You looked at the big pile of papers on your hands and back at him.

“I am a little busy at the moment Mr. Hargrove.” You tried to be as polite as possible, even if he was dressed casually, you weren’t even acquaintances. There was no need to call him by his name. He let out a chuckle at that, and you gulped at how manly it just sounded.

“Mr. Hargrove? I’m not a teenager, but I don’t go past my 30's, Doll.” Oh, the nickname made you shiver slightly. You were too weak for nicknames, and as you kept staring at his grin, you remembered how two days ago, you masturbated in his name. Because you imagined him, with you, touching every corner of your skin, pampering you, taking care of you, knowing what you want and what you need. Making you gasp, writhe, whimper and moan his name with every tap, lick, flick, pinch he did to you.

“My name is not doll Mr. Hargrove.” You replied to him, snapping out of your memories, walking past him to avoid him looking at your blush. He’ll certainly know he has you around his finger if you cave in, so you were simply trying to keep your distance. But it seemed someone else had other plans, following you down the hallway. You were wondering what he was up to, reaching your office to finally put down the heavy stack of papers on your desk with a relieved sigh.

“Ah.” He pointed at your door, and there it was, the plaque with your name. He said it with a raspy voice which simply etched itself in the deep of your gut and you won’t be able to ever forget it now. “Pretty name… Doll suits you better.”

“And why is that?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest and you notice it. Of course you did. The way his eyes went to your chest for just one second, because thanks to your arms, your breasts stuck out now, pushing them up.

Billy never hooked up with a woman in an office outfit. Never imagined it either. Now, seeing you in front of him like that was making him discover a part of himself he didn’t know of, and that was, that he wanted to lift your skirt up, and fuck you right into the window glass that was in your office.

“Because you’re pretty, like a doll.” It was a very corny line, you knew it, but you still shifted on your legs, clearing your throat, looking down at the pack of papers.

“Well, thank you Mr. Hargrove. Like I said, one floor up– What are you doing?”

“You’re in charge of putting together my photos?” He was giving you his back, looking at the board that was in front of your desk. Pictures and texts were all stuck in various places, ideas that formed in your head for how the articles might look best, and eye catching.

“It’s more than that. I have to make sure everything is detailed for possible investors in the brands you modeled.” He nodded in understanding at that, completely mesmerized at the work. He modeled of course, but he wasn’t the main focus of the articles this time. It was the clothes he was wearing. He looked at all the details she added, the texture, pattern, stitches of the clothing in various zoomed in pictures.

“I didn’t know there was this much work behind my pictures.” You were looking at his back with a confused frown in your face. Talking like this with him, without knowing one another was weird but also soothing at the same time. He turned around with a smile on his face, looking down at his watch. “Oh, five minutes left for the meeting to start.”

“Weren’t you running late already?” You said with a smile on your face, a small scoff coming out of your lips which made his eyes bright up at it. He doesn’t like chasing after girls, not at all, but something was drawing him to you, something that interested him for some reason. He walked over to your desk, putting his hands on it in order to lean forward towards you.

“I am not lost, Doll. Just wanted to know your name and maybe something else. A username maybe?” He asked with a smirk to his face and you felt your face heating up at how straightforward he was being. He was asking for your Instagram username.

“A lie? Why’s that?”

“Let’s just say I was wishing to run into you again.” You bit your lip, deciding to play his game and put your hands on the desk, leaning forward as well, your face inches away from his. Your breaths mixed with one another’s and you felt it.

Tension.

“Well, I don’t think there is time to give you my information. Your meeting starts right now.” He was looking at you, scanning your face and your features. He slowly said your name, a smirk in his lips as he inhaled your sweet perfume.

“Cat and mouse, huh.” He said on the low, and your heart was going a mile per minute, butterflies exploding in your belly as he stared into your eyes, your soul, your heart, just everything. He leaned forward, even more, and you held your ground, even if you wanted to shrink away in embarrassment, or nervousness, you kept your head in place. His lips brushed against yours as he spoke once more.

“I can’t wait to catch you, little Mousy.” Your breath got caught in your throat. This guy, this model, this god sent man, who saw you twice in his life, was making you feel so desired, so wanted, so untouchable. He did something that you’ve been wanting someone to do for so long, for a year or more so.

You just cannot believe it is him the one doing it.

He pulled away from you with a soft chuckle, saying your name, bidding you goodbye, and leaving your office, closing the door behind him. His perfume lingered in the air, and you finally, finally, could breathe out properly. You held your chest, your hand feeling the rapid thumps that were bouncing under your skin.

You gulped, feeling your throat completely dry after that exchange. Holy shit, you can’t wait to tell Robin. Oh, thank god Robin wasn’t here today, because she would have totally meddled and fucked that interaction over.

You started pacing in your office, trying not to smile at how bravely and straightforward he was flirting with you, an office woman, someone totally different to what he is. You were no Kendall Jenner, his ex, or Gigi Hadid, but if someone like him looked at you the way he did today, it was alright to feel… hot. Sexy. Attractive.

He was an ego booster, that’s for sure, and now you were expectant of your next encounter. Some small part of you was screaming because it was in need of sexual interaction, and it is yelling at you that you should have given your username, even if it was for a one night stand.

But the other part, the one that holds your dignity and pride, wanted to know how far you could go with this. A normal city guy for a one night stand, that��s okay, you don’t care, now when a model, a hot one at that, is bluntly flirting with you, yeah, you’re going to make a feast out of it.

As much as you could.

Because, it was just sex. Right?

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

End of chapter 6

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a-killer-obsession · 8 months ago

Text

Wavelengths [Killer x Reader, Heat x Reader]

🔞 Minors DNI 🔞

A search for a rumored Vegapunk weapon leads the Kid Pirates to an unexpected new crewmate, with a bloodlust that rivals their own and an incredible power.

CW: Please check AO3 for all current warnings, but general warning for smut, slow burn, serious gore, and really dark themes. AFAB reader, she/her pronouns.

Masterlist || AO3 || Chapter 1

Chapter 8 - Sorry

You show off your skills, and Kid gets sick of living with toddlers.

WC: ~4k

Taglist: @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth

Tumblr crossposting is caught up to AO3 now so updates won't be daily anymore but fear not, updates will still be pretty frequent 😌

You had gone to bed angry, and now, woken by the ship's bell, you were waking up even angrier. You tossed your seastone chunk into your side table drawer and grabbed your mask, jamming it on your head a little too hard. You were wearing a set of baby pink, satin pajamas - a matching tank and shorts combo. Not super ideal for fighting, but if the use of the bell here was anything like on a marine ship, you didn't have time to find anything better, you needed to focus on your weapons. The ship was out in open sea, which meant the bell could only be one of two things: a seaking, or an enemy ship. If it was the latter you ran the risk of seastone bullets, or running out of stamina for your fruit depending on the enemy's size, so you hurriedly buckled your thigh holster for your dagger and pulled on your usual Vegapunk jacket, followed by the belt for your sword.

You hurried out to the main deck where the rest of the crew was gathering, weapons in hand. Kid was standing on the front upper deck, keeping watch of the situation and waiting for everyone to emerge before giving his orders. If it was a seaking he would have already been giving his orders, or dealing with it himself, so you guessed it must be an approaching ship. He caught sight of your purple hair as you arrived, and turned to yell down at you.

“Oi, new girl, come here,” he barked. You hurried up the stairs to the upper deck to stand in front of him, the obedient subordinate part of your brain thoroughly activated. You could clearly see now the two large marine ships that were on route to you.

“What can you tell me about those ships?” He said, pointing his metal hand in their direction. Killer was leaning against the railing behind him, with his arms crossed and mask tilted expectantly in your direction. You pouted at him and looked away, to where the ships were, adjusting your mask to scan through a few different views of it.

“The one on the left is an older model, standard issue three mast, wooden hull, about 50 crew, eight cannons either side, none at the front or rear. The larger is a newer model I don't recognise, but I can see it has a seastone hull. They started using those not long before I was benched to keep seakings at bay. I see ten cannons either side, stacked in rows of five, and three at the front. They're currently being loaded, you should prepare to send them back, the rounds are definitely metal”

Cannonfire rang out with a puff of smoke as the three rounds were shot, not quite in unison. Kid raised his flesh arm and sent them back with a flurry of purple sparks, and the frontmost mast of the larger ship cracked and fell sideways, a flurry of men shouting and scurrying to take cover as it fell.

“Good, what else,” Kid asked.

“About 200 men on that one, it'll be the harder of the two ships certainly,” you reported, “A two ship formation like that is likely going to try and blockade, one ship at our side and the other blocking our exit from the front, but I'm guessing you already knew that. I can take down the smaller ship, if you'd like. I can only perform Meteor Wave once during a battle though, it drains too much energy, but I'll be able to use focused attacks after that.”

“Do it,” he smirked, excitement bubbling at the chance to put his new weapon to good use.

“Before I go, I need you to warn your men,” you said sternly, “when we swap to the other ship, and I start making precise attacks, I won't be able to differentiate between us and them. You and Killer will be the only ones I'm able to recognise, because of your metal arm and his metal mask. I'll be swapping my mask to a setting that lets me zero in on their organs, I don't usually do that but with this many enemies in a small space it's the best way to stretch out my power in my current weakened state, by making sure I only need to use a small focused amount for each enemy. They need to stay clear of me, I won't be held responsible if I kill your men. I'm a weapon, after all. In future it shouldn't be a issue, but right now I'm not confident with my stamina levels”

“Understood, Yin,” Kid mused. In truth staying out of the way was something his crew was good at, they were pretty used to it with him. He could be a bit of a wrecking ball during battles when he let his devil fruit loose. “Head straight to the larger ship when you're done with the first, we'll meet you there”

“Aye aye, Captain,” you made a small salute, it was instinctual after your time in the marines, and turned on your heel to moon step away.

“Brief the men,” Kid said to his first mate without turning, his eyes fixed on your shrinking form as you approached the smaller ship. Enemy rifles were fired at you, but you gracefully dodged the bullets or deflected them and continued on your merry way, gaining height as you had the first day he'd seen you. “I want to watch my new toy in action,” he made his way to the very front of the ship, and jumped up on the figurehead skull, shoeing away another round of cannonballs before putting his hands on his hips proudly to watch you.

You arrived at the ship as Killer began to brief the rest of the crew, and Kid watched as you performed your flips and came barreling down towards the marine ship. He couldn't hear your attack call from this distance, but the audible crack of the ship and the collective screaming of men on board was clear. A wave of water rippled away from the ship, a shockwave from your attack, as you appeared in the sky again and made your way to the other ship. The larger of the two ships was considerably faster, and was quickly nearing the Victoria Punk as you approached it. The broken ship behind you finished cracking in half and the two sides fell away from each other, the masts breaking and falling to their sides as the halves began to sink. A few lucky men managed to board lifeboats, but most of them were screaming in the water as the downward pull of the sinking ship pieces began to drag them under and drown them. Kid let out a roaring laugh, what a wonderful sight.

The guns of the second ship were trained mostly on you now as you approached it, the Kid Pirates quickly approaching from the other direction and making preparations to board. It seemed the marines on this ship knew a little of your reputation, word of your escape had no doubt begun to spread in this area at least, a few marines screaming “It's Yin! Get the seastone!” as you adjusted your visor and landed gracefully on the deck. You wouldn't be surprised if this ship belonged to the base they had found you at, they were still within reasonable range of it for that to be true.

Like yesterday, you couldn't see the floor with your visor set to red. You could however see hundreds of sets of feet, and that was enough to show your where the deck was as you began your rampage. Focusing your strength into your legs, you let your speed carry you, zeroing in on every beating heart you saw and sending precise ribbons of concentrated vibrations directly into them, effectively bursting their hearts instantly, moving immediately to the next man before the previous had even finished falling. The Victoria Punk arrived and the Kid Pirates swiftly began boarding the marine ship, the tides of the battle quickly turned as the marines realised their plan to overwhelm and attack had been completely dismantled.

You couldn't see much of anything that would usually be visible, just hoping that Kid had adequately warned the crew, as you spread through the marines like a wildfire. You could faintly make out the scraps of metal flying around you as Kid used his devil fruit, Killer slicing through men like butter, and you noticed the three pronged trident that you knew belonged to Wire, which thankfully made three people you could recognise and not accidentally kill.

They made quick work of the marines, and when the numbers got low and you grew wary, you returned your visor to its default function and drew your sword, cutting through the enemies, who were clearly identifiable now, with the hard earned precision of someone who had been raised as a killing machine. The katana happily drank up its first taste of blood as you ran it through the ill prepared marines.

When the enemy numbers grew too few to properly engage, they were rounded up and executed, the defeated captain and first mate dragged back to Victoria for Kid to play with later. You wiped your blade on the shirt of a dead marine and sheathed it, pulling yourself to sit on the railing to watch the last few executions and yawning. Honestly, you were bored. They'd barely challenged you, even in your weakened state, and you'd come away with nothing but a few rogue splinters from destroying the smaller ship.

“Loot everything that's loose, and send this ship to hell,” Kid barked, turning to jump back on to his own ship, followed by the commanders, you included.

Killer was standing on deck, waiting for you when you got back. He began to speak to you as you passed by on your way to return to bed, “Good work out th-”

“Save it, Massacre Soldier,” you growled, “I'm not in the mood.” You slammed the door shut behind you as you entered the rear cabin, leaving Killer speechless on the deck.

“Fucccck,” Kid laughed, “she's fucking pissed at you man”

“Shut it, Kid,” he said flatly.

“What? Not in the mood?” Kid roared.

Killer tilted his mask towards Kid in expressionless anger and said nothing, storming off with a huff to his own room. Kid couldn't help but laugh, his best friend was never one to act pissy, he'd always been the more level headed of the two of them, but it seemed like Killer had been different since you'd come on board. He knew Killer well, and it was plain to him that his first mate was developing a soft spot for you, and it was pissing him off more than anything.

Several days later and you were still holding your grudge, and Killer wasn't budging on an apology. To be fair, he'd already apologized, but you didn't think it was good enough. There hadn't been a second reading lesson, you didn't even want to sit at the same dining table as him, let alone spend time alone with him. He'd hurt you deeply with his comment about trust, it was obvious to everyone. You were right though, they all knew it, except Killer apparently. It was clear you'd been working hard to build relationships, and you hadn't done anything to prove you were disloyal, and he'd even said that you were friends, but he'd acted like all that work was nothing. Not to mention the whole ‘raped by every man you've ever met’ thing, he had no right to lecture your about trust when you were fighting every instinct you had, every second you spent around the crew. You may come off on the outside as cheerful and easy going, but under that shell was a lifetime of trauma and distrust.

Heat had tried to mediate the relationship, every meal was becoming an awkward uphill battle, but you wouldn't give it up. You wanted a proper, formal apology, recognising that he understood why what he'd said had hurt you, but he wasn't willing to give in. Finally, after their third dinner in silence, Kid cracked.

“That's it, I can't fucking take sitting between you two fucking toddlers anymore,” he roared as he stood up suddenly, “Killer just fucking apologise already”

“Is that an order?” Killer replied sarcastically. You scowled at him.

“Yes its a fucking order, I'm sick of having to pussyfoot around the two of you. This is ridiculous, since when have I had to be the mature one” Kid grabbed each of you by your shirts and dragged you to both stand up. “The two of you are going outside and dealing with this, now” he growled. Killer slammed his fist against the table and stormed off, and you crossed your arms over your chest and slinked behind him.

You followed him to the front upper deck, far from the earshot of nosey henchmen or the commander on watch. The two of you stood in silence, staring out at the water. The air was burning with anger and frustration as the two masked crewmates refused to speak, till finally you got sick of the cold shoulder you were receiving.

“Fuck this, I'm going to bed,” you declared before turning to leave. He sighed and grabbed your wrist, finally softening.

“Wait,” he grumbled.

“Why bother?” You frowned, pulling your arm out of his grip and holding your wrist like he'd burned you, “you know, I really thought after the reading lesson that we had something, that we really could be friends. I've worked my ass off trying to earn this crew's trust since the second you met me. I have done nothing to earn your distrust, I have done nothing but work to build friendships here. And don't even fucking get me started on how hard it is to learn to trust you. I can't even see your face, and you want me to blindly trust you? You? A man? A man who could pin me and rape me at any moment like every other man I've had the displeasure of serving under. You've got some fucking nerve lecturing me about trust”

You were thankful that your mask was hiding the angry tears you bore as you poured out your pent up rage at him. He stared at you silently, mulling over your argument.

“You're right,” he sighed, taking a step towards you. You instinctually stepped backwards, away from him, so he froze in place, not wanting to further make you uncomfortable. You were right, one reading lesson couldn't stand up against a lifetime of abuse when it came to earning your trust, he didn't deserve your trust yet. Meanwhile you'd done nothing but show you could be trusted, and he'd entirely ignored it. He could see now why you'd been so hurt at his off-handed statement. “I'm sorry, I am, I can see now what a dickhead I've been”

You sighed and rubbed your arm, the air was turning brisk as the ship approached a winter island and you regretted leaving your jacket in your room. “I don't know shit about you Killer, but you know everything about me. I don't have anything to hide, I've bared it all to you willingly, but you hide everything. How am I supposed to trust you?”

“You're right, I get it,” he leaned back against the railing and crossed his arms, “I know I'm not exactly an open book, but I'm trying to be friendly, I am. I'm just- cold. I guess”

“You're not cold,” you said, stepping towards him and placing a hand on one of his crossed arms in a comforting gesture, “you're just… an introvert. A cold person wouldn't have offered to teach me to read or cook. I'm sorry too, okay? You don't have to teach me to read anymore, it's okay, maybe Heat or Wire will help me”

His head perked up at that. He didn't know why, but it hurt to think you didn't want him teaching you anymore. He'd enjoyed teaching you, it was rewarding for him. And in truth he really did want to consider you a friend, outside of this fight you'd been easy to be around and talk to, and he felt a solidarity with you given your twin needs for masks. Your reasons for them were different, but you understood what it was to need the mask, the sacred place it held for him. You could have snuck a peek at his face in the infirmary, but you hadn't even considered it, and he wasn't giving you the credit you deserved for that.

“No, it's fine, I want to teach you,” he quickly said. Your brows raised in surprise at the admission.

“Oh, okay then…” you replied softly. There was a long awkward silence before you suddenly realised you were still touching him, and you tore your hand away like you were at risk of hurting him, “Sorry. Uh… you can tell Kid we made up. I'm going to bed, goodnight, Killer.” You hurriedly turned and walked away without another word, a vibrant blush spreading under your mask.

“Goodnight..” he replied. He rubbed his arm where you'd been touching him, feeling suddenly cold at the loss of your soft, warm hand.

You were woken up early the next day by Heat knocking on your door. After almost two weeks out of lock up, combined with night watches, you'd started to shake off the sleep pattern that had been drilled into you by the marines, and started sleeping in a little. Not much, but enough that you wouldn't be aimlessly wandering around before breakfast anymore. Heat slid into the room without waiting for your response, closing the door behind him and sitting at the foot of your bed.

“Did I sleep through breakfast again?” You yawned. It wasn't like Heat to be in your room so early.

“Nah, but there's good news,” he smiled, “News Coo just came in, Kid wants to talk to the commanders. Which includes you now”

“It's too early for a meeting,” you rolled over and squished your face into the pillow, “tell Kid I died or something” you mumbled into it.

“No dice, little lady,” he gave you some playful shoves to roll you back over and you groaned, finally giving up and sitting upright. Your lilac hair fell loose around your face as you pouted at Heat, grumbling about human rights violations and sliding out of the bed. You started pulling off your pajamas, your breasts falling from your yellow satin tank top, and Heat blushed bright red. You were used to having no privacy, so it didn't phase you that Heat was sitting right there. He was happy though to see that they were beginning to fill out, and your limbs and face were noticeably less boney than they had been when they freed you. Heat was the only one who regularly saw you without the mask, but he saw how your eyes were less sunken every day.

You pulled a bra from a drawer and turned to him as you started putting it on, suddenly noticing his blush and where his eyes were fixed, “What did the News Coo sa- oi, my eyes are up here”

“SORRY,” he yelped, covering his eyes with his hands. You openly laughed at him.

“It's fine Heat, I'm just fucking with you, you can look,” you giggled. He peeked through his fingers and saw you now standing proudly in front of him in only your panties and matching bra.

You slid onto his lap, suddenly overcome by confidence after seeing his shyness, and pulled his hands from his face, resting them on your hips. “Do you not want to look at me?” You asked him in a sultry tone, your head tilted ever so slightly.

“I- of course I wanna look at you,” he said, turning even redder as he trailed his eyes down your front, before running back up to meet your [e/c] eyes. You were still holding your seastone, and he wasn't sure he'd ever seen your normal eyes so close before. He was a lot taller than you, so you had to look up at him. All he had to do was lean down just a little, and his lips would connect with yours..

“HEAT, WHAT'S TAKING SO FUCKING LONG,” Double banged on the cabin door and spooked you, quickly climbing off his lap and going back to getting dressed.

“FUCK OFF FATASS,” Heat yelled back, angry at the missed opportunity, “tell Kid to hold his fucking horses, we'll be there in a second!”

Heavy footsteps receded in the hall outside as Double left to return to the navigation room, and Heat sighed as you finished pulling on your shoes and picked up your mask. “Yin…”

“It's okay Heat,” you tilted his chin up gently with a crooked finger and looked into his sad eyes, before pressing a chaste kiss to the scar that ran over his cheekbone and rubbing your thumb over his chin, “later?”

“Okay,” he mumbled as you slipped your mask on and discarded your seastone. You took his hand and pulled him to stand, wrapping your arms around his waist in a quick hug. He held you there for a brief second before letting go, it was a quiet, tender moment that he wished could have gone on forever. Operation: Girlfriend had just been about finding a way to get his dick wet on the regular without paying, but the way you treated him with such softness, entirely unphased by his scars or his perpetually depressed expression, the way you hugged him so casually, you made his heart beat in ways he didn't think were possible. He was starting to feel like it was his job to make you feel safe and happy on this ship, every instinct was telling him to not let go, to hold you here, safe in his arms always. His face felt warm when you squeezed him a little tighter.

“Come on, Kid will bite our heads off if we don't get going,” he let go of your but held out a hopeful hand, and you took it willingly with a smile, letting him lead you out of the room. Your hand was so soft and small inside his cold, boney hand, it felt so fragile, so he held it with care.

[NEXT CHAPTER]

#one piece fanfiction #one piece smut #killer one piece #killer x reader #massacre soldier killer #heat one piece #heat x reader #kid pirates

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jaimeslanisters · 2 years ago

Text

the pawn in every lover's game (part seven)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you're ten, your father sends you to King's Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 7.1k notes: sorry for the late update!! but this is a big one (: it's time for the tourney folks!

The tourney grounds are alive with the sound of horses braying and people laughing and cheering. Squires run around, carrying swords, shields, and armor as they rush to find their masters somewhere in the crowd. Other members of the royal court mill around, speaking cheerfully to the knights representing their families or eying up the ones that aren’t. It’s loud and joyous, making the Red Keep look more alive than you had ever seen in all the years you had lived there.

It’s headache-inducing.

Your cousins had woken you up far earlier than you were used to in their excitement to get ready and even your grumpy countenance could not quell their anticipation. A part of you had wanted to point out that they had been to tourneys before, fairly recently, as your father had thrown one at Casterly Rock after Loren’s birth to celebrate the arrival of his heir, but, even in your annoyance, you knew that would have been an unfair thing to say.

After all, there’s nothing quite like a royal tourney.

Upon arrival at the tournament grounds, your family had scattered, leaving you with Uncle Tyland and a handful of red cloaks to serve as guards. It was a bit unnerving to have soldiers following your every move - you were so used to walking through the Red Keep completely unencumbered - but you weren’t in the Red Keep. In a clear move to garner support among the smallfolk, Queen Alicent (or Otto Hightower - you weren’t entirely sure of who had had the final say) had opened up the tourney for all of King’s Landing to watch. While there were clear dividers between the nobles and the smallfolk, your father hadn’t had wanted there to even be a hint of foul play and had assigned some of his red cloaks to serve as guards - at least, until you joined up with Helaena in the royal box.

It had been a thoughtful enough gesture but it had made you wonder if there was something in particular that Jason was concerned with. Perhaps you had become complacent in King’s Landing, too used to the relative physical safety of the Red Keep to consider it could ever turn on you. Your years here had been peaceful but Driftmark had proven to you that situations could just as easily turn before you could blink or react. The relative calm of the Red Keep would not hold - you knew this just as surely as you knew that the sun would rise tomorrow. Sooner or later, the shaky peace of House Targaryen would break and erupt into fire and blood and you didn’t want to be caught unaware as you had been as a child. You quietly resolve to push your father to leave you and Tyland some of his soldiers when he returns to Casterly Rock. Even if the gold cloaks and the Kingsguard were sworn to protect the people, it wouldn’t harm to have soldiers sworn to you above all others. You’d rather be overly paranoid now than live to regret it in the future. Your father had just been quicker on the uptake than you.

You shake your head, trying to knock yourself out of your musings. Such dark thoughts had no place on the tourney grounds and you look up to try and start a conversation to distract yourself with your uncle only to see him frowning down at you.

“A gold coin for your thoughts, little one?” Tyland asks, emerald eyes scanning you carefully.

“I’d like to think they’re worth a good bit more than that,” you respond quickly, grinning when he laughs. “It’s nothing, uncle. I’m just thinking about… about the future.”

He hums in response, leading you past rows and rows of tents set up for different knights and other would-be tourney participants.

“Weddings tend to trigger that - though I don’t imagine your thoughts are on whether or not your own wedding celebrations will be as grand as this. Playing a game of cyvasse in your head, little one? Trying to see all the pieces out in front of you and which way they can move?”

“I know the pieces I have available,” you reply. “There are some things I can control easily enough. It’s the pieces that I don’t control that have me lost in thought. There are endless possibilities, endless decisions that other people can make. Right now the game is easy enough, the stakes high but not too dangerously so. I move my piece here or move someone else there and no one tries to check me. No one even knows I’m playing. My concern is wondering when it’ll stop being a game and when someone will just tip the board right over.”

“The game doesn’t cease when that happens,” Tyland says, his voice casual and breezy as if he’s talking about the weather and not your own paranoid fears for the future. “The rules change, the stakes rise, and you’re no longer hidden but the game continues. It never stops. You should have never moved to King’s Landing if you did not wish to play.” Despite his words, his tone is soft, gentle, and when you look up, he’s calmly watching you.

If you told him you were scared of the future, of the consequences of being so entangled with the Targaryens, he would ship you back to Casterly Rock without a second thought, any potential matches be damned.

The thought causes a smile to flicker onto your face. “And leave you alone in a pit of dragons?” You tease. “Banish the thought. We’re at a royal wedding, the likes of which haven’t been seen in decades! Let us focus on getting through that first.”

Tyland gives you a moment, as if giving you one final chance to try to leave court politics behind, but your smile never drops. You couldn’t leave. You wouldn’t leave. As much as the future worries you, leaving Aemond and Helaena behind is such an unthinkable sin that you can’t even fathom doing it.

Eventually, however, your uncle breaks and he starts telling you about the last royal wedding, tactfully ignoring the disaster that was Rhaenyra and Laenor’s. It hasn’t been nearly as grand as this one - the death of Aemma Arryn years prior loomed over the festivities - but it had been a decent enough time if Tyland was to be believed. Of course, he had spent most of the time awkwardly trailing behind Jason and Johanna, then pregnant with Cerelle, but he had still managed to create connections that he would later leverage into being named Master of Ships. All in all, he brags to you, it had been a very successful social event for House Lannister.

You would be expected to accomplish something similar but, in lieu of a position of repute, you would have to claim a powerful husband.

You think of Helaena’s teasing words from the opening feast - Lions will ride dragons someday - and as much as they bring an embarrassing flush to your cheeks, you knew better than to place any heavy weight on them. Helaena’s prophecies, if they could be called that, were nearly nonsensical, more poem than any true look into the future. For all you knew, her words were simply saying that eventually, somewhere in the future, a Lannister would bed a Targaryen with no guarantee of a marriage. You could be a Lannister who beds but does not wed a Targaryen.

It would be foolish to place everything you had into the hope that Helaena was right about you and Aemond. You had to make it happen and one way to do that was to ensure that Victor Florent did not place you into a socially precarious situation by asking you for your favor.

That was where Tygett Lannister would have to assist you.

You hear his laugh before you ever see him though, to be sure, your cousin is difficult to miss. Even among other House Lannister members, most of them more visibly Lannister than you, he stands out. Long before he had reached his age of majority, Tygett had grown to be taller than most adult men, towering over his own father. While he wasn’t as broad in the shoulder as Lord Jason and Tyland, he certainly did not lack in muscle and cut an imposing figure even if you knew that he was not as nearly an intimidating warrior as he looked. He was handsome, as all Lannisters tend to be, and, as you approach his tent with your uncle at your side, you can see he’s gathered a small crowd of admirers around him as he tells jokes and charms them all.

He’s a Lannister, through and through, and when you were a child, you had resented him for that reason precisely. Prior to Loren, Tygett had been the preferred potential husband for Cerelle if no male babe had been born to your parents. Of course, that would only be if your father could wrangle his bannerman into obeying him without needing to make concessions such as a marriage to his female heir, something that was far from being a guarantee. Adulthood had taught you your family would have been right in believing that that would have been the easiest, cleanest solution. Despite not being from Casterly Rock or the main line, a Lannister was a Lannister and Tygett would have been preferable compared to a son of an upstart lord with dreams of supplanting the lions of the Rock. Child you had not seen it like that, however. All you had seen through your immature eyes had been your father’s dream - a son of House Lannister, tall and handsome and strong - just out of his reach and you had hated Tygett for representing the one thing you and your sisters could never be for Jason, no matter how hard you could try: a son.

Time and distance had worn down your ire and now, when Tygett spots you and grins widely at you, you easily smile back.

“Cousin!” He greets you exuberantly, reaching you in a few steps and wrapping a warm arm around you in a quick, affectionate hug. He turns to Tyland and gives a quick bow, never losing his cheerful expression. “Lord Tyland. I thank you for coming to see me before the event begins1”

“I see you already have fans,” Tyland responds, a smile working its way onto his face.

Tygett shakes his head, bashful. “Just friends. They’ve all visited once or twice in Lannisport and wanted to wish me luck before the joust.”

“Speaking of which,” you cut in, clearing your throat. “Have you heard which listing you’re in?” You try to sound calm as if his answer wouldn’t dictate your mood for the rest of the day, but judging from your uncle’s suppressed snort, you’ve failed at that.

Your cousin grins, not minding how you leap into business first. “First. I’ll be facing a Stokeworth household knight. I’ll be counting on your favor to tip the odds for me.”

You sigh in relief, readily nodding your assent at Tygett. As an unmarried man with no acceptable noblewoman to charm, tradition dictated that he ask you, the highest-ranking lady of his house at the event, to gift him your favor. If he asked any other lady from any other house, it would be a loud and clear message to the court that he was interested in courting her, and a betrothal meeting would be sure to follow afterward, if only because it was simply what was done. By asking you, however, he could hold off the marriage discussions and declare himself as an uninterested party even if you technically were an available choice to him.

It solved both of your problems neatly enough and it prevented you from having to awkwardly hand your favor to a man who would mean all the implications it would bring.

“Are you feeling confident?” You ask him and your cousin laughs, loud and booming.

“I’ll make it a few rounds,” he says without a hint of embarrassment or disappointment. It doesn’t bother him at all to admit his fault. If not for Loren, he would have been loved as Lord Lannister. “I won’t shame you, cousin, though I’m afraid that I won’t be able to crown you Queen of Love and Beauty unless several notable knights happen to trip getting on their horse.”

You smile wryly. “You’re terribly lucky. Perhaps they will.”

“I’ll put money on you regardless,” Tyland says as he claps Tygett on the shoulder, giving his nephew a firm shake.

Your cousin immediately shakes his head. “I thank you for that vote of confidence but save your coin for the archery event. I’ll win a prize for myself there and, hopefully, bring you a greater return.”

Your uncle smirks. “We’re Lannisters, Tygett. I can afford to lose some coin on you. But if you insist, any tips on who is best to bet on during the joust then?”

“Lord Tarly’s brother is a surefire bet. Same with Ser Edwyn Sand from House Dayne in Dorne. I heard he’s been promising in past tourneys.”

You blink at that. “Dorne sent knights? Has the Lord Hand made progress toward negotiating unification?”

Tyland laughs out loud. “Unlikely. House Dayne has always been closer to Westeros than the rest of the region, however. They trade often with Oldtown and Lannisport even if they refuse to break away from the Martells to formally join with the Iron Throne.”

You hum in response, mind whirring even as Tygett begins to list off other potential champions (alarmingly, Victor’s name comes up and you manage not to react). Ever since Dorne had managed to shoot Queen Rhaenys out of the sky and survive the rage that Aegon and Visenya had rained upon them after, relations with the region had been tense, to say the least. House Targaryen’s official stance was that the dragons had conquered the desert lands to the South and that Dorne was one of the Seven Kingdoms, a position that Dorne firmly rebuked.

Years before you were born, there had been a chance to unify the continent finally. Just before his dismissal in favor of Lyonel Strong, Otto Hightower had very nearly brokered a betrothal pact between Rhaenyra and the Prince of Dorne but dreams of that had been squashed when Rhaenyra had been ushered into a marriage with Laenor Velaryon to soothe Lord Corlys’ wounded ego and quiet the rumors surrounding her maidenhead. It had been enough of a scandal that you can remember hearing whispers about it even as a child; about how Rhaenyra had rebuked several suitors - including Tyland - and how it had seemed that she had planned to go unwed until her father and House Velaryon had forced her hand. House Lannister had been soothed by Tyland gaining the position of Master of Ships but there had been no consolation prize for Dorne. The kingdom had not taken the insult well and negotiations had reverted back to their icy standoff, slightly worse off than it had been before.

House Dayne sending a knight, even if he was a bastard, was promising, however. It opened doors where there otherwise would be none and you silently note to yourself to try and speak to Ser Edwyn and his retinue when you had the chance or encourage Tyland or Tygett to do so in your place.

A herald shouts that the opening presentation is due to commence shortly and you reach out to grasp Tygett’s arm.

“May the Warrior grant you strength, cousin,” you solemnly tell him, your lips quirking up in a smile when he bows deeply in response.

“And may the Maid grant you luck,” he replies, bright eyes knowing, and your smile grows.

——————————–

The actual tourney grounds are a marvel and you feel like the childish little girl you once were as you climb the steps to reach the royal box, high above the rest of the stands. At Alicent’s direction, the grounds are decorated with black and red Targaryen banners, the blazing green beacon of Hightower cutting into the otherwise dark color scheme. Most of the nobles are already sitting and in the distance, you can see a massive crowd of smallfolk, gathering where they can so they can catch a glimpse of the heraldry.

The royal box itself is already buzzing with activity, House Velaryon and House Hightower making up the bulk of the occupants. Your uncle leaves your side to join up with the other members of the small council and, after a moment, you step forward, moving towards the seats Helaena had told you yesterday were to be yours and hers. In the very front of the box, in front of the Lord Hand and Queen Alicent, there’s a row of empty seats, solely occupied by Aemond.

Even without seeing his face, you can already imagine his bored expression and when you drop into the seat next to him and he turns to face you, you exaggerate a scowl. “Is the tourney not to your liking, my prince? I can force everyone to do something more worthwhile such as reading philosophy if it pleases you.”

He rolls his eyes and your expression quickly clears into a grin. “I can’t imagine even you being able to pull that off but it would, in fact, please me greatly if you’d somehow work out a way for me to leave this complete farce. There’s a pile of proposals for the city’s budget that I need to summarize before the week’s up that I need to get to.”

“Lord Otto will understand if you’re a tad behind,” you say, jerking your head in his grandfather’s general direction. “Besides, it’s important that the smallfolk see you and the rest of your siblings here. They’d like to think that they know their royals and, by being here, you show that you care about them.”

Aemond shoots you a disgruntled look without any heat behind it. “The proposals are for their benefit. They include building more orphanages and bettering the sewage system.”

You smile. “That’s all well and helpful but, just as important as that, is public appearance. There’s a reason the smallfolk sing songs about Good Queen Alysanne’s women’s courts and not about King Jaehaerys constructing the Kingsroad.”

He hums in acknowledgment and you know he understands you even if he’s unlikely to admit it. He’s never liked tourneys and it’ll be even more years yet before I get him to admit they can be useful.

“Will Helaena and Prince Aegon be joining soon?” You ask after you give the box a quick scan to make sure they’re not hiding amongst their family. You even give the Velaryons a cursory glance to be certain but, aside from Princess Rhaenys and Baela, you don’t recognize any of them.

Aemond smirks. “You’ll know when they arrive. You’re not the only one who is preaching the importance of appearances.”

You open your mouth, ready to ask him what he meant, when the roar of a dragon cuts you off and you jump in your seat, hand flying out to grip Aemond’s arm in shock. A hush falls over the tourney and there’s another earth-shaking roar that rattles you down to your bones. Your grip tightens on Aemond and, after a beat, you feel one of his hands come up to grip your own, pulling it off of his arm and instead holding it tightly, intertwining his fingers with your own.

You don’t even turn to look at him, however, too stunned by the sight of two dragons descending onto the tourney grounds, covering the stands in shadow even as the creatures themselves glimmer in the sun. Dreamfyre’s blue scales shine brightly, glittering like the Sunset Sea, but it’s Sunfyre who you can’t drag your eyes away from. You’ve seen Aegon’s dragon before, off in the distance, but this alarmingly close, you suddenly realize why Aegon was so prone to bragging about the beauty of his mount.

Sunfyre glitters like gold, almost blinding in the light, and, from the gasps and exclamations coming from the crowd, you know you’re not the only one who’s noticed. From the curve of his neck to the pink membrane beneath his wings, Aegon’s dragon is more a work of art than a creature that could easily burn entire cities to the ground.

The two massive beasts land, somehow neatly avoiding crushing the fences set up for the jousting, their wings flapping to steady themselves while sending out a massive gust of wind to the rest of the onlookers.

As you stare, marveling, you’re suddenly struck with the memory of seeing Aemond fly with his siblings, of Vhagar dwarfing Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, and your mouth drops as you imagine his dragon being the one to have to land on the tourney.

She’d crush us all under her size you realize with wonder and you finally rip your eyes away from the sight in front of you to tell Aemond that exact thought when you meet his eye already watching you.

His gaze is fond, warm even, and it softens his face in a way you haven’t seen in years, so markedly different from the careful mask he wore around the court. His mouth is curved up in a tiny smile and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of his hand holding yours. The palm of his hand is rough, worn down by calluses formed from years of swordplay, but it’s warm around your own soft skin.

Your mouth dry all of a sudden, you lick your lips and his gaze drops and something in you clenches at the sight of him staring at your mouth so unabashedly.

For a moment, you’re not sitting in the royal box at a tourney, visible to hundreds if not thousands, the most important members of the court all sitting behind your back. You’re sitting in the library and it’s just you and Aemond - the way it has been meant to be.

His eye finally flits back up to meet your’s and the look in his eye makes your breath hitch.

More than an alliance, more than what it will bring to your family, you want him. You’ve always wanted him just for him.

The mad desire to tell him just that almost takes over but before you can do something as foolish as professing your love in front of the royal court, the crowd roars in approval and you’re knocked out of your revelry, looking over in time to see Sunfyre and Dreamfyre take to the skies again, leaving Aegon and Helaena standing hand in hand in the middle of the jousting field.

From this distance, you can’t see the fear in them, the desire to pull away from each and run to the hills, far far away from this marriage that could choke the two of them to death. Instead, you can only see two beautiful Targaryens, dressed in finery that absolutely gleams in the sunlight, tied together by blood, power, and soon-to-be by marriage.

“They’ll write songs about them,” you realize with a murmur and Aemond squeezes your hand, in acknowledgment and in comfort.

“Songs will help,” he gently reminds you and you jerkily nod, looking back at him as Aegon and Helaena approach the royal box to finally be seated.

After a moment, you find your voice. “I hope the singers will write beautiful ones. Helaena deserves that nicety.”

“And Aegon does not?” Aemond asks, his tone low and teasing, and you laugh.

“I think the songs he wants about himself are rather bawdier in nature,” you reply, cheeks warming when he shoots you a look in response.

After a few more minutes, Aegon and Helaena finally reach the seating area and, as Helaena bolts ahead while Aegon flags down a servant carrying a flagon of wine, you turn to face the chair that the princess will occupy, your hand slipping out of Aemond’s as you do so, his fingertips brushing yours.

You find you miss the warmth, even as Helaena snatches up your other hand immediately, squeezing it tightly as if it was the little bug toy Aegon had gifted her that she carried around in her pockets to fidget with.

“Careful, princess,” you playfully scold, voice low and quiet as Otto Hightower stands to officially announce the beginning of the jousting event. “I’m afraid I plan to still have some use for my hand in the future.”

“Sorry,” Helaena says quickly in response, her tight grip loosening only a fraction. “I was nervous and scared of making a mistake.”

You smile encouragingly. “You did marvelous, Helaena. No mistakes.”

Her eyes dull. “No choice. There will be no choice.”

Your heart seizes in your chest and you curl your hand around her’s protectively.

No choice. No choice.

Her most repeated phrase haunts and mocks you, filling your brain with endless doubts and worries. Biting back the pleads that you know will never bring you answers, you nod your head, turning your attention back to the jousting field. The various knights that will be participating in today’s lists ride in front of the box and you can easily pick out Tygett in front of the procession, a golden lion roaring on his impossibly shiny armor.

“I wonder how long my cousin’s squire slaved away polishing to achieve that gleam,” you wonder out loud.

Helaena giggles nervously. “If he’s anything like Daeron, I doubt he got any sleep. I’m sure even now, Daeron is fretting over some aspect of Lord Ormund’s armor that he thinks he didn’t get to prepare to his highest standard.”

You laugh at that. “I’m sure Prince Daeron is out there pacing a hole in the field from his nerves.”

“Lord Ormund is probably calmer than him right now,” Aemond joins in on your gentle ribbing, nodding at the calm Lord of Hightower as he rides past the royal box to the cheers of his family.

Aegon, having gotten his drink, drops heavily into the seat next to Helaena, somehow avoiding splashing Arbor gold all over him and his sister. “Little prick hardly let anyone in the apartments sleep with the way he was worrying all night as if he’s going to do something more taxing than handing our cousin his lance or fetching him some water.”

Aemond rolls his eyes. “And you were beside yourself at the idea of having to open the tourney with Sunfyre as if you haven’t flown countless times in the past.”

Aegon doesn’t seem at all annoyed with his brother’s barb, instead smiling wide. “Careful, brother,” he nearly sings as he takes a sip from his chalice. “Little Daeron and I weren’t the only ones getting worked up about the joust.”

Helaena shakes her head, shooting her future husband a look. “We were all nervous,” she scolds without any bite.

Her older brother merely shrugs, still looking impossibly pleased. “The worst part of it is over for us. Can’t say the same for everyone else.”

You watch the siblings squabble with interest, always intrigued when the Targaryen children duke it out amongst themselves as if they were normal siblings rather than royal children in line for the throne. Your attention, however, is taken away when the first listing is announced and you sit up straight in your seat at attention.

On the field, Tygett steers his horse, a massive white stallion, to stand in front of the royal box. “Lady Lannister,” your cousin calls, his voice booming even over the roar of the crowd. “I humbly ask for your favor in order to bring our house pride.”

“Is it because of the whole lions bit?” You hear Aegon ask sardonically even as you rise to your feet. You hear Aemond let out a warning hiss and you bite back a grin as you stop by the table that held piles of rings of flowers, easily picking out the one you had half-heartedly made on your journey back to King’s Landing, before heading to the railing.

“May the warrior grant you strength,” you call down to your cousin, echoing your earlier words to him. As a child, you had often imagined this moment: tossing a handsome knight your favor as the court watched, letting them all know that your love was real and true like in the songs. You had thought the first time you got to do it that it would be a romantic moment, one that you would remember for years and years into the future, a beautiful story to tell your grandchildren one day.

You feel nothing as you toss the ring of flowers down to Tygett, only a vague sense of pride when you manage to get looped onto his lance. Your cousin bows his head solemnly before galloping off to get ready for the joust and you turn back to your seat, none the worse for wear.

“Thank the Gods that’s out of the way,” you grumble as you sit down, keeping a careful eye on Tygett’s preparations even though you know he’ll easily unseat the household knight the Stokeworths have sent.

“What?” Aemond asks, similarly watching Tygett with keen eyes. “Does your cousin not set your heart aflame? Make you sing beautiful songs of courtly love?”

You roll your eyes. “If he did, I would have spent more than five minutes on the flower ring. As it were, I tried to offload it on one of my other cousins but everyone was too caught up in making and perfecting their own to make mine as well.”

“Shame poor Ser Victor won’t get to ask,” Aegon calls over to you, grinning as you shoot him a glare. “How will the poor man’s heart ever recover?”

“Hopefully it won’t,” you shoot back. “And I’ll get to enjoy the rest of this week in peace.”

Aegon snickers. “I doubt it. Victor Florent will pledge his undying love to you and then promptly meet a terribly tragic end that the court gossips about for a maximum of two weeks before moving on to the next scandal.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” you say even as you clap for Tygett as he easily unseats the poor Stokeworth knight. “That’d distract from the wedding and I’d never do that to Helaena.”

“I never said you would,” Aegon says, snapping his fingers for a refill, and Helaena coughs into her hand in order to poorly disguise a laugh.

“Enough of that,” Aemond cuts in, voice cold. “Ser Tygett Lannister has already claimed her favor. She doesn’t have another to give.”

His brother laughs gleefully. “But he might win a crown to bestow. Love has a way of making men stronger than they normally are.”

“He is not in love with me, my prince,” you say, keeping your eyes on the field so you don’t turn to snap at Aegon.

“Of course, of course,” the prince responds, his voice light and laughing, and you fight the urge to snatch his wine away.

“At least he’s enjoying himself,” you grumble under your breath to Aemond and he lets out a huff of air.

“He’ll always find his amusements,” he replies, his voice tight and annoyed.

You look over at him so he can see the exasperation clear on your face. “I suppose I should be glad it’s at my expense rather than something unbecoming.”

“Victor Florent’s behavior is unbecoming,” Aemond says in a steely tone. “You’ve expressed your disinterest and yet he continues unperturbed.”

“Some songs would say that’s romantic,” you point out. “I can name you at least five right off the top of my head right now.”

“Life isn’t a song,” he shoots back, ignoring how the crowd cheers as another knight is unhorsed. “Ladies deserve a choice in their husbands. You deserve a choice and you clearly haven’t chosen him.”

You watch as his jaw clenches in anger and, slowly, your hand reaches out to brush the top of his hands, him having curled them into fists on his lap. His hand immediately relaxes and he tilts his head down to look at you, his platinum hair falling over his shoulder in cascades.

“I don’t choose him,” you say, voice low. “And I wouldn’t choose him. I’m polite because he’s popular in the court and if I dismiss him out of hand without another prospect, people will wonder why .”

I keep him around to rile you into doing something you silently add in your head, pleased as his body loosens and his hand turns to capture yours yet again.

You think you could hold his hand forever if you could get away with it.

“And if there is another prospect?” Aemond asks, his voice heavy with intention, and you stare at him, heart pounding in your chest. His thumb slowly rubs the back of your hand. “Will you reject him then?”

You nod, swallowing thickly. “I would. He’s the last man whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.”

“And who is the first?”

You already know the answer.

“My shining lady of Lannister!” Aegon sings and Aemond’s face grows so cold so fast you actually marvel at the speed. “Your knight of the Brightwater rides!”

Reluctantly, you tear your gaze away from Aemond to scowl fiercely at Aegon, uncaring that he outranks you by far as a royal prince and the most probable inheritor of the Iron Throne. You idly wonder if you could get away with smacking him - anyone who has ever met him would probably agree that you had the right of it.

“Does he…” Helaena trails off and you glance at her stunned expression before glancing at the field and your blood runs cold.

Victor Florent is sitting proud as his squire runs around him doing last-minute preparation. His eyes are glued to you and, the moment he realizes your eyes are on him, his face lights up and he raises his arm in greeting and that’s when you spot it.

Tied carefully around his bicep, there is a red and gold handkerchief, the colors the exact same as the dress you are wearing. You, and the rest of the court, can tell without seeing that there is a golden lion stitched onto it.

A favor.

A favor you didn’t give but was made to seem as if you did.

Already, you can feel curious eyes on your back, can hear the gossipy whispers, and you suddenly wish you were actually the lioness that your mother liked to call you. If you were, you could leap from the royal box onto the ground and tear out Victor Florent’s throat if only to watch him realize that you weren’t the demure lady of his dreams.

“He has bravery,” Helaena whispers. “And that is all he will have.”

You’re too livid to register her tone, too furious to say anything other than an incoherent hiss of anger. You can only grip Aemond’s hand tighter and pray that the Tyrell knight he is facing will unseat him.

Except the knight doesn’t. None of the knights do and you watch with mounting fear as Victor rises in the ranks, unseating knight after knight until only three stand between him and the crown.

You want to be sick.

“He knew I would never give him my favor,” you finally say after your cousin is unseated to Lord Roland Tarly, the brother of the lord so desperately in love with your sister Tyshara. “So he fakes a personal favor from me so the court will whisper about a courting that doesn’t exist. He wishes to force my father’s hand.”

“He doesn’t have respect,” Aemond’s voice is dangerously still and you tear your eyes away from the next competitors’ preparation to look at him. His face is a mask, a far cry from the gentleness he had shown earlier, and wiped completely clear of any emotion. “He’s a fool.”

You don’t bother to watch the joust anymore, keeping your gaze on him. “He’s a bold fool,” you finally reply. “That’s more dangerous than a fool.”

“He’s a fool nonetheless,” his eye gleams and you don’t have anything to say in response, only squeezing his hand.

Since Victor Florent had ridden out onto the field, Aemond has not let go of your hand and you wonder if anyone has noticed. Your seats are close enough that it’s not automatically visible that your hands are intertwined, that he refuses to let go and you refuse to do the same. You wonder what the court will think.

You glance over your shoulder, to see if anyone is watching, and meet Queen Alicent’s eyes.

She at least sees.

You only meet her gaze for a few scant seconds before she looks back at the field but you had recognized the look in her eyes.

Fear.

But of what?

Ser Edwyn Sand unseats Lord Ormund Hightower and you don’t even have it in you to feel pity for poor Daeron because your heart immediately begins to pound loudly in your chest.

The next match is the final.

Ser Edwyn Sand vs Ser Victor Florent.

“If he wins,” you murmur under your breath. “I’m petitioning the crown to allow Dorne to live undisturbed in perpetuity.”

“If he wins,” Aegon calls over, his tone oddly contrite for once. “I’ll let you.”

With bated breath, you watch as the two knights ready themselves. Victor’s face is solemn but, just before he puts on his helmet, he shoots a glance at the royal box, staring for just a moment.

Before he raises his arm and kisses the handkerchief, grinning all the while.

Your blood boils and Aemond’s grip on your hand grows tighter.

For a moment, all stands still as Edwyn and Victor stare each other down.

Then the horn blows and they shoot off toward each other, their horses almost impossibly fast. The crowd screams in excitement.

The first pass is a miss and, as they turn quickly to face the other, you pray to the Seven that Victor’s horse will crumble beneath him, that his lance will shoot off to the side while Edwyn’s will strike true.

But the second pass is a miss too.

The crowd jeers and begs for a hit while you pray for a draw at the bare minimum.

Do not give Victor Florent that crown. Please. Please. Please.

This was the piece you couldn’t control. The move you couldn’t predict.

The horn blows once more and the two knights race towards each other again and, for a moment, you think Edwyn has done it.

But then there’s a loud crack! and Edwyn falls to the ground, showered by the wooden splinters of Victor’s lance as it shatters against his armor, knocking him down.

The crowd explodes into incomprehensible screams, so loud that you can feel your ears pop, while the royal box cheers, but you, and the rest of the front row, sit in stunned silence.

Aemond’s grip on your hand has grown so tight that it hurts but you can’t find it in you to shake him off, to tell him to let go, not when you want to keep yourself tethered to him.

You can’t reject the crown. You can’t.

In centuries of tradition, the Queen of Love and Beauty has never been able to reject the title. Even when the Queen in question is married to another, she has always been made to accept it and weather the storm that follows.

There is no choice. None you can make.

Victor Florent has laid out the perfect trap and you will be forced to step right into it.

You watch, your blood pumping in your ears, as Otto Hightower rises to his feet. On the tourney grounds, a squire runs out to Victor, carrying a pillow with a crown of blood-red roses placed on it.

You don’t even have it in you to laugh at the irony.

“Congratulations to Ser Victor Florent for unhorsing all of his opponents and winning the tourney,” Otto pauses to allow the crowd to roar their approval. “Alongside the pot of gold, you have won the crown for the jousting event. Who shall you crown your Queen of Love and Beauty?”

The crowd screams and screams and Victor beams happily up at the royal box.

For a moment, you manage to delude yourself that he’ll call his good-sister’s name or even Helaena’s. It’s her wedding. It’s only right to honor her like this.

It won’t be you. It won’t be you.

“I humbly ask my lady love, the beautiful Lady of Lannister, to accept my crown,” he declares, voice loud and firm, and you want to snarl at him, you want to rage, you want to scream.

I’m not yours. I’m not yours. I’m not yours.

But you can’t do any of that.

You can only rise in muted anger, the rest of the court rising with you so they can get a better look at your crowning. Aemond holds your hand, firm and unyielding, and he only lets go at the very last moment, arm outstretched to do so.

You know the court saw that but you can’t even find it within you to care about the gossip and the scandal that will follow.

All you can think is that you want to cave in Victor’s chest for putting you into this position, maneuvering his way into appearing to all the world as your only choice in marriage.

Just like the songs, you walk down the steps of the royal box and out to the field where Victor is waiting, the crowd screaming all around you. Just like the songs, you bow your head as Victor places the crown of roses on your head and allow him to grab your hand to press a sweaty kiss on the back of it.

Your hand still in his, you turn to face the royal box, keeping your face perfectly still as you look up at them, not smiling or blushing like you know they expect you to.

You look up and you see Aemond.

He’s not watching you. His eye is on Victor. While the court claps and cheers around him, he stands stock still. Even from here, you can see the hungry and vicious gleam in his eye as he stares down at Victor.

You’ve only ever seen it once before; when King Viserys had thrown him away on Driftmark, when Aemond had been aching for blood and retribution.

In this moment, you realize that he is all the worst things people say about him. He’s cruel and he’s vicious and he will tear out Victor’s throat for this. The look on his face is cold and frightening and next to you, you can feel the exact moment Victor notices, when his overeager waving slows as he realizes that he’s drawn the ire of a dragon.

In the distance, you hear Vhagar roar, loud and distinctive even over the crowd’s cheers, and finally, you allow yourself to smile, a thrill running down your spine.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x reader #as promised some pre-marital hand holding! (:#and also a bunch of other stuff that's going to propel the plot forward but we're all here for the hand holding right?

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maybege · 3 years ago

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Banana Bread Mornings - FBI Part 3

Summary: After a difficult night, you are presented with a new case. (Part 3 of the FBI Series)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!Reader

Wordcount: 2.8k | Rating: T

Warnings: canon typical mentions of murder and sexual assault

A wonderful Monday to you all! I hope you are having an amazing start into the new weeks so far. With this chapter, we are diving into the first real case. It’s not one from the show so it’ll be held rather simple but nonetheless, I hope you like it and, as always, let me know what you think!

masterlist | crossposted on AO3

You had been right. This would be a horrible day.

It was barely 8 am, the sky getting a light grey in the distance as rain clouds gathered, and you wondered how long it would take Penelope to present you with a new case. The way you had gotten to know this place it would not take that long.

For once, your brain provided, you would not mind a day just filled with paperwork if it meant you could get away with taking a painkiller and stopping that migraine in its root.

“Oh, banana bread,” JJ chimed from behind you, “Don’t mind if I do.”

You flinched, not having noticed her arrival which made you feel even worse. She took one of the slices before sitting down next to you, “What’s up? You look like you got barely any sleep.”

“That’s because I didn’t,” you groaned, letting your forehead fall onto your desk, “Josh had a friend over and they had a Lord of the Rings marathon and they were still watching when I got ready for work.”

The memory of Josh rolling his eyes made your blood boil and you avoided the pitiful look JJ sent you. Your eyes felt dry and irritated in the fluorescent lights of the office and you had barely been here for more than twenty minutes.

“I am sorry,” JJ said, pity in her voice and you smiled at her, waving her off.

“It’s not like it’s your fault,” you assured her, trying to somehow apply the fake it till you make it attitude to real life, “I will just need a tea and then it will be good. I hope.”

JJ nodded with a hum, her cheeks round from chewing the banana bread and the sight made you smile. It had been a good decision to bring the bread to work. Maybe this would bring you closer to your colleagues? Food, as everyone knew, brought everyone closer together and you did not think the BAU was that different from the average person.

You saw her swallow her bite down, opening her mouth to say something but before she could, the door to the office opened and your eyes darted up, seeing none other than your boss enter. And Rossi. But mostly your boss.

“Jack was there for the weekend,” he said, smiling to Rossi, “We went to a soccer game. Haley mentioned he is crazy about it recently.”

He looked so happy at that moment, so unlike the strict exteriors he normally put on for work that it felt like a shock to see him anything other than frowning.

Your first instinct was to shy away and make sure he would not notice you. But then you remembered his words and how kind he had been to you in Kansas. SSA Hotchner was not here to get you kicked off the team. He had told you as much.

So, you did not have to worry, right? Right?

Rossi stopped in front of your desk and so did Hotch. “What do you have there?”

“Banana bread,” you smiled, pushing the plate towards them. With a big grin, Dave took one of the slices, biting in it heartily. You smiled at seeing his content expression and with a full mouth, he nodded to Hotch, motioning for him to take one too.

But he only smiled politely, “Maybe later. I believe Garcia has a case for us.”

You nodded, standing up to follow them to the conference room. Any hope for a calm day had flown out of the window and you were only glad that you had recently re-packed your go bag and remembered to do the laundry. There was nothing worse than running out of clean underwear while trying to keep your job or having to show up in the same blouse for the third day in a row all the while keeping up the appearance that you actually knew what you were doing.

Before you knew it, everyone had taken a seat around the table. Except for Hotch. He was already looking at a file in his hands and standing right behind you. You could feel his presence and if you had not been convinced that your brain was full of wishful thinking today you could have sworn that you felt his eyes burn at the back of your neck.

Was he watching you?

You took a deep breath, trying to focus on Garcia at the front. She was wearing a bright yellow dress with purple flowers on it today. You forced yourself to count how many flowers you could see in an attempt to, for once, not think about your boss behind you.

“Serial rapist and murderer,” Penelope announced, turning on the screen, “Springfield, Ohio, is in the clutches of an unknown man who rapes and subsequently kills his victims. There have been seven victims so far. Four victims in the last four years and –“

“That goes until last year,” Reid noticed immediately, swiping on his tablet.

You looked at the pictures on the screen, your heart pulling together at seeing the wounds on the victims. There were pictures from the M.E. but also of the presumable crime scenes as well as the victims’ homes. The local police department had been very thorough.

“That is because this,” another three pictures appeared next to the four, “is from this year alone.”

“He is devolving,” you noticed, swiping through the map, “Is that – what is that?”

You zoomed in on the picture of what seemed to be a woman’s pair of underwear looking suspiciously clean of blood if it had been supposed to be on her at the time of her murder. But as thorough as the M.E. had been with documenting the evidence, the quality of the photo was majorly lacking and so you looked to your technical analyst for help.

“He, uh,” Penelope cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable, “DNA was found on pairs of their underwear in their apartments. Local police assume it is the same UnSub.”

That was not something you had expected.

“Self-gratification as a way to claim them before he can do so physically,” Morgan commented, “That has to be new.”

“But is it clear that this happened before?” JJ asked, “Or could it have been a way to humiliate the victims even after their death?”

“Either way, it looks to be an attempt to exercise control from his side,” Emily suggested, “He wants to make sure they feel and seem targeted.”

“And with the decreasing timeline, it is clear that this UnSub is devolving. And quickly,” Hotch agreed. He was still standing behind you and you tried not to turn to look at him like a schoolgirl with a crush. “Wheels up in 20. Everybody let’s go.”

That seemed to bring movement into everybody and you followed Emily to your desk, getting your go bag from next to your chair. Your eyes fell to your phone where (1) new text message had popped up.

08:13 Your dad and I would like to talk again tonight. Text me when you have time. Love, Mom.

Dread settled in your stomach and you could feel the pain behind your eyes increasing. You switched off the screen, knowing that it would just worsen the pain in your head. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.

You did not have to handle this right now. This could wait. Baby steps.

“Hey, kid, you ready?”

You looked up, where Derek with his bag over his shoulder was looking expectantly at you, his head tilted to the side as he so obviously figured that something was bothering you. But this was not a case where you could admit weakness. Not when Dr Johnson was waiting for any opportunity to recommend your suspension to fall into her lap.

“Yeah,” you smiled, throwing your bag over your shoulder, “I’m ready.”

The flight to Ohio passed in no time and felt like an eternity simultaneously. You had managed to swallow down a pain killer with a glass of water, sitting through the briefing on the jet without saying anything.

You noticed that Hotch noticed but thankfully he did not say anything. With Reid sitting next to you, he more than made up your lack of theories with his own which maybe was also the reason that Hotch paired you with him to go to the morgue.

Deep down you were thankful that he had not given you the task of making friends with the local police force or questioning the victim’s families. Because even with the pain killer slowly kicking in, it still made your head pound to listen to people talk.

Which was why you were now standing in the morgue, grateful for the silence.

“Both bodies show signs of severe sexual abuse,” the M.E. listed off, lifting the blanket of one of the victims, “The DNA matched that found in the victim’s apartments. Cause of death is stabbing to the chest area.”

Reid next to you bowed over the first corpse. You stayed behind because you wanted to give him space, for one, but also because corpses still freaked you out just the littlest bit.

“What’s interesting is that the latest victim has 17 more entry wounds than the previous one,” he turned to the M.E. “How many times was the first victim stabbed?”

The man looked at him perplexed before turning to his papers, “Five times.”

“That is a clear escalation of violence,” you noted, “Almost textbook.”

“Was it the same knife every time?” Reid asked.

“As far as I can tell, yes,” the man nodded, “Although it is not particularly unusual. A kitchen knife would be my best guess.”

Reid hummed, obviously working over different theories in his head.

“The last victim was a sex worker,” you noted, “And the victim before that as well. Does that mean he is developing a victimology?”

“I am not so sure,” Reid murmured, closely looking at the wrist of the woman, “She is showing clear defensive wounds. And the wounds up here on her chest are shallow.”

“Hesitation marks?” you frowned, “But isn’t this his seventh victim at least? Why would he still show hesitation marks?”

“Maybe he is insecure?” Spence suggested, straightening up.

“And the escalation of violence paired with the, uh, the underwear incidents would be him gaining back control?” you deduced and Spencer nodded.

“That is exactly what it looks like.”

“Well, the last three victims were all sex workers,” JJ summarized, “They worked and lived in different neighbourhoods but that is the only common string we have gotten so far.”

“I am still running the searches to see if the DNA matches somewhere,” Garcia’s voice piped up from the speaker.

You were in a little conference room that the local precinct had cleared for you to use. It was more than you had expected but still a little cramped with all of you gathered around the table. There was an old evidence board upfront, any and all information you were able to find pinned on it.

While you and Reid had been to the M.E., the others had checked out the families as well as the abduction sites, trying to gain as much additional intel as possible.

Only you had come up blank.

“What if these are just victims of opportunity?” Reid suggested next to you, “The first four victims were all low-risk individuals. Why would he suddenly make it easier on himself?”

“Maybe he was forced to?” Emily theorized, “This UnSub does not seem like the type to back down of his own volition so maybe Reid is onto something. His usual victim pool was not available to him for whatever reason.”

“But then what is up with these hesitation marks?” you asked, taking a closer look at one of the pictures the M.E.’s office had sent, “One would think that with a victim he suspects to be weaker, he would feel more secure but is almost like it is the opposite. What could that mean?”

Hotch leant forward in his seat, nodding towards you, “That is a good point. We will remember that for later. For now, let’s focus on how we can prevent another murder. Where is he most likely to strike next?”

“Even if sex workers are not his primary targets, it is difficult to see where he would go next,” Morgan interjected, “Perhaps it would be best to run that vein for a while until we find something else?”

“Geographically speaking,” Reid stood up, going towards a map where the last-known locations of the victims had been marked, “There is one area in town left where he has not struck yet.”

“Then let’s go there first,” JJ agreed, “Either it is a safe zone or we are closer than he thinks. Who did you think of sending in?”

You scrolled through the map on your tablet again, reading over everything again. Frowning when nobody said anything, you looked up, only to find that they were all looking at you.

“Wait,” you said slowly, “You want me to play bait?”

“You fit the unsub’s profile,” Morgan shrugged, “You’re smack dab in the middle of his preferred age range.”

Hotch did not say anything.

Your throat tightened up with fear. If your mother would know she would probably ground you for three weeks straight if she could. But you had experience now when it came to playing the bait. And you knew that the team had your back wherever you were.

“It would be a scouting mission,” Rossi explained, casual as ever, “The Unsub does not even know who you are. He has not claimed you and he won’t show interest. But he might show interest in another lady that is there.”

“Okay,” you nodded quickly, swallowing down any fear you might have had, “Let’s do it.”

#maybege writes #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #criminal minds fanfiction

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batmans-cheerleader · 3 years ago

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popping stitches (as an act of love)

includes: bruce & jason

wc: 1.1k | rated t | m.list | crossposted on ao3

a/n: wdym jason doesn't aggressively care for bruce???

reblogs are highly appreciated lolz

Bruce shrugged, before wincing, hand coming up to clap over the wound. Shit, that was a bad decision.

“Wait a fucking minute,” Jason said slowly. “Are you hurt?”

Bruce nodded. “Being hurt is usually the cause of blood, so I’d guess I am.”

“Now is not the time for your godawful humor,” Jason grit out. “And you’re bleeding? Just from a hit on your armor?”

“I was already injured there,” Bruce explained. “It opened up my stitches.”

“Jesus Christ, Bruce.” Jason abruptly turned away from him and to the medical cabinet. “This is what you fucking get for interfering, you know that? Get your fucking shirt off so I can see the wound.”

Bruce watched as Jason stormed into the Batcave, throwing his helmet on the floor with a loud clatter.

“What the hell was that, Bruce?” he shouted, striding right up to where Bruce sat on one of the medical cots. “Huh? Why the fuck did you do that?”

Bruce stared up at Jason, who practically had smoke coming out of his ears. A little thrill always ran through him when Jason was in the cave, no matter if it was to yell at him or not.

“No response?” Jason prodded, hands on his hips. “Typical.”

Bruce blinked. “Jason, I understand that you’re angry-”

“Damn right I am,” Jason snorted.

“-but I did what I thought was tactically best at the time.”

“Bullshit,” snapped Jason. “You jumped in front of a hit I was prepared to take, intruding on my fight in my territory.”

There was no way for Bruce to explain how he’d acted without thinking, how the sight of one of the goons raising a crowbar had filled him with acrid, bitter fear, so he just remained silent. His shoulder hurt something awful, considering the hit had landed directly on a row of stitches he’d only gotten a few days before.

Jason’s gaze sharpened at the lack of response. “Did you get hit in the head, old man? Where’s the lecture, the grunting? Come on, Bruce.” He snapped his fingers a few times for good measure, somehow making the action mocking.

“Sorry, Jaylad,” Bruce said without thinking, watching Jason grimace at the old nickname. “I moved on instinct. I shouldn’t have gotten involved.”

“You’re right, you shouldn't have,” Jason agreed. “And instincts? What the hell kind of excuse is that? After you’re up my ass all the time about thinking before doing literally anything in the world ?”

Bruce shrugged, before wincing, hand coming up to clap over the wound. Shit, that was a bad decision.

“Wait a fucking minute,” Jason said slowly. “Are you hurt?”

Bruce nodded. “Being hurt is usually the cause of blood, so I’d guess I am.”

“Now is not the time for your godawful humor,” Jason grit out. “And you’re bleeding? Just from a hit on your armor?”

“I was already injured there,” Bruce explained. “It opened up my stitches.”

Bruce did as he was directed, awkwardly shimmying out of his undersuit’s top. The blood hadn’t really shown up on the dark fabric, but it made itself visible as he pulled the material away from his skin. Jason was by his side in an instant, applying pressure to the wound with a clean towel.

“What’d you even do to get a slice like this?” Jason asked, pushing harder.

“Lucky knife slash through the armor plates,” Bruce managed, voice a little strained. Jason looked up at his face, and Bruce stared back, wondering what he was looking for, what he saw in Bruce’s eyes.

Jason looked away eventually and they sat in silence for a little bit until Jason carefully moved the towel back to look at the state of his arm. “Okay, I think most of the bleeding has stopped,” he said, “and it looks like you popped all of your stitches somehow. Do I have to dig them out or was the degradable thread used?”

“Degradable,” Bruce answered, and Jason sighed in relief.

“Good, because that would have fucking sucked for the both of us.” Jason readied the needle and thread while Bruce held onto the towel, movements practiced and smooth.

“No painkillers,” Bruce said when Jason moved to grab them, and aside from the raising of his eyebrows, Jason didn’t say anything.

Jason began stitching him up with ease, hands steady. Of course he’s got steady hands , Bruce thought, a little hysterically, he shoots guns.

Bruce watched Jason's face instead of the needle, drinking in every familiar feature, every new scar.

“You’re good at this,” he said, clearing his throat. Jason laughed humorlessly.

“I fucking should be. Had to do it to myself enough times.”

The idea of Jason alone in a safehouse or in the mountains somewhere stitching up his wounds made Bruce a little nauseous. He should have been there, or really, Jason shouldn’t have been.

“Thank you for stitching me up,” Bruce murmured, and Jason’s eyes flickered to his.

“Well, no one else is here to do it and this is your dominant arm, so.”

They both knew Bruce was basically ambidextrous at this point, but Bruce knew better than to call him out. Jason finished with an exhale, cutting the thread cleanly and wrapping a bandage around it. Bruce moved his arm around, thankful there wasn’t any weird tugging on any part of his skin. When he returned his attention back to Jason, he was washing his hands, plastic gloves already in the biohazard bin.

“I’m still pissed at you,” Jason warned, perhaps feeling Bruce’s eyes on him.

“As you should be,” Bruce agreed mildly. “I shouldn’t have jumped in front of the hit like that.”

Jason squinted at him, gaze heavy. “Who are you and what have you done with Bruce?” he asked, and Bruce rolled his eyes.

“Still me, Jaylad. I am capable of admitting when I’m wrong, you know.”

“Right, and Alfred has a full head of hair,” Jason shot back. Bruce did his best to hide his smile, but he knew it still peeked through a little bit.

“You staying?” he asked Jason, who stiffened. “You don’t have to. I just thought…”

“Shut up,” Jason barked, before continuing, quieter. “Fine. Just for tonight, got it? And I’m not staying for breakfast.”

“We’ll see about that,” Bruse said. Alfred would persuade him, he always did.

“Shut up,” Jason said again. “Now can you manage yourself from here or do I have to do anything else for your sorry ass while I’m at it?”

“I think I’ve got it,” Bruce replied. “Thanks again, chum.”

“Whatever.” Jason ducked his head. “I’m gonna shower.”

Bruce watched him go, chest swelling. Things with Jason weren’t great, obviously, but he lived for moments like these, moments where Jason grudgingly let him in, reluctantly opened up a little. The moments were few and far between, but Bruce cherished them all. It was tiring to fight with Jason all of the time, but god, he’d take it any day over not speaking to him.

“Stop staring at me, you creep,” Jason called without turning around. “Go change your clothes.”

“Fine, fine,” Bruce said, the smile he didn't bother to hide this time clear in his voice. “Love you, Jay.”

“Yeah, whatever, old man,” Jason returned, but his tone wasn’t outright hateful so Bruce would take it as a win.

leviathans-watching's work - please do not copy, repost, or claim as your own

#red hood #batman #batman fanfiction #batman fanfic #batfamily #batfam #dcu #dc #jason todd #bruce wayne #leviswriting #leviswriting-dcu

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raplinesmoon · 3 years ago

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Burn After Reading (KSJ x F!Reader) - IV. Lovesick in Lisbon

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Female Reader

Genres: action, heavy angst

AUs: exes-to-lovers, spy!AU

Word Count: 3.1k (oops did I say drabble? rip)

Warnings: ANGST, pining, mentions of past relationship, mentions of minor character death, grief, mentions of torture and kidnapping, mentions of guns, verbal arguments, lots of internal monologue, lots of flashbacks these two are just two angsty fools and very bad spies I’m sorry, some fluff tho! (and then I decide to hurt you)

Ratings: R

Summary: The agency made the biggest mistake they ever could by trusting Kim Seokjin one more time. You weren’t going to do the same.

A/N: Hi! Soooooo, here's a biggie chapter in which we find out a lot about OC and Seokjin's past and what led them to break up. Very very big shoutout to @jinpanman and @berryjam17 for being so invested in spy!Seokjin and his story and for giving me motivation to continue writing for him because I love him with all my heart (truly). Mai, here's your dashing hero Seokjin moment!! I hope you enjoy (this is not proofread btw)! Lots of love, Isi 💜

Crossposted to AO3 here.

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“Rumex? Earth to Rumex.” The crackling of Seokjin’s voice through your earpiece startles you out of your reverie. You blink, attuning your senses to the bustling street that surrounds you, realizing that in your daze, the bica you’d ordered had turned completely cold, and you’d left half your pastry uneaten. It’s not worth it to turn to the kind café owner and ask for another one, you muse. After all, that’s not what you were here for anyway.

“___? Is everything okay?” Seokjin asks once more, concern evident in his voice. He’d broken protocol, you realized. Spies were never supposed to deviate from their given code-names during a mission, it put everything at risk. These days, there was no telling who was lurking within earshot or who’d tapped your phone line.

“I’m fine, RJ. Just scoping out a new location today to see if I can find any intel,” you cut off his call with your strictly professional reply, not daring to repeat the mistake he’d made. You stand, leaving a few euros on the table as you walk the winding roads further into the neighbourhood, surrounded by street musicians and the cries of street vendors beckoning you in to take a look.

You knew why he’d done it. Seokjin could sense your worry from a mile away. He’d always been able to. The two of you had been given ten days in Lisbon to track down the human trafficker masquerading as an art dealer that had been evading the agency since long before Havana had brought the two of you together once again.

Four days in and the two of you were nowhere near finding anything on the whereabouts of any members of the trafficking ring. You knew they were parading around somewhere in Lisbon, but the two of you were stuck. Both in your mission and with each other.

The last time the two of you had been in Lisbon, it had been on shaky grounds, dealing with the fallout of Yoongi’s death. For what it had been worth back then, at least the two of you had love to carry you through it. This time though, the air between you two was a different kind of troubling. Seokjin had been nothing but kind, almost placating. He’d never started an argument, had always taken your shortness with a smile.

And that was what perturbed you the most. It was almost as if he didn’t care anymore, as if he treated you like another random person walking these streets. The history between the two of you wasn’t that easy for you to forget, or to get over, and you knew your cold, defensive exterior was only proof that he still affected you so.

Pausing, you’re drawn to the glimmer of a storefront. Intricate, delicate designs in gold and silver filigree greet your eyes as you peruse over the rows of necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. Your eye catches on a particular design, the gold cuff glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

5 Years Ago

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Seokjin ponders, staring at the delicate filigree cuff your eyes drifted to. “But not as pretty as you.”

A blush colors your cheeks as you playfully shove him.

“Pretty, but also distracting,” you reply. “It’s not what we’re here for.”

Lisbon had you both lovesick. In the wake of Yoongi’s death, Seokjin had become clingier than ever, too scared to let you wander for even a second. The you of a few weeks ago would’ve chastised him for being so distracted, but the you of right now welcomed it.

Things were good like this. Pretending the two of you were a normal couple in love, one who ate ice cream and held hands and went for sunset walks. A couple who didn’t have their dearest friend ripped from their lives at the hands of a notorious murderer. A couple who wasn’t now tasked with tracking said murderer down.

Seokjin’s hand found yours, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

“Let me buy it for you anyway, please? A pretty bracelet for my pretty girl.”

You choked at his outward display of affection, tears clinging to your lashes. So used to living a life full of shadows and secrets, Seokjin’s light broke through the darkness and offered you a way out. Hope for being somebody beyond a mindless mercenary. The thought of him being ripped away so suddenly, like Yoongi had been, was too much for you to bear.

“I love you,” you blurted out of nowhere, not knowing what came over you, as you tighten your hand in his.

Seokjin’s other hand gently clasps the cuff around your wrist. In your trance, you hadn’t noticed he’d bought it from the shop owner.

“I love you more,” he responds, a soft smile gracing his handsome features as the blazing glow of the sunset burns behind him.

Snapping out of your daydream, you reach for the cuff, but stop yourself. It did no good to dwell on the past. Things were different now, and you had a mission to see through.

Slowly, you make your way away from the busy streets and down the narrow alleys that are hidden from the average tourist’s view. The mid-afternoon sun wanes as the buildings above close in on you, desperately searching for something, anything that could be a clue. Something that could make this time in Lisbon different.

A chill crawls down your spine as you realize you’re being followed a second too late. You let out a silent scream as a hand clamps down over your mouth and everything fades into darkness.

Something’s wrong. Seokjin knows it in his heart. He hadn’t heard from you for a few hours, after you’d cut him off saying you were looking for intel.

He’d gone on an afternoon walk of his own to clear his head from the abysmal failure of the mission so far. Once upon a time, the two of you had been the greatest partners the agency had ever known, your skills unrivaled by any other spy. He can only attribute the success of your partnership to the relationship that the two of you had once shared. Five years later, being back in Lisbon and no longer together meant that the two of you had forgotten the intricacies of working together as a team.

Your communication had taken the biggest hit. It had become scattered, stagnant, like the two of you couldn’t even talk to each other anymore. He knows that you’ve always been the more jaded one out of the two of them, the one whose walls were harder to tear down, but there was a time once he had been the one to knock them over and see the real you inside.

And now, he was left wondering if you were in danger. He’s spent enough of the past five years regretting what happened last time in Lisbon. He had no way of telling, but something in his heart told him that he’d be damned if he’d let you get hurt after all this time.

Setting off in search of you, he passes the café you’d stopped by hours before, where he’d last heard from you. As he cycles the streets in search of any clue to your whereabouts, panic sets over him. What if he’s finally lost you, after coming so close all those years ago?

5 Years Ago

“RM,” Seokjin is careful to use Namjoon’s codename, knowing danger is around the corner.

“___’s missing. I lost track of her and I don’t know what to do,” Seokjin’s voice rises in pitch as fear overcomes him. One minute, the two of you had been strolling through the market, hand in hand. He’d turned away for a mere second, spotting a bouquet of flowers he thought you’d like, when suddenly, you were nowhere to be found.

“RJ, please. I know you’re freaking out,” Namjoon’s calm, even voice calls out to him. “But don’t do anything reckless or irrational, I’m begging -”

The call cuts off as Seokjin spots a shadowy figure in the corner of the market. Breaking out into a run, he pushes through the crowd of people as the figure slips around a corner.

Slowing his run, he follows behind the figure from a safe distance, making sure to keep himself out of sight. As the roads begin to wind and the buildings above cast a large shadow, he follows the figure into a dilapidated alleyway.

He can hear the snickers and laughs of a group of men in one of the buildings. Crouching, he peers through one of the windows, startled by the voice of one of the men that speaks.

“What a pretty little thing you are. We’ve caught you now, haven’t we? Just like we caught your little friend a few weeks ago. I still remember the way he fought back, he nearly took out a few of my own men.”

The hairs on the back of Seokjin’s neck stand straight up as he realizes he’s come face-to-face with Yoongi’s murderer, the man the agency had been tracking for ages.

Seokjin’s gaze is caught by the figure tied to a chair, dress torn and face bloodied. He chokes on his silent scream as realizes it’s you. And now they have you.

“Will you beg just like he did? He told us that he had friends, a family in the agency. That they’d avenge him, and put us behind bars. But they never came for him, did they? They let us get away with it, they let him scream as we put a bullet in him to shut him up.”

Your sobs echo through the building as you’re met with the reality of Yoongi’s death. That he hadn’t come close to justice at all. He’d been taken, and broken, with no one to rely on.

Seokjin’s own eyes are heavy with tears, and his stomach drops. Neither of you had been able to save him. He’d died alone, and this job had killed him.

Mustering up a bout of steely determination, Seokjin makes a decision. Reckless be damned, he wasn’t going to lose you either.

The shot rings out as one of the men in the group drops dead in an instant. Frantic, the group of traffickers looks around for the source of the gunshot, and Seokjin sneakily makes his entry.

Knocking out the two men closest to the door, the whole building suddenly erupts in a panic as shots blaze through the room, the men turning their guns on each other in hopes of finding the traitor.

Seokjin drops to the ground and crawls on his elbows. He’d caught them. A group of hired mercenaries lacked one basic thing - loyalty. They were all in it for selfish reasons, and so, they’d never hesitate to think one of them had betrayed the whole organization. Fortunately, spies worked differently.

He’s able to make his way over to you, your tear-stained face shocked as you recognize him. Putting a finger to his lips, he unties the ropes that bind you until you drop to the floor with him.

“Go,” he whispers. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Seokjin finds you in the same alleyway, crumpled to the ground, barely breathing.

“___! Can you hear me?! No, please, please, please -” he holds you to his chest, praying to every god he knows that you’re still alive.

Slowly, your eyes flutter open as you let in a deep breath.

5 Years Ago

The silence is deafening as Seokjin takes a seat next to you on the pier, the wind whipping your hair and the tatters of your dress.

“___. Talk to me please, I almost lost you. Tell me if you’re okay.”

Seokjin is begging, pleading for a sign that they didn’t hurt you. His heart throbs, beating so rapidly that he feels sparks of pain in his chest.

“What the hell did you do?” your accusation startles him. “We were so close to catching them, the men that killed Yoongi, the men the agency sent us after, and you blow it! For what, Seokjin??!! What did you think you were doing?”

Seokjin’s heart stops. Of all the reactions you could have had, he’d never expected this.

“What did you expect me to do? They would have killed you, ___. And then what? I would have lost you!”

“But you would have been able to gather information, send something back to headquarters, and they could have brought backup. We could have caught them, and it could have actually meant something. Instead, now they’re gone and we’re nowhere close to finding them, to avenging Yoongi’s death, to fulfilling our mission.”

“Is that all that matters to you, ___? The damn mission? What about me? What about us?” the last sentence is whispered so quietly, Seokjin almost thinks you haven’t heard him, that the wind carried his words away.

“There is no us, Seokjin. Not in our field of work. I realize that now. What kind of life is this? Always being on guard, always fearing getting caught, or worse, killed. Never being sure that you’ll come home at the end of the day. We were fools, Seokjin. Fools to think that love could have blossomed, could have thrived in these shades of grey. Love needs light to grow, to develop, it needs happy memories. It doesn’t need secrets, lies, and death.”

“So,” Seokjin replies bitterly. “That’s what you really think? You’ve been waiting to say this, haven’t you? Been waiting to come up with an excuse to end things between us ever since Yoongi died. Because it’s safer for you that way, right? You can hide behind your shadows and secrets, never letting anyone in.”

“Does it make you feel good?” he continues, each word stabbing further at the ugly wound that has begun to fester in your heart. “Does it make you feel proud that all you’ve condemned yourself to is a life of lies? That you can never be yourself? I love you, ___. For everything that you are, for the life we have together, not just as partners and spies, but as two people who love each other. But it seems like you don’t feel the same way about me. You never have.”

You suck in a breath, wheezing as if you have a broken rib. A broken rib would hurt less than the piercing nature of Seokjin’s words, you ponder.

“We both made an oath,” you whisper. “The day we joined the academy. We committed ourselves to this life, knowing that we’d have to give up parts of ourselves in order to do this job. To not only keep us safe, but to keep everyone around us safe. My parents taught me the importance of devoting my life to carrying out that oath, to protecting the world around us, to not being selfish. And I intend to spend the rest of my life honoring them and their lessons, and to make the agency proud.”

You hoist yourself up, wincing gingerly as the scrapes across your knees sting.

“Maybe it’s best if we end this partnership,” you decree, turning on your heel as you walk away from him, from this.

The statement seems resolute in its finality, and Seokjin can’t help but slump over, head held in his hands as sobs wrack through his entire body.

Reaching in his pocket, he feels around until his hand closes around the dainty velvet box, pulling it out. The tears cease as he stares at it, and are replaced with only the storm of anger brewing in his heart. Anger that you walked away from him, that you’d given up on your relationship, in the exact moment he’d been preparing to ask you to be his forever.

His arm swings as the box flies through the air, disappearing from view as it drops into the murky depths of the ocean below, Seokjin’s wail echoing through the chill of the midnight air.

“Seokjin? Is it you?” you whisper weakly, tears filling your eyes.

“___, shhhh, shhhh. It’s me, you’re with me baby, it’s okay. I’m here.” Seokjin wraps his arms tightly around your limp figure, sharing his body heat with you in the hopes that some color would return to your cheeks.

“I messed up,” you blubber, your sobs becoming louder and louder and echoing through the alleyway. “I was so close to finding him, so close. And now they’re gone. They took everything from me - my headset, my phone, my tracker.”

“Shit,” Seokjin sighs, rocking you back and forth. “Fuck, I-, it’s okay, love, it’s okay. It’s not your fault, baby.”

“___,” he says, whispering sweet nothings in your ear. He doesn’t know where the terms of endearment came from, but it’s so natural for him to fall back into the rhythm of loving you. He’s spent the past five years sleeping around, drowning himself in booze and cracking jokes to keep the pain away, because once again, his heart threatens to break under the weight of his love for you. The love that’s never left him since that night on the pier.

“I’m not mad at you. But we need to run. Once we get back to the hotel, you need to pack your things, and I’m going to find us the next flight out of Lisbon, okay? Don’t worry, baby, I’ll keep you safe.”

He brings you to a standing position and drags you back out onto the street, your face blanched against the vibrant hues of the setting sun as he walks the two of you back to your hotel.

As he rounds the corner up the street, your weak voice meets his ears.

“Seokjin,” you say, as he turns to scan your face for anything wrong, ghosting his fingertips over your cheeks, your neck, your arms for the faintest scratch.

“The bracelet,” you whisper. “The one you bought me that day.”

The day you last told him you loved him.

“I lost it,” you sob. “I’m sorry, I-, I- was on a mission, and I was wearing it, god that was so stupid why was I wearing it?, and the n-next thing I knew, it was gone. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

Your sobs grow louder as you collapse against his chest. For years after you’d left, you’d hung onto the bracelet as your last reminder of him, the man you’d once loved. Who you still loved.

Seokjin says nothing, but wraps his arms around you tighter, as if now that you’re in his arms again, he’s scared to let you go one more time.

To the passerby out for an evening stroll, a pair of lovers stand under a streetlight, locked in a crushing embrace.

RJ: RM, Rumex and I have run into trouble in Lisbon. We’re leaving on the next flight out and going rogue. Please don’t attempt to find out where we are or send the agency after us. We’ll be safe together, I’ll make sure of it. Burn after reading.

A/N pt 2: I no longer have mixed feelings about this! I've been struggling so hard to continue this story because I didn't believe in myself and my writing, but I just decided to say fuck it and return because I love these characters too much to leave them hanging. This is probably my favorite chapter so far!! As always, any feedback and comments are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway.

104 notes · View notes

peninkwrites · 3 years ago

Text

love is violence - ch 6 of ?

There is more to this life than reconciliation. It still helps.

crossposted to ao3

Ch 1

Ch 5

Ponk had reconciled with Niki. They’re proud of that, and how they’ve helped her with her city. They’ve reconciled– or rather are actively reconciling– with Foolish. There are others, surely, that were hurt by the Red Banquet, but Ponk thinks they’ve covered their basis at least.

There’s someone else from the Red Banquet they need to talk to, maybe even for reconciliation, but not to atone. Ponk just wants answers, or something else they can’t quite recognize.

For the first time in a long time, Purpled is hard for them to find. First they go to his farmhouse, rowing through the ominous black teeth of the skull carved into the wall with difficulty alone, but the cavern is empty, and as is every hidden tunnel and room and residence held within.

Ponk knew the UFO had been destroyed. It was hard to miss, but it was the only other place they could think to go. So they leave the cave, resigned, and walk across an empty server. They stand underneath the remains of the pilliar up to it, but there is quite simply nothing. They’re not going to find their missing friend in an empty sky.

“What are you doing here?”

“Holy shit, man!” Ponk jumps, clutching their racing heart. “You– You can’t sneak up on someone like that! Stupid,” Ponk punches their friend’s arm lightly.

Purpled rolls his eyes, unphased. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. You gonna answer my question?”

“What?”

“What’re you doing here?” Purpled eyes them skeptically. “Standing under… or I guess not, huh?” Purpled stares at that empty hole in the sky with something almost like disinterest. Ponk knows him better. He’s bitter.

“I was looking for you, actually,” Ponk shifts from foot to foot.

“You were?” Purpled looks back at them cautiously.

“Yeah. I haven’t seen you in a while, man. What’ve you been doing?” Ponk begins to walk down the prime path, Purpled walking beside them. It’s always easier to walk and talk.

“Nothing. Working jobs. You know how it goes,” Purpled shrugs.

“What happened to your spaceship?” Ponk nods back behind them.

Purpled’s eyes darken. “Same things that happen to all the decent builds on this server. Got blown up.”

“Blown up?” Ponk shakes their head. It makes logical sense, sure, but still. That makes it so… deliberate. “How?”

“TNT.”

“Yeah– Yeah I figured, I meant more like who?” Ponk stops outside the community house, turning back to face him.

Purpled keeps walking past them, through the community house and up the path towards the main portal. “Does it really matter? It’s done.”

“Does it– Yeah, it still matters! That was yours, Purpled, of course it should matter,” Ponk quickens their pace to catch up.

Purpled looks back at them, almost affronted by their genuine concern. “What do you want, Ponk?”

“I don’t– I don’t want anything. This isn’t about a job,” Ponk frowns.

“Then why are you wasting my time?”

Purpled had always been aloof and unfriendly, but Ponk had always considered them to be on decent terms. More than this at least.

“What is with you, man? I am here as your friend. Not your business partner,” Ponk reaches out and grabs his sleeve, stopping him from charging ahead toward the portal without a second glance.

Purpled stares at their hand on him. He doesn’t yank away, but he doesn’t seem pleased either. “As a friend, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, as a friend,” Ponk lets go. “I know the last time I saw you, things weren’t– They weren’t exactly friendly.”

Purpled looks puzzled. “What do you mean? When was that?”

“Uh, the Red Banquet. You came charging in with Technoblade and a ton of dogs?” Ponk thought they understood Purpled, to some extent, but it’s like Purpled has put up some wall, some line had been crossed that he won’t let anyone cross ever again.

“Oh– You mean that?” Purpled scoffs. “That’s what all this is about? Ponk, I thought you knew better than to take business personally.”

“Business–” Ponk blusters, “that’s what you’re thinking of all this shit as? Just business? You were ready to attack me!”

“Not you, Ponk,” Purpled says this more intently. “I was paid to help put a stop to whatever sacrificial cult stuff you were doing.”

Ponk sighs. “I’m not pretending I was in the right, but shouldn’t we at least talk about this?”

“What is there to talk about?” Purpled looks so irritated, but not in the way Ponk might have hoped for. “Look, it was a job. Not like it meant anything. You had your loyalties, and I had to earn my pay. I’m not mad about us being on opposite teams, okay?”

“Well, I am! Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t be, I wasn’t there for the right reasons either, but I hate that it’s like– I’m not your middle man anymore! You and whatever you’ve got going on with Quackity, what happened to you running stuff through me, eh?”

“Ponk,” Purpled sighs. “You were never my middle man. You were a helpful connection, but you didn’t really think you were part of my business, did you? I work alone. And thank you for what you’ve done, I mean that, but don’t pretend like I needed you.”

Ponk freezes, all of their indignation dying and traded for a weaker hurt. Their chest aches. “That’s– That’s cold, man. That’s cold. Even for you.”

“Then maybe you’ve just forgotten what I’m like,” Purpled steps back, and maybe he sounds almost defensive. “We’re not enemies, Ponk. But you don’t need to make it any more than that. I have other arrangements and– and goals. You don’t need to be involved.” When he walks away this time Ponk doesn’t stop him. “Come by Las Nevadas sometime. We’ll… talk business.”

Ponk doesn’t bother replying as their old friend disappears through the portal.

Ponk feels worse.

“He’s just… He’s clearly going through something. And– And I won’t hold it against him,” Ponk says to the empty prime path. There is no reply.

Ponk shouldn’t do this. They shouldn’t go to Sam for help. They have no real reason to, but it’s been weeks since they’d last spoken, since Sam had last rendered them afraid, and they don’t want that last interaction to be the one that lingers. They can talk to Sam. They know how weak he is and that matters.

It has to.

They need help building a bridge. It’s a simple thing. Sam is a good builder. Another simple thing.

“Are you good at building bridges, Sam? I know you’re good at burning them.”

Simple.

Is it better or worse if Sam follows them? He follows them, loyal as a fucking dog, all the way out to their valley where they’ve tried to build something again. Something that won’t be broken or burned. They’d been burned before. They try anyway.

So is it better or worse when Sam trails after them and replies to every jab without hesitation or guilt or hatred? Ponk knows they’re being both too harsh and too kind. Too kind for the man who had broken them to pieces. Too harsh for the man they loved.

(Too harsh for the man who had broken them to pieces. Too kind for the man they loved.)

Ponk keeps on getting dragged in. Although they don’t know if that’s fair of them when they’re the one who reached out to Sam first this time, but they can’t stop. They can’t stop talking to him, even when his retorts grow more bitter and sharp.

Ponk admits something they shouldn’t. They offer something they don’t have. Rather something they want. “And there’s a mental mountain we need to get over as well, but we can’t get through that yet, alright? I still need time.” They shouldn’t have said that. They shouldn’t have implied there was a doorway that let Sam back into their life. Even if it’s true. Ponk would welcome Sam back into their arms– well, arm– if he only grew up a little. Maybe Sam doesn’t deserve to know that. He can’t view this as one more project to engineer a solution to. Not that he’s even trying.

Ponk still lets him follow, though. Out to a place they had begun to build to feel safe away from it all. Sam is the one they need to feel safe from. They still guide him there, all but throwing that sense of peace at his feet, knowing his propensity to crush what falls before him. It’s the days of distance, it’s Sam greeting them so adoringly– they don’t forget, they cannot forget– but how can they turn off the warmth in their chest? They still love him.

That won’t stop the hurt from bleeding through. When Sam has the audacity to act as if everything is normal. Sam never approaches the confrontation first. Ponk feels like they’re in control. Or at least they can cling to that notion to some extent as they try to keep Sam at a distance. Sam is passive, he responds to what they do, he does not start a confrontation. But it’s not like Sam has suddenly learned mercy.

“You know what I would’ve said it with both my hands above my head but I can’t, I can’t for some reason, Sam!” Ponk wants a reaction. They want Sam to be the monster they remember.

It’s not enough when Sam speaks up, in that sulking, softer tone of resentment, “well, that’s kind of on you. I told you to give them to me and you wouldn’t.”

Vile.

“Okay, okay, alright, play the moral high ground!” Ponk snaps, like Sam’s words are mere irritation and not salt in an open wound. They feel Sam’s blame like a hole in their chest. How can he be this thick?! Sam still doesn’t realize that it was never about the keycards. It had never been something Ponk could just give up because giving up the keycards would’ve been the same as giving up on Sam, on giving up on the two of them being together, as they should be.

Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore. Now there’s only what they shouldn’t be and what they are anyway.

Sam brushes through the wheat Ponk had cultivated in the valley. “No, not really the moral high ground. I’m just trying to remind you there was a reason.”

He’s cruel, just like Ponk wants to believe he is, but it’s never enough. It’s never enough to make them let go of him or stop following where he leads. Because it’s not just that Sam still follows them. That would be too simple, too easy. It’s that Ponk, in spite of every warning ringing through their ears, follows Sam right back.

Yet after everything, Sam still thinks he was justified. After everything, Sam still believes he did what was for the best when he flooded the cell with poison and watched them burn, and he just kept watching, he just stared while they screamed but they never begged, they only asked why. They never begged him to stop not until the end. not until they couldn’t bear it anymore and finally Sam broke through the glass, and finally he held Ponk again, he held them down and raised the shears and–

Ponk had been stepping closer. They’re too close now. Dangerously close. The last time they had been this close, Sam had been keeping their arms pinned down so he could begin sawing through one. Phantom pain twists inside of them and it’s suddenly hard to find a familiar intimacy romantic. Ponk steps back. The pain does not lessen, it lingers in what’s left of their arm and in the hole in their chest. They wish it were only anger bottled and brewing inside of them. Ponk falls prey to their own heart yet again.

“Sam,” Ponk begins. “Sam.” They don’t know how to fix something that should remain broken.

“What?” Sam sounds so calm. He was not privy to the violent reminders lurking behind Ponk’s eyes. He doesn’t know that when they look at him they want to flinch as much as they want to hug him. Sam just waits, utterly unashamed. A child who broke a toy that was never his to break.

Ponk’s anger wanes. They don’t hate Sam. They do pity him. How far he has fallen. Violence is no longer a filthy thing to him, he’s so at home in the blood he’s forgotten what it’s like to be clean. Ponk is not so disillusioned as to think they are without blood on their hands or callous actions in their past, but they know that now. They know and they know they’re getting better too. Sam is just stuck. How can they not pity him?

They still wish it were only pity. The anger alongside it, the fear, all of it would be easier to bear if they didn’t still want their Sam. Ponk is not ashamed of their feelings. They didn’t deserve what happened to them any more than Sam deserves their kindness now, but they will offer it anyway.

“Just so you know, just so you know. You can come to me after everything.” There is not an ounce of forgiveness there, nor of trust, but there is still loyalty and love and maybe the bitter violence of devotion. They mean it. Every word. And they think Sam knows they mean it to from the way he barrels past them, no longer looking them in the eye. Ponk follows him, as they always have. “I will still support you, Sam. You’ll have a place to stay, because all the wrong you’ve done is going to catch up behind you, you know?”

“I… I haven’t really done anything wrong.”

Sam makes it so hard for them to be kind. It’s not hatred, it still isn’t hatred, but Ponk is so tired of the monster walking around in their Sammy’s body. “Haven’t you? Haven’t you?!”

Sam must be hateful. He must want to still hurt them, and this time he doesn’t use shears. “No, I think I’m a good guy.”

Ponk can’t tell if they believe him or not. They don’t know if Sam believes it or not either. Sam has grown cruel in far too many ways. So Ponk keeps trying. What they would give for an ounce of remorse. They’d give an arm for remorse. “You think you’re a good person?”

Sam turns back to face them, those dark eyes hold so much horrible conviction. He tears them apart yet again and he feels nothing. “I don’t know, you don’t think I’m a good person?”

Ponk thinks they know what he wants. He wants them to fight back, to push him away, to renounce him wholly and completely as is their right. Ponk won’t. They won’t be dishonest, not after all of this. Honesty is an extension of fairness, and Ponk will offer that mercy to Sam even as he never did the same. They won’t lie to him with the promise of hatred or of love, but something agonizingly resting in the middle. “My opinions are biased.”

Ponk’s project on Foolish’s land is mostly an excuse to spend more time with him. That’s the best path to reconciliation to them, for Foolish to come poking his nose in things, ask Ponk about their project, and Ponk to easily reply.

“Hey, hey Ponk! I finished more of the interior, wanna come see?” Foolish shouts up to them.

“Yeah! Yeah, sure, I’ll be right down!” Ponk sets aside the concrete powder and rejoins Foolish on the ground. “More of the interior on what?”

“The main pyramid! I’ve got statues in there and stuff, the whole nine yards!” Foolish walks ahead and too quick a pace on much taller legs, pausing for Ponk to catch up, only to get excited and walk too far ahead again.

Ponk laughs. “Yeah?”

Foolish’s excitement is a nice change to see. Sometimes he gets so deep in a project it borders more on hysteria.

“Yeah! Okay, okay, so this bit– I dunno how I feel about the lights under the floor, but I think the design looks okay, right?” Foolish gestures excitedly to the swirling mosaic between the sandstone. Ponk is more distracted by the cavernous ceiling above. They have to admit, they can build generally speaking, sure, but Foolish is an artist.

“Damn, Foolish! You really are something, huh?” Ponk walks forward, staring around the cavern. Statues now line the walls. Foolish’s ability to construct something so massive and to create things so intricately makes his godhood somehow more credible.

“I-Is that a good thing?” Foolish laughs nervously, wringing his hands.

“Yeah, man!” Ponk bumps shoulders with him, or rather their shoulder hits his elbow. They turn to look back toward the center of the room, where a plinth of emerald encircles a glowing beacon. It’s quite the centerpiece.

Foolish follows their gaze. “Yeah! Yeah, that’s a bit new. The Beacon is what makes this all worth it, y’know?” He bounces back on his heels excitedly.

“It does?”

“Yeah! It’s just…” Foolish sighs almost wistfully. “Restorative, y’know?”

“...restorative?”

“Yeah! The Beacon– It just soothes something in the soul,” Foolish nods. “I dunno, maybe it’s a demigod thing. I just think it… it does something, y’know? Makes this more than just a room.”

“Actually,” Ponk looks curiously at the statues lining the walls. “If you’re a demigod, what’re the statues to? The sphynxes and such. Do you follow something, Foolish?”

“Uh, that’s kinda personal, isn’t it?” Foolish continues his tour, walking the perimeter of the room with Ponk in tow.

“I dunno, is it? I talk about Master Oogway sometimes,” they shrug.

“Yeah, yeah I guess,” Foolish considers it for a moment. “Not really? They’re just… impressive, aren’t they?” Foolish stops to look up at one of his statues, towering above even him.

Ponk smirks, “getting a little cocky, aren’t we there, Foolish?”

“Hey!” Foolish rolls his eyes. “I meant they were impressive, so that’s why I made statues of them.”

“Right, right sure, man!” Ponk teases him.

“Well, what about you then? You’ve got your shrines and you’re making that supreme thing– you wouldn’t call that impressive?” Foolish bends down closer to them.

“Aww, Foolish!” Ponk reaches up to pat his cheek. “You’re a cutie.”

Foolish stands up straight, shaking his head like a dog trying to get water out of his ears. He’s blushing. Ponk feels a bit smug.

“Ha, uh, don’t mention it. Or– Uh, thanks?” Foolish stammers together a reply.

Ponk saunters ahead, continuing to look at Foolish’s handiwork, Foolish trailing behind. “Nah, but on the subject, I guess I make things that deserve to be seen. Or that can do something for people. Like, what I’m building now is for you. It’s so I can be here and it’s so you know I care, you know? I made the shrine for Master Oogway more for me, but because it’s important to me.”

“Yeah, guess that makes sense,” Foolish nods along. “Can I ask why? Most folks on this server, from what I’ve seen, they worship Prime, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” Ponk shrugs. “Prime’s tenants don’t really appeal to me so much. I don’t care about property or money, at least not like that. Or for… groups. Organized religion, I guess. My shit is between me and my god.”

“So, do you have tenants?” Foolish meanders toward the beacon in the center of the room, the green glow washing out his golden skin.

“Huh? Yeah, yeah I have tenants. Why else would I follow it?” Ponk joins him, leaning against the tall emerald steps leading up to it.

“Like, what? Not property, not money, not a god, right? Because your god…?”

“Ascended,” Ponk fills in the blanks. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean he’s totally gone, though.”

Foolish looks at them curiously. “Do you think… it’s like ghosts? Because from what I’ve heard, the ghosts around here are sort of… off.”

Ponk laughs. “Uh, no. Not like ghosts. Oogway isn’t like, watching over us or something. More like… I’m still here. Having some of the same thoughts he had. So, he’s not really gone, you know?”

“Huh,” Foolish contemplates this for a moment. “I’m still kinda new at the whole being mortal thing, so, that’s… that’s a new one for me. It’s… powerful, I’ll give you that. You can save a life just by thinking about it.”

“No,” Ponk lays back, looking up at the glass at the tip of the pyramid, where that green light pushes on into the sky. Foolish lays back to join them, like he’s trying to see what they see. Ponk mulls it over for a moment. It’s strange. Their beliefs have felt like such a natural part of them for so long, reflecting on them feels different. “Remembering or not remembering, it’s not like I saved Oogway. It’s not like he even needed to be saved, you know? He didn’t die the way other people have. Doesn’t matter, I guess. You can’t save a life, only prolong it.”

“Oh,” Foolish’s voice seems to get smaller.

Ponk looks over at him, inviting him to continue.

Foolish glances from them back up to the ceiling, like this towering cavern he’s built around himself is easier than the honesty in their brown eyes. “Guess I… Guess I haven’t gotten to that part of… accepting things. If you can’t save a life…” Foolish exhales heavily. “I dunno! It’s weird to think about. I don’t like thinking that everything dies, okay? I haven’t learned that bit yet. I don’t know how you guys all just deal with it.”

Ponk shrugs. “Ah, well. I think this way is easier. It’s not that we don’t have any control, Foolish. But some things are just gonna happen, and that’s okay. It’s nice to trust in the universe sometimes.”

“And… you can trust in that?” Foolish sounds doubtful. “Like, no offense, but you haven’t exactly been on the straight and narrow all the time. And not to mention, the universe has kinda bit you in the ass a few times.”

Ponk laughs. “Um. Yeah. Actually, that’s why I can trust it. Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?”

“It… does..?”

“Karma, Foolish. Plain and simple. Karma,” Ponk nods knowingly. “You know what a karmic fruit is, Foolish?”

Foolish frowns. “Does it… have to do with lemons..?”

Ponk considers this for a moment. “You know what, sure. Not really, but sure. I guess it’s kinda like lemons. If you grow something sour, it makes sour fruits. And you decide if you can make something good out of it. Lemons into lemonade and all that. See, karmic fruits are just… the result of karma. You know what karma is, don’t you, Foolish?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s like, a cosmic force of the universe that punishes the bad and rewards the good.”

“That’s a bit of a simpler way to put it, but pretty much. Karmic fruit is the consequences. It’s the outcome of the karma you’ve acquired over your life. Punishment and reward… that stuff makes it all seem so petty,” Ponk huffs. “It’s never that simple, is it? Things happen, and you try, and the universe basically gives you what you give it, see?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“So, like, for example. You said the universe has bit me in the ass. I mean, yeah. But I did some messed up shit too. And now I’m trying to make up for it. Bad things happened to me,” Ponk is so tired. The past months have been a struggle, it makes faith a little harder. “But I’m still a part of the universe, right?”

“Ponk…” Foolish’s curiosity is traded for concern. “You… you know you didn’t deserve the bad stuff that happened to you, right?”

There’s a weighted pause. Ponk feels an ache in their chest and they’re struck by a profound gratefulness that Foolish is still there beside them, that he still wants to be. Ponk coughs, clearing their throat, turning back toward something a little less tender, a little less vulnerable. “Yeah, no shit!” Ponk’s irritation is mostly lighthearted. Mostly. “The universe didn’t kill me, Sam did!”

“But you said…” Foolish’s eyebrows furrow together as he tries to follow.

“Karma doesn’t take away responsibility, Foolish. Sam made those choices, and I made mine. But like, right now? I am here, spending time with you, and I’m doing okay. Because I put out that energy into the universe by trying to make amends, see?” Ponk doesn’t want to dredge in old grudges. They’d rather focus on this peace.

“I mean, isn’t that because I am choosing to spend time with you?” Foolish points out.

“Way to go, Foolish. Taking credit for the cosmic forces of the universe,” Ponk scolds him teasingly.

Foolish laughs a little uncertainly, looking over at them, bright green eyes gentle and imploring. Ponk stares back. They feel calmer now than they have in days. “Maybe you’re right, Foolish.”

“About… about what?”

“The Beacon. There is something about it, huh?” Ponk stares back up at the ceiling, the green glow less eerie to them now and more like it’s radiating life. The same color as their friend’s eyes.

Foolish seems to take some pride in this. “Yeah! Told ya!”

Ponk smiles. “Glad you showed it to me, Foolish.”

“Hey, I’m glad you came out here,” Foolish sounds so earnest, so genuine. Ponk had missed when kindness like that had seemed simple, but now they know better. Foolish’s compassion is a product of strength, not natural inclination. Ponk is grateful for it either way.

#purpled #dsmp fanfic #my writing #dropsbyponk #finally more ponk <3 #feedback is cherished as always #dsmp #c!sam #c!ponk #ponk #c!foolish #foolish

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give-grian-rights · 4 years ago

Text

Bets Against The Void Ch3

Well. it’s HERE. sorry it’s a bit short, if I fit in the next events then it would well succeed a reasonable amount of words. about 1500, a few words off. Reblogs fuel me 1000% more than likes. please enjoy and comment any typos ‘n stuff

my askbox is also temporarily turned back on, for this!! after a few days they’re closed, and i’ll hopefully go back to queuing up a bunch...

This is crossposted on AO3

and for Chapter 1, head here

Chapter 4 is HERE!

and @petrichormeraki Hope you didn’t forget about your Whitelist AU :)

Now that they were settled in their boats, Tommy was given a moment to realize where exactly it was he was going. And, oh shit. The builds he could see were bigger than any one solid, finished structure he’s seen on the Dream SMP.

Pockets of strange, purple clumps of spores poked out by the shore, in contrast to the rest of the island. A portion of hte island, too, was covered in the crimson netherrack. It was absolutely insane- Tommy didn’t think he’d ever seen buildings quite like them.

“...Holy...Fuck..” He voiced, breathless.

The brunnette woman in the boat beside his frowned, peering over her and Grian’s own boat. “We’re not exactly a PG server, but I think we’d all appreciate it if you tried to keep your language just a smidge cleaner,” She’d passively comment, eyes narrowing on the blond boy who turned to glare at her.

“Stress, they’re teenagers.” Grian would laugh, before the blond would be given a chance to respond. “I’ve heard Doc’s drunk ranting. We’re definitely not clean.”

She turned, raising a brow at the dirty blond. “Grian, I haven’t heard you say a naughty word, even once!” She chuckled, tilting her head.

“Sure,” he remarked agreeably, “but I was a teenager.” Giving a small, sharp smile, he turned his head back out to sea.

Tommy, huffing with effort as he continued rowing his and Tubbo’s boat, felt the fight sizzle out. His defenses dropped, too busy looking at the buildings cluttering the island. Masses of structures, all of varying sizes and designs, were impossible to look away from.

As if remembering suddenly of Tubbo’s lack of perpetual vision, he turned, nudging their arm.

Tubbo practically jumped, almost tipping out of the boat. They pulled their arm out of the water, where they’d been contently dragging their arm along, and tilted their head towards their friend. “Huh? Uh- hey! Sorry. I was spacing out. Are we there?”

“Nope,” Tommy shook his head. “But this island looks insane! Seriously, what the hell? How many of you people are there! What the FUCK is this place!” He gawked, turning back towards the Hermits. Considering Stress only gave an exasperated smile, he didn’t feel too bad with his language.

“Our Cowmercial district! Mind the, uh, terrain. We’re in the middle of handling a.. Disagreement.” Grian chuckled, a wolfish grin sprawling across their face. “Just for the principle, y’know?”

Tommy stared blankly at the back of Grian’s head, the older Brit unphased.

“..Sure, right. But no! What the fuck! I’ve never seen, like, half of those blocks before in my life! What are those buildings?” He gawked.

The strange, shadowery mansion- intricate patterns and overheads marking each wall, with scales on top. A giant chest! With..Eyes? It was twice the size of the community house! He could see four separate beacon lights! At least!

“Tubbo! There’s a- a huge ass chest with eyes! And a fuckin’ mansion, and it’s all dark and shit! Is- is that a cloud made out of glass, up there? What the fuck!” The boat was practically rocking as he cried out.

“Tommy, we’re gonna fall in, Big Man!” They chuckled nervously, grasping at the wooden walls of the boat. “Are all the buildings huge? I bet they are! I heard Hermitcraft servers always have huge builds!”

“Yes, and there’s SO FUCKING MANY! WHAT THE HELL!”

“You’ll be able to see them in time, don’t worry!” Grian chuckled, drawing his boat into the shore. “We have a lot of builds, we’re almost a year into this world. These are just our shops! You’re more than welcomed to pick up something if you need it.” He explained breezily, throwing his legs over the sides as he pulled himself to land.

“We’re sure you don’t plan on staying long, and we can’t blame’ya,” Stress added on, as Grian helped pull her out of the spruce boat. “But we’re sure there’s some necessities you’ll need.”

Grian beside her nodded, pulling up his Tablet. “I have shirts and hoodies that should fit you guys, and some other Hermits would happily pitch in. We have more than enough resources to house you two.”

Tommy, who’d already pulled himself and Tubbo out of the boat, slumped, rolling his eyes. “We’re fine. Thanks.” He tackled the last word on half-hazardly, his lips drawn down into a scowl.

“Mate, whenever your server’s ready, we’re happy to get you back. Or get in contact with your Server Admin now, even. You just need to say the word to X, and he’ll take care of it.” Stress looked over the two, her brows pinched as she looked over them.

What in the Sun’s name is happening over there to leave these two so roughed up? She thought idly, noting it in the back of her mind to bring them potions later.

“C’mon, we can get you more situated later, if that’s fine with you two. You both need to eat, asap.”

Food. Right. That’s a thing, Tommy pulled his stares away from the towering structures, naturally slipping his hand back into Tubbo’s.

The two Hermits led their way at a slow and even pace, the two teenagers trailing behind. Tommy and Tubbo both were quietly thankful for this. They were less quiet when it came to Tommy’s rambling, incoherent rants from his attempts of describing the District to his friend.

Whatever works to get them on their way, the pair of Hermits agreed, sharing a look.

It was a struggle all of itself, getting them both on track to the bakery. Tommy had poked his head in every building they crossed, with Tubbo going at an increasingly slow pace, trying to allow their Communicator to describe the complex surroundings.

They made it in decent time to the bakery, all things considered.. Tommy’s jaw dropped at the size of it, bright blue eyes surveying the large, detailed replica of a cake.

“What the fuck! There’s- there’s so many blocks! It looks crumblin’ and bitten! What shit! Tubbo! Tubbo the bakery is a giant fucking cake! It looks so realistic! Holy fucking Prime-”

“It smells so good in here, too! Wow! Does this place just sell cake? Is there enough demand, for that?”

“Wh- are those shulker boxes! What! That’s- that’s like, seven shulker boxes! Is that all just for the shit for sale??? What!”

Both of the teens were incomprehensible. Neither Stress, nor Grian, could get a word in.

“Hey! Guys, both of you, it’s alright, yeah? We have plenty of shulkers. Also, Keralis is..Yeah, probably the richest Hermit, so shulkers for his shop isn’t out of the ordinary at all.

All of us have a buncha shulkers. I’ll clear out some of mine, too, for you to have. It’d make setting up a base much easier, I’m sure.”

...Everyone has shulkers. And he’d be willing to let Tommy and Tubbo just..Have some? No way. Tommy gave a look towards Tubbo, and he could tell the other was as perplexed at the notion as he.

“You guys just.. Just have shulkers- I. Yeah. sure. Rooms with diamond armor and fuckin’ elytras lying around..Right.” Tommy took a breath, fist clenched beside him for a moment.

Tubbo, with their hand holding his arm, above his elbow, gave him a reassuring smile before turning generally towards the Hermits direction. “Thank you, like- so much?” They chuckled, sheepishly. “We really don’t need, like, anything like that. We- we should be getting back to our world soon. Hopefully- uh, probably.”

Grian frowned, humming. “Sure, but I think any Hermit that went even twenty-four hours without working on something, would lose their mind. When you go home, you could give them back. Even if you took them home, I promise that it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

The two teens shared a look. The older brit’s word may sound sincere, but they both knew better than to blindly believe someone, other than each other. Tommy shot a glare to the man, eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, whatever you say.” He scoffed. The dirty blond met his stare, unphased. A relaxed, easy smile remained on their face. Tommy didn’t trust it for a second.

Stress had begun opening some of the shulker boxes, exposing the sweets and goods inside to the starved teens. “C’mon, now. If you two want to work on some of that later, you can do that. But you’re with us, right now, and it’s time to eat. Grab whatever you’d like, Loves.”

The brunette teen gasped, tugging at the blond boy’s arm. “C’mon Tommy, do you smell that! Oh Void, this place must be lovely! Thank you for bringing us, uh, ma’am! ‘N sir!” Tubbo beams, their smile lopsided.

Tommy glanced around, towards the candy-and-sweets themed furniture in the dining area. Right. Sure. I can deal with this, for Tubbo.

#bets against the void fic #hermit tommy and tubbo au #hermit clingy duo #hermitcraft au #whitelist au #whitelist fic #tubbo underscore #tommyinnit #dsmp fic #dsmp au #dream smp #mika-posts #mika writing

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yunaffie · 4 years ago

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No Matter What [Lynne & Sissel]

Happy Ghost Swap to @redwoodrroad, here is your exchange gift!

Written for @fyeahghosttrick's Ghost Swap exchange.

Crossposted to AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32039206

Spring

The pursuit of a fleeing suspect had sent Lynne right into the path of a speeding truck. A swift call brought Sissel to the scene of the accident. Finding the unfortunate detective still unconscious, he wasted no time in reversing her demise. At the very last second, Sissel thought he could hear her voice.

Returning to the present, Sissel saw it - a core of the dead. Rather than engage with her right away, he chose to observe. The little moments of confusion, of spacing out, of looking for something or something that wasn't there didn't fail to escape his attention.

One evening, after finishing work for the day, Lynne left the police station while Sissel trailed along a short distance behind her. Every so often, she would make little glances back over her shoulder though she didn't seem to spot him. Unexpectedly, she made a turn off her usual route and travelled along a path that took her to a quiet little spot by the river. Sissel remained out of sight, continuing to watch her.

"It's getting nice and warm now, isn't it?" Lynne leaned back, focusing her eyes on the horizon. The setting sun cast a warm glow over her and her surroundings. "Suppose the breeze's still a little chilly, but it's nice to just sit out here and enjoy nature once in a while."

(... Huh? Is she talking to herself?)

"You must like it too, being a cat and all."

"...!"

"How long are you going to hide like that?" Lynne patted the empty spot on the bench. "Come here."

(Huh. I guess she knew I was there all along.)

"Of course I did."

"You heard my voice just now?" Sissel walked over and hopped up next to her.

"I've overheard you plenty of times. Even heard you talking to Detective Jowd. I thought I was going crazy at first." Lynne reached out and rubbed Sissel's head. "You could have just said something, you know."

"I suppose I was waiting."

"Waiting, huh?" Lynne's gaze shifted to the rippling surface of the river. "For me to remember?"

"You do, don't you?"

"I remember a lot of things. Living with Kamila, trying to save Detective Jowd, dying so many times on that night... and finally being trapped on that submarine, waiting for a miracle to happen. And of course, you." Looking back at Sissel, Lynne's face lit up in a bright smile.

"Lynne..."

"I believed in you. I was so sure you and Missile would find a way somehow, and you did." Lynne picked Sissel up, pulling him into a tight hug. "Well done, Sissel."

"I wasn't sure if you'd remember. Though I had a feeling when you found my name familiar."

"I told you, didn't I?" Lynne held Sissel up to her face. "That I would never forget you, no matter what happened." Her brow furrowed. "I'm a bit confused about that part. So, you saved that man, right?"

"Right."

"I see." Lynne's face softened. "That's wonderful. And because of that, a whole new ten years were born. Boy, we have got so much to talk about, haven't we? Say, would anyone miss you if you were to come over to mine for a little bit?"

"Not at all. I can always come over the phone line too."

"Wait." Lynne blinked. "You've been coming to my apartment through my phone?"

"Uh... maybe?"

"Oh gods. Please don't tell me you saw me get drunk that one time and sing to Missile with my hairbrush!"

"What?"

Lynne clamped her lips shut, averting her gaze. "Nothing. But let's set a rule, okay?" Poking Sissel's head, she regarded him with a stern expression. "You tell me when you're visiting, alright?"

"Alright, alright."

"Great. So glad we got that sorted. Now then, off we go." Lynne got to her feet, hugging Sissel to her chest. "And on the way, I'm getting Missile a special doggy treat. I would say he's earned it, wouldn't you?"

"Definitely."

Summer

"How do I look?" The patterned blue fabric rippled around Lynne's slender form as she gave a twirl.

"Well, you look different. Not in a bad way. I mean, I've never seen you wear something like that before."

Lynne released her breath in a loud puff. "Yeah. I should know better than to ask a cat for his opinion. But it's a nice dress, right? Perfect for a summer festival."

"It's certainly shiny, alright. Very attention grabbing."

"Well, don't you start playing with it now or anything." Lynne picked Sissel up.

"I have no idea what you mean. I grew out of the playful whims of a kitten a long time ago."

"Like heck you did. You turned my new blender on last week!"

"That wasn't playing, I just wanted to see what the buttons did."

"If there had been something in the blender, you would have ended up decorating my entire kitchen!" Lynne exclaimed. "Anyway, this is your first festival, right?"

Sissel took a moment to look over the crowds of people milling through the rows of stalls illuminated by hanging lanterns. "Yes. I do believe it is."

"I haven't been to a festival in forever." Lynne let out a little sigh. The wistful expression that appeared on her face was quickly replaced with an enthusiastic grin as she pumped her fist. "Alright! It's time to eat lots of festival food and play games! We're going to have so much fun, Sissel!" She hurried into the crowd, joining Kamila who was occupied with holding back an excited little Pomeranian.

The rest of the evening passed by, filled with fun and excitement. Lynne didn't fail to impress with how much of the stall food she was able to put away. A brief debate took place on whether it was fair for Sissel to use his ghost tricks to help on the shooting range game. In the end, he relented. Lynne's puppy dog eyes and Missile's pleas to do it for Lynne and Kamila were just too much to bear.

At the end, the festival goers formed a crowd, ready to watch the fireworks. Lynne, Kamila, Sissel and Missile gathered together, along with the goldfish the ladies had managed to win, an event that had Sissel wondering if there might be deaths to avert in the future.

"Ahh." Lynne let out a soft sound as the first firework burst into the sky. Sissel briefly looked at her face, seeing the way her face lit up in wonderment, before turning his attention to the display. "You've seen fireworks before, haven't you, Sissel?"

"Yeah. It's certainly a beautiful sight."

"It is, isn't it?" Lynne hugged Sissel to her chest just a little tighter, watching the fireworks go up, one after another. "We've had such a wonderful night tonight."

"Indeed. I'm glad I was able to experience this with you. Festivals really do look like a lot of fun."

"They really are." Lynne's expression softened. "We'll keep finding lots of fun things to do together, Sissel."

"Yeah. I'm looking forward to it."

Fall

"Right, that looks good." Lynne gave a satisfied nod as she eyed her handiwork. Leaves in hues of red, brown and yellow had been gathered together in a neat little pile. "Now, I just got to start the fire," she added, rubbing her hands together. "Mmm. It's been a long time since I last enjoyed a roasted sweet potato."

Sissel sat on the edge of the fountain, pawing at the basket, taking care not to dislodge any of the sweet potatoes as it rocked back and forth. "This seems like an awful lot of potatoes. I know the little lady is here, but still."

"It's fine, it's fine." Lynne chucked. "Hey, be careful with that basket. Why don't you go run around with Missile and Kamila or something?"

"As fun as it might be to run laps around that little doggie until he passes out from exhaustion, I think I'll pass. The little lady's doing a good enough job at keeping him occupied." Sissel jumped down and went to sit by the leaf pile. Lynne sat as well and got to work on the fire. "It doesn't bother you, right? Being back here in the park after all this time?"

Lynne shook her head, flashing Sissel a reassuring smile. "Not at all. You're here. Kamila and Missile too. There's nothing to fear. I mean, what are the chances of someone dying, right?"

Despite lacking the ability to feel, Sissel swore he still felt a chill run down his spine. "Please don't joke like that, Lynne."

"Okay, sorry." Once the fire was made, Lynne took a potato and buried it in the leaves. "I know a lot's happened here, but it's not like there's a curse on the park. Probably."

("Probably", she says. Still, I guess there really isn't anything to worry about.) Sissel turned his attention to the small figures in the distance. The little lady hurled a ball and the little doggie gave chase. "It's such a peaceful scene, even in this place where tragedy and terror reigned."

Lynne was quietly humming to herself as she poked at the pile with a stick. "I used to enjoy doing this when I was a child."

"You certainly did seem pretty into it."

"Sitting in front of a burning pile, smelling that aroma, finally tucking into that delicious sweet potato, it was one of the highlights of the season." Lynne's expression had turned somber mid-sentence. "And I used to do it all alone. But, you know, I still enjoyed it. Even if I had nobody to do it with."

(Poor Lynne...) "But it's different now, right?"

"Yeah." Lynne's lips curved into a smile. "I've got all of you now, and I'm finally ready to release the shackles of fear that held me back from ever coming here again."

"I'm glad to hear that." Sissel felt a gentle warmth stir within as he studied the look of contentment on her face.

"Right then." Lynne waved. "Hey, Kamila! Come and get a potato!" At her call, Kamila came running over with Missile in hot pursuit.

While the ladies engaged themselves in roasting potatoes and Missile watched on with a pleading look, Sissel occupied himself with batting at a stray leaf, content to sit by and witness this joyful scene.

Winter

Jowd came home from work late in the evening, flanked by Cabanela and Lynne. Sissel came over, letting out a mew of greeting.

"Hey, Sissel." Lynne reached down to scoop up the little kitten in her arms.

"Hey. How was your day at work?"

"Oh, you know, just the usual. There's nothing too major going on right now, fortunately." Lynne walked across the room to the window, watching the falling flakes of snow. "It's snowing tonight too. Just as it was then."

"Then?" Sissel hopped over to the sill.

"Right." Lynne watched him expectantly. "You do know what today is, right?"

"Hmm." Sissel lapsed into thought. (Let's see. Alma did have her birthday just a couple days ago, so... right. That must be it.) "It's the anniversary of your becoming a detective, isn't it?"

"That's right." Lynne's face lit up in a beaming smile. "It's been a whole year. How time flies, huh?"

"And in that entire year, you managed to die only once. Well done."

"Hmph." Lynne puffed out her cheeks, shooting him a narrow stare. "But, you know, I think I am kinda glad I managed to die just once."

"Glad?! Why would you even say something like that?" (This girl really does say the craziest things sometimes.)

"Well, because it meant I was able to remember you and talk to you again after all!" Lynne clasped her hands behind her back, leaning closer to him. "You were happy too, weren't you, Sissel?"

"Er, well... I suppose-"

"Oh come on, just admit it already! You were thinking to yourself 'When is Lynne going to die again already', right?"

"I would never think such a thing!" Sissel flattened his ears, giving her a haughty look.

Letting out a laugh, Lynne scratched his head. "Aw, I was only kidding, Sissel, you don't have to take it so personally."

"Honestly." Sissel let out an exasperated sigh. "Still, leave it to you to see the upside of things, I guess. For what it's worth, I... I really am happy that we were able to talk again. It's never a dull moment with you for sure."

"Hmm." Lynne raised an eyebrow, looking at him doubtfully. "I'm honestly not sure if that's a compliment or not."

"Oh, don't worry, I'm not saying it's a bad thing. I really do enjoy your company."

"Aw, thank you. That's such a sweet thing to say. You know, Sissel..."

"Hm?"

"You really are one of my very best friends."

"Gee, you're making me blush."

Lynne softly chuckled then planted a light kiss on the top of the kitten's head. Stepping back, she flashed him a radiant smile. "There will be many more years in store for us, won't there, Sissel?"

"Sure. Happy anniversary, detective."

#ghost trick #ghost swap

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craptsukii · 4 years ago

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XIAO ( genshin impact ) - #1: once upon a dream

when you start to dream about demons, you eat lemon cake with a cute not actually stranger | cr for art: primo_fates on twitter

a/n: omg my writing never had interactions this fast thanks yall <3 also sorry if this one is sucky, beginnings are always awkward

⭇ crossposted on: wattpad / ao3

⭇ previously | next

I was used to having bad dreams at this point. I became quite numb, one might say. And yet... That didn't stop me from avoiding going to sleep. Staying awake would mean staying away from those dreams, after all. If only my body would know that as well.

And so, for the thirty first night in a row, I would let my eyes shift across the dark room my bedroom was, tricking my mind into thinking what was and wasn't there. Hugging my pillow tightly to my chest, I sneaked a few glances out the window. I didn't dare shut the blinds, for I would truly go mad.

In these cold, sleepless nights, the moon would shine so bright.

I could feel myself smile as my gaze shifted towards the vase of glaze lilies meticulously placed next to the window. The flowers were in full bloom, moonlight falling gently on each pale blue petal.

I've never thought of the moon as anything special. It was just there, a big white yellowish dot, lighting the night sky. But as my fear of going to sleep grew, so has my admiration for the little moon. It kept me and my flowers company and, although not ideal at the moment, lulled me to sleep as I felt at peace.

For some god forsaken reason, I could never remember what I was dreaming. I have tried every method prescribed, yet I still wasn't aware of what was plaguing my sleep. All I know and feel is fear. I just know they are so dark, but nothing else other than that. As my mind wondered for the thirty first time why was I having these sleepless nights, I let myself wonder too much and fell asleep. I wasn't even aware of it.

The next thing I knew, I was outside, laying down on the grass, the smell of glaze lilies invading my nostrils. After a quick glance, I closed my eyes, wanting to enjoy the calm before the storm that was about to come. With the cold early spring breeze biting at my exposed skin, I basked in the moonlight, quietly sighing to myself.

As if my body was on autopilot, my eyes opened, letting me see the meadow I was sitting in. Soon, my legs started moving on their own, leading me down the meadow. Slowly, as I made my way towards nowhere in particular, I picked one or two lilies, my bouquet growing pretty large by the time I reached my destination.

And what a destination.

The more I looked, the bigger the shivers travelling down my spine grew. Surrounding me were dozens of fallen enemies: all sorts of hilichurls and even a few abyss mages. There was no blood nor spilled guts, but the black surrounding them, the aura emanating off of them... It was enough to make me tremble. I felt so raw and exposed, as if I was a deer in headlights, as if something — the dark — was coming for me, coming to hurt me.

Even though my brain was screaming at my legs to move, I couldn't take a single step. My feet were glued to the ground and my heart was drumming in my chest so hard I could feel it in my ears. Hesitantly, I took a look around, searching for the beast that could do such a thing.

The moment I found it my knees finally gave out. A good few feet away from me, was him? They? It?

Their face was covered in an intricate black mask, highlighted by a dim glowing green. Its dark horns were sparkling inconspicuously in the twilight and made it so they had no feeling of mankind. Yet again darkness was pooling at their feet, although they didn't seem to care. An intriguing mint green tattoo, resembling a strange marking, traversed down their right arm. Covering their body were several colourful materials, their uniqueness incidentally diverting me from the gigantic dread I was feeling. In one of their hands, a jade lance stood. Its magnificence would had been really outstanding, if not for the slaughter it had caused and the returning dark emanation around it.

Although I was going unnoticed, that didn't stop my breath from hitching. It was as if I was being choked. A sigh pulled me out of my terrified thoughts. It was them. And they were looking right at me.

Or at least, in my direction.

Even though their face was still covered by the monstrous mask, a feeling of acrid and convincing torment could be observed. And for some unknown reason, it hit me hard. All I wanted to do was to curl up in a ball and wait for someone to save me.

But no one would, no one was there.

As they turned around, a gloved hand gently brushed past their face, an extravagant way of taking off their mask, giving me a very small window of opportunity to catch a glance at their face. It was useless, my vision was too blurry to see clearly. As I struggled to stand up, I could finally see them leaving, going in the direction of... The Wangshu Inn?

"Curiosity will kill the cat," I murmured, dropping the lilies I was still holding onto.

Despite being mortified beyond relief and barely able to walk, I followed them. Why? I don't know! Call me stupid or crazy, I have done so myself quite a few times by now, but I felt the need to follow them. I was too scared to be alone, and they... They seemed to know what was in the dark, they seemed to know what the darkness itself actually was.

The way to the Wangshu Inn was oddly quiet. They were so silent I thought I lost them quite a few times. They were blending so easily with the forest and its surroundings, it was as if I was following a trace rather than an actual being. Soon, I was climbing towards the upper level of the inn, wanting to take as much precaution as I possibly could.

Although following them in the first place wasn't the most judicious thing to do.

As I reached the upper entrance, they were nowhere to be found. Just like the stories said, the view from the top of the inn was jaw-dropping. The breeze felt colder, yet my skin felt warmer. The feeling of serenity overtook my senses, almost wanting to stop my pursue. Almost. The more I looked across the balcony, the more said serene feeling became overwritten by the realisation of how alone I was. Detached from the world below me, surrounded by the high and mighty mountains at the dead of the night. The next thing I knew, tremors were crawling down my whole body, reaching the end of my fingertips.

I was alone. Alone in the dark.

Soon enough, I was back to searching for the peculiar stranger, ascending the stairs leading to the mysterious tower of the inn. I stood at the edge of the entrance, my eyes glued to the one table situated in front of me.

Even with their back turned towards me, their presence was enough to comfort me and forget about my newfound irrational fear. This time, there was no darkness. This time, I wasn't scared. Perhaps it was the scenery, perhaps I was projecting my own emotions, but instead I became overwhelmed by a melancholic warmth so strong I felt almost suffocated. The wind blew so gently, so delicate in comparison to the amalgam of emotions I became consumed by. This person... was sad. Really sad. Sad to the point where they exuded such intense sorrow without even trying.

Gingerly, I tried approaching them, I tried looking at them. Yet again a sigh escaped their lips as they turned their head.

This time, he was looking at me. And so, I was pulled into a staring contest. I didn't even dare blink, for I was utterly spellbound. His eyes, a vehement amber, stared deeply into mine, as if they were looking at my very soul. His features were soft but defined in such a way it fit him perfectly. His skin was pale, complimented nicely by the moonlight. At his right hip stood the mask from our previous encounter. With his body turned, I could catch a glimpse of what was on his table. On it, a single plate stood. From what I could tell, he was eating a dessert of some sort. It strangely reminded me of cake.

"I think I've entertained you for long enough, mortal," his voice was reposeful but forbearing, addressing me, apparently a mere mortal, with superiority.

Before I could reply, the world before me shifted, now finding myself in my bedroom, sitting up straight in my bed. I looked around my room. Everything seemed frighteningly normal. Immediately, I pinched myself as hard as I could. I soon realised this was reality. Everything that happened was a dream.

A dream I, yet again, couldn't remember clearly. All I could recall were a few things: a lonesome stranger, the Wanshu Inn and lemon cake. Were all of my dreams this? No, they couldn't be. This time, there was no screaming, no shaking, no crying. Was it over? Were those nightmares finally gone? I couldn't believe it. I had to find out what happened in my dream and who appeared in it.

And to do that, I needed to head out to the spot where it took place. The Wangshu Inn.

#genshin impact #genshin xiao #fluff #angst #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #xiao x reader #soft hours #pain hours #lemon cake #teehee i am scared #genshin #genshin impact x reader

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tanakavox · 4 years ago

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Look into the multiverse

This is being crossposted from fanfiction.net. my react fic. This chapter reacts where done by @hasbrobear (sorry for tagging you two times in a row dude.) Enjoy. The rest will be up here soon.

Are you sure this is the right place?" Mercury asked as he, Cinder and Emerald were walking into a theater. In front of them Salem lead the group.

"Yes, it is. The coordinates are correct from Watts machine." She said as they entered and was met with another group. And a rather large one.

"RUBY!" Cinder said as she raised her bow and pulled her arm back and Emerald and Mercury got ready to fight as Salem sighed.

The other group consisted of Ozpin, Oscar, team RWBY and JNR. Who got in front of the two and pulled their weapons out. Then suddenly all their weapons vanished out of thin air.

"What the!?"

"My Weapons!"

"MY BABY!" Ruby yelled looking for Crescent Rose.

"My legs!" Mercury fell and Emerald started to laugh and covered her mouth while Cinder ran at Ruby who then raised her arms up to fight her. Then before they could reach each other, a light barrier comes between them. "What the!?" Cinder yelled as she roared and punched it. It just glowed.

Then the large screen begins to start, and the groups look at it. Both in confusion and curiosity. Salem decided to tell them. "Look, we have been all brought here o watch these…. Images of ourselves, why and how? I do not know, so unless you want to be forced out, you'll sit down and watch." She said as Ozpin said the same thing and they all sat to watch the large screen.

The scene starts start with Cinder Fall in a library, reading a book. A voice speaks out to her, but she doesn't turn to look, continuing to read the book.

"Cinder its you." Emerald said as Cinder merely looked at her other version, momentarily cursing herself as she looked better there than she did now.

Though the other side were more concerned about why Cinder was there, she could possibly be somewhere that can give her more power, and cinder with more power leads to more concerns.

"So, you're looking for the book of ancient Legends. The tale of the Dark knight warrior known as Ozma?"

"Ozma." Ruby said recalling the story that Jinn had told them about, she looked back at Salem who then looked at her their eyes connected, and she gave ruby a seething glare that made her yelp.

'Ozma as a dark knight huh? Rather flattering title.' Salem thought, just imagining her once love becoming an agent of evil, she shivered a little inside before looking at the screen more.

While Ozpin was more than intrigued about his other self, he had to keep a close eye for any key details in the screen that could help him better understand it.

The speaker steps into the light revealing Raven Branwen, her face having odd look marking on the side.

Cinder still does not turn to look at Raven and closes the book.

"Mom…" Yang said as she lightly glared at the woman, still mad about what happened at the camp, and at Haven. But she was wondering what those markings were as she narrowed her eyes.

"Hmmph, so this was the woman who supposedly slew you." Salem said checking if there were any key things on Raven, so far those markings were the only concern.

Cinder seethed looking at the branwen, wanting nothing more than to kill her.

"That's not what I'm looking for" She replied, placing the book back on the self. "Leave me."

'What is she looking for then.' Ozpin wondered as he was a bit curious about why Raven was there, and what Cinder could possibly want.

"Then what are you looking?" Raven asked, paying Cinder request no mind. The older woman frowns a bit.

"A Demon, that impregnates a woman, who then bears twins. A boy and girl. That is the story isn't it?

Cinder pulls her Kanata from its sheath and points it at Raven, still not having turn her gaze at the older woman.

"Ew…" Nora said a little grossed out about a demon actually doing it with a woman. Though in her mind she imagined it to be some sort of freaky Grimm creature.

Seeing her reaction Cinder raised a brow and so did Salem, it brought some suspicion to her character in the screen. They both had the same thought that this Cinder could be the twin daughter.

"Hmm not bad." Ruby said seeing Cinders Katana, She didn't like the woman, and seeing her weapon didn't like her much more, it was basic in her eyes.

"Leave me." She speaks softly. "I won't tell you a third time."

Some of them were getting a bit pumped and excited for a fight, like Nora and Mercury, though the others wondered what would happen between the two, they were both strong and in their last match Raven came out on top, could she do it again though.

There is a bit of silence as Raven look at the blade, seemly not affected by Cinder's actions. She grabs the blade with two of her fingers.

"People inherently fear evil. However," Raven began as she walked toward the young woman, not caring that the blade sliced her finger. Blood began to drip on the floor.

"Occasionally, a Person may become seduced by evil."

After Raven finished speaking, Cinder finally turns and looks at her, the amber eyed woman , her expression unreadable.

"Uhhh That's… Creepy." Nora commented as she saw how Raven was unfazed by cutting her finger on a long blade. Especially when she saw the blood drip down.

"That's… that's not what your moms like, right?" Blake asked a little frightened by the woman on the screen.

"No, but now I kind of glad she's like how she is." Yang replied while Cinder narrowed her eyes a bit, the raven on the screen must've been like her in a way. Wanting more power.

"What are you getting at?" She inquires, placing her blade back in its sheath.

"What!? No fight scene, no slicing or any action!?" Nora yelled as she wanted to see two enemies fight each other and hoped that Cinder on the screen would fall.

"Calm your beast Ozpin, some of us are trying to watch." Salem said smirking as she saw Nora's glare. She was easy to anger in this situation.

"Its alright Nora just ignore her." Ren said as Jaune nodded and calmed Nora down by patting her shoulder. The Valkyrie sighed and pouted as she sat in her chair.

Raven smiles a bit before responding.

"First… You must share with me the story of Ozma."

"Is anyone else confused, or is it just me?" Oscar asked as he had no idea what was happening in the screen, the others thought the same thing and were utterly confused, even Salem, and Ozpin didn't know what was going on, and one of them didn't like it.

The scene cuts and transitions to a shot of the moon. The sound of blade clashing against each other and as the scene continues there are two figures fighting on top of a large roofless building. As they fight Yang's voice is heard.

"You heard of it haven't you? The legend of Spadra. My father used to tell the story to my sister and I when I was young..."

Ruby and her group were surprised to heard Yang's voice come out and apparently it turns out that Ruby herself was also involved in the story as well.

As she speaks, the two figures continue to fight as it rains.

"Long ago in ancient times, a demon rebel against his own kind for the sake of the human race."

One of the figure's attempts to jab the other with their greatsword, the other parry and attack with a downward slice aimed for the shoulder with their blade. They jump out of the way.

"With his sword, he shut the portal to the demonic realm and sealed the evil entities off from our human world. But since he was a demon himself, his power was also trapped on the other side."

Yang's voice chuckles before she continued.

"I never believed it. I thought it was a child's fairy tale."

"Yeah. We thought fairy tales weren't real too." Jaune said as team RWBY and his team agreed. Ever since the Maidens, and other stories were actually real, they didn't know what to believe now.

The two opponents slice and swipe and each other landing the blows. Blood spills to the ground and is washed away by the rain as the two keep going despite this.

"But I discovered that this so-called legend wasn't a myth. Ozma existed."

Yang's voice wavered as she said it, as if she still couldn't believe that it was true.

"How do I know? Well…" She trailed off.

The two were lock in an exchange, sparks flying as the sound of blade clashing once again appeared. The one of their face's where finally shown and one was Jaune Arc.

"Hey look jaune, its you!" Nora said as she looked at her leader who was mostly confused about this,

"I met the children of Ozma… Both of them."

The second figure face was also shown. It was Cinder Fall from earlier.

"Though the blood the same blood of their father flowed through their veins, the two battle each other fiercely like arch enemies.

Cinder and Jaune's clash of blades became faster and fiercer to the point where their blades could not be seen as anymore but blurs. The two of them move fast enough that it seem like the rain had come to a standstill. They smacked their blade into each other and the shockwave from it made a small slash from the water on the ground. They were lock against each other, staring each other dead in the eyes.

Everyone's eyes widened when they saw and heard what Yang was talking about. "No way." Nora said as she realized that Jaune, and Cinder were siblings in this.

"Your kidding me." Cinder said as she looked at Jaune who just looked more annoyed and confused about the ordeal.

"It seemed as if they derived some sort of twisted pleasure from this sibling rivalry."

And true to Yang's words, we see that Jaune and Cinder are enjoying the fight as they both has smirked at each other. But then with a flick of her wrist, Cinder sends Jaune's sword flying away. And in that moment take her chance to impale her brother with her blade, driving into his abdomen a bit before yanking it out. Jaune begins to fall to his back.

"But in the end…"

Jaune lay on the ground of his back and Cinder runs her fingers through her hair, trying to dry it off.

"Only one was left standing"

"What!?" Ruby said as she saw that Jaune had apparently died. She like her other friends were pissed and gave cinders glares, while the fall maiden was passive about it.

Cinder goes to pick up Jaune's sword and walks away. As her brother tries to get up, she turns around. The scene cuts once again and is on a black screen. The only noise that can be heard is the sound of a telephone ringing. It then shows a room. There a drum set in one corner, a pool table in one, a jukebox in near a door that leads out outside. In the middle of the room was a desk and it had the ringing phone as well as a box of pizza. A shirtless Jaune shows up drying his hair as he walks toward the desk, he kicks the chair up to its legs, and as he sits down place his feet on the desk hard enough for the phone to launch up. He catches answering the call.

"Hey, look guys he's alive! Jaune your alive!" Nora said excitingly as she shook her leader and made him yell out as she and the others were glad their friend hadn't died. Meanwhile Cinder let out a groan seeing that he wasn't dead.

Though as they were relieved one girl among them had her cheeks dusted red when she saw Jaune's toned body on the screen and looked at the original before blushing more and turning to see what else would happen.

"Sorry, not open for business yet." Jaune throw the phone back on the stand, ending the call. He sighs and grabs a slice of pizza

"I haven't even picked a name for this joint and I'm already getting calls."

Raven enter the shop to see Jaune eating his pizza. The blonde stops eating to look at the red eyed woman.

"You a customer too?" He asked, looking annoyed. "Well, if you wanna use the bathroom help yourself. The toilet's in the back."

"I don't think she there for that." Nora pointed out while Yang focused on what she would do.

Raven pay him no mind and walk around the room, almost like she was a vulture waiting to strike.

"Is your name Jaune? Son of Ozma?"

Jaune turns and glare at the woman.

"Where did you hear that?" He questioned.

"Guessing he's still pissed about the stab."

Raven smirks and walk up to the desk with her arms behind her back.

"From your sister." She looks down and see the neckless Jaune was wearing. Raven look at it for a few seconds before continuing.

'Why was she look at the necklace so much.' Salem and Ozpin thought as they focused on her and the item of interest.

"She sent this invitation for you." She said. "Please accept it."

After saying that she flips the desk over, Jaune jumping as soon as she does. He lands on his feet and pulls out a pistol to shoot her, but she had all but disappear. The son of Ozma places his gun away, walking forward and catching the pizza box in his hand.

Yang groaned and crossed her arms annoyed. "She ran away of course."

"This jaune is very acrobatic" Blake noticed and said while Ruby drools over the guns, and more than just one.

"Invitation huh?" He mutters to himself. The demon hybrid goes to take a bite out of a slice of pizza but suddenly, several creature's wielding scythe appear and impaled the young man on them. Blood spilled on the floor.

"GAAAHHHH!/JAUNE!" Nora and Ruby screamed thinking jaune had died while the others on their side looked in shock.

Jaune then thrusted his palm forward, smacking the creature away from him killing it. The creatures look up to see the Son of Ozma twirling the mask that their ally wore on his fingertips. Jaune walks forward, with blades in his arms and legs, dragging along one of the creatures for a ride. Seemly not bothered by the implement. He goes over to the to his jukebox, kicking the demon he dragged along and grabbling a slice of Pizza. The Blonde rip a blade out of his chest and toss it up at one of his celling fans, causing it to fall on top of a few demon.

Everyone was shocked that Jaune is still alive and kicking. While Ozpin and Salem think that Jaune might be immortal like the grimm queen herself.

"This party's getting crazy! Let's rock!" He cheers and goes to turn on his jukebox, but it's doesn't work. He tries a few more time before slamming his fist into the jukebox hard enough to dent it and music starts to play, tapping his foot in tone with the music. Jaune goes on to take down the demon with ease, using the blades on his arms and legs to kill the demons. Using his guns Evory and Ivory to shoot them to bit, using one of the demons as a skateboard as he shoots the others while pass by. Grabbing his sword and flipping his pool table to shoot one pool ball and having it collide with all the other to smack the demons it the face. In no time the demons were defeated. Jaune look over his office with a frown.

They laugh at Jaune's attempts to turn on his jukebox. Jaune slumped a bit while yang smirked and patted his shoulder.

Then everyone Expressed their surprise that that how well he's able to fight while Ruby drools a bit over his gun skills and his sword.

"Damnit. Already wreck the place up and I haven't even named it yet. Cinder better pay up."

He smiles however and grabs his jacket.

"Well Cindy. I can tell this is gonna be one hell of a party!" He shouts kicking down his door.

Then as he moved the screen turned off. "'WHAT!? It can't end there!" Nora said as Ruby let out her own groan at the action being stopped.

The viewers in the theatre do take notice to the screen turns back on and a song plays. It seems like another is going to play.

#rwby #rwby jaune arc #rwby ruby rose #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #rwby mercury black #salem #ozpin #cinder fall #emerald sustrai #rwby nora valkyrie #rwby lie ren #react fic #dmc au #look into the multiverse #rwby raven branwen

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badb1tchbokuto · 4 years ago

Text

Ch. 2 Alone, Together - Miya Atsumu x You

chapter 1: here

(crossposted on ao3)

warnings: mild smut, alcohol, mentions of time skip

wc: 3.7k

As if you had sensed his worries, your eyes flutter open. “You okay?” You groggily whisper. Knowing he’s on borrowed time, he scoots down to level his face with yours and kisses you deeply. “Yeah baby, no worries.” He breathily responds as your hands begin to wander from his chiseled abdomen to his navel and down to the tufts of hair trailing to his boxer briefs.

At this point Atsumu knows he’s completely, utterly, royally fucked.

⳾⑅❀⑅❀⑅❀⑅❀⑅❀⑅⳾

Atsumu tried. He really, really did.

Standing on the tiny kitchenette of his shared hotel suite with Bokkun(who was off spending time with Akaashi), he hangs up the phone after a long Facetime session with Samu guiding him on how to make the best onigiri and miso soup.

It really shouldn’t have taken that long. All he had to do was wash the rice, pop it into the mini rice cooker stowed in the counter, cut some fresh tuna, sear the rest, then assemble it all into balls along with the seasoning, condiments and nori.

He’d know how to make miso soup even if he was blindfolded. All he had to do was mix in the ingredients he bought on a small pot of water. Dashi, miso paste, diced silken tofu, sliced green onions, some more nori, all dropped in at different times and simmered to get the perfect taste. Plus, this was one of the first dishes their ma taught them how to make before he and Samu moved away.

Really, it should have been a breeze. He’d made onigiris for himself countless of times before, admittedly nowhere near as tasty as the ones Osamu makes, but they were still edible.

This time, however, it had to delicious. Mouthwatering, perfect.

For the umpteenth time, Atsumu is picking off the nori on the last rice ball, wrapping and rewrapping, then wrapping again because the nori just wasn’t hugging the rice in a fashion uniform to the seven others arranged in front of him.

“Why does it look so weird??” He frustrates.

Atsumu’s mind replays, yet again, to your shared conversation at the club. Specifically to the part where he realizes he didn’t really know how to talk about himself outside of volleyball. He surmises at this; a gnawing, alarming thought of wondering whether he really knew himself at all.

Three hours ago...

“How do I usually describe myself?” He repeatedly thinks as he wanders down the seemingly endless aisles of Isetan’s Depa-Chika, scouring for the exact brands of ingredients Samu instructed him to buy.

Lost somewhere in the frozen food section, Atsumu pushes a half filled cart in reverie. He resolves then and there to get to know himself, whatever that means or entails. Not just so he can talk to you or anyone new for that matter, but honestly more so to know how to articulate to himself who he really is in private. Without the cameras flashing, without the people buzzing, without having to watch himself through others’ incredibly varied perceptions of him, without using his brother or his friends and teammates as a crutch, however difficult or impossible that seems.

He takes his time at the store, tediously combing the shelves for a special kind of mirin Osamu swears by, then proceeds to have an internal debate whether he should choose chutoro or otoro (he chooses otoro, the fattiest and therefore the tastiest in his opinion), his supposedly quick trip to the grocery store devouring more than an hour of his time.

It is now 7:15pm.

You’re supposed to arrive in fifteen minutes, but Atsumu still hadn’t even showered, hadn’t even cleaned up the kitchen, hadn’t even finished wrapping that last stubborn rice ball.

The hotel phone rings and Atsumu panics.

It’s the concierge alerting him of your arrival. Sending you up, Atsumu races around the small space in a haste, swiping the counter and dining table with disinfectant, racing to throw empty packages into the bin.

The doorbell rings and Atsumu is sweating.

He’s an athlete for fuck’s sake, why did running around for less than a minute knock his breath out like that?

“I’m coming!” He yells, or tries to. What comes out is a cracked, high pitched attempt, sounding much like a prepubescent boy going through rapid hormonal changes. He cringes, mortified.

Atsumu hears you trying to stifle a giggle.

He clears his throat, repeats in his signature silky voice, then runs to open the door.

You’re smiling sheepishly, the tip of your nose frosty from the autumn chill, all bundled up in a casual outfit that somehow knocks Atsumu’s breath out.

“My share of dinner!” You announce, arms stretched out with a box of wagashi and a bottle of nigori sake.

“Yer’ so frickin cute,” he dotes. He can’t help himself, he snakes an arm on your waist and pulls you in for a gentle kiss.

“Yer’ early, missed me that much already?” He whispers teasingly on your lips.

You laugh as you kiss him back, gently patting his cheek as a response before pulling away. Funny how it seems like he’s the one who missed you that much...

Atsumu sneakily sniffs his shirt as you take off your shoes at the genkan.

“Oh no...” Not musty, but he reeks of kitchen smoke, aburi tuna and dried sweat.

“Need ta’ shower real quick.”

“Oh sorry, want me to come back in a bit?”

He digresses. “No no. Gimme a minute, come in and get comfy.”

He excuses himself, leaving you in the kitchen as he rushes to the bathroom.

You look around the hotel suite, kitchenette roughly cleaned, flecks of nori and furikake smattering the floor but otherwise spotless. The cramped countertop had a steaming pot laid next to a row of neatly arranged onigiri on two plates, decorated with vegetables jaggedly cut in what you assume are attempts at flower patterns.

It’s a simple dinner, you know. But you still can’t help but be impressed that Atsumu put in that much effort, that much care in making you a homemade dinner. On your first date no less.

You smile, butterflies fluttering in your belly at the thought that this callous, reckless, stupidly tall and handsome man is being domestic just for you.

Pulling out your phone, you send a quick text to Kaori and Yukie, gushing over how cute Atsumu is and even sending them a quick snapshot of the onigiri he plated with special care. “Get it!!!” Kaori enthusiastically replies. “Send a ‘1’ by midnight if it’s good and give us a play by play tomorrow. ‘2’ if we need to fake an emergency asap!” Yukie responds, ever the more calculating but motherly one.

As Atsumu massages purple shampoo on his tresses, he elucidates a fact about him he already knows is true on court that he supposes could be said the same of him off it.

1. Miya Atsumu is a perfectionist.

He practices for hours daily to hone his craft, has been doing so since the fourth grade really. At first just to spite Samu, but then he just suddenly fell in love with volleyball.

To Atsumu, nothing short of absolute perfection qualifies when it comes to dedicating himself to the things he cares about. It is through this philosophy that he is now one of Asia’s top setters, that he’s certain anyone who can’t receive his set is a scrub; a roaring confidence gained from knowing he puts his all to whatever he chooses to set his mind to, whether that’s volleyball or cooking dinner for a very cute girl he finds himself wanting to impress and spend more time with.

He frowns upon remembering that one of the onigiris he made is lopsided, that he didn’t even have time to shower and properly clean up before you arrived, that the atmosphere you walked in on your first official date with Miya Atsumu the perfectionist, wasn’t, well...perfect.

He thinks about this as he readies himself, spraying on the woodsy, smoky vanilla perfume he swore you wore when you first met. He usually reserves the scent for special occasions, but he believes that this counts as one.

Atsumu finds you in the kitchen, fixated on trying to salvage the onigiri he was having trouble wrapping earlier.

He leans over your shoulder, and though your nerves are in haywire and the butterflies in your stomach seem to keep multiplying, you instinctually lean back into him. Atsumu smiles as he drapes his arms around you from behind, thumbs brushing up and down the bare sliver of skin on your hip.

Your mind is a blur, every thought suddenly jumbled and incoherent. All that’s left is you anticipating, thrilling where Atsumu will move his fingers next on your heating body. Dropping his head on your shoulder and finally getting a closer whiff of your sexy scent, he whispers teasingly close to your ear.

“Sorry for the wait, ya’ ready to fall in love with me?”

You swiftly turn around and pull him into a deep kiss as an answer.

——

By the time you’ve moved to sit at small table by the kitchen, your lips are sweetly swollen and your clothes are wrinkled. Atsumu is panting, hair even more tousled and a small love bite is beginning to bloom on his right collarbone.

You stare at him, mesmerized at how he seems to look even more gorgeous unkempt.

“Why don’t cha take a picture babe, it’ll last longer.” He smirks then sticks his tongue out to pose, ego inflating at catching you ogling him.

You quip. “Sure, can I take naked ones after?”

“Aww, you’re so polite. Whatta’ good girl. You don’t need to ask. I’ll gladly give them to you for free, even throw in a lil show if ya want.” He leans closer, resting his head on his flexed, chiseled propped arm, smirking a little more mischievously as he gazes at you in challenge.

You can almost see his ego rapidly inflating like a balloon, and naturally, you kind of want to pop it.

In your best faux posh British accent, you offer. “A most forthcoming and lucrative offer mister Miya. What do you say I start and manage an OnlyFans account for you?”

You giggle uncontrollably as the look on his face changes instantly from confidence to confusion.

Brows furrowed and lips formed into a tiny pout, he concludes. “It’s a good thing yer so cute, yer a weirdo.”

You laugh, snorting a little. Atsumu chuckles at this, finding your little quirk amusing and rather irresistible.

“Keep the accent though, it’s kinda hot.” You kick him under the table and continue to banter as you both set up the table.

Atsumu watches expectantly as you take the first sip of the miso broth. The soup is delicious, and as soon as you tell him this he visibly relaxes.

The onigiris’ fillings however, are inconsistent. On the first one, the filling oozes out whenever you take a bite. On another, there’s barely any tuna and a ton of furikake. You decide to spare him your criticisms and just enjoy the meal he so graciously prepared.

Still, your heart just feels so damn full.

You make sure to repeatedly compliment Atsumu on his cooking to show appreciation for his efforts, the first time anyone has ever cooked for you on a date and the first time he(and not his pro-chef brother! Ha!) has ever been acknowledged for his culinary efforts.

Dinner is pleasant, both of you exchanging stories of varied life experiences.

You talk about the places you’ve lived in, your childhood, life in university. Atsumu actively listens, enchanted with how different your upbringing was in comparison to his, especially since he’d forgone college and went pro immediately after being scouted in high school. Despite the stark differences, he asks a ton of questions; some in confusion as he asks you to clarify or talk about certain details you purposely leave out.

You notice that he’s very observant, so you casually comment it.

Atsumu decides then that yes, it’s true. He makes a mental note to add this to the little list he’s crafting in his head about who he is.

2. Miya Atsumu is observant.

He thinks that you literally could have told him he was a seaweed and he would have agreed just because he is so transfixed by your mere presence and voice, but he knows this to be true on court for him as well. How else would he sync up with his spikers? How else would he know which serve to use and how to to angle his sets best? Through thorough studying and keen awareness of his teammates’ likes, dislikes, mannerisms and ticks, he is able to turn a seemingly mismatched chaotic group like the Black Jackals into synchronized raging monsters, dancing to a tune in which he is the lone orchestrator.

Atsumu is earnest in asking you questions about your life; his genuine interest coaxing you to share seemingly inconsequential details you intentionally initially skip over, snippets of your upbringing you thought were too boring to even mention, some too painful to share. Hesitantly at first, then comfortably as Atsumu intently listens. You don’t know why he takes a keen interest in you to that degree, but you come to learn that Atsumu is transparent and rather straightforward. He asks because he wants to know.

You relax, feeling touched and appreciated as you realize that he seems to just want to know every little thing about you, even the parts of you that you think are boring, unimportant or unworthy.

The conversation shifts to more light hearted topics as you both begin to indulge on the dessert and sake you brought.

Feeding you half of a red bean wagashi he swears is the best one, Atsumu continues to tell you about shenanigans from his volleyball team, particularly the initiation ritual of being ambushed to sing a full song at one’s first team dinner with a hot pink wireless karaoke mic on full blast.

“Bokkun, Omi, and Shoyou weren’t even there yet and I didn’t know anyone my age since they were all older than me.. I was only eighteen! They told me I couldn’t eat dinner and had to sit in a different table if I didn’t do it.. and I had 10 seconds to pick a song! A western one at that because Adriah and Oliver had to understand too and they didn’t speak Japanese then..”

Imagining a younger Atsumu with a bad dye job nervously trying to think of a song to sing out loud in public, you laugh as he describes in detail how awkward the whole ordeal was. You wonder if any of the older members have a video of this, making sure to ask Meian if you ever have the opportunity to see the team again.

He recounts how shameless Bokuto and Hinata were when they had to do it, with Bokuto even doing an encore with a dance routine that resulted in them being banned from a restaurant in Kyoto. You’re both dying of laughter as he wheezes out how Sakusa almost gave up his career upon realizing he had to do it as well. Thankfully his team sort of pitied him and let him sing to a small izakaya in Sendai instead of the mega hotel restaurants they usually celebrate in.

As the night progresses, you and Atsumu end up sitting side by side, legs touching due to the close proximity of your chairs, holding hands, and sharing sweet sake flavored kisses in between laughs.

After some time, the kisses start to linger, becoming more heated. It’s when you subtly lick Atsumu’s tongue then slowly bite and suck on his full lower lip that he loses control and pulls you into his lap. Straddling him, you keep one hand on his chest to steady yourself as you move your other hand to brush his soft hair out of his face. “You’re so beautiful.” You whisper as you stare into his half lidded hazel eyes before leaning in to kiss him.

Atsumu flushes at this. It’s the first time he’s been called beautiful. Handsome? Sure. Sexy? Even more often. But beautiful? It feels intimate, leaving him vulnerable and exposed in a way that seems to transcend the physical. He revels in this as he lavishes you with open mouthed kisses, starting from just below your ear and moving down your neck, his wet lips ghosting over the hollow of your throat to just above your cleavage. You mewl, aching to feel more of him, subconsciously grinding your hips on his lap where you can feel him bulging out of his sweatpants.

Atsumu moves one of his hands from your waist, brushing his large knuckles up your torso until it reaches the underside of your breasts. You notice that despite his kisses growing more desperate and him feeling fully erect under you, he hasn’t made a move to further the heavy petting. Respecting his boundaries, you ask. “Everything okay? We don’t have to go all the way if you’re uncomfortable.”

“Oh fuck.. sorry, yea, I’m good.” He kisses your lips again as his hands rub up and down your bare sides, your sweater having ridden up a while ago. “Trust me, I want you. So bad. I’m just tryin' to hold myself back for once.”

“Huh? Why?”

“I wanted to take my time.” He gently pecks your forehead, then your nose, and then back to your lips. He does this while looking at you eye to eye, a stark contrast to the steamy make out session you were just having. Atsumu’s gaze becomes smoldering as his eyes move to your lips again. “I don’t know why, but I just know I’ll get addicted to ya’.”

You grab the wrist that’s placed on your waist, unfurling his long, elegant fingers. Atsumu is watching you in intense curiosity as you take his pointer and middle digits, pulling them up slowly to your mouth and sucking, all while looking up at him. Instantly, Atsumu groans and you’re positive you can feel his member twitch against your crotch.

You release his fingers with a pop, then lick the length slowly, gaze never leaving his as his focus struggles in anticipation of what you'll do next.

You guide his digits by dragging them from your exposed torso and up to the curves of your breasts to your hardening buds straining your lace bralette, his wet fingers leaving a slight translucent trail of saliva on the expanse of your stomach. Before Atsumu can twist his fingers to pay attention to your nipples, you hold his wrist and move the fingers down your torso, pushing past the elastic waistband of your pants. With your hand over his, you splay his saliva coated fingers against your dampening underwear, stroking your mound before resting the two fingers over your labia, coaxing your slick slit to open. Atsumu’s pupils are dilated, his breathing heavy and his other hand gripping your hips so tightly you can feel bruises starting to form as he tries his best to control himself.

“I’m afraid time is the one thing we both can’t afford Atsumu. But please, have me. Fuck me. Take your fill.”

It’s all the confirmation he needs as he moves your panties aside, circling his fingers on your throbbing clit before sliding them seamlessly inside your tight, soft walls.

It’s not until much, much later, after you’ve had sex in the kitchen, then on his bed, then in the bathroom as you both intended to clean up, then finally cuddling back in his bed before falling asleep that Atsumu remembers the rest of what you said right before he lost all coherent thought.

Why can’t we afford time? Why don’t we have the time? Surely you’re both busy with your careers, but you’re someone he finds himself liking more and more. And now that you’re here, with your head on his chest, one arm wrapped around his bare torso and one leg intertwined with his, he thinks that this feels too good, too perfect, to not keep chasing, and he’ll be damned if he didn’t make time for more moments like tonight.

As his thoughts lull him to sleep, he remembers why time is beyond both of your control.

He's only in Tokyo for volleyball - for the league match they just won and now to train with the Olympic team for an upcoming friendly match in Shanghai. You’re here temporarily too, on a project with a definitive deadline that will not only mark the end of your stay in the country, but signal the end of you seeing him. Possibly forever.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

At this point, Atsumu knows he’s completely, utterly, royally fucked.

You’re both on borrowed time, but now that he’s had a taste of what it’s like to spend time with you, to be inside you, to just be with you, he knows that this growing hunger for you is insatiable. He thinks then that he finally understands Samu when he rambles about gradually getting hungrier and hungrier when watching others eat. His appetite for volleyball had always been there, like second skin and breathing. But for the longest time he didn't realize that seeing lovers around him display genuine affection towards each other(from his ma and pa, Bokuto and Akaashi, Meian and his wife, Aran and his high school sweetheart), all build bonds that can only truly be forged by sharing and accepting each other's hopes, dreams, and vulnerabilities, is something that he was growing hungrier and hungrier for without even noticing. Up until he met you that is. As you pull away from his lips and begin to slowly kiss down his body, following the trail of where your hands have just wandered, he thinks, “fuck it.”

Just as he became a setter even though he initially intended to be a spiker, just as he chose to be a professional athlete instead of following a safe path to success in university, just as he contorts and bends over his body in random, sometimes painful ways to make sure his spikers have the best sets, and just as he adjusts and twists routined plays in order to beat opponents, he knows then.

3. Miya Atsumu is a risk taker.

He’d been luckily winning his gambles so far, it’s about time he try his luck in love.

#Miya Atsumu x you #miya atsumu x reader #miya atsumu x y/n #atsumu x reader #atsumu x you #atsumu x y/n #miya atsumu x female reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #hq x reader #hq x you #haikyuu fic #hq fics #miya atsumu #atsumu #thanks for reading!

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seagreen-meets-grey · 4 years ago

Text

When Lightning Strikes Ch. 14

When your life is nothing but a cloudless sky, lightning can come and strike you so unexpectedly, you won’t even know what hit you.

Or: When Hiccup and Astrid meet, it is as if lightning strikes.

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 7] [Chapter 8] [Chapter 9] [Chapter 10] [Chapter 11] [Chapter 12] [Chapter 13] [Chapter 15] [Chapter 16] [Chapter 17] [Chapter 18] [Chapter 19] [Chapter 20]

Crossposted on ao3 and ff.net

_______________

When Astrid woke the next morning, the world felt different – tilted, somehow. Her head was swimming with emotions and her entire face felt puffy from crying. The crust of her overwhelming late-night revelation was still stuck to her skin, so she made sure to wash her face twice.

One of her swim girls lived two streets over and her parents had offered to give her a ride today, since she’d done the same for their daughter a couple times. They were going to pick her up shortly, which meant she had to be ready at record speed.

Lucky for her, Lola’s parents were early birds in every way, so once at the swimming hall, she had enough time to dive into the pool herself for a few much-needed laps. The movement and the weightlessness of the water helped her clear her head. By the time her team had completely arrived, she was back in her trainer clothes and her concentration was solely focused on her girls and their competition.

She went through their group tactics again, reminded the girls to use the bathroom one last time before their race, and checked if all of them had had breakfast. Then she made them stretch and swim a few lanes to warm up.

In the second half of the pool, where four lanes were separated from the rest, the first race was about to begin. Several swimming clubs were here today, some of them bringing more than one team from different age categories.

Astrid’s girls still had some time before their race, but as their excited chatter started to die down the longer they were doing their warm-up lanes, she sensed their growing concentration and fluttering nerves. Giving them all an encouraging thumbs-up, she let them focus and looked around the swimming hall. Behind her, in the non-swimmers pool, a group of curious old ladies was watching the event, gossiping over their swim noodles. On the other end of the pool, a few families with toddlers were splashing around. Usually, this place was rather crowded on a Sunday, but at eight in the morning, most people were still sleeping in.

She let her eyes roam aimlessly over the spectators on the benches at the side, primarily parents, primarily tired. Suddenly, something caught her eye, causing her heart to stop all on its own. It quickstarted itself a moment later and competed in its own race even before her other senses could catch on.

There, in rolled-up sweatpants, flip-flops, and a t-shirt with the swimming club’s logo on it like they sold it at the info desk in the lobby, her own personal dilemma strolled in. Mixed feelings tore their way through her focus, misery combined with butterflies that turned into angry hornets, stinging her from the inside.

His eyes found her and he smiled, followed by a tentative wave. He had remembered the competition. He had shown up without her ever asking him to. Even after their fight yesterday. The hornets were buzzing around in her chest, stinging her lungs; their poison made her throat close up. She waved back.

Someone called her name and she surfaced. It was time for her team to get ready. With one last glance behind, she saw Hiccup awkwardly shift through the row of parents, squeezing himself between Theresa’s mom and a wall. Astrid shook her head. She needed to concentrate.

Fortunately, she could. From calling her team over to the racing lanes, talking strategy and encouragement one last time, watching the race and cheering them on from the side, to whooping victoriously when Viola hit the edge of the pool a quarter second before her opponents – she did not once look over at the spectators. She was proud of herself, honestly. Because as soon as she sent the excited kids over to tell their parents they won, her eyes immediately went searching for him.

She barely managed to thank another team’s trainer for congratulating her, because he was coming right over and she didn’t know what to say. Waving him over to a quiet corner where neither the old ladies with their swim noodles nor anyone else could overhear her personal drama, she willed her heart to calm down and her nerves to untighten. It didn’t work.

“Hey,” he greeted her, a bright smile on his face. There were bags under his eyes and she wondered if he'd slept as well as she had. "You guys won, that’s amazing!”

“Yeah, it is.” She couldn’t look him in the eye. How could he be so chipper and nice after everything?

He seemed to sense her discomfort, because his smile disappeared and he took a small step back, burying his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. Her eyes drifted to his t-shirt and a rush of warmth went through her.

“Did you buy that just for some kids’ competition?”

“Huh?” His eyes followed hers. “Oh, that? Yeah, I, um, I– I just wanted to be supportive. And besides, maybe I’ll watch you swim some time and can cheer you on in this.” He shrugged and she had to hold herself back from doing something stupid, like kissing him.

“Oh. Okay. Cool. Um…” The air in here was suddenly too hot, too humid, and she toyed with the idea of jumping into the pool with all her clothes on. She wanted this conversation to be over with. Not because she didn’t want to talk to him, but because she knew she had to address a few things. But running from conversations she needed to have hadn’t ended in any acceptable results so far and she had to start somewhere if she didn’t want to be stuck in the same place forever.

“Look, Astrid, about yesterday–”

“I’m sorry,” she cut him to the chase. “I’m so sorry, Hiccup.” Finally, she met his eyes. And what she found wasn’t resentment or judgement. It was something deep, something genuine, something she felt tugging at her gut. “You were just trying to help and I reacted poorly. I never intended to hurt you or shut you out like that. I’m really sorry.”

He ran a hand over his neck. “Ah, well. It’s okay. It’s not like I didn’t snap, either.”

“No, you had every right to! I was being a bitch and you were just being honest. But there are just some things that… That I’m not ready to talk about. Yet.”

After a few agonizingly long seconds, he nodded. “Okay. Whenever you’re ready, I’m there if– if you wanna talk about it.” One of the hornets buzzed for a moment. How did she deserve to be around such a sweet, caring and incredibly patient guy? No wonder she fell for him.

With a shy smile, he stuck out his hand. “Friends?”

She stared at it for a moment. “Are you kidding with this?” she asked, right before she pulled him in for a hug. “Of course we’re still friends, you muttonhead!” She could feel him relax, could feel his heartbeat against her chest, and quickly stepped out of the hug. “Now come on, let’s celebrate my victory!”

“Your victory?” he asked as he followed her back to the girls.

“My team’s victory is also my victory.”

“But you’re not the one who swam.”

She turned to him with narrowed eyes. “Are you trying to provoke me?”

“Yes,” he said with a lopsided grin that didn’t waver even as she gave him a playful punch on the arm.

His flip-flops squeaked on the damp tiles as he walked beside her and for the briefest of moments, she smelled blooming trees and sunshine. In another world or another time, she’d reach for his hand. But even though she couldn’t, she enjoyed the idea. The world was just beginning to tilt back, no need to fret over her heartache right now. For the moment, they were good, they were friends. And if he were to disappear from her life again, she’d feel incomplete and restless all over again. They still had to talk about certain things, but not on the day her girls had placed first.

Curious looks were thrown Hiccup’s way as they approached her little victors. Finding seven pairs of eyes on him, he gave a small wave. “Hi, there.”

“Hi!” Viola, the shortest and fastest of the girls, greeted him with a wide smile. “We won!”

“Yes, I saw that. Congrats!”

A few more girls stepped closer. “We were like dolphins!” declared little Theresa and Hiccup’s eyes grew big.

“Real dolphins?” Theresa nodded. She was the youngest of the group and imagined herself all kinds of sea creatures when she was swimming. It was adorable and she had long earned a soft spot in Astrid’s heart. “You know what? Now that you say it, I can see it, too.” Theresa’s eyes shone brightly and Astrid’s stomach did a sudden backflip. Her mind conjured an image of Hiccup playing with his own little dolphin girl, telling her stories about the wide blue ocean, making her eyes shine just like Theresa’s now.

“Who’s that?” Annabelle’s voice tore her out of her daydream. She was standing a bit to the side, shyly pointing at Hiccup who had overheard the question.

“That’s Hiccup. My…” She locked eyes with him, a million unspoken words and needed conversations dancing between them. “My good friend.” His lips curled upwards.

“Are you a swimmer, too?” Lola asked inquisitively.

“Aah… I can swim, but I’m not much of a swimmer, actually. Not like you.”

“Do you have a phone?”

“Um.” Hiccup frowned, not quite sure why Lola wanted to know. Astrid, too, grew slightly wary at the giggles and mischievous looks flying through the group. “I have one, but it’s in a locker. Why?”

“Oh, just asking. You know, for safety.”

“Safet–”

“NOW!” Viola shouted and collectively, several little bodies jumped forward, startling Astrid and pushing Hiccup to the side. A surprised yelp escaped him before he fell into the pool with a loud splash.

“HEY! What the hell was that?!” Fists on her hips, Astrid grew to her full height while the girls seemed to lose a few inches under her glare. “You can’t just push people into the water! They could get seriously hurt, even if they know how to swim! Besides, what would you say if someone just pushed you into a pool or a lake and all your clothes got wet?!”

Approximately half the swimming hall was looking over curiously at her loud, chastising voice. The old ladies had stopped chattering and were shaking their heads at the kids staring abashedly at the tiles in front of them. Hiccup was spluttering somewhere to her left. She looked over – and had to suppress a laugh. Pushing wet hair out of his face, flip-flops floating next to him in the water, an absolutely baffled expression on his face, he made for a memorable sight and she desperately wished for a camera.

Stern frown back in place, she turned back to the girls. “Now go tell your parents what you did while I’m going to think of a nice extra exercise for training next week!” Despite her strict tone, they’d picked up on her amusement, lips pressed together while still trying to look abashed. She sent them off with a flick of her hand and shook her head.

“I’m so sorry,” she said to Hiccup who was treading water on the spot.

“Ah, it’s fine.” He shrugged. “Nothing that Dagur hasn’t already put me through, like, five times.”

Chuckling at the mental image, she crouched down and held out her hand. “Here, let me help you.” The ladder was only a few strokes away. But she didn’t even try to lie to herself, fully aware she just wanted an excuse to take his hand. She called that progress.

Busy bracing herself for the contact, she didn’t notice his smirk at first. Only when he grabbed her hand did she realize she had no chance. Pushing himself off the pool’s wall with his feet, he used the momentum to pull her forward. Only years upon years of diving head-first into pools were the reason she managed to not get chlorine water into her nose or accidentally swallow any. Breaking the surface with a gasp, the first sound reaching her ears was his laughter, melting away the unpleasant surprise in an instant. Spluttering, she shook her head, water droplets flying in all directions.

“And now you’re drinking up the pool?! Oh, Astrid!” Her response was to splash him with as much water as she could, instigating a water fight. When he hit her with an especially large wave, she chased him through half the pool, pretending she was going to dunk his head underwater. He just splashed her again before making towards the next ladder. She followed him, and there they were, completely drenched, dripping onto the tiles. His formerly baggy clothes clung to all the right places, she noted with a briefly distracted eye.

People were looking at them, some with mirth, some with displeasure. She couldn’t care less.

“This feels weird.” Hiccup wrung out a corner of his shirt, revealing a patch of skin that she had to pry her eyes away from.

A few of the girls came up to him, holding out their hands, faces speaking of the earful they’d received from both Astrid and their parents. “We’re sorry, Hiccup!”

He sighed and nodded, shaking each. “Ah, well. Apology accepted. Just, please, don’t ever do that again without at least a warning, okay?” Receiving eager nods, he smiled at them good-naturedly. Astrid frowned a few moments longer, just for appearance. Then she gave way to her own smile. No one had been harmed (except for their previously pleasantly dry clothes) and they had just won a competition, after all.

"Viola, go get his flops out of the water. As for the rest of you, I want you to swim five slow lanes each. After that, go get yourself some large fries or a burger, you’ve earned it today. I’d say food’s on me, but not after that little stunt of yours just now. Now off you go.”

She watched them leave, making sure they actually did what she’d said, before she turned back to Hiccup, only to have a small heart attack. He was wringing out his shirt. Standing there in nothing but his pants. It wasn’t like Astrid had never seen shirtless men before; hell, she was in a swimming hall! But the way her lower gut was so utterly fascinated by his naked torso felt weirdly lewd in her current environment, with families and harmless old ladies all around.

A low sound escaped her, prompting him to look over. There had to be something telling on her face, because at the sight of it a deep blush crawled up his neck. “I, er… My shirt is very wet.”

“Yeah, me too.” She could have slapped herself. “My clothes, I mean!” Oh, lord…

It was one of those situations where both parties were absolutely aware of the awkwardness of it, and that, whatever they said, it could only go downhill from there. Luckily, the sound of a pair of soaked flip-flops hitting the ground saved them from that demise.

“Here you go.” Viola, innocent child that she was, wasn’t picking up on the tension between the two adults, looking at Astrid expectantly. “What should I do now, Astrid?”

“Thanks. Thank you, Viola.” She brushed her bangs out of her face, hoping she wasn’t blushing as hard as it felt like. “You can go join the others; they’ll tell you.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and Viola?” The girl turned back around. “Good race!” Showing a proud grin, Viola skipped away, almost slipping on the tiles but catching herself and carrying on as if nothing had happened. Which was a strategy Astrid was very keen on copying as she prepared herself and turned back to Hiccup. But he had already put the shirt back on, now very wrinkled and inside out.

“Good thing I already came here in a spare,” he said, skin returning to its normal color. She noticed he was trying not to look below her face, remembering she was wearing white. She’d never been more thankful for the extra padding of her bra.

“Did you bring a towel? You can sit on it so you don’t wet your car seat too much.” The word wet was still bouncing around her brain like a tomato in a pinball machine. Sound effects, flashing lights and all.

“Luckily, I did.” Also luckily, he’d returned to normal-conversation mode, playing with the hem of his shirt. “Or rather, I bought one matching the uniform.”

Her damp hair only reminded her of her own already used towel, stuffed into her locker. If she’d come in her own car, she wouldn’t have minded, but…

“Hey, um… Could you give me a lift, later?” she asked. “I came with one of the kids and since you’re already ruining one seat of your car…”

He shrugged. “Suuure, I can ruin another. Anything for you.” He said it with a sarcastic overtone, but there was a sincerity that came with it that made the impulse to stick her tongue down his throat hard to control. At least he was wearing a shirt again.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.” He gave her a multi-layered smile. “What are friends for?”

She bit her lip as an idea sprung up in her mind. “Are you hungry?”

“Um… Kinda. Swimming does make hungry.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You were in the water for what, five minutes?”

“Yeah. So? I burned a lot of energy fighting a sea witch.”

Her jaw dropped and he took a step back at the look on her face. “How about you take another swim, you cocky little–“

“Food sounds great!” he practically yelled to drown out whatever insult she was going to use, glancing at a number of kids trotting past and at the parents over on the benches. A few heads turned at his loud voice. “Are you thinking fries that always have either too little or too much salt?” With his head, he gestured in the direction of the snack bar.

“Eh… Too overpriced.” She fiddled with a strand of hair that had escaped her braid. “I was thinking someplace dry. Didn’t you mention this new burger place near your apartment?”

“Right! Someplace dry. Makes sense. Dry. Burger. Yes. Sounds great!”

Sitting on a towel-covered car seat as he drove her home, she kept arguing with herself that this was as much a date as their walk through the woods. Which was not at all. And the little bit of mascara and lip gloss she put on after her shower was only reflecting her celebratory mood after her team’s victory. She even used the raspberry and cheesecake shaving cream she found in her duffel bag, although the smell of it was way too artificial for her taste.

As she took a last look in her mirror before she left for her lunch not-date, the evidence was staring right back in her face. She wanted this to be a date. She wanted it so badly. But it wasn’t, and it shouldn’t be. Just two friends trying out a new burger place. Case closed.

_______________

“Now listen to me, you little tyke! Astrid will be here any minute and I want you to behave! That means no jumping up legs, no clawing at pants, no impersonating hurricanes on crack, no begging for food and– Toothless, no–“

Hiccup pried his hand away from his cat, inspecting the marks its teeth and claws had left on his skin. Nothing very visible, at least. “You, sir, are a hopeless case.” With a last disapproving shake of his head, he got up from his crouch and scanned the place for the hundredth time. He’d tidied up, but not completely, leaving just enough of a mess to seem casual. He didn’t want to give her the impression that he’d cleaned the whole place because of her.

He probably should have insisted they talk about whatever thing was between them. Not agree to wait for her to come around. But in that moment, she’d been standing right there, a vulnerability about her that rendered him unable to go through with it.

And there was this part of him that was afraid of the outcome. Walking out of her life when they’d hardly known each other had been hard and made him miserable for such a long time, he didn’t want to know what it would be like this time. Because why would she choose the mere friend she had sort of a special connection with and was perhaps kind of attracted to over someone she’d been in a relationship for years with and was also married to? Besides, there was still a big chance it was all just in his head.

He groaned. He was overthinking again. He’d been over this. Several times. As if on cue, a confirming yawn weaseled its way out of him. If she needed time for herself to figure things out, to navigate herself and come to terms with whatever she was feeling, he would give her the time. He just had to make sure they weren’t running to nowhere, circling the problem like scared vultures.

But he wouldn’t worry about that today. Today was a day for burgers and friends.

“That doesn’t include you, you butt-licking scallywag,” he called in the direction of his cat who was still sitting on the floor, cleaning its backside with a leg stretched over its head. But Hiccup didn’t have time for imaginary arguments with his pet, wincing at the sound of the doorbell.

Her hair was loose, only a few front strands braided back. It was falling freely down her shoulders and back, shining like her eyes when he invited her in, heart pounding in his chest.

“We can leave in a minute, I just have to hang my laundry real quick. In the meantime, my roomie will give you the tour.” He gestured towards the living room where Toothless was hopefully done licking his behind. Or even still in the room. Would be awkward if he returned to Astrid standing there all alone, probably bored out of her mind, just because he hadn’t timed washing his sheets right.

But he didn’t have to worry, because when he returned from his small roofed balcony, he could hear her talking to his cat – he strongly assumed she was talking to his cat, otherwise he’d be concerned – in a voice one would talk to a laughing baby with.

“Who’s the little dwagon? Who’s a little dwagon? You’re a little dwagon!”

“Don’t boost his ego too much, he already thinks he’s the alpha of the house.” She looked up as he entered the room, walking in on her sitting cross-legged on the couch, petting Toothless’ stomach, his claws and teeth playfully buried in her hand.

“Oh, but he’s so cute!” She wiggled her hand and didn’t even wince as the claws dug deeper.

“Don’t let him fool you. By tonight, he will have established for himself that he’s the king of dragons or something, if you keep on telling him that.”

“Hiccup is just jealous,” she whispered to the cat in a conspiratorial voice. “Because he’s not the one getting belly rubs.”

“W-wait, what?”

She let go of Toothless, swatting away the paws chasing after her retreating fingers. He could see the red lines left by sharp cat claws, the burning phantom sensation dancing across his skin at the sight. “Don’t worry about it,” she remarked, getting up from the couch and brushing past him. “Let’s go for lunch!”

Blinking a couple times to ban the idea of Astrid giving him belly rubs from his mind, he grabbed his keys and made sure the cat didn’t get out when they left the apartment.

The dry, warm weather from the past weeks had shifted into a cloudy sky and a drizzle, humidifying the air and painting the pavement in a darker color. The walk to the newly opened restaurant wasn’t far, but in the fifteen minutes it took them to get there, the rain steadily increased and they made it just in time for the big downpour.

“Maybe we should have come by car,” he mused. Hers was parked right behind his, back on his street. “Or at least brought an umbrella.”

She waved it off. “It’ll stop while we’re eating.”

And she was right; by the time they took their first bites, the odd sunbeam here and there reflected the light in the puddles on the street and the only drizzle came from dripping awnings and overflowing gutters.

“Told you,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, a piece of lettuce sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she chewed. It was lethally cute.

The food was amazing, even though it was cold when they finished it, wasting so much time talking and laughing and pretending this didn’t feel like a date, somehow. It was like he’d known her forever. He realized his initial plan (or rather hope) of getting over her had been doomed to fail from the start. And there was no turning back now, or ever again. He might as well have sold his soul to her the night they met.

He supposed it was just his luck that the sky opened up again on their way back. Cold rain drops ran down his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. He kept his head down as best he could but he had no chance against the forces of nature – a theme that seemed to be a running gag in his life at this point. They reached his house soaked to the bone.

“Drenched twice in one day,” he complained over Astrid’s ecstatic giggles. That girl seemed to be alive around every shape of water.

“Now imagine being a swimmer,” she quipped back.

“As a swimmer, I’d get wet voluntarily.” Once inside the apartment, he went to grab two towels from the bathroom, almost tripping over a bundle of black fur. “You know, I almost don’t miss living with you, bud.” The cat brushed along his legs. “Almost.”

He found Astrid in the kitchen, inspecting his old radio. Accepting one of the towels and wringing out her hair, she nodded at it. “We used to have the same one at home once.” She tried switching it on, but no sound came out.

“You have to switch it back and forth fast a few times.” She did so, and after a few seconds of static noise, the antenna found a signal. The quality of the speakers was better than the ancient device let it appear, playing music through the kitchen and the adjacent living room with a clear sound.

Humming along, Hiccup towel dried his hair as best he could, willing it to not stick in every possible direction after.

Astrid started swaying to the fast beat, bent forward so her hair was almost reaching the floor. Between herself and the towel, her voice came out slightly muffled. “I like this one. It’s at the same time modern and has an eighties flair.” At once, she threw her head back, hair flying through the air, smacking against her back.

He turned up the volume, watching her movements become faster, the spark of the music infecting her whole body until she jumped and twirled through the open doorway to the living room. Past the shelves, the TV, the stereo that would have provided much better sound quality, wild loose hair framing her face.

“Uuuh, I’m blinded by the liiights,” she sang, hitting maybe half the notes right, not bothered by it in the slightest. He felt her spirit in his chest, unable to stay still any longer. His dance moves likely made him look very stupid, but in his current company, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

The song ended, blending into the next one neatly, despite the initial change of rhythm. It picked up speed, slowed down, picked up speed again. He bumped into his furniture, into Astrid, and was sure he heard a brief animalistic shriek before a dash of black disappeared around the corner.

Taking a deep breath in unison, they shouted out the lyrics. “Toora loora, toora loo rye ay!” Her hands found his, twirling some more, completely caught up in the cheerful music. “Eileen, I’ll hum this tune forever!” Said tune slowed considerably into a swaying rhythm, only to come back fast for the finale, for which Astrid twirled herself around in dizzying speed. She was a human twister, a tornado of gold and blue, sweeping through the room, journey ending at the counter back in the kitchen. As he caught up with her, the song faded out, a newscaster taking its place.

They were both panting, wide grins matching. She staggered a little, catching herself on his shoulder and holding onto it until the room stopped spinning for her. When she looked up, her grin slowly disappeared, the heat of her body so close. He gulped as she inched forward and he was equally pulled in, eyes fluttering closed, the force of the magnet between them too strong to fight.

For the briefest of moments, their lips brushed, and the strong surge of lightning rushing through his veins at the faint contact brought him back to reality. Back to the tiled floor of his kitchen, back to his damp clothes, to the monotone voice of the newscaster on the radio. When he opened his eyes, he was met with two conflicted reflections of a stormy sky. Taking a shaky breath, she removed her hand from his arm and took a few steps back. He could neither move nor speak, muscles seized up from electrocution.

“I…” She took a deep steadying breath. “I need to go.” For a moment longer, she was equally frozen in place. “I just… I need to go home.”

And with that, she turned around, and then he heard the front door close behind her. Through the kitchen window, he saw her getting into her car. Starting it. Driving away.

He didn’t know how much longer he stood there. The clouds parted. She didn’t come back.

#httyd #hiccstrid #fanfiction #hiccup haddock #astrid hofferson #when lightning strikes #modern au #a bit of angst with a dash of drama #or the other way around #maja writes #ff #fanfic #how to train your dragon

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honsoolie · 5 years ago

Text

don’t rush | 01

pairing: Yoongi/reader

genre: slight enemies to lovers, college au, fluff, eventual smut, classical pianist!yoongi, violinist!reader, they’re both actually really into each other but won’t admit it

warnings (for this chapter only): y/n has awful stage fright/performance anxiety, alcohol is mentioned, swearing, sexual references

words: 6.6k

rating: +18

summary: You know, when Min Yoongi's face isn't screwed into an accusatory scowl, he looks exactly like the kind of guy you'd have no trouble falling in love with. Or, the conservatory au where Yoongi helps you get over your stage fright. In more ways than one.

a/n: I’ve been reading fanfics for years and finally bit the bullet! I’m currently working on the other chapters and will have them up soon... and I promise there will be significantly more action in them ;) This is also crossposted to ao3, so you can check it out there too!

You know, when Min Yoongi’s face isn’t screwed into an accusatory scowl, he looks exactly like the kind of guy you’d have no trouble falling in love with. Even the back of his head is enticing as you stare at him in the middle of your Beethoven lecture. You struggle to focus to take notes on Beethoven’s genius deviations from sonata form, as Yoongi leans back and stretches his arms above his head. You wish you could see him from the front, see what his expression looks like when he’s not telling you to get the fuck out of his practice room. Instead, you settle for watching him bounce his leg up and down, now hunched over his notes.

Fuck, it’s been a long time since you’ve felt that uneasiness in the pit of your stomach. The butterflies start to bubble up every time you see him, even in passing. You’ve never been able to escape his presence on campus, seeing him everywhere but never actually speaking.

Any time you’ve seen him on campus, he’s always with Taehyung - Taehyung being the other violinist in the tiny music department. You see them often on campus, walking together between the cafe and the music building. You see Yoongi when he’s alone in the cafe, nursing a coffee and brooding over some orchestral score, or in passing when you’re run-walking between classes to reserve your favorite practice room before anyone else can. And since both of you are music majors in the same year, you’ve shared a majority of the music classes that you’ve taken up until now.

You wonder if he can see the longing written all over your face when you see him in classes, but he never spares you more than a second glance. If that. The most likely scenario is that he doesn’t know you even exist.

Whenever you see him though, all you can do is bite down the nervousness and replay the last (and also first) time that you spoke to him. The hard look in his eye, the way that he slammed the door in your face.

The first time that you talked to Min Yoongi, you could barely look him in the eye. And it’s not because he’s maddeningly gorgeous and even more intimidating. Well, a little bit.

The lack of eye contact had more to do with the fact the headache that had been plaguing you was starting to threaten your ability to stand up straight. Even through your blurry vision and the disapproving pout on his face, he was still so. Fucking. Hot. How was any of this fair?

The exchange you shared with Yoongi was just another incident in the long string of unfortunate mishappenings that one Tuesday morning.

That morning, you weren’t sure if it was your alarm or your throbbing head that woke you up. If the alarm was bothering your roommate, she didn’t stir from her side of the room. You had tried to will yourself awake, making out patterns in the ceiling tile, vision blurring.

You remembered weighing your options, like you did every single morning. You could drag your ass out of bed, and pick up some coffee before rushing to reserve your favorite practice room in the music building. You could take the time to run through some drills for your lesson this week, a little extra practice to escape the scrutiny of your violin teacher.

Or, you could go back to sleep for another couple of hours and just tell your teacher that you’re sick. You groan, knowing what the answer is supposed to be.

The air was cold when you pushed the covers off your body. Even in the dead middle of a long and difficult winter, your university was still too cheap to enable the central heating in your building. You didn’t need to look outside to know that it had been snowing, your room awash in a white glow that you were all too familiar with. Your roommate was still sound asleep, and you had felt the fleeting spark of jealousy at how peaceful she had looked. You still tiptoed around the room trying to get dressed quickly. You just knew you didn’t get enough sleep last night when it started to feel like you were fighting gravity just trying to put pants on. Everything moved in slow motion, shifting like sand.

When you finally started walking, no, trudging , to the music building, you were disappointed to learn that you were right and that it had been snowing. The wind bit at the soft skin underneath your collar, seeping through the fabric of your jeans. The arrival of your every breath was announced by a plume of white vapor. You fucking hate the cold.

Call it intuition, but you could already tell from the start that today wasn’t going to be a good day. The coffee that you had ordered did nothing to soothe the cold that was beginning to ache from the inside out. It left a waxy taste in your mouth when you knocked back some ibuprofen. As you continued the trek to the music building, coffee kept dribbling out from under the lid and into the sleeve of your jacket. Several times you slipped on the melting ice, only catching yourself at the last moment.

Your hands were numb through and through by the time you got inside, struggling to open the locker that kept your violin safe. Shivering and clutching your violin case in your stiff hands, you made your way inside the hall. The inside of the music building of your university was hardly any refuge compared to the conditions outside. You braced yourself, knowing the ordeal you were inevitably going to go through tuning your violin.

Your violin was a fickle mistress. Be it cold, warm, humid, too humid, not humid enough, or even just bad vibes, your violin would go out of tune. The winter weather had not been easy on your instrument, going sharp at even the drop of a hat.

At that early in the morning, you had (foolishly) hoped your favorite practice room was unoccupied. Well, it’s everyone’s favorite practice room. It’s the only one that isn’t completely gross inside, but it’s really just the better of two evils. It has the newest piano of all the other ones in the building, and also the only room without a draft in it, so you won’t go completely flat after twenty minutes of practice.

With your case in one hand and a coffee in the other, there wasn’t a whole lot of grip you can use to open the door to the practice room. You settled for forcing the crook of your elbow into the doorknob and leveraging your body weight against the door. It took a couple tries, when but you got it open, it wasn’t the empty silence you were expecting.

In the dim light of the doorway, all you saw was the shadow of someone hunched over the piano pressed up against the wall, facing away from you. He was so immersed in his playing that he hadn’t noticed you at first. His sheet music was laid out before him in a neat row, and even from your distance you saw the meticulous markings over the music. It looked like a scene out of a movie, the way it took over his whole body, the way he moved over the keys. You saw it in the way that he moved with the phrases, dipping and swelling. He looked like he had always been there, and he’ll always be there.

The figure stopped playing, back still turned to you. He turned around, looking you in the eye.

Of course. Of all the music students to interrupt, it just had to be Yoongi. Fuck, you hate walking in on people practicing. It’s already like competing in the Hunger Games trying to find a suitable practice room. And half the time the rooms stink of dampness or dining hall food or the tears of the hopeless, so imagine adding salt to the wound by interrupting a practice session.

Your genius first reaction was to jump out of the doorway and let the door slam shut, startled.

Even now, sitting two rows behind him in lecture, weeks later, you still cringe at what you had done. You grip your pen a little tighter, trying to keep up with the rest of the class. But you still can’t help yourself from reliving the memory.

You had stood outside, frozen in shame.

Before you had the chance to flee, one Min Yoongi appeared at the door. His face was twisted not into a grimace, but it definitely wasn’t a smile, either.

“What do you want,” He huffed out, “I was in the middle of something.”

“Sorry, I-I thought this room was empty.” The words get caught in your throat. You mentally kicked yourself for starting to blush.

“It’s not.” He gestured at his backpack on the ground, various method books littered at his feet. You two stared back at each other, at an impasse.

You remember his tired sigh. “Do you need anything else?” You couldn’t read anything in his expression, taken aback at how curt he had been.

“Uh, no.” You tightened your grip on the handle of your case, and felt the warmth of the coffee seeping into your palm. At that point, there wasn’t a lot left tethering you right now. The heartbeat in your head was beginning to become tangible.

“Okay then. I’m sure there are other practice rooms you can use.” He shut the door, returning to whatever he was practicing, leaving you in stunned silence. If Yoongi was playing right now, you couldn’t hear it.

So there you were, standing in the hall of the music building in the early morning, two hours left until your lesson. Coffee was still dripping down your sleeve, Min Yoongi just slammed a door in your face, and your head feels like it’s going to fucking explode.

Damn you, you had thought to yourself, cursing him through the door. Damn you and your arrogance, and your trendy wire-rimmed glasses, and your long delicate fingers. You stormed off (more like stumbled, given the state of your head) to the adjacent practice room, cheeks hot with embarrassment.

Okay, maybe you were being a little overdramatic. He didn’t exactly slam the door in your face. And you didn’t knock. If you didn’t know any better, you would have assumed that he was just being cold. But you’ve been the person in the practice room and you’ve never been thrilled to find that someone had walked in on you after fighting tooth and nail for a practice room.

In a way, it was also about power. You walked in on him in a compromised position, like he was in a state of undress. Well, he kind of was. In your own experience you hate to have anyone hear what you haven’t chosen to show, anything you haven’t perfected to show the outside world. You hate being walked in on, but maybe it’s just you.

Maybe Yoongi was pissed that you had heard him working on a piece that he was struggling with. Maybe he hated your guts. Maybe he was so overwhelmed by your powerful sexual presence that he had no choice but to close the door in your face. You would ponder his intentions more, but class was over. You’d have to wait until Friday to see him again.

Johann Sebastian Bach is not a bad person. He’s never done you wrong. In fact, you have never even met him. He’s dead, for god’s sake.

But it really does feel something like vengeance from beyond the grave when it’s two a.m. in the morning, slogging through his music and feeling your shoulder burn under the weight of your violin and the unending pressure of never feeling good enough for anybody.

It’s not like you’re playing Bach’s music for your own selfish enjoyment. His piece, the one you’ve been working on, is your one way ticket to a spot in the annual Bach Festival next month. The festival is the pride and joy of the music program, pulling in big performers and big crowds. Any classical musician has a soft spot for Bach, even just a little. Even you do too, but it wouldn’t be fair to say that right now. Not after you’ve spent the better part of an hour trying not to rip your hair out over the same section. Even without the music of the festival, it’s always a good excuse for the performing music majors to get together afterward and get trashy drunk.

Last year at the afterparty, Taehyung had drunkenly told you that he was jealous of your vibrato while Yoongi stood by, watching in abject embarrassment. Even then, Yoongi didn’t offer you any words.

And it’s not like you are playing in the Bach festival out of your own free will. After some gentle coercion (read: the cold, hard eyes of the music department head, Dr. Yang, boring into the depths of your puny musician soul) you found yourself with a whole new piece to add to this semester’s repertoire and only a month to bring it some musical justice and to commit it to memory.

Don’t ever let Dr. Yang ever hear this, but you’ve never liked this partita this much anyway. Fighting the cold dead ghost of J.S. Bach and his charming partitas is the last thing that you want to do every evening when you really could just be doing anything else.

It’s most definitely not like you’re any stranger to performing and you really want this opportunity, truly. But blending into the gentle melody of the rest of your string quartet or the roar of the orchestra is worlds away from being alone on stage. There’s a comfort in the safety that comes from numbers. It’s easy enough to play for your teacher. The space that the both of you exist in is just right: you see her once a week, and she’s paid to deliver you with honest criticism. It’s straightforward, a mutual agreement.

But performing is different. It’s easy enough to be vulnerable like that in front of someone that just wants you to do better. Someone that you pay to make you get better. Someone that’s been doing it for the better part of their life and will understand the craft better than you ever will. But an open concert hall with anyone? That’s too much.

You’ve tried everything short of hard drugs to remedy the stage fright. Deep breathing exercises, imagining everyone before you is naked (which really, really makes it worse), carbo-loading. At this point, your body rejects performing. The fear is all-consuming and overwhelming. And the worst part is you know it’s all in your head.

What could you possibly be afraid of? You know you’ve paid your dues, prepared months in advance for these performances and yet your head swims, your heart plays pinball in your insides, your hands tremble at the prospect. There is still something profoundly vulnerable about stepping out on stage alone, the click of your heels echoing through the concert hall, a prelude of what’s to come. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck raise knowing that every eye in the room is trained on you.

You really don’t have a choice in the matter. Your role in the Bach festival was long decided before you ever stepped foot on campus this semester. The music department has been planning this since the beginning of the academic year, and it’s not surprising that your name might have come up during the meetings that decided who would be on the program.

Even so, these kinds of late nights are not new.

The pressure of this semester took you off guard. The coursework is more than you’re used to, stretched too thin between violin lessons, quartet rehearsals, orchestra rehearsals. Neverending rehearsals. And then there’s the matter of your actual classes. You cringe at the thought of the philosophy paper due next week, the calculus problem set (which, by the way, why the hell did your advisor make you take this class?) due two days from now, the growing number of readings that you always mean to do. (But never do until the night before the midterm.)

After running through the same sections over and over with little progress, maybe, you decide, it’s time for a little break. Eyes bleary, you stifle a yawn as you place your violin back into its case. You gently sweep the rosin off the strings and the varnished exterior with a soft cloth, with the kind of love that a mother has for a newborn baby. You elect to leave your backpack and violin case in the practice room, promising yourself to come back and work on it some more before you leave for the night.

The only thought on your mind is the comfort of the broken-in couch that lives in the hallway of the second floor of the music building. It’s been there longer than you have, longer than anyone at this school has been. The couch is shaped like a lopsided smile, creaking underneath your weight when you lay down on it.

This is the only relief you’re going to get today, aside from when you finally go back to your dorm room to sleep. Just a couple minutes out here to rest, and you should be able to go inside and maybe run through the piece a couple more times.

When you finally relax, your joints ache and the pricking pain comes back to your fingertips. Blood wells up in the calluses on your left hand, but it’s nothing new. Maybe you have been overworking yourself a little, but all of that pales in comparison to the deadlines looming over your head for the next couple months. A couple sleepless nights mulling over pieces in the practice room are likely necessary to be able to meet your goals. Well, it's been more than a couple sleepless nights, actually. The past three weeks were all spent here. Anyone in the music building in the evening, any evening, could hear the warble of your violin if they strained their ears enough.

The couch feels too much like the lumpy mattress sitting in your dorm room. Better, actually. A couple minutes of quiet contemplation pass, fidgeting with the hem of your sweatshirt. Your eyelids keep closing not of your own volition, and it’s becoming more and more difficult to open them each time. You drift off into a restless sleep, murky dreams shadowed by all the work that you have cut out for you for the rest of this week.

“Hey, hey, y/n.” Something, or someone, rouses you from your sleep. A gentle hand on your shoulder, a soft voice in the distance. You’re too stunned and groggy to do much of anything than bring a hand to cover the lights overhead.

Min Yoongi stands before you, coffee in hand. He’s making that face that he’s always making, lips drawn in a tight line and brow furrowed in what looks a lot like disdain.

Before you get the chance to say anything, memories of the last time you spoke flood you.

“It is y/n, right? Your name is y/n?” You realize your compromised position, prone and folded up on the sagging couch.

“Um, yeah.” You sit up, running a hand through your hair, trying not to make your embarrassment apparent. He doesn’t say anything else, just looking at you, evaluating your mess of a person.

“Sorry,” you say, sounding sheepish despite yourself. You can only hope that you weren’t sleeping with your mouth open.

“Sorry for what? The only thing you’re doing wrong is sleeping on that damned couch. Do you know how many people have fucked on that thing?”

You stutter, lost for words. Laughter comes out at the seams. It’s the second time that you’ve spoken to him and that’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth, but what else would you expect? Most of your interactions with him to date involve you trying not stare in the middle of your species counterpoint lecture. But who cares about writing perfectly structured harmony when you can stare at his perfectly structured hands?

It’s unfair how good he looks right now, at the witching hour on a weeknight. The aloof, barely present, I-could-totally-be-anywhere-else thing works for him. It works for you, at least.

But none of it matters now, both of you are talking now. It’s past midnight in the creaky music building, anything can happen.

“It’s Yoongi, right?” You question, the grogginess leaving and something else settling in. It’s all for show. Of course you know his name.

He nods in affirmation.

“Why did you have to wake me up in the first place? You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s getting late, you know. I didn’t want you to wake up and realize you’ve been locked inside the music building.” Min Yoongi adjusts his glasses, genuine concern in his eyes when he continues, “I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”

You relax a little, softening at the edges, leaning more into the sinking couch and away from his imposing gaze. The butterflies return again, and your mind blanks thinking of a response to his concern. You must be really fucked if simple eye contact reduces you to a dysfunctional mess.

“I-I’m fine, just working on this stupid piece. And I can say the same for you. Why are you here so late?” You stutter over your words. Get yourself together. This is your chance to finally talk to him. Just don’t fuck it up now.

Yoongi bristles where he stands. “Same as you. Why else would I be in the practice rooms so late?” He returns your knowing smile.

“I mean, it’s a college campus. They’re private, soundproof practice rooms. He was a boy, she was a girl, can I make it any more obvious?” Your eyes crinkle at the corners when you smile up at him.

“You’re overestimating me.” He chuckles low and it goes straight to the pit of your stomach.

“Are you playing at the Bach festival?” Yoongi says, moving to sit down next to you, The couch sinks ever lower under his weight. Yoongi was right: people really are fucking on the couch after hours.

“Hoping to, at least. This partita will be the end of me.” You put your head in your hands, groaning. The memory of your previous practice session returns, reminded of all the hours left that you’ll spend chipping away at all the notes. It feels like a weight has returned to your shoulders. Even the thrill of getting to talk to Yoongi isn’t enough to distract you from all the stress of the Bach festival.

“I’m sure it’s fine. You’re here all time, hogging the nice practice rooms. You can’t be practicing this much and have it sound bad.”

“That’s because you’ve never heard me play,” you jab. This conversation isn’t going anywhere, maybe you read it all wrong.

“Well,” he quips, “Maybe you should let me hear you.” When he meets your eye again, there’s something else in his expression.

You weigh your options. This might be one of the only times that you ever speak to Min Yoongi again for the rest of the semester.

Pros: You get to talk to him for longer than three seconds. You get a second, outside opinion from someone who doesn’t play violin.

Cons: You have to actually show him what you’ve been working on.

“If you’re up for it, maybe you could hear me now. I could really use a second opinion on this piece before my lesson next week.” Ugh, fuck it.

You can feel it bubbling up now, the same anxiety in the pit of your stomach. You’ve felt it in the sweltering heat of the backstage behind a velvet curtain, and now you’re feeling it in the stagnant air of the second floor of the music building. But if it gives you a chance to talk to Min Yoongi, you might as well take it.

You watch him consider your words. A silence falls between you both, widening into a maw. Were you too forward? Maybe this was all a mistake. You’ve offered something that he doesn’t want, and this is all going to fall apart, and he’s going to think you’re weird for propositioning him.

You can see it now, two days from now when you see him in your Beethoven lecture. He’ll avoid your gaze as you walk into the classroom, and he’ll have forgotten your name by next semester.

Before you can berate yourself further, Yoongi smiles. He looks surprised, like you’re doing him a favor. “You’d really let me hear you play?”

Relief colors your smile.

“Of course. The best pianist in the whole department, all to myself?” Flattery makes Min Yoongi blush, you discover.

“It’s nice to have someone finally admit it,” Yoongi trails off. “So, are you going to let me hear you play? Sitting on this couch is nice, but you know what this couch is really for.”

“Ha, ha. Sure.” Both of you shuffle to your practice room, Yoongi holding the door open for you. When you brush past him, you can smell the lingering coffee on his breath and whatever laundry detergent he’s using. It’s dizzying.

You begin to take your things out of your case, taking extra care to rosin your bow even though you did it earlier. You take the extra time to wipe the varnished wood of your violin, sweeping at rosin marks that aren’t there just to stretch the time out more.

“So,” you begin, “What were you working on in the other room?”

“I was actually just working on some drills, nothing in particular.” In the meantime, Yoongi takes a seat at the piano bench and it looks like he’s always been there. Like he belongs there, just like that morning in the practice rooms.

Yoongi can tell that you love what you do in the careful, practiced way that you open your case and delicately tighten your bow. He’s never seen you in your element before, not like this, not in this proximity. Yoongi straightens himself in his chair when he realizes that his eyes have trailed from your shoulder rest to your ass.

“Hm, yeah. I should work more on technique practice too… I’ve just been working on repertoire lately. To be honest, I don’t run through my scales as often as I should.”

“You know, it might sound familiar to you. The etude I was working on, I mean. It was the one I was working on when you so rudely barged in on me that one time.” He says, all arrogance. Smugness all over his smile. You hate him for it.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry about that!” You cringe at the memory, “I can’t believe you remember that.” Your efforts at setting up your shoulder rest are twice renewed.

“Of course I do. How can I forget something like that?” Yoongi crosses his arms, leaning back. “Now you’re just making it even.”

You’re too flustered to tell if he’s genuinely flirting, but whatever it is, it does nothing to calm your nervousness.

“Um, before I start, I should probably tell you that it’s kind of rough. Like, I started on it recently, and I’m still not that happy with it…” You trail off, looking unsure. Your violin begins to droop from where it’s resting on your shoulder. The pit of your stomach feels light again, but it’s not arousal or attraction this time, just the same stage fright that’s tormenting you since forever. Yoongi is worried you’ll give into it, put your violin back in the case and pretend this never happened.

“Hey, I really don’t know that much about violin and I don’t even know what your piece is. I just want to hear you play,” Yoongi’s soft tone surprises you. He pauses, slowly meeting your eye, “Please?”

You would do anything to hear that again. To see and hear Min Yoongi sitting before you with those asking eyes, saying please just one more time. Maybe it’s the late hour or lingering delirium from your fevered sleep, but you get the feeling that he doesn’t usually show that to just anyone.

You pretend to consider his words, but you were bought the second that he asked you “please.” You drag out the act as long as you can muster.

He’s still looking at you, asking with his eyes.

“Hmm, okay,” You dig your toe through some invisible spot on the carpet, now too shy to meet his gaze. You move your sheet music on the stand, not that you need to, realizing that your hands are trembling. Performance anxiety bubbles up within you, shaking your heart and hands the same. You tamp it down.

“I’ll show you. But it’s only for you, okay?” This is a low risk situation, he doesn’t know what it sounds like, and if it all goes to shit, just skip sections, you tell yourself, stilling the frantic breath in your lungs. You shut your eyes, blinking, placing your hand in the correct position and the bow resting lightly on the string. One more deep breath and you start to count off in your head, reeling up to play. It’s okay. It’s fine, everything is going to be okay. You ignore his gaze, on you and only you. There’s nothing else to look at but you, anyway. There is only the soundproof padding and the panel mirror mounted to the wall, the piano that sits pressed up against the wall in this cramped up room. You work your way through the scale patterns and the rolled chords that Bach laid out centuries ago, easy going so far. You shut your eyes again.

Yoongi can tell that you’re nervous. Really nervous. He can see the tension in the way you stand, in the way that you tremble when you lift your bow. It doesn’t sit right with him that his simple presence in the practice room unnerves you so much. But it’s not like he’s completely unaware of what he does to you. Yoongi remembers that morning in the practice rooms, vividly. He remembers your doe-eyed expression, silently begging for forgiveness. He also remembers all those furtive glances you take in lecture together, like you didn’t think he’d notice. He thinks it’s cute. Endearing, almost.

It’s unfair how nervous you seem when he knows how good you are. God knows there have been enough hazy Saturday nights when he’s tipsy, Taehyung’s tipsy, everyone’s tipsy - and Taehyung is complaining about the cute violinist girl with impeccable vibrato and is always hogging the best practice room.

He can see you starting to relax, the passion alight in your eyes, so awake and alive even in the dead of night. You sway on your feet, like this is somewhere glamorous and not a dingy fluorescent practice room. He blushes when the tempo picks up, something else in your expression now, and he notices how dexterous your hands are. What’s even more attractive is the way you seem so removed from everything. He watches the way that the world around you fades away. It’s just you and your music, nothing else that matters in the world.

How could he have ever strained his ears for your muffled playing outside the practice rooms, if this was what was inside?

It’s easier to focus on the sound when you’re not looking at him looking at you. The muscle memory comes back and your mind goes elsewhere, anywhere away from Min Yoongi. You can only hope you’re not pulling an ugly smile, and that your shoulder rest isn’t giving you a double chin. You try to put your focus on the right amount of vibrato, your bow control, the dynamics. Like always, the music sucks you up and pulls you in (even if it is an overplayed Bach partita), pausing only briefly to turn the page on your music. It’s not until the thirty-second note runs until you begin to stutter. Your fingers trip over themselves as you struggle to play them on tempo and that’s when you stop, finally meeting Yoongi’s eyes for the first time after.

“And that’s about as far as I got. I’ll spare you from what the rest sounds like so far. I’d rather show you what I have on tempo first.” You are breathless, but so is Yoongi, but he’d never tell you that. His eyes are dilated, lips parted, cheeks pink. But at this distance you don’t notice, too self-conscious about your performance to focus on anything else. Yoongi hasn’t said anything, just looking at you intently, looking lost in thought. The silence is heavy.

“So… what did you think?” You look less confident than before, more wry and unsure of yourself.

“It was, wow, they weren’t wrong. You sound really good. You are really good.” Yoongi rubs his hands up and down his thighs, hands clammy. He rambles on, “That was great. Thank you, thank you, um, for showing me.”

“What do you mean?” You laugh a little, just to clear the suddenly serious atmosphere. “Who is they?”

“Well, everyone thinks that you’re an amazing violinist. Taehyung has said a lot about you, and some of my other friends have too.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that I had a reputation.” You take the shoulder rest off your violin and put it back into its rightful place, the tiredness settling in deeper into your bones. It’s truly late now.

“Of course you have a reputation, have you heard yourself?” Yoongi sounds incredulous.

“I mean, I thought I was just okay,” You nervously run a hand through your hair. You wipe your violin down again, just to give your hands something to do. You shut the book on the music stand and stow it away in your case.

“You’re more than okay. It sucks to see you doubt yourself. I hope that’s okay for me to say.” Yoongi follows the movement of your hands as you close the clasps on your case, everything packed away. Is it really time to go already?

“I haven’t met a single musician that doesn’t feel that way about their own playing.” You sit next to him on the piano bench. The conversation is more heavy than you would like, too late at night to be introspective, and you just want to get that disappointed expression off his face.

“But yeah, it sucks.”

Yoongi sucks his lower lip between his teeth, sucking in breath. There is mirth in his eyes. “Well, I never get nervous about playing.” He places his hands on the keyboard, taking a sharp breath again. “You’ve probably heard it before, but the trick is to pretend like you know exactly what you’re doing. You just really have to believe in it. And that everyone in the room is naked.” You don’t notice the way that his eyes travel down your body when he says “naked.”

He makes a big show of playing Chopsticks, but he can’t hide his laughter. Neither can you. By the time he’s finished, you are collapsed over the keys, doubled over in laughter. Yoongi stands from the bench and takes a bow. If you weren’t still so nervous, you might have noticed the flush on his cheeks, creeping down into his collar.

“Thank you, thank you.” He pouts. “Where’s my applause?”

You clap your hands for him, greatly exaggerating the motion. “Bravo, bravo,” wiping fake tears from your eyes.

When the laughter fades away, and your heart has calmed down, the silence settles in again. You want to flee, worried that you’ll end up saying the wrong thing. You get up from the bench, stretching your legs a little, not missing how tired your body is. You pick up your case.

Yoongi can’t hide the disappointed expression on his face. “Oh, are you leaving?” He checks the time on his wristwatch. “It is pretty late after all…”

You check the time as well, shocked at the hour. You must have slept longer than you thought, or maybe spending time with Yoongi flew by. “I should be getting back to the dorm, I have early classes tomorrow.”

“Do you live on campus?” Yoongi gets up as well, putting his hands in his pockets, “I could walk you back, it’s not really safe to be walking alone at this hour…”

“Yeah, I live on campus.” You sling your backpack over your shoulder and hug your case to your chest. At this proximity, Yoongi seems a lot taller than you had previously thought. “And that would be really nice. Do you live on campus? I don’t want to make you walk too far.”

“I live in an apartment close to campus, walking distance. It’s really not too much.” Both of you head for the door, exiting the music building into the harsh winter chill. You hug your case a little closer to you, shivering in your thin sweatshirt.

The walk back to your dorm is shorter than you would like, and you are back before you know it. Yoongi distracts you from the bitter chill with his voice on the way back, regaling you with tales of how he discovered what Taehyung was doing with Jungkook, the resident bassoonist, on the couch that you were sleeping on just hours ago.

“Ugh, gross. I’ll never be able to look at the couch the same.” You wrinkle your face in disgust.

You turn around to face him at the staircase in front of your dorm. “So, um, thanks for walking me back.”

You really don’t know what to say to him, so you settle for, “That was fun.”

So that’s all there was. It’d be a lie to say that you weren’t a little disappointed that you couldn’t talk to him more, turn this into something more. But you got what you wanted, didn’t you? You got to talk to him for longer than three seconds, and now the night is over. It seems like he’s forgotten your previous practice room blunder. You turn around again, key in hand. You wonder what else you might have been able to say to him, if maybe you were just a bit braver.

“Bye,” you say, but it comes out as a tired whisper.

“Wait.” His hand closes over the slope of your shoulder, so gentle and featherlight, but your tired body stumbles back anyway.

“Could I-could I maybe… get your number? You should… you should let me return the favor sometime. You can hear me play, if you want to.” When you turn around again, the same pleading, asking expression is back. You follow the movement that his hand makes when he runs his hand through his hair, settling on the nape of his neck. He looks unsure. Like before, you would give anything to see that expression on his face again.

“Silly goose, I’ve already heard you play,” You play coy, but both you and Yoongi can see through it.

“Ha. Ha. I mean really, you should hear me play something a little more difficult. You should see what these hands can really do.” He waggles his fingers, and there’s relief in his eyes when he hears your answering laugh.

“That sounds good. Sure, you can have my number.” Yoongi hands you his phone and you type your number in.

“Goodnight, Yoongi.”

“Goodnight, y/n.”

These works are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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