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nyxdelanuit · 1 year ago

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Please Let Me Take You Ch 9

Bakugou x F!Reader, Kirishima x F!Reader TWs: Cheating, angst, unhealthy/abusive relationship, manipulation, smut, some big ol misunderstandings and misplaced anger this round. MASTERLIST

The morning comes upon you in waves. First, in the cracking dryness of your throat, reminding you of the days Katsuki would come home covered in soot and ash and destruction. Back when he would allow you to offer a shoulder to lean on. Before he moved you into this sterile, stainless, seamless bubble. Now the only mess that exists here is you. Especially now, when the sticky feeling settles on your skin, the sheets peeling away from you with each slight movement. You used to bask in the scent of caramel on your sheets, but now you can only place the bitter scent of burnt sugar. The ache settles into your muscles, worsening with each conscious thought that floods into your head, the more concrete everything starts to feel. Calling it a situation feels so dramatic, but no other words will grace your heavy mind.

You finally gather the courage to open your eyes and face the day once you notice how cold the bed is, a sure sign that Katsuki has been gone for a fair bit of time. Enough time that you feel comfortable slipping out of bed and getting right into the shower. It’s starting to become all too familiar to you, the way you scrub away the feeling of the sweat and his touch along with it. The way the discomfort doesn’t leave until you’re finally wrapped up in a towel and breathing in the steamy air, skin warm to the touch.

You thought you were finally starting to relax until your plans for the day popped back into your head. From one uncomfortable situation to another, and yet you weren’t dreading it as much as you did being at home. At least outside you felt like you could breathe.

You waited, looked at a few places you could choose from. You didn’t want to text Eiji too early. Inviting more conversation than necessary just felt… precarious. You already had enough on your plate with Katsuki, you didn’t want to brush this under the rug too…

It was a shame you couldn’t choose the cozy diner Eiji had brought you to, but you wanted to be on equal footing. Somewhere new for you both, somewhere in the city and easy to leave from if you needed to, but also somewhere quiet enough to actually talk. You took your time getting ready, letting the routine leech the stress from your shoulders. It was only when you were heading out the door that you sent the address for the place. You couldn’t text back if you were driving, and he absolutely would not want you to. It was a win-win in your book, an easy excuse for not checking his messages. A coward’s reaction, you were well aware. If only his words didn’t sway you so much, but you could feel yourself wavering even the night before. No, you needed to get your words out first, look him in the eye, and ask for answers. Hopefully, he’ll give them to you.

The drive was spent humming along to quiet music, trying to keep your mind occupied enough to not linger. It made no sense in trying to think of answers only he- and your fiance, you suppose- could give you. And despite your efforts, you could still feel the clamminess of your hands as you left your car, taking some deep breaths to try and shake the pit weighing down your stomach. Your late text gave you a little bit of a headstart, so you were able to order a drink and find a quiet corner, ignoring the notification waiting on your phone’s screen.

The first nip of guilt came when you saw him wander in the front door. You had seen him after overnight shifts, but he never looked this tired. You wondered which one of you had slept worse- if he had slept at all. Looking back on your last conversation, you couldn’t blame him. You probably wouldn’t have fared better if Katsuki hadn’t made his appearance. Small mercies, if you could call that a mercy.

And still, he met your gaze with a smile and a little wave, his dark hair still covering the pale scar, but you could still see the edge peeking out. You watched, taking him in as he ordered. For how big he was, he was so quiet. He radiated a kind of peace that scared you, especially considering why you were here today. But you set those thoughts aside, making room for the man coming to your table with his drink and the most hopeful look. You hoped you wouldn’t kill that look.

“Hey…” he sounded so breathless. You had seen him just after training, and he wasn’t near as out of breath as this, surely it couldn’t be from just you. But then again, he was especially soft with you.

“Hey, yourself.” You gave him a tired smile. You were reluctant to start this conversation now that you were here. It’s Eiji… you just wanted to enjoy your drinks and food and talk and drive around and…

And yet here you were, potentially forsaken what little peace you’ve been able to find lately. For answers. You wondered if it would be worth it. While your debate raged on in your head, Kirishima took the plunge for you.

“So, uh… I’m not great at these… Not really good at waiting when it seems like something’s wrong.” He chuckles, but it lacks his usual energy. “Maybe it’s a hero thing. You know, rushing in…” You didn’t, not really, but you could see that being the common thread between your friend, Katsuki, and the sweet man across from you.

“Yeah… I just… I visited Ochako yesterday.” He cuts off the sip he was taking, seeing how you hesitate.

“Oh, yeah! You, uh… you did mention that. Is everything alright?” You wave him off.

“They’re… they’re fine, they’re good. Just… well, um. Izuku said something.” You saw the way his grip changed on his cup. Not tightening, just… holding it more securely, closer to his body. “About you…” He sighs, running his hand through his hair. It seems like a habit he’s had for a while, as it lets you see the full scar and you doubt he’d actively show that off.

“Fuck… Midobro, I-I was gonna tell you everything, really. I just, well there was never a good time. Like a really good time.”

“You just couldn’t find the time to tell me that my fiance is the one that fucked up your hero career? Who scared you… Eiji…” You could feel the frustration building behind your eyes and resist the urge to rub it away. “What stopped you? It’s not like Katsuki and I are fighting because of you, we’re just… couples just fight.” The guilt on Eijirou’s face turns a bit bitter and tinged with worry.

“You aren’t just fighting, you have to know that. And I didn’t want you to think you couldn’t talk to me.” You groaned when you realized what he meant.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t be… I thought you were unbiased. Fuck, you have the most valid reason to not like him! And I’ve just been… spilling my guts to you. No wonder you had such specific advice, you’ve been where I am.” He tries to stop your spiral, moving a hand to cover yours.

“You’re right, and I know how dangerous it can be-” You pull your hand from his

“No, that’s not what I meant! I-I just mean that you used to be the closest to Katsuki, so of course you would know how he got when someone pushes his buttons-”

“Don’t you dare start putting all of this on yourself. You aren’t doing anything wrong, and even if you were pushing his buttons, I’m proof that he doesn’t know how to handle that well! There’s no excuse for how he treated me, and even less for how he’s treating you.” His voice grew sharp as he spoke, something bitter and rooted deep peeking its way out.

“No, Eiji, it’s not like that. It’s completely different from then…”

“That’s what I used to think too. He’d never hurt me, not really. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Until it was too much, and I can’t just wait around and watch you do the same.”

“So what, you’re just going to guilt me? Into what? Leeching off my friends until I somehow find a way out of this mess that I put myself in?” You were trying so hard to keep your voice level, but you could feel the volume building, the waver in your voice, and you could see the hurt in Eiji’s face.

‘What? No, of course not! I just want you to know that there are people you can lean on, people who can help you! I can help you!” The swirling of feelings in your chest, the odd betrayal, and the guilt warring inside you, you didn’t know how much longer you could take it.

“I never asked for your help.” You stood so swiftly, intent on leaving before he could sway you or you were sure you’d explode.

“Wait, please! I’m not trying to argue with you, and you don’t have to ask for my help… I want to help you, I want to help so bad…” It was difficult to not turn back to him, but you bit back your words. The hurt was too raw right now. You just wanted one safe place, and you thought your new friend could have been that for you.

Unfortunately for you, it didn’t look like Eiji was going to just let you go, abandoning his drink to follow after you. “Please, just let me finish… I want to tell you everything.”

“No, Eiji, I don’t want to hear it right now. I can’t do this. Not with Kat being weird and then this? I shouldn’t even be here…” You know Kat would flip if he knew where you were, and that uneasiness melded with your grief and hurt. You were thankful you hadn’t gotten the chance to figure out what you wanted to eat, you didn’t think you could stomach it right now.

“I’m sorry, you have to know that! And I was just… I guess I was trying to protect you.” You had finally reached your car, spinning back to look at Eiji.

“Funny, that’s what Katsuki says too.” That seemed to startle him enough to let you get in the car and pull out. Looking in the rearview only showed his large frame, looking so small as he watched you go. After all, he had no right to try and hold onto you. You weren’t his.

You were Katsuki Bakugou’s.

The longer you sat with your conversation, the more it ate away at you. You knew somewhere, deep down, you weren’t really that upset at Eijirou. But you were upset. You were so upset it felt like it was clawing away at you from the inside out. And yet your pride wouldn’t let you reach back out. At least not that day… or the day after that, or the week after that.

And Ejirou, sweet Eijirou, he was trying. Riding that line between checking in and bombarding you with texts. Sometimes you wondered what would happen if he called. If he showed up at your front door. Would you answer? Would you let him in? You could melt into him if he did show up. You feel it in your bones how easy it would be if only he was in front of you. But instead, your company was the unfeeling, uncaring blank slate of a house you thought one day you would muster up the nerve to call home. Blank walls, empty counters, unfeeling portraits of concrete. If only you could make yourself blank too. Let Katsuki shape you into his perfect, pristine vision. You’d be happy then, right?

But no, you were messy. You were messy and emotional and real and it hurt. It hurt knowing you wouldn’t live up to the lofty ideals he had.

And almost as bad as that hurt, it hurt knowing you let someone in and they kept something so important from you. They kept it secret and hidden away and still, they stole a part of you too. A part that just wants to walk out the door and find him.

You couldn’t. Not now, not yet. When- if you left, you wanted it to be on your terms. On your own two feet. Your friends, they can wait for you outside, but you felt it in your soul, you had to be the one to do it. Otherwise, you’d just be trading Katsuki for another. Another person to look to whenever you had a single hair out of place, another person to cling to, to lead you. That wasn’t what you wanted to be.

It felt so easy to think that. To lose yourself in daydreams of your absolution, self-preserving and self-sufficient.

And yet…

And yet… when Katsuki came home, on the days highlighted on your shared calendar, marking the peak of your cycle, you still bent for him. You took it in solemn silence, and he never seemed to mind. Even bringing you a gift each time his presence graced his own home. A pastry here, a new designer something laid over the back of the couch. You took it all with a smile you were so convinced wasn’t at all convincing.

It became routine. A few days a week, leading up to a week where he was home every night. It seemed like he had finally gotten serious about his desires to get a kid into you. And then he’d leave, no more conversation than necessary. Important business somehow cropping up after he spent the better part of a week between your legs.

A handful of months passed like that. You pulled away from everyone in that time. What could you really say to Ochako or Mina when they asked? It was easier to say nothing. And Eijirou’s text still sat in your inbox, read but not replied. They were becoming less over time, but no less consistent.

The cycle finally broke late one night. You were just lying in bed, Katsuki had just left the night before. It would probably be another week or so before he would show up again. All you could do with your sleepless night was lay still, hoping that somehow you could stop from getting pregnant by sheer force of will.

You had expected this to be all you would do tonight, but the screen on your phone lit up with a chime, drawing away your attention. It wasn’t a text, not this time. The melody kept going as you scrambled to get your phone, seeing Eijirou’s contact filling the screen. Your body moved before your mind, answering the call and catching you off guard.

“H-hi, hey…” You hated the way your voice cracked and wavered, but somehow Eijirou sounded even worse than you did.

“Oh, shit, hi, hey…” he cleared his throat. “I… fuck, this is gonna sound like an excuse, but I didn’t mean to call you…” And just like that, the hurt that you had thought faded ached again. It was nowhere near where it had been, but still… “I just. I missed you a lot tonight. Everyone was out and I thought, maybe… but I understand why you didn’t show. I just wanted to try to apologize, face to face. And I was looking at our messages and… well, I’m not really sure what happened…” he chuckles, but it’s so forced. Yet your heart lifts. He wasn’t trying to leave you behind, just give you space. Something you thought long dried up and dead inside you unfurled, not yet blooming but showing signs of life.

This was it. This was your choice, your chance.

“Hey, Eiji?” Your voice hadn’t sounded so calm and even in so long

“Yeah?”

“You wanna go for a ride?”

#nyx writes #kirishima x reader #plmty #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #kirishima eijirou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #nyx's angst #nyx's naughties #angst/comfort #hurt/comfort #tw: abusive relationship #tw: cheating #tw: dubcon #tw: abuse

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chicgeekgirl89 · 3 years ago

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Heart of a Hero

Fandom: 911 Lone Star

Characters: Carlos Reyes, T.K. Strand, Tommy Vega, Nancy Gillian, Andrea Reyes, Gabriel Reyes

Rating: T

Warnings: Mass shooting incident

Notes: A million thanks as always to @bluenet13 who beta read the heck out of this and listens to all my writing woes.

Written for the @badthingshappenbingo prompt “Ambulance Ride.”

Read on Ao3

It was his day off. It was his goddamn day off. But apparently crime didn’t take days off or respect the fact that he was just trying to run errands like a normal human being. Something that should have been a safe activity for everyone. Not a terrifying, violent event.

Carlos had been in the vegetable aisle when he’d heard the distinctive popping of gunfire. He’d dropped the mango in his hands, instinctively reaching for his duty weapon, despite the fact that he didn’t carry it on his days off. It had taken him only seconds to assess the situation, to realize the shots were coming from outside the store rather than inside, and to start running toward them. “Get to the back of the store!” he yelled to panicked customers and staff as he moved past them toward the doors. “Find somewhere to lock yourselves in and call 911!”

He stopped momentarily to help up a woman who had fallen to the ground, pushing her in the direction everyone else was fleeing as another round of shots sounded and the glass windows at the front of the shop shattered, causing everyone nearby to scream in terror.

Carlos paused at the front doors, trying to assess where the shots were coming from before exiting to the sidewalk outside. He could see people running, what looked like a body on the ground, but no sign of the shooter. Or shooters. There had been an awful lot of gunfire for it to be only one person.

There was a flash and more popping and Carlos caught a glimpse of someone in a black or dark blue hoodie running toward the building before ducking behind a mailbox for cover.

Running out into an active shooter situation unarmed seemed incredibly stupid, but there were still a lot of bystanders around and Carlos needed to do what he could to stop further casualties.

He crouched low, pulling the door open just enough to let himself out and moved quickly toward the fallen person on the sidewalk. The man let out a groan as Carlos got close and he felt a brief wave of relief that the man was alive. “Help me,” he said, breathing hard, eyes wild with fright.

“I’ve got you,” Carlos said, looking up and around for either shooter, but they seemed to have disappeared for the moment. “What’s your name?”

“Danny,” the man said, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Danny where are you hurt?”

“My leg,” he said, in obvious pain. “I was running and I tripped. I think I broke my ankle.”

Another wave of relief. Broken ankles were an easy fix compared to gunshot wounds. “We need to get you somewhere safe,” Carlos said. “I want you to put your arm around my shoulders, I’m going to help you get behind that table over there. It’s probably going to hurt, but I need you to stay as quiet as you can, all right?”

The man nodded and Carlos wasted no time in putting an arm under his shoulder and moving immediately toward the table a few feet away just as the assailant reappeared, apparently having reloaded a fresh round of ammunition.

Carlos dragged Danny the last few feet, hunching over as more glass shattered nearby. “Oh my god, oh my god!” Danny gasped.

“Stay down!” Carlos ordered, putting as much of his body over him as he could.

And that was when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The door to the grocery store opened and another man stepped out, looking up and down the street.

“No! Get back inside!” Carlos yelled.

He was on his feet and moving before he even thought, gunfire ringing in his ears as he tackled the man to the ground, both of them grunting in pain as they hit the concrete.

There was a squeal of tires and Carlos looked up to see the man in the dark sweatshirt jump into the back of a jeep, slamming the door shut as the driver hit the gas.

He was just able to make out the first three digits of the license plate before it turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

“Are you all right?” he asked the man underneath him, still breathing hard.

The man let out a moan. “He shot me.”

Sure enough there was blood seeping from a wound on the man’s arm. “Okay, deep breaths,” Carlos said, sitting up and reaching for his phone with one hand while the other clamped down firmly on the man’s arm, ignoring the pained swear words coming from his mouth.

“911 what is your emergency?”

“This is Officer Carlos Reyes, badge number 1-3-0-8. I am at the Machado Family Market on Ninth Street and we have a mass shooting situation. The suspect fled in a white jump, first three license plate digits 6-3-1. I have two known victims both male. Victim one is in his early thirties and appears to be suffering from a broken ankle. Victim two has been shot in the arm. Requesting immediate police and medical assistance,” Carlos barked as he grabbed a wad of napkins from a nearby table and pressed them against the man’s arm.

“Officer Reyes I am dispatching all available police units in your area and rolling medical,” the dispatcher told him calmly. “Do you need me to walk you through what to do with a bullet wound?”

“No I’ve got it,” Carlos said as he tried to stop the bleeding. He looked down at the man. “What’s your name?”

“Ian,” the man said with a grimace. “How bad is it?”

“Just stay still and keep taking deep breaths,” Carlos said. “We have ambulances on the way and they’re going to take good care of you.”

It didn’t look that bad to him, the bleeding seemed to be slowing, but he wasn’t a medical professional and he wasn’t going to make any promises. “How you doing over there, Danny?” he called over his shoulder to the first man.

“I’m all right,” he called back.

“Just try and be still okay? The less you move the less damage you’ll do,” Carlos called back.

It felt like an eternity before sirens split the air around them. People had started emerging from the store. A woman who said she was a nurse had gone to take a look at Danny’s ankle while others sort of walked slowly through the debris in a state of shock.

“Reyes?”

Carlos looked up to find a colleague, Matthew Cruz looking down at him. “You just have to be in the middle of the action at all times huh?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Carlos said, managing a half smile.

“You need help?”

“I think I’ve got him for now. If you can just send medical over as soon as possible that would be great.”

“On it,” Cruz said, keying his radio as he and the rest of the officers worked to clear the scene so medical could come in. “Any idea what happened?”

“It was one person,” Carlos said. “Dark hoodie, medium build. I got a partial plate when they fled the scene.”

“Yeah they picked up the Jeep’s tail a minute ago. Nice work.”

Carlos nodded.

Within minutes the scene was cleared and medical swarmed the area. A paramedic that Carlos didn’t know ran over and knelt beside him. “Need some help over here?” he asked.

“This is Ian,” Carlos told him. “Single gunshot wound to the arm. Bleeding was under control until a minute ago but I think the bullet might have moved and hit an artery.”

Blood had begun gushing through his fingers in the last few seconds and Carlos felt panicky at his inability to do more.

“Okay I’m going to put my hands over yours and you are going to slide out, got it?” the medic asked.

Carlos gave an affirmative and they switched places as another medic came over and joined them. “You take care Ian,” Carlos said.

“Thank you,” Ian told him, his face pale and sweaty.

Carlos got to his feet, surprised at how shaky and nauseated he felt. This type of scene wasn’t new for him, but he’d never been out of uniform during a crisis of this kind before and it was getting to him more than he would have expected.

“Carlos?” He heard T.K.’s horrified voice before he saw him and his heart sank. His boyfriend was going to be beyond upset.

“Oh my god! Are you all right?” T.K. moved toward him eyes wide, a bag slung over his shoulder with Nancy right behind him, looking equally concerned.

“I’m fine,” Carlos assured them. “A little shaken up, but fine.”

“There’s blood all over your hands,” Nancy said.

Carlos shook his head. “It’s not mine. There was a man who was shot, somebody from the 130 has him.”

“Hey! We need some help over here!” An officer beckoned the medics toward a woman who was bleeding from the head.

T.K. looked back at Carlos who waved him off. “Go help everyone else. I’m all right, I promise.”

They didn’t look convinced. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?” T.K. asked.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Carlos assured him as they moved to help the woman in need.

He was vaguely aware of T.K. calling out vitals, Nancy rushing past him to grab something else off the ambulance as he wiped his arm across the back of his forehead, sweaty despite the fact that he was beginning to feel cold. The adrenaline that had fueled his heroics was wearing off fast and he knew he should probably sit down before his knees gave out, but he couldn’t quite figure out where to go.

Another team had already packed up the man with the broken ankle and Carlos gave him a nod as he rolled by. He could sense T.K.’s eyes darting back and forth from him to his patient, but he ignored his boyfriend. He was fine and T.K. needed to focus on his job.

He sucked in a deep breath and put his hands on his hips, swallowing hard as the nausea in his stomach swelled.

“Carlos, are you okay?”

He had spotted Tommy speaking to the incident commander a moment ago, but apparently she’d finished and was now standing in front of him with a worried look on her face. “Did someone examine you?”

Carlos shook his head. “No, I’m fine. What’s the situation? How many casualties?”

“Several injuries, mostly minor from broken glass or trip and falls. One gunshot victim so far.” She looked him up and down and he could see that she wasn’t going to let him go. “You look like you’ve been through it; why don’t you let me check you out?”

“I should go see if I can help—“

“Carlos, you are not on duty right now,” Tommy said, guiding him to a nearby chair, her fingers settling on his wrist to take his pulse. “Do you have any pain?”

“Not really,” Carlos said, feeling extremely tired now that he was finally sitting. “I’m kind of nauseous. Shaky.”

Tommy hummed in sympathy. “That could be the adrenaline. All this blood is another victim’s?” she asked, looking at his hands.

“I think the bullet may have found an artery,” he said, by way of explanation. “I was on him pretty fast but I don’t know if it was enough.”

Her hands ran up and down his arms as he spoke, searching for injuries. “You did everything you could,” she said.

Her hands moved across his chest, down his torso and then she stilled. “Nancy?” she called without taking her eyes off of Carlos.

Nancy looked up from where she was bandaging a cut on a woman’s forearm. “Yeah Cap?”

“Can you go get me a fresh kit and some oxygen from the rig?” Tommy’s voice was calm. Too calm. Carlos felt his heart begin to beat faster.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Carlos I want you to listen to me and stay calm,” Tommy said, her voice smooth and gentle. “You’ve been shot.”

Panic jolted through him. “What? No I—I’m fine.”

“We’re going to get you on the ground all right? Easy does it.” She put one hand on his shoulder and the other on his left side, sliding him easily off the chair and onto the sidewalk even as his confused brain tried to catch up. He couldn’t be shot. He would have felt it. He would know if he’d been shot.

“I don’t feel anything,” he said, noticing now that his voice was shaking and he felt even colder than before.

“That’s probably the adrenaline,” Tommy said. “You’re out here being a hero and saving everybody without even taking care of yourself.”

Nancy reappeared and her eyes widened in horror as Tommy cut up Carlos’ shirt and exposed his abdomen. “Nancy, go get T.K.”

“Cap…”

“Go quickly please,” Tommy said and now Carlos heard the sharp edge of urgency in her voice. “Here we go Carlos, take some deep breaths for me okay? This might hurt.”

Oh! Carlos choked back a cry as she put pressure on his right side. A lot of pressure. Pressure that sent all the agony he hadn’t been feeling burning through his body. He tried to arch his back and move away from her, but either he was weak from blood loss or she was stronger than she looked.

“Easy, easy Carlos,” she said as he gritted his teeth and tried not to let out another pained moan. “Try and relax for me. I know it’s hard, but I need you to stay as still as possible.”

Stay still when it felt like he was on fire?

T.K. appeared above him, eyes wild with fear, a hand cupping his cheek. “Cap what—?”

“Gunshot wound to the lower right quadrant,” Tommy said evenly. “No apparent exit wound. Nancy get him on oxygen. T.K. can you work?”

“I—“

“Yes or no?” she asked sharply.

“Yes, yes I can,” T.K. said, but Carlos could see tears in his eyes. He wanted to reach up and wipe them away, but his arms didn’t seem to be working anymore. He felt weirdly detached from his body. Detached from everything except the pain radiating through his side.

“Okay let’s get him on some fluids,” Tommy ordered. “How you doing Carlos?”

“Fine,” Carlos slurred from underneath the oxygen mask. He didn’t like the way the air blew against his face, but breathing did seem easier so he didn’t try and pull it off.

“Carlos stay awake,” Nancy ordered when his eyes slid shut.

He forced them open again. Why? Why did he need to stay awake? He couldn’t quite remember.

“T.K.?” his eyes searched for his boyfriend, it was hard to see with the mask covering half his face.

“I’m right here babe,” T.K. said, appearing in front of his eyes. “You’re all right. You’re going to be just fine okay?”

He put a hand on Carlos’ head and Carlos felt an odd urge to cry, tears pricking at his eyes, his throat tightening, making it even harder to breathe.

“Let’s get him on the gurney,” Tommy ordered. “Carlos let us do the work okay? We’re going to get you out of here.”

He might have blacked out when they lifted him onto the gurney. He definitely threw up. It was horrible.

T.K. got the mask off just in time and Nancy rushed to put a basin under his chin. He fell back with a moan that turned into a whine, not something he was particularly proud of. He wanted to go back to ten minutes ago when he’d just been shaky and weak in the knees. Nothing had hurt then. Now everything hurt and he wanted it to stop.

“T.K.,” he whimpered, tears pooling in his eyes as they slid him inside.

“I know, I know it hurts babe,” T.K. said and Carlos could see he was near to tears as well. “Tommy can we up his morphine?”

“Give him a few more milligrams,” Tommy said as she slammed the doors shut behind her. “Let’s go Nancy!”

Carlos felt a tiny bit of relief from the pain as medication flooded his veins. He pulled the oxygen mask from his face. “My parents,” he rasped.

“I will call them as soon as we get to the hospital,” T.K. promised.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos said, closing his eyes as tears slipped down his face.

“No, no, no,” T.K. said quickly, putting the oxygen mask back in place and stroking his hair. “You don’t need to be sorry. You are good and brave and perfect and you have nothing to apologize for.”

“Don’t want to leave you,” Carlos said, his heart splitting into two at the thought.

“You’re not,” T.K. said firmly. “You’re not leaving. Right Tommy?”

“Absolutely not,” Tommy said as she adjusted the IV’s. “You are staying right here with us. A little surgery, a few days in the hospital, and you’re going to be good as new.”

“See?” T.K. said, his voice breaking just a little as his thumb moved back and forth over Carlos’ forehead. “You’re fine. You’re going to be fine.”

He drifted in and out after that, everything coming in flashes and blurs of noise and light and pain.

“I love you,” T.K. said to him over and over again, pressing his lips against Carlos’ forehead. “I’ll be here when you wake up."

And then he was gone and there was pain and strangers and the sharp smell of antiseptic burning in his nostrils. There were voices all around but he didn’t understand what they were saying, didn’t know what was happening until someone with a soft voice took his hand.

“Officer Reyes we’re taking you into surgery now. They’re going to remove the bullet and repair any damage. You’re going to go to sleep and when you wake up things will be much better.”

Then someone was putting something over his face, telling him to count, but he was so tired and his tongue felt leaden in his mouth.

He had no idea how much time passed. He woke up to voices, some familiar some not, and excruciating pain in his side. He might have cried, he thought maybe someone wiped his tears away. Someone definitely put a straw in his mouth and encouraged him to drink, which felt good on his dry throat, but then he was drifting again.

Everything was heavy and tired and painful and sleep kept dragging him under again and again like waves beating against the shore. He wasn’t strong enough to fight them, not even when T.K. was whispering things in his ear or when he felt his mother run her fingers through his hair.

It felt like a long time before he was able to swim up from the darkness and blink his eyes open in the harsh lighting of his hospital room. He swallowed hard, his mouth and throat still parched and tasting of medication. “There he is.”

Carlos turned his head and found his father sitting by his bed, a smile on his face. “Are you with us mijo?”

Carlos nodded, brain still foggy as he tried to piece together the events that had gotten him here. “Are you in pain Carlitos?”

His eyes searched until he found his mother sitting in a second chair, a pile of knitting in her lap. “I was shot?” he asks, his voice coming out raw.

“Yes, mijo,” his father said, sitting forward. “At the grocery store.”

“How,” he swallowed painfully, “how long?”

“It’s been about six hours,” his mother said. “You lost a lot of blood.”

Carlos winced. “Bad?” he asked, apparently only capable of single syllable words.

“Nothing they couldn’t fix,” his dad assured him. “They were able to remove the bullet without complications. There was minimal damage. You can ask your boy, he knows all the medical stuff they’ve been talking about.”

“Where is he?” Carlos asked, shifting uncomfortably in the bed.

“He just went home to get some things for you,” his mom said. “He got here before we did and hasn’t left your side, but we knew it could be a while before you woke up and he was still in his uniform. He looked very uncomfortable.”

“He should be back soon. Do you want us to call him? Tell him what you’d like from home?” his father asked.

Carlos shook his head, already feeling himself drifting away again. “Just tell him to come back.”

His mother squeezed his leg through the sheets. “He’s coming Carlitos. He’ll be here soon. Just rest now.”

The next time he opened his eyes T.K. was there. His uniform was gone, replaced by jeans and a grey hoodie, the strings of which he was fiddling with absentmindedly as he stared a hole into the wall across the room. “Hey,” Carlos croaked.

T.K.’s eyes immediately flicked to him and he sat forward on the chair. “Hey babe,” he said softly, his face a mask of worry and exhaustion. “How are you feeling?”

In pain was the answer, but Carlos wasn’t going to let him know that. “I love you,” he managed to croak out, tears tightening his throat.

“I love you too,” T.K. said, reaching for his hand and threading their fingers together reassuringly. “I love you so much.”

Carlos shook his head and tried to get his emotions under control. “I made peace so long ago with the idea that one of us might die in the line of duty. But I never…I didn’t ever think that picking up groceries…”

“I know,” T.K. said. “Me neither.”

Carlos shook his head and had to swallow down a moan of pain as he tried to get more comfortable in the bed, a seemingly futile task. “Easy,” T.K. said, coming to help him. “Take it from someone who knows, bullet wounds hurt like hell.”

“I uh, I asked my parents but they don’t understand everything like you do. How bad is it?”

T.K. squeezed his hand. “As far as gunshot wounds go, you got very lucky. It missed everything vital. Barring any complications you’ll be out of here in a few days.”

Carlos exhaled slowly and looked up at the ceiling. “Okay. Good.”

“How’s your pain?” T.K. asked. “Do you need more medication?”

“No, I’m all right,” Carlos said even though the pain in his side was slowly growing from an ache to a knifelike stabbing.

T.K. fixed him with a look. “You don’t have to be brave,” he said bluntly. “If you need more medication, you can have more medication. There’s no reason to tough this out. It won’t speed up your healing time at all.”

It was all said in a forceful, strained tone and Carlos took a good look at his boyfriend, noting the pallor of his face, how drawn he seemed. “Are you okay?”

“You’re the one in the hospital bed,” T.K. pointed out.

“And you’re the one who had to save my life while I was bleeding out on the street,” Carlos countered.

“You should be resting, not worrying about my feelings.”

“If you don’t talk to me I’ll just worry more.”

“Carlos.”

“T.K.” Carlos gave him a pointed look.

T.K. sighed and leaned back in his chair before looking into Carlos’ eyes. “It was terrifying. The most…terrifying thing I’ve ever lived through. And I feel,” his voice caught. “I feel so guilty that I didn’t see it when I first got there. That I let you walk around, bleeding out…Carlos I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, no,” Carlos said. “T.K., this was not your fault.”

T.K. clenched his jaw and shook his head. “You, and Tommy, and Nancy, and your parents and, my parents can say that all you want. But I’m going to have to live with the guilt for a while.”

“You were doing your job. You were helping people who needed to be helped.”

T.K. leaned forward, pain in his eyes. “My first, and most important job is taking care of you.”

“You did,” Carlos said. “You always do.”

T.K. still looked like he was in pain. “Is there something else?” Carlos asked. “You can tell me.”

He shook his head. “You’re tired and you’re hurting. We can have this conversation another time. You don’t need to be worried about me right now.”

“I always worry about you,” Carlos said. “That’s part of the deal in a relationship.”

T.K. blew out a breath. “You know, when Alex and I ended, I had to figure out how to be enough for myself. To look inside myself for strength. To find it within me to continue on with life even when it got tough.

“And then I met you and it was so easy. Being with you is…it’s the best I’ve ever felt. I feel whole. Like myself. And looking at you in that street, holding your hand, trying so hard to keep you alive…I had a lot of time in the waiting room to sort through my feelings and try to…try to figure things out.”

“And?” Carlos asked gently.

T.K.’s mouth shaped into a sad, forlorn smile. “I realized that…I can do it. I can do this life without you.” His breath caught and Carlos saw tears pool in his eyes. “But I really, really don’t want to.”

“Hey.” Carlos reached out a hand and gently grasped T.K.’s wrist. “You don’t have to. I’m here.”

T.K. finally managed a small smile. He reached up and smoothed a curl from Carlos’ forehead. “Yes. You are.”

He cleared his throat and Carlos watched him shove all his pain and feelings deeply back inside. They would need to pick up this conversation later. Maybe when his mind was a little less foggy and his entire body didn’t hurt like hell.

“And listen, we’re even now. I got shot, you got shot, that’s enough. It’s not a competition,” T.K. said, flashing a manufactured smile.

“I will definitely try not to get shot again,” Carlos promised. “How’s everyone else? The man with the gunshot wound and the guy with the broken ankle?”

“Both fine thanks to you. Everyone else only had minor injuries. You’re a hero,” T.K. told him. “Your face is all over the news.”

Carlos closed his eyes and groaned. “How did they get my name?”

T.K. gave him a wry smile. “Adriana and Francesca are in the waiting room with your parents. I think they’ve hit on every doctor, nurse, and orderly in the place.”

Carlos sighed. “And they talked to the news crews.”

“They really didn’t like you being referred to as an unidentified officer. They’d like you to get full credit for your heroics. And hopefully a medal. And a monetary reward. Which you will use to take them on vacation.”

“God they’re the worst.”

“They definitely are,” T.K. agreed. His face sobered. “But they’ve been here since I texted and refuse to leave even though they can’t come up. Underneath their astonishingly blatant horniness and greed, they’re really worried about you.”

“They always come through,” Carlos said.

“They also brought coffee and donuts. Don’t tell them, but I love them.”

“Your secret is safe with me.” He shivered and winced as he was reminded that any movement at all was beyond painful.

“Are you cold?” T.K. asked.

“A little.”

“It’s probably the blood loss.” He reached into the duffel bag next to him and pulled out a blanket that Carlos recognized.

“You brought me a blanket from home?” Carlos asked, heart melting at his boyfriend’s thoughtfulness.

“Hospitals are notoriously cold and their blankets notoriously suck,” T.K. told him as he tucked it gently around his legs. He kissed the tip of Carlos’ nose. “You should try and get some sleep. Hospital wake up call comes early.”

“Thank you,” Carlos said. “You’ll uh, you’ll stay with me?”

T.K. smiled and leaned closer, carding his fingers through Carlos’ curls. “If you’re here, I’m here.”

#911 Lone Star #911lsfic #Carlos Reyes #T.K. Strand #Tarlos #Gunshot wound #Hurt Carlos #Carlos whump #Ambulance ride #Bad Things Happen Bingo #Hurt/Comfort #911 LS #Tarlos Fic

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thefanficmonster · 4 years ago

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Never Satisfied [Chapter 5]

Corpse Husband x Original Female Character

Warnings: !!DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF A PANIC ATTACK!!; Language

A collaboration between Vy & Ashens 🖤

Note from the authors: Hello dear readers! This chapter, as mentioned in the warnings above, has a detailed description of a panic attack which might be highly triggering for some individuals. That being said this chapter is NOT A MUST-READ. You can understand the further progression of the story perfectly well without reading this chapter. If you decide to skip this chapter, which we recommend if you are easily triggered, we’ll be seeing you in the next chapter. If you’re sticking around for the ride, enjoy 🖤🖤🖤

“headed for a breakdown“

“I’ll catch you later, feel free to text me anytime.” Cora smiles warmly, standing outside Corpse’s apartment complex, where they’ve spent almost half an hour just talking in his car before she finally mentioned she had to get going which led to them both stepping out of the car and into the late afternoon air. At first, Corpse thought it must have been something he had said or did but before the panic could start eating away at his calmness, Cora was quick to reassure him, promising she had a client meeting her in about two hours which is why she needed to get going.

Now he finds himself standing in his apartment, feeling cold and alone. He feels like a huge chunk is missing from his life now, despite that very chunk not even being a part of it just a few hours prior. He allowed Cora to bring him some happiness, relief and ease for those few hours, and now that she’s gone, he realizes how unprepared he is to be dealing with his loneliness again. He’s aware he shouldn’t get this attached to someone he barely knows, or to anyone really, but she made him feel so much, and none of the feelings unpleasant: she allowed him security, safety, comfort; she gave him some of the most genuine laughs of his life, managed to speed up his heart because of excitement and joy, not anxiety or insecurity. She provided him with what he’s been longing for for so long, and she did all that in less than a day.

With all that taken into consideration, one would find him missing her more than reasonable, but Corpse isn’t so easy on himself. Quite the contrary actually, he’s scolding himself for it in this very moment as he paces the living room.

He shifts from one foot to the other, tipping his head down as he carefully toes off his shoes. He stops in one spot suddenly, feeling himself consumed by the deafening silence, a lump starting to form in his throat as well as tightness building in his jaw. The telling sign. His eyes sting, burning red and painful. His head is swarmed, buzzing statically like a TV on a dead air channel.

I fucked up

I fuck everything up

I am a fuck up

These thoughts begin to cloud his brain with such intensity there is no way of him even having a chance at fighting them or pushing them away. They take firm hold on his brain and refuse to let go. He’s no stranger to them but that doesn’t mean he has any defenses ready for when they show themselves. He’s helpless and hopeless even after all the times he’s had to deal with them though it seems like they get progressively stronger instead of weaker.

This time, they appear the strongest yet.

Tears burn his eyes so he covers one eye with the palm of his hand in a hopeless attempt at keeping them at bay, choking out a soft noise from his throat as everything starts welling up in his heart, causing him excruciating pain in his chest.

He’s sure he did something wrong. Said the wrong thing. Had the wrong reaction. Messed something up.

He plays every second back in his mind over and over again, searching between the lines of conversation, skimming through each word they exchanged for something, anything that would indicate that his worries and anxiety are grounded and concrete. His heart is galloping, his mind is going haywire. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, how to defend himself against the raging storm that has taken over his head and the incoming waves of negativity that are for sure to attack him in the horrible, painful minutes to come.

He wants to sit down, lie down, anything just to get off his shaking feet and relieve his knees that are threatening to give up on him any second now. However, he simultaneously wants to punch a wall, a mirror, break something, ruin something as a piece of evidence that he always ruins things for himself and others. That he is exactly what he claims to be - a fuck up.

You aren’t worth it

You aren’t good enough

You are never good enough

People deserve better than you

They don’t want you around

She doesn’t want you

AND IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT

His mind races, spins, betrays him, leaves him to drown in the darkness that is slowly consuming him. The room feels both too big and too small at the same time, suffocating yet he feels so small in comparison to it. His knees finally give, let him down just like his mind has and he drops down to his knees, clutching at his chest. Breaths come at a rapid pace as he starts hyperventilating, wheezing and sobbing with each passing moment, barely able to squeeze enough air into his lungs as to not pass out. He digs his nails into the carpet in desperate attempts to ease the pain or just to keep himself awake and stable, as stable as he could possibly be during a panic attack.

Pity Grief Loneliness Disgust Sorrow Dread

His checkpoint isn’t here and the demons in his head are telling him she’ll never be again. Telling him he isn’t worth it, telling him she deserves better and shouldn’t be wasting her time on him anyway.

He forces himself to his still and even more so unsteady feet, swaying dangerously before finding some weak stability to carry himself to his room to avoid being any more miserable than he already is by lying on the floor. His body doesn’t seem to agree with him though, flashing warning signs at him that he shouldn’t be standing up right now. He ignores all the warnings, the clouded and then vignetted vision, the much harder process of breathing and the retching that is steadily climbing from the pit of his stomach up towards his throat.

All signs telling him this is not a battle he can win.

* * *

Corpse wakes up on the floor, having dropped before he could reach his bed, vomit beside him. His breathing is shaky, almost as much as his hands. Ignoring the warning signs yet again he pushes himself in a sitting position, causing his head to spin even worse due to the sudden movement which is the last thing he needed in this state the panic attack has left him in.

I blacked out. I can’t even have a panic attack right, He thinks to himself, the toxicity remaining in his mind just to pollute it for the next couple of days or so.

He’s trembling horribly yet he still chooses to not allow himself the rest he so desperately needs and instead gets up onto his feet to clean the mess on the carpet he’ll probably need to buy a stain remover for. His jaw clenches, his shaking hands doing a poor job at making anything better, actually worsening the situation he’s trying to fix. With another fail added to his list of fuck ups, he gives up on the carpet, removing his stained sweatshirt with force and throwing it across the room before he climbs into bed, wrapping the blankets around him like a safety cocoon.

Just as he thinks he’s about to drift off to sleep, his only refuge, his phone chimes, startling him more than it probably should’ve.

Out of instinct, he reaches out and fishes for it among the many items littering his nightstand. Finally feeling the rectangular device under his touch, he retrieves it and checks what the chime is alerting him of.

It’s a text from an unknown number but the message’s content clears up the identity of the sender right away.

Digital Checkpoint activated. Reply to save progress. 💜 — Cora

With minimal contemplation he replies seconds later.

Corpse: save

Cora: your progress has been saved. Thank you for choosing A.S.S. - the Automated Save System. You are now free to activate the digital checkpoint at any time.

Cora: I had a nice time. Text me whenever you need to. We’ll hang out again soon, deal?

Corpse: thank you

Cora: anytime sugar ;)

Funny how a text exchange so simple and short can turn so much around for a person. Funny how a huge weight lifts off him the second he locks his phone, suddenly finding it easier to breathe, to move, to blink, to function - to live. She gives him that kick he needs to be reminded to live and not just be alive. He’s still not comfortable with how much he’s relying on her but seeing her effect on him is nothing but positive, the most and best thing he can do for himself is go with the flow and let things happen. No overthinking, no planning, no shooting guesses, just facing things as they come face-to-face with him. He may never get used to it, but he won’t know that until he tries, will he?

@fockingwhore @vixenl @annshit @wineandionysus @wiseflamingoqueen

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skateboarding-poet · 3 years ago

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His pink ukulele

Summary: Sakuya plays the ukulele. He also appreciates what the ukulele brought into his life.

The rain was hitting the warm concrete and the garden in the courtyard with small drops of water. Above the dorm building, the sky was filled with gray clouds, hiding away the usual summer sun.

It wasn't the type of weather people usually liked to see while they were outside. Yet, Sakuya was outside, taking in the calming sign with a dreamy smile on his face.

His body was sheltered from the rain, but his mind was focused only on it. The sound of the rain droplets meeting the ground, the sight of the rain wetting the usually dry outside, the smell of the wet concrete, they all had the honor of having Sakuya's entire attention.

He had no idea how much he sat outside and stared at the scenery, but his mind finally walked away from the daze as if someone snapped their fingers next to his ear. Suddenly, he remembered why he went outside in the first place.

Sakuya carefully held the ukulele in his hands while he took out the cover, and the sound of the zipper of the cover touching the strings of the small instrument echoed melodically. He stared at the pink instrument in his hands, a small smile blossoming on his face as he remembered the day when he received it.

He could remember the awe he felt when he saw Itaru holding the ukulele, his hands seeming a little too big for the small instrument.

"Wow, Itaru-san, is that a-"

Sakuya didn't even get to finish his question, because Citron jumped right into the conversation that barely started. "It's an ukulele! It's really small, isn't it?"

Sakuya couldn't help but agree. He's always wanted owning one, playing one, but he would've been content just with seeing one.

"Is it yours?" Sakuya asked. Itaru had a cunning smile on his face, the kind of smile he had when he was planning something.

"Itaru's appearance doesn't work with his appearance," Masumi answered before Itaru could, and his words made his fellow troupe member waver just a little. "But the director... she'd look so cute, playing an ukulele..." "Itaru is more like a mysterious guitarist from a cool band!" Citron added, not allowing Masumi's train of thoughts to take over the conversation. "Hey, this is not why we're here..." Tsuzuru sighed, trying to get his troupemates to focus on... whatever they were doing.

"Why do you have it, then? The ukulele." Sakuya said, catching the attention of his troupe, much to Tsuzuru's relief. Itaru's smile was on his face again, and it made Sakuya confused.

"It's yours," Masumi finally said, as direct as ever.

Sakuya's eyes widened slowly, while they were looking only at the instrument he'd wished to hold for years. A few moments passed silently, the Spring Troupe allowing the leader to process the words.

Citron took the instrument from Itaru’s hands and slowly approached Sakuya, carefully holding the ukulele’s body. But, the closer he got, the more blurry he became.

And then, a sob escaped his lips, and another, and another.

One of them, probably Tsuzuru, put his hand on his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. Citron gave Sakuya the instrument, smiling kindly at him.

The body and the neck were warm, probably from how Itaru held it in his hands. The color was a pastel pink, his favorite color. He felt a small paper stuck at the back on the instrument and, when he turned it around, he found a small piece of paper with the signature of all of the Spring Troupe members, and a message saying “Thank you for being our great leader”. Sakuya ran his fingers over the paper, staring at it intensively. He felt his heart swell with emotion, bursting with warm feelings all over his body. The tears in his eyes were warm, and his face felt hot. Wiping a few tears away from his eyes and cheeks, he gave everyone a huge, grateful smile, followed by a watery "Thank you!".

Sakuya plucked every string, wincing at the flat sound each of them made. He has been particularly busy with the mixed performances MANKAI Company has been delivering lately, so his ukulele has been patiently waiting for him to remember that he had left it on his table. However, even if Sakuya didn't get to play it as often as it used to, the instrument still served as a daily reminder for the Spring Troupe leader to smile, and that people cared about him very deeply.

He started tuning the instrument by rotating the pegs one by one, humming contently when the sounds matched the ones he spend so much time learning with the help of his roommate.

“Okay, Sakuya,” his roommate said, bringing his laptop to the table in their room. The laptop had a MeTube tab open at a video titled “Ukulele playing for beginners”. He pointed at the seat right next to the laptop

“I want to learn how to play the ukulele! ” Citron declared. “So, we will learn together!”

Sakuya was surprised by what his roommate just said, but it all made sense when he saw him grab a very old looking ukulele from somewhere inside his chest. Sakuya gasped quietly. “Where did you get the ukulele?”

“In my country, it is a requiem to know how to play the ukulele, since it is the national instruments played at birthdays!”

“I think you meant requirement...”

“Yes, that!”

“...Wait. If it’s a requirement to play the ukulele, then why do you not know how to-”

“Let’s take a seat and learn, Sakuya!“

“But-”

“I’m pressing play!”

The person in the video started describing each part of the ukulele, from the body, to the pegs. When they got to the tuning part, both of them tuned their instruments to the best of their abilities. Before they moved on to the strings, Citron paused the video.

“Your A string is a little sharp, Sakuya.”

Sakuya looked down on his instrument, and pulled the A string, but it didn’t sound off to him. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes. Try loosening the string with the peg.”

Sakuya did as he was told (well, he tried, but the first time he tightened the string instead and the sound was considerably sharper than before) and, with his second try, he won the aproval of his roommate, who pressed play once more.

Every few minutes, Citron stopped the video and helped Sakuya with small things he didn’t even know were being done wrong, as if they were usual, rookie mistakes that Citron was aware of and knew how to correct. The more they went on, the more convinced Sakuya was that his roommate knew how to play, after all. However, he didn’t say anything, since it felt like Citron knew Sakuya caught on his little lie.

By the end of the tutorial, Sakuya’s fingers were hurting, and the tips of his fingers had the shape of the strings imprinted on them, but he was more content than he thought he would be. The quality of the sound he was creating seemed to get better with every chord he played, and he even learned the very simple tune of “You Are My Sunshine”. But, the best part was the look of content and pride on Citron’s face.

“You learned so much today, Sakuya! Congratulation!”

“It’s all thanks to you, Citron-san!”

It’s been more than a year since then, and now Sakuya was more than able to tune the instrument by ear. He took a seat on the ground and hummed to himself. “Hmm, let’s see if I remember how it goes...”

He started playing “You Are My Sunshine” to the little audience that he had: the rain, the chairs, the cherry blossom tree in the courtyard, or whoever happened to pass by but didn’t dare to interrupt him. The melodic sounds of the ukulele, occasionally accompanied by his own humming, blended with the calm of the sight in front of him. He didn’t know how many times he repeated the tune, but the rain was restlessly applauding his little show, which made Sakuya smile.

His little concert wasn’t over, however, since he started playing other songs that he knew, like “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”, “Three Little Birds”, or random pop songs he heard of from Taichi and Kazunari.

Ah, yes, Sakuya thought, Taichi-kun always gives me nice song suggestions. He always seems so eager to listen to me play...

Sakuya’s face was getting warmer, and his cheeks were being decorated with a light shade of pink. Taichi reminded him of one and one song only...

A minor, D minor, G seventh, C major, F major, D minor, E seventh, A minor, A seventh...

Sakuya named all the chords he was playing in his head, the chords that, combined together, recreated the song “Fly Me To The Moon”. His occasional hums became almost words that were following the tune with the help of Sakuya’s gentle and warm voice. The feelings he was experiencing were making themselves known to the outside through the little moments when Sakuya’s voice shook slightly with emotion.

The first time Sakuya played this song in front of someone, it was when he played it in front of Tenma and Taichi, who have been pleading Sakuya to let them hear him play at least one song. Well, Taichi used to plead more, but Tenma’s blushing face whenever he was asked about it proved he was just as interested in hearing him play as much as Taichi.

Back then, his voice didn’t shake only because of his affection slipping through, but also because of his nervousness. It was the first time he played the ukulele to anyone outside on his troupe, and he wanted to impress the two boys that he loved, who were sitting right in front of him, listening to his performance attentively.

Taichi’s eyes were wide open and his mouth slightly agape, sucking in every movement, every sound, every nervous smile thrown his way that he always reciprocated a second too late. Tenma’s eyes were closed, his mind probably far away, somewhere at a place where only the three of them existed peacefully.

The song ended, and Sakuya took his hand away from the body, holding the ukulele with the other hand by the neck. After a few moments of silence passed, Taichi closed his mouth, a huge smile blossoming on his face, and he launched himself forward, hugging Sakuya tightly.

“Sakkun, that was amazing!” Taichi gushed, his grip on his boyfriend tight. Sakuya burst into laughter, all of his nervousness being melted away by Taichi’s touch.

“Thanks, Taichi-kun! I’m glad you enjoyed it!” he replied, and turned his head towards Tenma, who seemed like he just came back to reality from whatever dream world he went off to.

“It was beautiful” was all he got to say. Taichi stretched his hand out to Tenma and grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him into a group hug.

“If you guys get any more talented, my heart will burts!” Taichi joked, hugging his partners a little bit tighter.

“Prepare for your heart to burst, then, ‘cause we won’t stop anytime soon,” Tenma replied, making Sakuya laugh.

When Sakuya’s thoughts came back to the present, he finally noticed the two pair of eyes that were watching him with interest.

One of his favorite audiences, Tenma and Taichi, were watching him, patiently waiting to be noticed. Sakuya’s eyes met theirs, and they smiled at him.

“Felt like having a little concert all by yourself?” Tenma asked, and he stretched an arm towards Sakuya to help him get up.

“Kind of,” Sakuya laughed nervously. He took Tenma’s hand, and his fellow troupe leader lifted him up with relative ease. “I noticed that it was raining, so I suddenly got the idea to play some songs here.”

“But, Sakkun, it stopped raining fifteen minutes ago,” Taichi observed.

“Wait, really?” Sakuya turned his head towards the courtyard, and Taichi was right: the earth was wet, the concrete was still a darker color due to the water, but the rain was no more. Not even the clouds were up in the sky, they were replaced by the orange evening sun.

“Bet you caused the rain to stop,” Taichi said, “your smile is always so sunshine-y that it brings the sun out even in the darkest days!” Taichi’s comment brought a small blush to Sakuya’s face.

“Now that the weather cleared up,” Tenma began, “it seems like it’s a perfect time to go out and do some street acts. What do you say?”

“Aw, nice thinking, Ten-chan! Of course I’d like to perform some street acts with you two!” Taichi replied. “Right, Sakkun?”

“You’re right,” Sakuya agreed. “I just need to leave this in my room, and I’ll come with you too. I’ll be back in a moment!”

“Sure, we’ll wait at the entrance.” Tenma said.

Sakuya opened the door for his room and went inside, noticing Citron wasn’t there. He walked to the table in the middle of the room, where he carefully put the instrument cover. After carefully putting it over the instrument and closing the zipper, he headed to the door and, right as he was about to turn the doorknob, he glanced back at the pink ukulele, in its pink cover, sitting on the table. Even the sight of it made Sakuya think of all the good things it managed to bring into his life.

Maybe it wasn’t wrong to think that the ukulele was a representation of his dreams of being an actor. Back then, they were only things that Sakuya convinced himself it was okay to dream about. But now that they were in his life, they were one more reason to wake up with a smile on his face, one more reason to be happy every day, one more reason to be grateful of what he was given.

Sakuya gave it one more glance before he walked out of the room and closed the door.

#a3!#a3! act! addict! actors!#sakuya sakuma #citron #masumi usui #tsuzuru minagi #itaru chigasaki #tenma sumeragi #taichi nanao #sakutaiten #bcs why would y'all expect anything else from me lmao #autumn writes ig

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thesmokingguns · 4 years ago

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Wendy and The Lost Boys Chapter Three

Summer was ending and Nikki realized that Sasha was not going to be permanently living with them. At first it started because she was going out more and then there were a few boxes that appeared in the living room one day. She wasn’t going out as much anymore as she tried to adjust to the schedule she would have in school.

Sasha was sitting in the window frame that acted as a door. Her coffee in one hand a book balanced on her lap. The LA sun was shining against her skin, the sun highlighting her blonde hair. The cigarette hung from her lips as she turned the page to her book, her bare foot sliding in the concrete outside that she was using to keep her balance. She glanced down at the street waiting for Tommy’s parents to pull up. They would be helping her sign in and get settled in on move-in day.

“Why do you sit in the fucking doorway?” Her head snapped up seeing Nikki walking up the stairs. Her eyes rolled as she shifted to stand inside the apartment. He glanced down at her bare feet, scooping her up and dropping her on the couch when he saw a cockroach. “There’s bugs in the apartment, Angel, you know better.” She tucked her feet under her watching Nikki sit down beside her. He had expected her to be gone already. He had spent the night out and even broke his rule about sleeping over just to avoid seeing her leave.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”she asked, leaning closer to him. Nikki was laying back rubbing the hangover that was settling in strongly. Sasha pressed her cup of coffee into his hands, making him open his eyes, almost shocked to see her sitting close to him, “Since I told you I was leaving you’ve been acting like I’m gone.” Nikki tried to sip the coffee she had given him to keep himself quiet. How did she always make the perfect cup of coffee? But she was looking at him, her blue eyes seeming to stare holes in him.

“Is that my shirt?” she looked down at the Trex shirt she was wearing. “Why are you always stealing everyones clothing?” He wasn’t mad about it but as soon as it came out of his mouth he realized how bad it sounded. Sasha stood up, tugging off the shirt aggravated. She threw it at him, the fabric covering his face.

“You are a self centered prick, Nikki Sixx.” He was shocked to see her standing in her white bra, her black tiny shirts barely covering her. Her hand on her hips as she went to walk away, “No. No. No. No.” she came back into the room, “I do not understand you at all. Sometimes you’re so nice to me and you want to hang or talk and other times it’s like you’re a stranger. You turn into a total prick. Like the fucking shirt thing? Nikki, cmon. This apartment is like one Unisex closet.” she tossed up her arms frustrated. “I’m leaving today and I’m leaving on bad terms with you because of how you decided to act and how you decided to treat me. And when I don’t come to shows or I don’t talk to you at shows you can remember this last month where you put your stupid head up your big dumb ass.” she went to leave again sure that she woke up everyone in the apartment but he grabbed her wrist pushing the shirt into her arms.

He held her for a beat longer as she looked up at him with those big blue eyes. He wanted to kiss her and tell her to stay in the apartment. He’d pay for her to take cabs there if she wanted to go to school but he wanted her to stay. And the way she was looking at him made him aware of what he had to do; if he asked her to stay she’d say yes.

“Have fun at college, Angel.” he walked towards his room slamming the door behind him. Sasha pulled his shirt back over her head and turned, giving the closed door a two finger salute. There had been this tension between Nikki and her since she spent the night in his bed. She was sure that if they just fucked and ripped the bandaid off it would be gone. But she also knew she couldn’t be that one time girl and Nikki, as much of a sleaze as he was, wouldn’t fuck her like that.

“Sasha, Tommy. Are you two ready?” She turned waving at the set of parents standing outside the window and knocked, pushing the door open to Tommy’s room. The sting of tears seeming to come up without her realizing she was crying. She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand grabbing the sunglasses and pushing them on along with grabbing her purse.

“Tommy.” She pressed her toe into him before kicking him, making the drummer groan as she sat down on the edge of the bed sliding onto the bed to pull her shoes in, “Parents are here to help me move. Are you coming?” She asked this knowing he wouldn’t say no to her.

“What’s wrong?” Tommy asked as he pulled on a pair of questionably clean leather pants. He was already lighting up a cigarette without even being awake for five minutes. “I thought I heard yelling and you’re wearing sunglasses inside.” He was pulling on his chucks and she wondered how he could bend his legs in those pants.

“Your bassist is a prick.” She told him, moving to make the bed. She always made the bed for them; at home his mother had always done this after breakfast. It was a small habit that she had picked up, loving the feeling of someone caring about her enough to have a clean place to sleep in. Tommy gave her a funny look wondering what the hell that meant.

“He couldn’t be that bad. You’re wearing his favorite shirt. That’s the only thing other than his bass that he left Seattle with.” She couldn’t get another word in because Tommy was dragging her through the apartment ready to get her off to school. All she could think about was Nikki.

It had been a week of Sasha being out of the house. Not even a full week more like five days and they had let the apartment go to shit. Tommy had taken to setting cockroaches on fire leaving black charred spots in the carpet, no one was doing the dishes anymore so at a part they had taken to smashing the dirty plates she had bought against the wall above where Vince was trying to get with some chick, and their clothes all needed to be washed because she wasn’t there to remind them to go to the laundromat. They had survived on beer, cocaine and cigarettes for the week and were all missing the young blonde who had been keeping them in line more than they realized. So they came up with a plan.

It was Friday night and they weren’t playing a show until tomorrow night. So they all got into a taxi with booze headed to the campus to see Sasha. They fell out of the taxi twenty minutes later getting looks from a few people. Tommy lead them over to the building she was staying in and up the stairs to her dorm room. They were all being loud, the excited energy to see her building with each step. As they knocked on the door waiting for her to open up they were sure she’d be so excited to see them.

“Are you looking for Sasha?” A girl asked peeking her head out of the room nextdoor. They nodded, “She got invited out to some club on the strip. They all left an hour ago.” The girl told them.

“Sasha went out to the Strip without us?” Vince asked. He had been dragged along with the promise of eager college girls and now was trying to accept that this wasn’t happening, “Wait, did she go with her roommates?” He asked hoping they could at least catch up with her and he’d still have a shot.

“Yeah, and some girls from a sorority that wants her to pledge. The boys from the fraternity picked them up to take them all out.”

“BOYS?!” Tommy and Nikki both said at the same time. The girl looked at them like they were all lunatics. Which was pretty accurate with the way that they were acting.

“Thanks. Let’s go back to the Strip.” Vince was pulling them out eager to get to where the party was.

Nikki was seething as they got into the cab. He was drinking the Jack Daniels he had brought and smoking cigarettes without saying a single word. Tommy was trying to figure out where they could be but he already knew exactly where she was going to be.

“She’s at Gazzarri’s, Tommy. It’s 18 plus and she always used to try to get us to go dancing all summer. Now she found people to go dancing with her.” Nikki was going to break someone’s hands if they were dancing with her. He didn’t know why he was so mad about everything.

“Give me the beer and I’ll take it back to the apartment. I’m not going to some fucking disco music club.” Mick told them, grabbing the beer off Tommy’s lap as they pulled up to the club.

“She’s probably just having a good time with her new friends. I think you’re both overreacting.” Vince warned as they walked into the club. “She’s 18 and in college. She needs to have friends that aren’t the terror twins.” Tommy and Nikki were not going to listen to the singers good advice. Everyone headed inside the club. The music was trash being played by some shitty Top 40 band, not the stuff they had her around all summer. They all split up ready to make sure they found her and she was okay.

Nikki saw her first. She was in this silver striped halter top jumpsuit that had no back and was cut so low in the front that as she danced she knew everyone was waiting for something to spill out. Her blonde hair was curled at the edges with a silver headband tied around her. Thin arms moving as tinkles of silver bracelets slid up her arm drawing even more attention to her. She had to be wearing platforms if she was looking that tall on the dance floor. Her cheeks were pink with these bright cherry lips just begging to be kissed. There seemed to be a constant stream of people coming up to her asking her to come sit at their tables but she just laughed holding onto some girls hand or asking them

If they wanted to go. She was guiding people to the tables so she stayed elusive. Nikki watched someone hand her a drink, the way her mouth opened letting some fucking prep slip some pill in her mouth, the way she smiled around his fingers before sipping her drink turning to dance with her friends again and leaving him had Nikki pushing through the crowd to get to her. Super Freak Started playing and he watched the way her hair was shaking and the smile on her face. She was so easy in her happiness with these strangers around her. Nikki on the other hand felt his ears bleeding as he thought about going to the roof after this and jumping off.

He finally got over to her as Private Eyes started playing. Nikki audiably groaned as she spun her hands clapping along to the song. Why the fuck did they have to play Hall and Oats? He had spent the summer trying to scratch the record that didn’t seem to want to break. Nikki was shrugging off girls finally reaching out to pull Sasha close to him. She gave him this look like she was going to yell at him until she realized who it was. Her eyes were as big as saucers and he thought for a second she was shocked to see him but she was high as could be. Her body shimmying against him as her arms wrapped around his neck with easy laughter.

“What the fuck did you take?” He asked trying to get her off the dance floor but it didn’t see that they were going to get away from all these lunatics clapping. Sasha rolled her hips into his, her blonde hair shaking as she thought him trying to drag her off the dance floor was a new dance. Her hands moved to clap making him lose contact, “Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with you?” He grunted as she brushed against him, her back to him as her ass brushed against him. Why did this freeze him? Her body moving to the beat of the music with small interruptions of claps and laughs.

“Private eyes, they’re watching you.” She was singing in her soft voice. His arm was in her hips as he tried again to guide them off the dance floor, this time with a bit more luck. “Oh, man, Nikki. You finally came out dancing with me.” She turned, throwing him off balance and making him stop and look at her again.

“Did you do blow?” He asked her curiously; the erratic way she was acting threw him off. She laughed leaning into him and reaching into his jacket pocket pulling out his cigarettes helping herself to one. She turned around and smiled as someone reached out lighting the cigarette for her. How the fuck was she doing this? Nikki wondered.

“Black beauty. It’s a little pill and man, Sixx. I can focus and get everything done at school. And dancing is so fun.” As much as Nikki liked drugs and liked seeing Sasha with that big smile on her face he didn’t like the two of them together. He shook his head, Vince was dancing and obviously didn’t care they had found the girl they came for but Tommy spotted them heading over.

“Jesus, are you high?” Was the first thing he asked her looking at her wide blue eyes. She laughed at him in response. “What the fuck?” Tommy asked, guiding them into a booth and sliding her in between the pair of them.

“She took a Black Beauty.” Nikki explained ordering a Jack Daniels. Sasha ordered an Alabama Slammer and Tommy just got a beer, “What the fuck did you just order?” Nikki asked her confused.

“You’ve been in college for a week and you’re doing drugs and making up weird names for drinks.” Tommy shook his head watching the way she just laughed it off. “Are you having fun? Do you miss me? Are you sleeping at night?” He asked her genuinely concerned about her.

“It’s so fun, I’m going to pledge to a sorority. It’s so easy to make friends but like a lot of girls go to college just to get married so that’s weird. But I miss you so much Tommy. And to sleep I just take half a Quack.” Nikki looked at her and shook his head.

“You’re moving back in with us. Fucking uppers and downers, is this some sort of joke?” Nikki asked, he didn’t like all these changes. She had left in scuffed up Keds and now she was in a barely there shiny jumpsuit, drinking some red drink. The only thing that was the same was she was smoking his cigarettes.

“You’re being very uncool.” Sasha said side eyeing him. She held up her drink letting Tommy try it. Before she could elaborate more about why he was so uncool, three girls were squeezing into the booth with them.

“Oh my gosh, this place is hella radical! You were like so right, Sasha.” Some curly haired blonde said not seeming to notice the men.

“Honestly, your bod is rocking in that jumpsuit. I knew when we were shopping you’d look amazing. Like all those super grody frat dudes couldn’t get their mitts off you on the dance floor.” A brunette butted in. Sasha was climbing over Nikki’s lap as he tried to push her back into the seat next to him. He wanted a barrier between her and these ducking chicks speaking in Valley talk . Another girl slid in besides Tommy and she was trapped on his lap.

“Great move, Sixx.” She muttered annoyed as she perched on his thigh. He looked over at the drummer who seemed to be wrapped up in the newest addition to the table. She readjusted, pressing into his lap and he knew he couldn’t move her: “Nikki, Tommy, these are my girlfriends Jessica, Jennifer, Ashley and Tiffany. These are some of the guys I was telling you about.”

“That’s THE Nikki?” The one named Heather asked leaning forward, “I guess you guys are really in a band.” She commented looking at the two boys. Nikki was lost with what “the” Nikki meant. He was even more lost with the high pitched voices and stupid phrases these girls were saying and how Sasha was taking like she had been born a Valley girl. When he saw Tommy spilling out of the booth with Tiffany he pulled Sasha along with them.

“There’s a show tomorrow night at The Rainbow, you can see we really are a band then.” He threw his arm around Sasha moving out of the club with her tucked under his arm, “Your friends are loud.” He told her as they poured onto the packed sidewalk of the Strip.

“Okay, old man.” She teased him easily but was secretly thankful he had gotten them out of there. Sasha was still mad about what had happened back at the apartment before she left. As she came down from her high as they walked she stuck out her hand, hailing a cab. “I’ll see you around, Sixx.” She said moving from him and sliding until the yellow cab. He gave her a confused look sliding in next to her.

“Why are you taking a cab when the apartment is around the corner?” He asked as they pulled away. She was looking at him with annoyance shining in her eyes. Obviously she wasn’t high anymore and for some reason that was making her way less fun.“Why are you mad at me? Don’t give me attitude, Angel.” She looked at him surprised that he would even ask that, “Oh you’re still mad about last month?” He asked as if he hadn’t ignored her and been a complete dickhead.

“You hurt my feelings.” She said digging in the small purse for her cigarettes, pulling out the red pack and lighting one up, “And you did it on purpose to be an asshole.” She told him as she cranked the window down to let out the smoke.

Nikki watched her, the way her blonde hair was done and her makeup. She probably had to get one of the girls to help her sign everything. Her clothing was so different from her everyday look of a band shirt and a denim jacket that he had seen her practically live in for six months. It was like a week away had changed her and gave her a new look on how people were. She was absolutely gorgeous and he wondered if she knew it. He let his hand wander across the vinyl seats, his pinky finger tracing her fingers before he took her hand in his own.

“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.” She gave him a small smirk, looking to see the serious way Nikki was staring at her, “But I knew that if you went to college you’d change. It’s been a week and we’ve already found you dancing looking like you’re ready to be on the cover of a magazine.” She gave him a serious look to match his own.

“Hustler or Playboy?” He was staring at her not seeming to understand what she was asking, “For the magazine. Because you’re more of a Hustler guy and I’m more of a Playgirl girl. Some of us are classy and some of us put everything on display.” Nikki smiled, this is what he had missed. Her stupid one liners and joked with her. When the taxi stopped she jumped out looking at him, “Pay him and let’s go. I’m cold.” She motioned to her outfit and started walking towards the door to her dorm building. Nikki threw money in the front heading in behind her.

The dorm hallways smelled like pot and he was surprised at how much it was like being in the strip. There was loud music and kids that were out of control. The only difference was most of these kids had money or at least had an idea of what their life would be like. The Sunset had this seedy feeling about it but once they were in the small room with the two beds the feeling was gone. It was obvious that her bed was on the left from the Keds that were peeking out from under it and the band posters and Polaroids tacked to the wall.

“Before you sit down can you unbutton this?” Sasha was kicking off her platforms moving over to him looking a little more normal as she pulled out her silver headband. She turned when she was in front of him, pulling her hair forward and exposing her back. Nikki licked his lips, his fingers going to get delicate buttons of the halter top.

“What’s this from?” His fingers felt the scars on her shoulder. She had always covered up so he never saw the cluster of raised skin before. She shivered feeling the halter top click open but Nikki’s fingers were still tracing the marks.

“Tommy’s singer and I dated for a few years when I was a kid. He attacked me one night, he beat the hell out of me and used a broken beer bottle to stab me. That’s what those are from. If Tommy and his mom didn’t come to the apartment that night I would have died.” She had her arms crossed against her chest but shifted letting the shiny fabric pool at her feet, “That’s when Tommy’s family took me in and so became a Lee and why he treats me like I’m made of glass sometimes.” She explained. Nikki frowned, his lips moving to kiss the skin.

“I’m sorry someone hurt you.” His breath tickled her ear as his mouth moved back leaving these soft, feather kisses on the mass of scars. Sasha wanted to kiss Nikki but she was still letting his hands slide down to hold her panties, his fingers hooking into the lace like he was about to rip it down. She could feel him pressing against her and knew Nikki wanted her. “I can’t have sex with you.” His head fell into the crook of her neck and she was sure she was going to die of embarrassment right there. Her whole body had been reacting to his kindness.

“What?” She asked into the darkness. Her head was muddled and she couldn’t figure out what the hell he was trying to say to her, “You fuck anything with a pulse.” She teased trying to keep it light and wanting to feel his hands touching her. She had only been with one person before and never had her body turned to pure goo in his hands. Nikki could smell her soap, her skin from dancing, and even a trace of perfume that was new. His lips traced her neck wanting to suck the spot there that would make her knees buckle. He wanted to leave angry purple marks that said keep away to others.

“I can’t be what you want from me. I’m not going to hurt you.” Sasha gulped hearing what he was saying to her, trying to process his words when her body was trying to confuse her. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you?” Nikki asked. His breath was tickling her ear and she felt like she should bend over something and just let him at it. Nikki’s knuckles were white holding her panties, afraid they were going to rip from the pressure but needing to keep his hands off her or he couldn’t be held responsible for what he did.

“Yes, wait what... no.” She wanted to turn and look at him but she was so confused. She could smell Nikki behind her and it was just making it harder to understand what he was trying to say to her. The feeling of leather on her bare skin as he shifted behind her caused a soft moan from her lips. Nikki froze hearing this.

“Please, don’t make this harder, angel.” He begged his hands starting to ease out the knot he had tangled them in with her underwear. She stepped forward, away from him, giving them both a break from each other’s bodies. Sasha reached for a shirt pulling it on before turning to look at him. Nikki could see the pink of her cheeks, the heat having settled there. She was wearing his T Rex shirt again. “Nice shirt.” He commented causing her to look down. She remembered how Tommy had told her the importance of that shirt and looked back up at him.

“You don’t want to fuck me because you can’t commit to me. You’ll cheat on me and hurt me.” The way she said it made him feel guilty. But it was the truth. Even if he wanted to commit to her there was no way that his dick would allow him to. He’d get high after a show and the next thing he would know there would be some brunette between his legs as he came down her throat. He couldn’t stop things he wasn’t aware were happening. But Sasha seemed to understand that. She nodded her head. “Okay, well at least spend the night and sleep here.” She had a million thoughts going through her head. “If you want you can come down to breakfast with me and then we can go to the laundromat after. Your clothes fucking stink.” She said turning the blanket over and getting under the covers. Nikki watched her get comfortable as he stripped down to her underwear.

“Thanks for not making things weird between us.” He said as she adjusted to let him spoon her. She had handled everything way better than he had expected her to. Sasha let out a yawn.

“It’s okay. I’ll just fuck other guys and have slutty college years like I’m supposed to.” She pretended to settle down even though she had felt Nikki tense against her. She knew he was angry but kept her smile to himself. She was going to drive him out of his fucking mind for telling her no.

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justletmeplayminecraft · 4 years ago

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Shsjsj Halloween prompt 38 with architechs? They’d probably get into some scooby doo shenanigans except ghosts are real

38. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

okay so i might’ve... gone off a little bit. this is more mystery incorporated shenanigans than normal scooby. mumbo-centric, the architechs go to a haunted house that may, in fact, be haunted. mumbo pays the price.

featuring: could a visit to a haunted house go any worse, mumbo is very interesting to local ghost population, unfortunately for him, real life au, mumbo's surprisingly resourceful considering, sometimes you just need two ghost girls to tell u to get moving, angst/comfort, horror vibes, happy ending

warnings: violence, knife violence, possession, referenced murder of children and adults, graphic injuries, blood, mumbo gets a lil messed up, but nobody dies who isn’t already dead

"Why did I let you two drag me into this?" Grian is checking the time on his phone whilst Iskall holds Mumbo's hand like he's about to run off. Which, Mumbo would, actually. Given half a chance he'd be catching the first bus out of here. Iskall raises his free hand in a shrug, smirking at Mumbo's question.

"We hardly dragged you, if I remember, you agreed willingly." Iskall leans closer as he teases him, poking Mumbo's cheek with the cool finger of his prosthetic.

Mumbo sighs, batting the finger away, "I agreed so you'd both stop asking! I didn't think we'd actually do it." Grian slips his phone into his pocket, rocking onto his heels. The look on his face is smug.

"Mumbo, you should know us better than that by now."

Iskall hums high in agreement, "Don't tell us you're scared."

"Lil scaredy Mumbo~." Mumbo brushes them away with a shake of his head. He can't believe he's friends with the two of them, he really can't.

"It's a haunted house, I'm supposed to be afraid!" He points out. "Additionally, I think it's kinda bad taste to have a haunted house set in an actual haunted manor. Surely that's disrespectful." Grian pulls Mumbo's other hand free, him and Iskall holding one each. Stepping backwards as they move up the line, Mumbo frowns when his foot gets caught in the roots overwhelming mossy, cracked stone planters. He glances down the line, unsure how he didn't notice them bordering this section of the queue before.

"Mumbo, you do know there's no such thing as ghosts, right? You are aware of this fact?" Iskall's voice, despite its taunting nature, has a hint of seriousness to it. Mumbo's attempt at a word disintegrates into several noises instead. Of course, that only encourages Iskall to laugh, throwing his head back at the force of it. Grian slides up to Mumbo's shoulder, bumping into it.

"It's okay, Mumbo, we'll protect you from the spooky ghosts!" Grian sing-songs 'spooky' for extra effect. That effect is making Mumbo want to hit him. Unfortunately, he can't, because they're both still holding his hands. Mumbo stares into the cold fluorescent lights instead, ignoring them. Grian laughs, Iskall quick to join him.

Mumbo will give it to the organisers, they know how to set a scene. Outside of the bustling noise and lights of the queue, the grounds are as black as the night sky overhead. The overgrown lawn brushes the stone foundation they're waiting on; blades of grass occasionally tickling his ankle as he shuffles from foot to foot. His shoes are still muddy from when they were queuing on the lawn further back. He's glad they got off that section. If he had to listen to Grian and Iskall guess what shape the topiaries used to be for much longer he would've gone insane. Another scream from within the house makes him jump, gripping Iskall's hand tighter out of instinct. Iskall throws him a smirk, and blessedly doesn't comment. Small miracles.

"We're nearly at the entrance!" Grian whispers, voice high with excitement. His fingers trace the stone wall of the house as they move. They lift when he reaches the wooden trim of a boarded up window, paint flaking under Grian's touch. He cringes, flicking the dried paint off his skin. Mumbo smiles to himself and pretends not to look.

"After what, an hour and a half?" Iskall asks, his voice as tired as Mumbo's feet feel. Grian checks his phone with a hum.

"More like an hour and a quarter." The bright screen lights his face with an eerie glow until he shuts it off. Iskall sighs, the dramatic nature overtaken by a piercing scream that sounds like it's on the other side of the wall next to them. The three of them freeze up, before they shake their heads with gentle laughter, normal conversation resuming.

"Have we got any signal yet?" Iskall asks.

"Nope!" Grian pops the word. At Iskall's groan, he laughs. "It's not my fault you're so addicted to social media."

"Not everybody can be so dedicated to our jobs," Iskall replies. Mumbo finds himself distracted by something out in the darkness of the lawn. It looks like two children, running in circles after each other. Their dresses look wholly impractical for the chill in the air. And too fancy for the muddy grass. Who would bring their children to a haunted house anyway? Staff members, maybe? Irresponsible parents?

His foot catches on a crack in the concrete, stumbling forward instead of a step. Iskall steadies him with the grip on his hand and Grian is quick to grab his shoulders. The two of them haul him upright again. Grian's smile is more amused than Iskall's concerned frown.

"You alright, dude?" He asks, checking Mumbo over carefully. Mumbo shakes his head, trying to dispel Iskall's worry.

"No, I'm fine. Foot got caught. I was watching the kids out on the-" Where he's pointing is empty. There are no white flashes of fabric where the children were, only the dark murkiness of night. "Oh. Well, they were there." Grian stares out into the lawn, skeptical.

"You sure you weren't seeing things, Mumbo?" Grian's voice is disbelieving, an edge of teasing slipping in.

"No, I- I swear they were right there. Two girls." He blinks, unsure where the two must have gone. He wasn't looking away for that long, but children are pretty fast.

"Maybe you saw some ghosts," Iskall joins the teasing. Mumbo huffs at them both, crossing his arms now Iskall has finally released his hand.

"You two are the worst," he decides.

"Spooky!" Grian sings, pulling himself onto Mumbo's shoulder as they step forward again. He feels a heavy relief as they finally round the corner and the dark porch comes into view. It looks like it's been restored, the paint on the wood shiny compared to the rest of the house. Although looking towards the roof of the porch, those metal spikes should've been left out. Someone could hurt themselves on those. Thankfully, the window above is boarded up.

"Finally," Iskall sighs, his shoulders slumping as the ticket checker comes into view. "Grian, you got them ready?" Grian hums, unzipping his coat pocket and pulling out the printed tickets.

"Right here!" He holds them up proudly. Mumbo twists around to see the ticket man. The clothes look pretty authentic. A neat waistcoat, a chain coming from the pocket, well-fitting slacks. A couple passes their tickets over, smiling as he takes them. Then the man takes out a straight-up pocket watch. They're… Really going for this, aren't they? Mumbo sticks his own hands in his jean pockets. He prefers modern comforts.

There are only a few more people ahead of them now. Mumbo shifts from foot to foot, his toe catching on the red carpet leading inside. He sighs. He's doomed to trip over everything tonight, isn't he? He looks up to find Grian looking at him, excitement in his expression. He tries to smile back, moving up to a drawn line on the carpet. There's nobody else in front of them now. Oh, they're actually doing this.

Upon a wave from the staff member, the trio heads up to the rope barrier. Past the entrance, the hallway splits into two, wooden signs marking each way. Yet, Mumbo can't help but be drawn to the bored-looking staff member as he holds his hand out. His eyes are a pale blue, almost white. Mumbo shudders when those eyes stare directly at him. He's quick to look away. This place is getting to him. Grian enthusiastically passes over their tickets, oblivious to the exchange beside him.

"Three adults," he says. The man nods, looking over each ticket and checking the time on his pocket watch. He punches a hole through the corner of each one before handing them back.

"Keep your tickets on you in case they need to be checked." Grian nods, giving Mumbo and Iskall their own ticket. Mumbo slips it into his pocket without checking. He printed them out earlier today at Grian's pestering. "And you'll need to leave your bag in the cloakroom, sir." The staff member gestures at the brown rucksack on Iskall's back. Iskall puts a hand on the strap, the bag containing their personal belongings. "It's a secure locker system, you only have to give them to the staff member there and you'll receive a wristband." They gesture down the second corridor, away from the queue and the noise.

"I can take it," Mumbo suggests. He could use a breather before they head into the attraction. Usually, he'd find his friends' excitement contagious, but right now it's only leaving him more unsettled. Iskall loosens the strap, sliding it off his back.

"You sure you won't get lost the moment we aren't holding your hands?" Iskall teases as he hands the bag to him. Mumbo rolls his eyes, slinging it over one of his shoulders.

"Surprisingly, I don't think I'll get lost simply going up a corridor." Grian steps forward, unbuttoning his red coat to reveal the just as red jumper underneath.

"Can you take my coat too?" Mumbo lays it over one of his arms, watching Grian grin. "Thanks, Mumbo, love you." Mumbo shakes his head, already taking a step towards the separate corridor and past the now-open rope barrier.

"I'll meet up with you guys in a minute," he tells them, precious cargo in hand. Grian and Iskall smile, Iskall offering a wave as they go ahead to join up with the queue.

"We won't go in without you!" Grian calls. Mumbo huffs a laugh.

"I'd prefer it if you did!" He calls in return. He watches until the two vanish behind the wall, their giggles merging into the crowd. The couple behind them are already joining the queue. Mumbo sighs, turning and checking the neat wooden sign before heading up the corridor. He's definitely going the right way.

Metal sconces light the wall, a dim light against dark, ornate wallpaper. He doesn't realise how quiet it's grown until he can hear the wooden floor creak beneath the carpet. He cringes at the sound, pleased when he reaches another rope, blocking off the corridor and directing him into a smaller room. He looks around at the wooden bookshelves, a cushioned seat in the corner. Another staff member (he hopes) leans on a doorway inside, reading a hardcover book. Mumbo hesitates before he approaches.

"Hey, uh, are you taking the bags? For the cloakroom?" Dark eyes look up to him. It's a woman this time, hair tied back into a neat ponytail. She's also wearing a waistcoat, Mumbo assumes it must be their uniform.

"That would be me," the woman tells him, placing her book on the side table. Mumbo passes over the bag and coat, shrugging off his own to add to them. She disappears into the back room. Mumbo tries to peer in, but it's so dark he can't see anything. How can she tell where she's going? She comes back, presenting him with a wristband, an intricate pattern on both sides of the plastic. Mumbo takes it, frowning as he twirls it in his hand.

"Doesn't it have a number on it?" He asks, a little curious about what kind of system they're using here. The woman shrugs her shoulder.

"Doesn't need one," she tells him. She reaches over to pick up her book again, flicking it open. "Have a nice stay." Mumbo's mouth remains open for a few seconds too long before he realises he's been dismissed. At least this will make an interesting story to tell the other two. He steps back into the corridor, focusing on slipping the wristband on. Then he looks up and stops. The rope barrier is gone. For a moment he's unsure if he imagined it, but he's certain that there was a barrier here. And a sign. Glancing into the room, the staff member is gone too. Okay, right. He can figure this out.

He looks down both sides of the hallway, trying to guess what direction he came from. They're identical, carpeted floor and metal sconces leading off into darkness. Even the panelling on the wall below the patterned wallpaper offers no clues. With a sigh, he sticks his hands into his pockets, resting over his phone. Listening, the manor is quiet. He can't hear the occasional screaming, although there's some creaking overhead. Helpful. Well, it was just a straight walk to the entrance, wasn't it? He can follow the corridor and come back if he notices something unfamiliar.

His steps are more cautious as he starts down the hall. He's never going to hear the end of it if he actually gets lost. Certainly not down a straight corridor. He'd like to keep his dignity tonight, please. Whatever is left of it. Except, he's fairly certain the hall wasn't this long. Nor did he notice this musty smell until now. He touches a finger to his nose, scrunching it up. It smells like wet paper. Or… something like that, at least.

Giving up on this direction, he turns and goes the other way. From the outside, the manor didn't even look this big. This time, he takes more note of the closed doors lining the hall. The wooden frames match the doors, with a carved arch above each one. He pauses to look at the sculpted wood. A shield sits on top of twisted ribbon, although whatever was on the shield has been scratched off to reveal pale wood beneath. He walks to the next door only to find the same thing. Somebody didn't like the family coat of arms, then. It's the same down the entire corridor - the wood broken and splintered away.

He nearly jumps when he finds himself back in the entrance hall. The front door is shut. Mumbo didn't think this shut until later? Maybe they hit capacity. He tilts his head in the direction of the queue, surprised when he hears silence. Surely Grian and Iskall would be waiting for him somewhere, right? That same ticket person with the spooky eyes is at the door. Mumbo steels himself before approaching him.

"Um, sir?" He gets no response from the man. He stares at the door as if Mumbo hadn't spoken. Mumbo closes the distance, coming up behind him. "Excuse me?" He reaches out to tap his shoulder, wondering if he's wearing headphones Mumbo hasn't spotted.

Mumbo's fingers go straight through his shoulder.

There's a brief, still second where nothing moves. Mumbo stares at his hand in shock, hanging inside the now transparent arm. His mouth opens, brain desperately trying to catch up with this new situation. The rest of his body kicks in, pulling him away, clutching his hand like he's been burnt. His fingers are freezing, colder than they were after being stood in that queue. In a panic, he glances upwards, searching for a projector of some kind.

"It has to be," he murmurs. His gentle voice feels so loud in the entrance. Like laughter in a graveyard. He didn't see the floor up above the first time he entered, or the huge black chandelier that seems to be waving in an absent breeze. There's no tell-tale flicker of a projector. Oh jeez. He turns back to the door.

Those eyes are right in front of him.

A shout gets caught in his throat, body tumbling over and into the wall behind him in his attempt to fling himself away. His fingers press into the carpet beneath him, legs shuffling backwards until his back is straight against the wall. The man is still walking towards him and Mumbo genuinely thinks his heart couldn't beat harder if it tried.

"Sir, I am so sorry, I'm a little lost right now and- oh goodness I put my hand through your shoulder, what is happening-?" Whether the man hears him or not is impossible to tell, but Mumbo has a sinking feeling nothing good is going to happen if he touches him. He's only getting closer and Mumbo is running out of options here.

A few things happen in quick succession.

First, the man reaches his hand out towards Mumbo, lips pulling into an unnaturally wide smile on a face that has only seemed disinterested until now. Second, Mumbo throws himself to the side, landing on his hands on the carpet beside him and trying to scramble to his feet. Third, the room plunges into darkness.

Mumbo falls straight into the wall, nails scratching the wood to pull himself up. He can't make out anything. He feels around him blindly, finding an empty space and taking quick, clumsy steps into it. He blinks hard. Once, twice. The world is still dark. Except, as he raises his arm to feel in front of him again, except for that wristband.

He presses against the wall, checking from side to side as if he could see any threat coming for him. Convincing himself he's at least somewhat safe, he examines the wristband. The strange pattern in the plastic is glowing. It's literally glowing. He traces along the indent first, but can't spot any hidden LEDs. Then he tries to take the band off. The band does not come off.

"Oh, this is ridiculous." He can't even fit his nails underneath the plastic. This has to be a joke, right? Some kind of big misunderstanding? He fumbles in his pocket until he's pulling out his phone, even more relieved now that he didn't leave it in his coat. The screen lights up, making his hands silver in its glow. It's nearly midnight. He groans in frustration when he remembers that, of course, there's no signal. Not even for emergency calls. He's an idiot. Unlocking the screen, he goes to the one thing his phone can be useful for.

He hovers over the button before switching on the flashlight, chest tight until he confirms there's no man (ghost, was that a ghost? It can't be-) waiting for him. He swings the light around him nervously, trying to figure out where he is. He doesn't even remember entering a door, but it seems like he's in a living room of some kind. There's a stone fireplace in the wall, comfortable chairs and a large love seat. Lingering on the fireplace, he's distracted from the stonework by the charred wood and ash gathered at the bottom. There's still a hint of amber in the embers, letting off so little light it's barely noticeable. Was it on recently? He doesn't feel it in the air, his arms having broken into goosebumps under his dress shirt.

The other people waiting for the attraction can't have moved too far, and Grian and Iskall should be with them. He takes a deep breath, calming his thoughts and steadying himself. Yeah. He just needs to find everyone else. They should have lights, and people, and hopefully staff members he doesn't put his hand through. Perfect.

He creeps to the doorway, careful to shine his phone through it first. The hallway looks identical. Though, when he looks closer, it's in better condition to the other side. Towards the ceiling, where wallpaper was ripped to show the broken plasterboard beneath, it's immaculate. He catches the shine of wood over the door. The coat of arms is intact. He takes in the dragon on the shield. It's pretty cool, he wonders why it was broken in the other hall.

Only when he's sure the hallway is safe does he continue down it. He guesses how far away the queue must be. Worst case, they've taken them somewhere safe and out of the way. Hopefully Grian and Iskall have raised the alarm for him. He's keeping an eye out for any staff members or… anyone, actually. He'd just like to see another person in the darkness.

He cringes as a creak pierces the air, lifting his foot quickly. He hates old houses. He hates them so much. As he hovers his phone over it, though, the carpet even looks fluffy. That's absurd. He shakes it off and attempts to tread lighter, the little it helps. His creaking steps and soft breaths are the only things he can hear. He'd think as he got closer to the others, he might hear them but there's nothing so far. It's unnerving. As if he isn't unnerved enough.

He stops so quickly he nearly loses his footing at a flash of white down the hallway. He holds the light over the open doorway. It wasn't the right height to be that man. Perhaps another person? He steps forward, attempting to peek into the room.

He calls a nervous, "Hello?" Then realises he sounds like every white person in a horror movie. He stills when a face peers around the door. It's one of the children from earlier. This close, the girl is unnaturally pale, with almost a glow to her. Mumbo relaxes a little anyway, relieved to see a kind of familiar face. He crouches down to her height. "Hey, do you know where anyone is? Your parents maybe? I'm a little lost." She edges out from behind the door, neat white dress following her. It's lacy around the top, a line towards the bottom marking out wavy fabric around her feet. Which, he notices, don't have any shoes on.

When she speaks, it's with a gentle echo, like a song, "You can see me?" Mumbo frowns, watching her small hand push away some of the tight waves that have fallen from her braid.

"Yes? Why wouldn't I-" He's cut off when the girl's mouth drops open. She steps away from him, taking a deep breath. Mumbo's not sure what he's done wrong when she screams. He has to raise his hands to his ears, flinching at the high sound. Despite his phone's light pointing away, he can still see her clearly. Especially as she turns and runs. Straight… straight through a wall. Mumbo would very much like off this ride now. He pushes himself upright on his knees and freezes. He can feel something staring at him. She wasn't reacting to him, was she? Brandishing his phone in front of him, he spins, dragging his feet down the corridor.

The man is walking slowly towards him. One foot after the other. Purposeful. Mumbo shivers, can't look into those eyes.

"What do you want?" He demands. "I'm honestly very confused right now, and I'd really like some answers." He walks backwards, keeping distance between them both.

"It's been a long time since we've had a guest like you." Mumbo swears that voice wasn't so deep before. It's almost static around the edges, hurting Mumbo's ears. "You'll make a wonderful addition to the house." Mumbo pulls himself up taller, straightening his back.

"That's- that's a really nice offer but I'm really, very happy with my current job! I'm sorry but I'm not on the market right now!" There's no break in pace. Only the return of that smile, looking too big, too tight. Like the face it's on isn't made for it.

"I think your spirit would be perfect to mould." The words make Mumbo's chest seize in terror. He doesn't need to understand the full implication behind them to realise that's not good.

"Okay. Don't really want that. If you could just- I don't know, let me leave? Find my friends?" That is not the face of someone who's going to let him leave. His back knocks into a wall. He glances around him, panic consuming any rational thought. He's breathing too fast but it feels like he isn't breathing at all. There, next to him. Wooden stairs, twisting up into darkness. He looks at the approaching man and the hall he's backed into. There's nowhere else to go.

He leaps the first two stairs, one of his hands catching himself on the wood to push himself up. The light around him swings wildly as he struggles to keep his phone steady. Using his hand and feet, he scarpers to the landing, falling back onto carpet edged with small metal grippers, shaped like studded semi-circles. He drags himself up using the wall, swaying on his feet and taking deep breaths.

The man doesn't suddenly appear behind him, but Mumbo isn't taking any chances. He searches the immediate area and finds only one direction available. He hopes the others are nearby and runs down the hallway, hoping to put as much distance between him and that man as possible. There are no lights on up here either, but as he gets around, he realises that the windows aren't boarded up. Instead, a full moon shines bright silver light into the manor. Mumbo checks the time on his phone as turns off the torch. He needs to save battery.

It's nearly midnight. His lip twists. Did he read it wrong before? He must have. He was panicking. It makes sense. He's still got plenty of charge too, which is a relief. However, his hope that the change in height would give him service is quickly dashed. Obviously, he can't have too many good things.

He comes to a stop upon reaching a branch in the hallway. There are two directions he could go. Neither has an obvious sign stating, 'This way!' It would've been nice. So he picks the left for no other reason than maze logic. Always follow the left wall. It also seems more lit up, which is vastly preferable to the darkness in other parts of the manor. It smells less of dust up here, too. He can smell something distantly flowery. Maybe the garden is in better condition than the front lawn?

Since he's on the top floor, he takes the opportunity to look into some of the rooms. Mostly bedrooms, he notices. A lot of the beds are pristinely made, sheets looking like they've been washed recently. In one room there's a half-full glass on a nightstand. In another, a cup of tea sends twisted patterns of steam into the freezing air. Mumbo enters that room, curious if anybody's nearby. There are more signs of life on this floor. He's taking in the four-poster bed with fabric tied to the posts when he hears distant singing.

He turns towards the sound automatically, hands falling heavy by his sides. Singing, that must mean a person. He leaves the room, following the sound. The haunting notes fill his head in the silence through the manor. Each step brings him closer to the source, losing sight of the space around him. He vaguely notices his fingers slipping from his phone, and pushes the device into his pocket instead. His fingers fall limp once he does.

The room he enters is another bedroom. The bed is the largest he's seen so far, but besides the singing, all he takes in is the scent of lavender. Taking over his senses, soothing his thoughts into a quiet hum. Both the song and the lavender are coming from a woman, sitting in front of her vanity as she brushes long, dark hair. Mumbo takes small steps towards her before stopping, waiting in place. He remains there, watching, letting her song fill his head until there are no thoughts of his own left.

The click of her hairbrush on the vanity marks the end of the song. The woman stands, every movement poised, as she walks towards the silent Mumbo. His eyes are partially closed, head falling forward with his shoulders. She reaches under his chin, ice-cold fingers tilting his face towards her. Their eyes meet, dark brown into light, glassy blue.

"Oh, you poor thing." Her words have a similar song-like quality, dripping with sadness. "You must be so lost." Mumbo's eyes grow heavier as her other hand cups the back of his head, holding him still in front of her. "Rest, now. Rest and I'll make it all better." His eyes slip shut, mind falling completely silent.

When they open again, he's in front of a circular window. He steps towards it automatically. He wants to see his garden before he goes to bed. It looks so pretty in the nighttime. The moon shines cold light onto his face, the glow of the glass enchanting.

Nothing prepares him for the shove. His spine shouts in pain as the world shifts beneath him. Gravity changes and he raises thin arms to protect himself, his feet unable to find the ground. Glass shatters against his weight in a cacophony of noise and he's falling- the porch rushing to meet him, no longer decorative black spikes he can't bear to look at growing closer as he shuts his eyes-

Mumbo gasps as his eyes shoot open. He's leaning out of the shattered window, gusts of wind streaking through his hair, pinning his shirt to his body. The moon in front of him is bright, catching on the splintered glass in the window frame. Every breath feels heavy in his lungs, his entire body shivering in the chill of the air. Outside, the lawn is… Different. The grass is immaculate, flowerbeds blossoming in a way that still tugs at some part of his mind he's not convinced is his own. The once-broken planters along the pathway are shining in the glow of the moon, not a crack to be found. He can only glance at the spikes on the porch, pain stabbing through his chest and arms at the sight. And the queue, where's the queue?

He attempts to stumble away, hissing as he lifts his hands and finds thick lines of blood. How did he not feel that before? He looks at the glass shards where his hands were just resting. In fact, how didn't he feel the tugging pressure on either side of his shirt, or see the pale faces watching him-?

He screams. The girls let go of his shirt as he backs into the wall, pressing his bleeding palms flat against the panelling. They watch, making no move towards him. Simply watching. Mumbo's strength finally gives up and he sinks down the wall until he hits the ground. Burying his face into his knees, he takes a few seconds to just breathe. The girls are still watching him when he looks back up, twin faces expressionless.

"What do you want from me?" He asks, voice cracking in spite of his best efforts. The girls look at each other, expressions becoming almost… Remorseful?

"We want to help you," one says. She's taller, hair tied into a ponytail by a simple ribbon.

"You shouldn't be here," the other tells him. The one from before, with the untidy braid. "He's trapped you here." Mumbo presses his clenched fists against his face, making a soft whine that sounds pathetic to his own ears.

"Who is he? What is going on? I'm just-" He runs out of words to say. The shorter girl looks down the hallway. They exchange another look and the taller holds a hand out, encouraging him up.

"We should go to our room."

"You get affected by her." Mumbo looks at the empty window in front of him. The glass shards taunt him, memories that aren't quite his own mingled with stinging palms. He pushes himself onto his feet. What other option does he have? He's lost, he's freezing, he's scared. When this day started, he didn't think he'd be taking comfort in two ghost girls. But here he is.

"Okay. Okay, I'll follow you." The taller girl takes Mumbo's hand. Her touch is like cold velvet against his already freezing skin. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he lets the pair lead him. Away from the broken window and the lingering scent of lavender. Further into the house with more direction than he's had since he arrived. The shorter girl skips ahead, peeking around doors and corners before gesturing them on.

They come to a stop in a bedroom. It's pretty. That's the best way he can think to describe this room. The curtains are drawn, frills down to the floor. A dollhouse sits in the corner of the room beside the bed, dolls still, as if caught in time. And two twin beds. They're unmade yet a pristinely bright white. Besides dark spots on the edges of the pillows where the covers are drawn back, marking each bed. A glistening red, matching the deep cuts on his hands-

"Is that blood?" He hisses, freezing in place. The taller girl turns to look at him, tilting her head.

"This is our bedroom," she says it as if that should answer all of his questions. It does not. Not at all.

"But- Why is there blood?" He gestures at the stained sheets. His hand is released as both girls enter the room. The shorter girl picks up a discarded teddy from the floor.

"This is where we died," the taller tells him, jumping up and sitting on the bed. Her dress falls delicately around her, blending in with the covers. The shorter girl pushes herself up, sitting so they both face him. Mumbo stares. He hates to admit it, but he just stares. He understood, logically, they had to be dead. He saw one of them run through a wall. But hearing them say it, so simply? How is he supposed to react to that?

"Died- right-" He hides his face, trying to keep himself calm. "You're ghosts. Of course. That-" Something else clicks, "Blood. There's blood. You two-"

"Murdered," the shorter one says.

"By him. Our father," the taller adds. Mumbo looks at them both closely. They look so small.

"You- that's so much blood." The taller girl looks at the patch, she reaches out, scraping her finger against the stain. "You don't look like it."

"We choose not to." Mumbo blinks and suddenly the girls have blood streaming from their necks and staining their dresses, the skin torn almost all the way through-

He blinks again and it's gone, along with his breath. There are just two girls with skin nearly as pale and flawless as their white dresses. He raises a hand to his mouth, unsure if he wants to be sick or cry. They're just- they're so young.

"It's okay," the shorter girl tells him. She's crossed her legs, her teddy sat in the middle. "We were sleeping. We didn't feel it." Mumbo can barely look at them without seeing the red.

"Oh- oh, I feel sick." There's nowhere in the room for him to sit, so he settles for the floor. His legs shake as he lowers himself, finally dropping with a thud. The girls look down at him, always watching. It's as if he's something fascinating to them. Those bright eyes examine his every movement.

"Our father is the one who trapped you here," the taller girl tells him. "We're all trapped here. Our family, and the people he's got since."

"The people he's got since?" Mumbo questions, the implication of that hitting him like a truck. "Like me?" They both nod.

"It used to be explorers," she speaks like she's telling a story, her words weaving pictures in Mumbo's mind, "most of them came and went. We'd watch them as they flashed their big boxes or tubes."

"But some of them could see us," the shorter one calls, face brightening in genuine excitement.

"Those were the ones he trapped. We'd listen to them scream and then they were trapped, like us." Mumbo's fingers unconsciously reach for his phone, holding it tight for comfort. Maybe he should write a message. Texts that won't send. Some sorries and 'I love you's.

"Why are you telling me this?" He asks. "You're trapped here too." They turn to each other, smiling with slight nods.

"We decided to help," the taller one says.

"You were nice," the smaller continues. Mumbo holds his arm up, looking at the wristband. It continues glowing. He gives it a cursory push. Still no give. He’s so lost.

"How do you plan on doing that?" He asks. They turn to each other as their faces scrunch up.

"We're not sure."

"We've never done this before." Mumbo groans, sinking back until he's lying on the carpeted floor. His hand presses into his face until he grimaces at the sticky, congealing blood.

"I'm going to die here," he murmurs. "I'm going to die here because apparently, I can see ghosts and my friends dragged me to a haunted house! I'm going to die!" He flashes his phone screen on, wishing for something. A message, a hint of signal and not the time, still showing it's right before midnight. Not that. The only one out of the three he gets. His hands sting more at the stretch of movement.

"Are you finished?" He yelps when he lowers the phone and finds both girls standing over him. His arms are above his face as protection before he processes what's happening. He reveals a sliver of vision between his pale forearms. They're frowning.

"You're not going to escape by having a tantrum on the floor," the shorter tells him, her voice sharp as a teacher's. He's going to die and his last memories are going to be of dead children scolding him like he's one of them. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

"Come on. Let's go." Small hands tug at him as they attempt to pull him upright. It feels as effective as he is when he's stayed up too late, about to pass out standing up. "Do you want to be stuck here forever? Don't you have a family to go back to?" And Mumbo does. He has his family and-

"My friends. I came here with two friends." Grian and Iskall, what would they think? Would they even find a body, or would Mumbo have walked down that hallway and simply vanished? His mind rushes with questions that he doesn't want answers to. He doesn't want to see his friends search for him. He doesn't want to see them mourn.

"Well, get up then. Let's go." The shorter girl claps for emphasis. This time, Mumbo does, using his arm as a pillar despite how it hurts.

"I think," the taller declares, "we should try to get you outside. That's got to work, right?" Her questioning tone leaves Mumbo less than optimistic, but it's not as if he has any other options.

"But that means going downstairs," the shorter girl whispers it like the words have weight.

"Downstairs?" Mumbo echoes.

"That's where he is." The taller girl is already walking ahead, taking Mumbo's hand as she does. "But how else are we going to get outside?"

"A window?" The shorter suggests. She takes Mumbo's other hand, the pair of them taking the lead with no option but to follow. They continue their discussion around him.

"No. The only open one is mother's and he can't go near it again. She's stronger than us, we nearly lost him before." Mumbo isn't sure how he feels about being discussed like this. They're leaning forwards as they walk, looking at each other. Yet they're leading him down the halls still. Walking blindly through the maze that had Mumbo so lost like it’s effortless.

"The front door is shut too." The shorter has her face scrunched up, dark hair falling into it again. "We're not strong enough to open it."

"The garden, then."

"That door was shut too." Their gentle bickering reminds him of Grian and Iskall. Silently, he accepts his fate. He's putting his life in the hands of two girls that have no idea what they're doing. Children. He is completely and utterly screwed. He's never going to hear Iskall and Grian bicker again. His hand twitches with the urge to wipe away what might be tears stinging his eyes. Little fingers hold on tighter.

The halls all blend together the longer they walk. They fall into a single file line, the taller girl leading. Only his footsteps make a sound - muted thuds through the house, less creaks now he has two people guiding him. Mumbo's in awe at the size of the manor. He allows that to occupy his mind for a little while. How would you even fill half of these rooms? They must have had servants for cleaning. In its day, this must've been an incredible place to grow up. Now, it's a prison. It's likely going to be his prison. The manor loses some grandeur at that thought.

The taller releases his hand and leans forward, sticking her upper body straight through a wall. Mumbo blinks. He's never going to get used to that. She steps away, nodding at them both.

"It's empty." The shorter girl nods in return, the pair sneaking around the partially closed door. Mumbo follows, ducking into a small, twisting, wooden staircase. The girls are skipping down the stairs, leaning on the central column to peer around. They glance at him occasionally, as if checking he's still there. Mumbo makes sure he's in their sight, feet struggling to fit on the stairs. This staircase wasn't made for somebody as tall as him.

Towards the bottom, he can pick up on a distinct noise slicing through the silence. The two girls have paused at the exit to the stairs, listening. It’s a harsh scrape, splintering underneath. Terror catches Mumbo's heart, the beat jumping in his ears. Is somebody destroying the house? What is that?

"He's doing it again," the shorter comments, her face and voice grumpy. Mumbo is about to ask what he's doing, but the pair are already determinedly walking ahead. He'll defer to the experts.

"That's the only way to the entrance," the taller says, her gentle features pinched in thought. It's not directed at him. The words sink in anyway.

"We have to go past him?" He asks, continuing to follow despite his poor instincts trying to protect him. Their faces are set in grim determination.

"Yes."

Mumbo has to fight to find words, "That's- that's a terrible idea! He wants to kill me." He presses his fist against his chest at the thought. One near death experience would be enough for one night. He's had several!

"He's already killed us," the shorter helpfully reminds him. Mumbo squeezes his eyes shut to calm down.

"We can figure it out," the taller replies. Honestly, Mumbo would just like to curl up in a corner and fade out of existence. That would be far preferable to this. But, he's already come this far, and they're both looking at him expectantly.

"Planning," he suggests, "we could come up with a plan." They exchange looks.

"Planning's for adults," the taller decides. The shorter girl is already running ahead, scouting their path out. Mumbo makes a particularly undignified noise.

"I'm an adult!" He calls. His statement is ignored. The girls are storming ahead with a determination Mumbo wishes he had. Maybe there are some advantages to being dead. It's not like anyone can kill you again. Can they?

The girls come to a stop in front of a corner. The taller puts her fingers on her lips. The harsh scraping is louder, vibrating through the walls. Mumbo can hear thuds, softened by the carpet. He clutches one of his hands tight to his chest. The gashes have nearly stopped bleeding. His entire palm is stained red - he's surprised he's not left marks on the house or the girls. Just another weird thing to keep track of.

The shorter girl pulls him closer, encouraging him to look around the corner. It's the same man as before, that's for certain. His appearance has changed, once tidy hair unkempt, waistcoat undone and torn. Mumbo flinches as a knife glints in the darkness. The man lunges forward, stabbing the blade into the wood above the door and prying at the carving, splintering wood around him. His focus is immovable as he drives the knife in further. Mumbo winces.

A tug on his shirt brings him to attention. The taller girl is pointing to something in the darkness. It hits Mumbo that he can barely see. He's been so reliant on the natural glow from the two girls, he forgot it's pitch black down here. He has no idea what she's pointing at or any idea how to articulate that. With one hand, he covers his eyes, shaking his head. When he looks again, the two girls are frowning, looking at each other. Finally, they nod. The shorter darts to the other side of the hall, vanishing into the wall.

Mumbo watches in confusion until in the darkness of the hall, a doorway is lit up by her silhouette. Her cheeks are scrunching up her eyes as she grins. The taller girl turns to him, a question in her eyes. Mumbo nods, offering a thumbs up. She nods back, checking the position of her father. Then she points, mouthing a clear, 'Go.'

Mumbo takes the chance, transferring his weight to his toes. He waits for the sound of the knife hitting wood before running, feet light across the carpet until he reaches the doorway, falling into the room. Both girls are waiting for him. The shorter girl pokes her head out, returning with a big grin. Mumbo releases his breath, sinking onto the wall beside the doorframe. One stage closer. He allows himself a hint of relief, hope within reach. If they're patient, they should make it. He checks his phone. Still nearly midnight. They've got time.

The taller girl vanishes through one of the walls. Mumbo stays put, waiting for his next instruction. Sure, they'll have to figure out what to do next. But if he gets through this, Mumbo thinks he could do anything.

He makes it to the next room, using the sound of the knife against wood and the glow of the girls to guide him. The man is close now. Mumbo breathes lightly, body tensed. The scraping stops. The three wait for it to start up again so they can decide their next move.

Instead, the knife stabs through the wall with a loud yell, inches away from Mumbo's head.

Mumbo realises the shout was his own, throwing himself away from the wall and falling against a velvet chair. He manages to keep himself upright on shaky hands, twisting to face the door. The girls have twin looks of terror. Mumbo presses against the wall away from the door, a glowing silhouette blocking out the creeping darkness.

"There you are." The man walks in. The knife is armed in his hand. "I knew I could smell something alive around here." To Mumbo's surprise, the taller girl gets in front of him, digging her hands into his hips. The man stops.

"Let him go!" She orders, stomping her foot. The shorter girl stands beside her, crossing her arms. They form a protective wall in front of Mumbo. His heart aches. The man, their supposed father, only scowls.

"Begone, brats." Mumbo feels the air shift. The girls look at each other in horror before they vanish, leaving the room empty. Nothing in-between Mumbo and the man and the knife.

"What did you do to them?!" He demands, his arms raised protectively. He tries to look around for the girls but he can't take his eyes off the man in front of him.

"I sent them away." The man steps forward. He taps the knife in his hand. The metal glints in his glow. Maybe, just maybe, the knife won't be able to hurt him. Please. "It'll take a while until they can manifest again."

"How can you-" Mumbo reaches for his hair but flinches as the strands irritate his hand. "You're sick. How can you do this to them? They're children!" The man continues forward. That knife is too close, way too close. He'd prefer it if it was on the other side of the house, in fact.

"They were going to leave me." Mumbo stumbles backwards as if the words sent off a shockwave. "Just like you're trying to."

"They had every reason to!" Mumbo argues. He- he murdered them. He wants to do the same to Mumbo! "And I'm quite attached to my life as well!"

"You signed your life away already." Mumbo jumps to the side away from the swing of the knife. "You've been carrying the contract in your pocket the entire time." Mumbo knows his confusion is showing on his face. All he has in his pockets is his phone. His phone and-

"This?" Mumbo drags the ticket free of his pocket, brandishing the crumpled paper in front of the man like a weapon. It looks ordinary. One adult, entrance to the manor, on today's date. The hole is still punched in the corner.

"It never said anything about leaving." Mumbo's heart drops at the words. Of course it didn't. That's- that's never written into websites or tickets. He wouldn't look for it because it's not like he ever expects this to happen.

"Well-" he grabs both ends of the ticket, tearing it in two with a satisfying rip, "-I void that contract. I don't agree." Nothing happens. The man's face shifts to one of amusement before he barks out a grating laugh. Mumbo frowns, missing the joke.

"You think that will save you?" The man asks, slinking towards him again. "You think I can't take your soul by force? Where have you got to run?" Mumbo jumps back from a swing that nearly catches his side. He eyes up the doorway. The man is standing in his way but- A plan comes to his head. A stupid plan, but a plan nonetheless.

He kicks, watching the amusement on the man's face as his foot goes straight through him. Mumbo uses the momentum to dive forwards, straight through the man's body. It feels like plunging into a frozen ocean, leaving him gasping for air. But he's out. He's in the hallway. His hand presses against the wall until he gets his feet under him, sprinting into the empty darkness.

He holds his arm out, wishing the glow of the wristband was brighter to guide him. There's a roar behind him, sending Mumbo's body into violent shivers. He feels like he might cry. He forces one foot after another, hoping that the entrance is somewhere ahead of him. He doesn't know what it'll solve. Maybe it's a moral victory.

His hopes are dashed when his hand hits a wall. The pain is overshadowed by crushing defeat, the panic threatening to choke him. He presses around but can't find where to go. This was supposed to be a straight hallway! High-pitched, scraping drags closer to him, the sound growing louder. Mumbo turns, frozen before the man. It can't end here. Please, he doesn't want to die.

"It'll be over soon," the man tells him, words like ice in Mumbo's lungs. The knife gleams as it raises above Mumbo's head. His scream comes out as a sob, raising his arms in a last, futile attempt at defence.

The knife hits the wristband.

Mumbo barely registers the fact he's not been hit as the plastic glows, growing brighter as it peels away from sweaty skin. Something silent in the air bursts. He hears a scream as he loses his footing to the force. Falling backwards, the man is gradually vanishing, expression twisted in pain. Mumbo's head cracks against the wall behind him. He slumps onto the carpet, thoughts swimming. He blinks once. Twice. The darkness of the hallway takes over his thoughts, sliding into silence.

"I think he's waking up!" Mumbo's head feels like concrete. Everything throbs in time to his heartbeat, the voices around him are so loud he can't focus on the words. There's something soft touching his cheek, reminiscent of an earlier touch, freezing cold-

He flinches away from it, head swirling in pain. Another touch steadies him. He realises there's something cool and damp against the back of his head. He raises his hand, trying to touch it but brushing against something else solid, warm. Cautiously, he forces his eyes open, wincing at the brightness that awaits him. There's shadows moving in his vision, one of them speaking.

"-bo? Hey, can you hear us?" Mumbo nods, whining at the pain that movement sends through his head. He rests his forehead on a closed fist, giving the fog in his brain time to dissipate. Everything is blissfully quiet around him, the only noise being distant footsteps and creaking floorboards.

The night hits him at once. He startles up, swaying before he can even get his feet under him. Hands on his shoulders keep him from standing.

"Woah, hey. You had a nasty fall. Careful." The voice sinks into Mumbo's mind. He finds himself looking into dark brown eyes, bright red at the edge of his vision. He leaps forward, throwing his arms around his friend.

"Grian." His voice breaks on the name. Those arms reach around him, patting his back robotically.

"Mumbo?" Grian's voice is confused as he hugs back. "It's only been a few minutes, dude. You weren't out for that long." Mumbo's breath comes out as a wheeze.

"What time is it?" He asks, almost desperate. There's a pause, Grian's head lifting up.

"Like, ten minutes past midnight." There's Iskall. They're both here. Safe. He's safe. "Mumbo are you okay? Besides the head injury and- your hands. Like, dude?" Mumbo's breath comes out shaky with the tears he forces back.

"I'm- I'm okay. I think." He looks around the familiar hallway. The carpet is worn and dirty, the wallpaper peeling in places. Above the nearest doorway, the wooden coat of arms is broken.

"What even happened, Mumbo?" Grian asks. He gets shuffled to the side as a young man kneels down, a medical kit in his hands. Mumbo shuts his eyes, trying to think. A lot. A lot happened. Oh goodness, a lot has happened. He doesn't even know where to start.

So instead, he lies, "I- I tripped."

"You tripped?" Grian sounds in disbelief.

"When I joked about letting go of your hand, I didn't mean for it to be serious." The joking in Iskall's voice is shadowed by worry. That conversation feels like it happened hours ago. Mumbo holds his hands out for the first aider, allowing him to wipe the nearly closed up wounds. He winces at the sting of alcohol, sitting patiently and trying not to move.

"Do we need a babysitter for you?" Grian joins in with the teasing. It sounds just as concerned. Mumbo tries to smile. He feels exhausted down to his very bones. He wants nothing more than to curl up and sleep.

"I'm okay," he attempts to reassure them. "Honestly, I need to look where I'm going." It's so much easier than explaining what really happened.

"Maybe you were tripped by a ghost," Iskall jokes. It falls a bit flat, considering, but Mumbo finds himself laughing anyway. This is absurd. Did he just imagine all of that?

"There you go, all bandaged up." The first aider releases Mumbo's hand. Mumbo flexes them, feeling bandages shift around his palms. It's going to be a nightmare working with this. "No idea how you did it, mind. They look almost healed. Old wounds?" Mumbo hums, allowing the guy to take whatever answer he wants from it. "You should be fine to go home, anyway." Mumbo sags in relief before remembering the original reason for their visit.

"But what about you two?" He asks, "Don't you want to do the attraction?"

"Dude, we can do the attraction another time. We're taking you home." Grian nods in agreement at Iskall's words. Mumbo sits back, gently poking the ice pack on his head. It's beginning to melt into his hair. He takes it off, offering it back to the first aider.

"Hey." Mumbo looks up at a familiar voice, jumping away from the woman who approaches. She's no longer wearing a waistcoat, instead, there's a dark hoodie. Her hair is still in a ponytail. "Got your bags." Her eyes meet Mumbo's. They glint with a knowing smile, lightening to an almost-white. He stares at her as Iskall takes their stuff. Then, she turns away, waving over her shoulder. Grian offers his hands out to Mumbo, helping him onto his feet.

"Come on, let's get Mr Accident Prone here home," Grian calls to Iskall, wrapping his arm around Mumbo's waist. Iskall laughs, turning and thanking the staff members for their help whilst Grian walks with Mumbo to the entrance. Mumbo tries not to tense as the hallway opens up, but he does. He only relaxes once he sees the open door and no sign of that man. Grian looks at him in concern, asking a soft, "You alright?"

"I'm fine, sorry." Grian obviously isn't convinced, but they wait by the door for Iskall to catch up. He appears shortly after, rucksack on his back and their coats slung over his arm. He holds them out for Grian and Mumbo to take. Mumbo wraps himself up tightly, trying to stave off some of the lingering chill in his bones.

A weight leaves Mumbo's shoulders when they step outside. The queue is still chatting away and, for once, Mumbo doesn't care about the stares they get. He's far, far too tired. Grian leads him along with a warm hand in his, past the queue and under the bright lights. The grounds are in the same decay that Mumbo remembers from when they arrived.

"Right," Grian turns to Mumbo, squeezing his hand, "what actually happened, then?" Mumbo pauses, looking at Grian and trying to tell if he's serious.

"You're a terrible liar, Mumbo," Iskall informs him, backing Grian up.

"And why were you freezing up at things? Like that girl and the entrance? Clearly something's up."

"And you're clumsy but not that clumsy. Plus your hands! There was nothing sharp in the hall!" They're both so concerned, eyes watching Mumbo carefully. They probably think somebody picked a fight with him. They wouldn't be too far off.

"You guys wouldn't believe me if I told you," Mumbo replies, at last. Grian groans at him, Iskall rolling his eyes. Mumbo takes a second to glance back at the manor, standing tall in the night.

For a split second, he sees the manor as it once was. Windows closed and uncovered, the one above the porch shattered as blood drips onto the porch railing below. The flowers are blooming, the paint shining. And on the lawn, he sees two young girls, running across the tidy grass. He thinks he can hear their laughter in the distance. Then it's gone, returned to the abandoned manor someone decided to set a haunted house up in.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," he says, turning to Iskall as he parrots those earlier words. The two of them make loud noises, falling over each other in argument.

"What does that mean?!" Grian cries, waving his hands. "Come on, Mumbo!" Mumbo laughs tiredly, resolving to ignore their protests. Maybe he'll tell them another time. Tonight, he just wants to put this entire experience behind him. Curl up in a warm bed and sleep until he doesn't feel ready to fall over.

He's not going anywhere haunted for a long time.

#hermitcraft #mumbo jumbo #mumbojumbo #grian #iskall85 #my writing #ask #haworthiaace #this was supposed to be just the beginning convo #and then i just... kept going #anyway i return from holiday with a fic how are yall doing

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ethereal-not-occult · 4 years ago

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patience and the mulberry

"With time and patience, the mulberry leaf becomes a silk gown."

Fandom: Good Omens Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Character(s) of Color, Sericulture, silkworms, past religious trauma, but nothing bad happens in this fic I promise, mixed bookverse w/ TV elements, references to Chinese culture Notes: Originally written for the @goodomensfashionzine !

“I'll only be a minute, dear.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley's cheek as he opened the door of the Bentley. “You don't have to see me to the door if you don't want to.”

Crowley tightened his grip on the wheel. “Sure, angel. Sounds good to me.” The sibilants slid far too quickly past his clenched jaw, and he bit his tongue to stop the instinctive hiss from escaping.

Aziraphale gave him a sympathetic look, but shut the Bentley's door behind him and soon disappeared through the doors of the church. Once he was out of sight, Crowley slumped forward slightly, sliding his sunglasses up and rubbing at his eyes. A few deep breaths later, and he felt composed enough to exit the Bentley himself in blatant disregard for the “NO PARKING” sign on the curb.¹

[¹ Given his new job position (or lack thereof), lawbreaking was no longer a necessity, but old habits die hard.]

The bright afternoon sun made him wince a bit, and two robins in a nearby bush were getting frisky in a way he would never be able to unhear, but they made it easier to forget the distant wail of air sirens. Even standing out on the road, Crowley's skin prickled faintly with the remembered sting of consecrated ground.

He pushed the feeling aside and walked resolutely forward. Aziraphale was bound to take his sweet time as he mooned over the church's dusty old tomes, but Crowley had his own investigations to conduct while he waited. No rest for the wicked and all that.

The concrete pavement under his snakeskin shoes gave way to grass, and the tingling sensation in his soles faded. Soon he found himself at his intended destination—an Edenic grove of mulberry trees, clustered together in a ring in the church's backyard. He'd spotted them on the drive over and couldn't resist the temptation of a closer look.

Crowley wandered into the garden with a scrutinizing eye. They were young, for trees, but growing well despite their callowness. A particularly stocky sapling hardly flinched when Crowley gave it a token glare, much to his disappointment. Then again, outdoor plants were rarely as well-behaved as properly cowed houseplants. It seemed this attitude persisted even in ecclesiastic gardens such as these.

He cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, then reached a hand up into the tree's umbrella-like branches and tugged. The season wasn't quite right for fruits, but he still withdrew clutching a handful of dark ripe mulberries. Hardly apples, but his lips twitched upwards nonetheless. He plucked a berry from the pile and raised it to his lips.

“Zaoshang hao!”

Only a hasty miracle saved Crowley from choking as he jumped and swiveled around. Hovering right outside the churchyard was a middle-aged human, well-dressed and smiling pleasantly at him. Judging by her formal clothing and the Bible she carried, she was a part of the congregation, maybe even the priest herself. Crowley swallowed and stepped backwards.

“Ni shi jiaohui de xinshou ma?” the human called again, picking her way across the dewy grass in his direction. Crowley eyed the Bible she held, willing himself not to break out into hives.

“Um. Wo bu—er, no. I'm not new. Not here for church at all, actually.” He fidgeted and clasped his hands, still full of pilfered mulberries, behind his back. “Just waiting for someone.”

The human raised an eyebrow. “You're welcome to wait inside, if you like,” she said, also switching to English. “I reckon we still have biscuits left from the children's morning service—”

“No!” Crowley said too quickly, and perhaps too sharply. He winced. “I mean. That won't be necessary. I'd much rather stay out here, if it isn't too much trouble.”

The human gave him a Look. Crowley's cheeks heated and he averted his eyes, willing his sunglasses a few shades darker.

“Beautiful, aren't they?”

Crowley's head shot back up. The human had turned her back to him and was running a hand through the glossy green leaves of the nearest mulberry tree. Crowley could practically see the branches stretch out in delight beneath her touch, like a purring cat.

“Volunteers from our congregation take care of them,” the human continued, smiling at the young tree. “The kids here like raising silkworms, you see, and we welcome them to pick leaves from the trees each week to feed them.”

Silkworms. Of course. Despite himself, a hazy memory rose to the forefront of his mind: Sichuan, China, several hundreds of years ago. A family farm, weathered and cozy and oozing enough sheer goodness to make the average demon ill with it. Crowley wouldn't normally be caught dead in such a place, but he had owed a favour to the angel. His fingers twitched at the phantom memory of butter-soft silk fibres against his skin; long, winding threads that stretched out thin and fine, tangling so easily around his uncertain fingers. With this memory came the golden, moon-round face of a child he hadn't thought about in centuries, grinning toothily as they held out a box to him, a box filled with small pale larvae that wriggled among the spade-shaped leaves. “Zhe jiao can.”

Crowley forced himself to return to the present. The human was speaking to him.

“—waiting on Mr. Fell?” she asked.

Crowley blinked. Shook himself a little. “Yeah. He's helping out with the restoration of some old manuscript or other.”

The human smiled again. It was an unnervingly piercing expression. “I'm aware. I was the one who requested his help. Such a lovely man. Are you a friend of his?”

Crowley tensed. “His husband, actually.”

He braced himself, but the human only brightened. “Goodness, then you must be Mr. Crowley! Mr. Fell talks ever so much about you. Finally gone and tied the knot then, have you?”

Before Crowley could stammer out a reply, something dinged loudly, making him jump. The human pulled a phone out from her pocket and squinted at the screen.

“Sorry, I have to run back inside. But it was lovely meeting you, Mr. Crowley.” She stuck out a hand—thankfully not the one that had been holding the Bible—and after a brief hesitation, Crowley shook it. As quickly as she had arrived, the human disappeared from the garden, leaving Crowley alone and off-kilter amid a grove of mulberry trees.

---

Aziraphale emerged from the church around an hour later to find Crowley seated on the curb next to the Bentley, basking in the last rays of the afternoon sun as he scrolled through his phone.

“My dear,” the angel sighed. His joints creaked as he eased himself down to sit next to Crowley on the roadside. “Don't tell me you've been sitting here the entire time.”

“Nope,” Crowley said, popping the ‘p’. “I toured the gardens for a bit. Swiped some fruits, too. The mulberries aren’t half-bad, for a bunch of church plants, but they’ll need a good deal more threatening before they're really up to snuff.”

Crowley stopped when he saw Aziraphale chewing his lip, brow furrowed as he studied Crowley's face. Now it was Crowley's turn to sigh.

“Really, angel. It's fine. I was hardly bored.”

The expression didn't leave Aziraphale's face. A soft brown hand reached out and brushed aside stray wisps of hair from Crowley's forehead. The demon hadn't bothered to cut it since the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, and it was growing longer and more unruly by the day.

“I'm fine.” Crowley caught Aziraphale's hand and held it, carefully. He pressed his lips against the well-manicured fingers. “It was years ago, angel, and we both came out of it all right. You don't need to worry about me.”

Aziraphale still looked vaguely distressed as Crowley drew him close. With the sun setting behind him, framing his face and curly dark hair in a golden halo, he was the most beautiful thing Crowley had ever seen.

He kissed him then, right there on the road, in full sight of the church and probably Someone Else, too, if She happened to be watching at that particular moment. Once, he would've been terrified of such a public display, but he hadn't gone through hellfire and holy water to care anymore about what others thought of them.

As he helped Aziraphale into the Bentley, he noticed abruptly that the angel was carrying what appeared to be a shoebox, of all things, along with his usual camelhair coat.

“What on Earth is that?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale carefully pushed the box over to Crowley. “Mrs. Lao gave it to me once I'd finished with those manuscripts. She said it was a gift for you, actually. Have the two of you met before?”

Crowley stared down at the box, baffled. “We talked for a bit in the gardens just now, but I can’t imagine why…”

He trailed off, and his mouth dropped open as Aziraphale eased open the lid and beheld the contents with a raised eyebrow.

“Good heavens. Are those caterpillars?”

“Silkworms,” Crowley corrected automatically, leaning in for a closer look. There were so many of them, somehow both smaller and larger than he remembered, all white and wiggly and chomping away busily at the layers of mulberry leaves filling their box. None of them paid any attention whatsoever to their occult observers hovering above them.

“Why would she give you such a thing? Not that they aren't dear little creatures,” Aziraphale added hastily, glancing into the box, “but I doubt I have the means to keep them in the bookshop.”

“No need,” Crowley said before he could stop himself. “I can raise 'em in my flat.”

Aziraphale gave him a curious look. “You know how to care for these… insects?”

“Yeah.” Crowley gently shut the lid of the inhabited shoebox and curled a hand around the Bentley's stick-shift. “I've done something like this, before. I know what I'm doing.”

“If you say so.” Suddenly Aziraphale chuckled. At Crowley's affronted look, he demurred, “I'm not making fun, my dear. It's only that you still manage to surprise me, even after all these years.”

Aziraphale leaned in and pecked Crowley's cheek, making him blush red and sputter. Much to his disgruntlement, the Bentley chirped a light-hearted rendition of Haydn's Crazy Little Thing Called Love all the way home.

---

Crowley had spent the past eleven years co-parenting the Antichrist with Aziraphale.² They had faced this challenge head-on, and in his opinion, it hadn’t gone too shabbily. Now, without the threat of the Apocalypse hanging over his head, becoming a surrogate parent was far less daunting the second time around.

[² Even if young Warlock hadn't really been the son of Satan, it was the principle of the thing.]

Still, Crowley worried. He had always been something of a worrier, and that hadn't changed even after the First Day of the Rest of Their Lives.

After dropping off Aziraphale at the bookshop, Crowley returned to his flat, where he commenced the preparations for introducing his unexpected twenty-odd guests to their new home. This was accomplished by miracling up a small glass aquarium onto his desk, lining the bottom with paper towels, and carefully (read: nervously) placing the silkworms one by one into the tank. Once this was done, Crowley scattered the half-eaten mulberry leaves from the box around the aquarium. The silkworms set upon their interrupted lunch with all the enthusiasm of Aziraphale devouring a meringue pie at the Ritz.

Crowley slumped into his chair, took off his sunglasses with a wince, and rested his chin on his desk, staring into the glass tank.

“I raised your ancestors once, you know,” Crowley informed the wriggling creatures. “Tiny farm in China several centuries back. We'd weave branches together into a tray and let you loose inside. Bit like how manmade beehives work, or something.”

Crowley paused. Watched one silkworm slowly inch its way across a stem to tackle a new section of leaf. “‘Course, humans use wire mesh nowadays, but the general premise is the same. Always thought it was bloody clever, what humans could come up with. If you gave me a bunch of moth larvae and told me to make a living out of them, I definitely wouldn't think to make clothes.” He snorted. “Whoever came up with that, I'd like a glass of whatever they were drinking.”

The silkworms munched on. They ate much faster than they crawled, that was certain. In the quiet walls of his flat, away from prying human eyes, Crowley loosened the knot of his silk tie and tugged it off, easing the tightness around his neck.

“You're the ones who made this, in a sense,” he said, waving the tie at them. He laid the tie beside one glass wall of the tank at just the right angle for the inhabitants within to see. Several silkworms looked up curiously.

Crowley tossed his suit jacket aside, then unbuttoned his shirt collar. He had always prided himself on his sharp, modern attire over the years, the better to tempt humans with—or so he claimed. Despite repeated scoldings from his superiors, his Lust quotas had never been quite up to par.

Sufficiently dishevelled, and feeling all the freer for it, Crowley sank back into his chair to watch the silkworms.

“The only thing I didn't like about the process was the boiling,” he murmured. “Logically, I can see why it was done. And you would all be in cocoons, so it's not like you'd be in any pain. Not like I was.” He exhaled, the sound becoming a low hiss. “But still. Never liked it. Always felt like an awful lot of trouble just for the sake of some silk threads.”

One particularly adventurous silkworm had nosed its way upwards and was now creeping over the edge of the tank opening. Crowley made a mental note to devise a lid of some kind and stuck his finger against the lip of the tank. The silkworm crawled onto his hand without any hesitation. Tentatively, he drew it closer. Its many feet stuck stubbornly to his skin, and it reared up as he approached, swaying slightly, its mandibles twitching.

Crowley stared at the silkworm. The silkworm stared back, and seemed disappointed when Crowley had nothing else to offer. Just to prove it wrong, Crowley materialized a single large mulberry leaf in his other hand and presented it to the insect, who fell upon it with gluttonous enthusiasm.

Staring at the miracled leaf, an idea formed in Crowley's mind. He smiled, slowly.

“I need a hobby, now that I'm jobless,” he said aloud to the silkworm, letting it creep onto his palm. He ran a careful finger over its smooth back. “I think I'll take up sericulture again, for old time's sake.” He reached back into the tank and gently encouraged the silkworm to crawl back inside.

“Humans have to boil you alive to get those nice unbroken threads off your cocoons,” Crowley mused, withdrawing his hand. “Fortunately, I don't have to do things the human way.” He lowered himself until he was eye-level with the inhabitants of the tank. The silkworm he had carried paused in its perpetual eating and turned its head, almost like it was looking at him.

“How's this?” Crowley asked. “You'll be able to grow into a fuzzy, fully grown silk-moth, and I can take your cocoon after you've finished with it and miracle the threads whole again.” He paused and mulled it over. “I guess I could take it a step further and just miracle the finished silk together, but there's still something to be said about the human way of doing things.”

The silkworm bobbed the front half of its body as though in agreement. Crowley smiled again.

“We can make silk, and no one gets hurt. I'm a few hundred years out of practice, but I'm sure I could make it work, somehow.”

The silkworm turned its attention back to its meal. Crowley didn't notice. He was too busy wondering if Aziraphale had any old texts on silk-weaving that he could borrow, just so he could refresh his memory.

The angel would appreciate having a new silk bowtie to add to his collection.

---

Thank you for reading! Replies and reblogs are always much appreciated. <3

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #go fanfiction #good omens fanfiction #go tv #otp: ineffable #li writes #zine fic #insects tw

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ralphsspiritualstuff · 4 years ago

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Moon Sign Interpretations

I used to not be a huge fan of pre-made interpretations, but I remember when I first started studying astrology how helpful they really were in getting me to where I am now. So, that being said, here we go. *If you resonate with this post (or if you do not), please drop a comment and/or share. Feedback is always helpful! Plus, it’s always fun to hear what people who HAVE a certain placement have to say about their experience with it.* What is the moon? It represents our intuition, of course. How we see the unseen, how we feel what we can’t directly view. Each sign has its own way of doing that. Moon in Aries: This placement tends to see things as they are. In fact, of all the moon signs, they’re the least likely to assume or read into anything. This is a double edged sword, as they read into something, but they are also extremely likely to miss something “between the lines” in another person’s actions. They also have a tendency to assume that everyone is as direct as they are, and can become frustrated by the roundabout other moon placements go about things. Their simplicity, however, allows them be firm in their opinions and devote less time to forming them and more time to acting on them. Sometimes Aries moons are inaccurately judged as mean or trying to be hurtful when they are simply unaware something was expected of them. This sign is almost never devious, and when they are upset, they are well aware and will make sure you are as well. Moon in Taurus: This placement tend to decide very quickly whether or not they like something. It takes quite a bit to get them to change their mind, since their instincts are going to insist that they stand their ground. Even when they do change their minds, Taurus moons can be prone to harboring a lingering sense of their original judgement call. This rootedness in their opinion, however, makes them much more difficult to deceive, as they don’t forget their original perception of how something was once they see it.

Moon in Gemini: This placement tends to be the hardest for other moons to pin down. Gemini is possibly the most versatile placement for the moon, as someone with this placement can feel one way one moment, and then completely different later on. This emotional range can cause them to be prone to a bit of an identity crisis, as they easily identify with very different groups of people. As quickly as they arrived at an opinion, they’ve found someone else with a new way to look at it to listen to.

Moon in Cancer: This placement has an amazing capacity to gain an intuitive feel for just about anything. It analyzes and feels situations in great depth, far more than other moon placements do. Because of the amount of emotional energy this placement expends in gaining a strong understanding of its initial experience with something, it can become upset when it has to redo this learning in a new environment. Their strong understanding comes from a tendency to estimate, because they instinctively know they don’t always see the whole picture. So, they fill in the details with their imaginations. On one hand, their estimations can seem almost psychically accurate, but occasionally they get too much in their own heads trying to figure something out and are a bit off. While it is capable of adapting, it takes it much longer to do so than faster placements because of the amount of work that goes into gaining real understanding rather than cursory knowledge. Cancer moons can be prone to “rejecting the new” (people, ideas, ect) as a result, but eventually do warm up to it.

Moon in Leo: This placement is often hyper-aware, subconsciously, of how precious their time is. They can sometimes appear to other placements as conceited or too self-important to be bothered, but they are probably the only placement who realized how precious life is. Now, they tend to direct this thought more towards their own life, but they can also have extremely warm and inspiring opinions for those they care about because they intuitively feel how precious and amazing those people are.

Moon in Virgo: This placement, while actually quite peaceful by nature, is easily stressed out. Once they are made aware of an issue (contrary to popular belief, they do not LOOK for things to correct, those things are forced into their awareness) they have an intense compulsion to fix it. Virgo is quite spiritual by nature and has a natural understanding that small things are best handled before they become bigger things. This sense of how things incur over time leads them to want to do everything NOW, despite their frustrating human limitations. They can also feel bitter because they are painfully aware of how many things they can’t control are going to snowball, but without them so many things that are in their control do NOT snowball, and most other placements do not realize how frequently this is the case.

Moon in Libra: This placement has the unusual ability to understand both sides of an issue and simultaneously empathize with both points and neither of them at the same time. While most people assume those with this placement are stuck between seeing two ideas as equally good, they are more often in the precarious position of seeing both options as equally bad, and are forced to come up with an alternative. To reiterate, they do not have a hard time deciding. Most of the time, when given two choices, a Libra moon’s instinct is to sort of “nope” out of them both, giving the illusion of indecision. This is because they intuitively know there is a better option to be found somewhere. This can, however, take a lot of time to discover, and sometimes opportunities where taking the lesser of two evils would have been preferable to inaction pass them by. Just as often, though, they find an option that is better than either original proposition. Moon in Scorpio: This placement tends to be pretty chill. While outwardly, they may seem sad, they typically just have resting bitch face (I’m sorry, but you know it’s true.) and are in a calm state. Scorpio moons understand that everything in our world is temporary. They’re actually capable of feeling immense joy because of how present they can be in an imperfect moment. Other placements can’t seem to understand why something makes them so darn happy, while they seemingly don’t care about anything else in the world. The simple answer is that when they’re happy, they know they weren’t owed it and there’s no guarantee it’ll happen ever again, so they feel it all at once. This can also leave them apathetic to others’ pain, because to them, the awareness of something’s temporary nature is so plain it’s almost funny to them when someone else thought something would last forever. They aren’t as callous as they appear, but they will always be reserved around those who do not share their understanding of how fleeting things really are.

Moon in Sagittarius: This placement has an intuitive understanding that there is always something more to be found, whether it be in a person’s actions, an event they watch happen, or even their own understanding and existence. They are constantly trying to figure out how things relate. The world, however, has many layers and while Sagittarius moons accurately connect some of those layers, sometimes they miss others and think they have the whole picture before they do. Often times, they have enough of the picture put together to make something work that everyone else assumed would fail, but other times they have to completely redraw their mental map from scratch, which they do with surprising glee and fervor. That forward drive allows them to recover from things that would cripple other placements, although they may find those situations are often self made.

Moon in Capricorn: This placement embody’s survival of the fittest. They can seem cold, but really, the just have a strong sense of what will work and what will not. They are often ashamed of their own flaws far more than other placements, and tend to cope by compensating heavily with growing stronger. Capricorn moons have a very hard time ignoring facts for their own comfort, much less the comfort of others. Concrete truths ring true to their core, and as much as they may try to bend them, they always come back to what they know will work and what will not based on the facts.

Moon in Aquarius: This placement has a natural curiosity unparalleled by other placements. They can be prone to intrusive thoughts and impulsive actions because they simply want to see what will happen, and may do things that go against widely accepted social codes both intentionally and unintentionally. They learn how to intuitively find solutions to a multitude of life’s problems, but are much more interested in finding the solutions than implementing them. This can leave them in a great position to give advice to other people and even themselves, but unless the circumstances are compelling, their unlikely to follow their own good advice. They simply prefer to find a different way to do something. It looks like reinventing the wheel from the outside, but for Moon in Aquarius folks, life is simply begging to be played with, and doing something the simple way isn’t living at all. It may take them years, but they almost always find a workaround.

Moon in Pisces: This placement instinctively reverses everything it feels. While they do connect to the opinions and feelings of others, their tendency to also acknowledge the opposite position can leave them feeling equally connected and isolated, as if they have a second personality. Pisces moons can exist in two worlds at once completely, which tends to manifest as inaction on their part. While they may outwardly act one way, their imagination compensates by wondering how things would go if they did they exact opposite of what they do. Their dual nature can make them easy to connect with halfway, but almost impossible to connect with fully. They can seem a little melancholy on the outside because they feel a sense of sadness that other placements can’t keep up with how fast their imagination works and how crucial understanding their imagination is to understanding not just how they interact with the world, but how they feel about those interactions.

FREE READING OPPORTUNITY

If you liked this interpretation of your moon (or someone else’s moon) and are curious about a reading with me, I’m actively screening for participants in a research project that includes doing a free reading for anyone selected. I have a survey to find candidates who meet the criteria I’m doing research on.

https://www.survio.com/survey/d/R0Y8Y8C5U8B5U5S4U

I strongly encourage you to share this link with your friends who are maybe on the fence about astrology, as I’m trying to get a decent sample size. If everyone I survey are astrologers themselves it could impact my results. Normally I do not offer free readings to people I don’t know, but it’s essential I don’t have a personal relationship with the person I’m reading for this particular study.

Anyhoo, I hope to hear from you soon!

-Ralph

#moon #moon signs #moon in astrology #moon in aries #moon in taurus #moon in gemini #moon in cancer #moon in leo #moon in virgo #moon in libra #moon in scorpio #moon in sagittarius #moon in capricorn #moon in aquarius #moon in pisces

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writinginthesecrettrees · 5 years ago

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Don’t Forget: He Has A Brother

Takes place in August of 2007, between Independence Day and Halloween.

The first thing Dean became aware of was that Sammy wasn’t next to him, and something in his soul told him that Sammy wasn’t anywhere nearby.

That, more than the ropes tying him to the chair and his splitting headache, told him that something had gone wrong. Last night (was it last night?) was drinks at a bar, playing pool with some idiots and watching Sam dance with the sort of pretty little thing both of them love to play with, shiny blonde hair and a short red dress and Dean can already picture what she’ll look like when her hair is wet with blood, and then the world starts to get a bit fuzzier than beer can account for and that sweet girl doesn’t know it but it’s her lucky night, he’s gotta get to Sam and tell him… tell him…

The last thing Dean remembers is the world spinning, and a voice saying “Hey, buddy, you don’t look so good,” and darkness.

The room he’s in is dark, faint daylight filtering through a dirty window high on the wall, the floor is concrete and there’s water dripping from an exposed pipe, leak tied off with an old rag. He’s been tied to a chair by someone who knew what they were doing, ropes not giving at all when he tests them.

Above him, a door opens and footsteps approach, down a flight of stairs and coming to a halt just behind him. They stand there, silent, and Dean shakes his head.

“Don’t get shy now, sweetheart. You’re the one who wanted me here, aren’t ya?” Dean pictures the face Sam would make if he could hear him, pissed off over Dean not taking things seriously.

The man behind him moves then, comes around to where Dean can see him, and Dean’s not surprised to see one of the locals he’d been playing pool with. Sam’s gonna bitch him out for this, getting drugged and kidnapped by some idiot amateurs. Dean feels his lips stretch into a smile and he doesn’t try to hold back his laugh then.

“What’re you laughing at, pretty boy? Or are ya too stupid to know what’s happening here?”

The anger on his abductor’s face makes Dean laugh harder. The sudden flare of pain and taste of blood in his mouth when the man punches his cheek helps him stop. He spits blood out onto the floor.

“Why don’t you tell me what you think is happening, and I’ll tell you why you’re wrong.”

“I think we got us a very pretty plaything, and we’re gonna have a lot of fun soon’s we decide who gets the first turn.” There’s an arrogant cruelty on the man’s face that would be hot if he were Sam, but he isn’t and Dean’s gonna flay him for the almost-resemblance.

“You’re wrong, and you’re an idiot.” A shadow flickers past the window and Dean grins up at the man, blood staining his teeth and gums. “See, you thought I was just some innocent passerby, and no one would notice me missing for who knows how long.” The confidence on the man’s face starts to flicker. “But someone noticed me missing right away. Five minutes after you assholes grabbed me, guaranteed. And he’s coming for you.”

“So we get two toys. We know how to handle nosy friends.” False bravado is something that Dean’s never seen on Sam’s face so it fits the man better, won’t save him from the fate Dean’s already decided on.

A slight scuffle upstairs, and the man looks towards the cellar ceiling.

“You sure about that?”

Sam looks up from the blonde he’s dancing with, frowns when he sees the pool tables empty and no Dean in sight. Dean should still be there, hadn’t been playing long enough to have cleaned them out yet.

He’s not too worried. Dean can take care of himself, probably the guys he was playing with got tired of losing and Dean will be out in the parking lot, hiding in the back of the Impala for Sammy to bring his lovely armful out for a night of fun.

No special occasion this time but they both get an itch when they haven’t had blood on their hands in a while, and this girl has a soft innocence that promises tears and whimpers and begging when they have their knives in her, rope around her throat and face turning blue and Dean saying “good boy” in his ear for finding her. Sam presses himself against her, whispers in her ear, and she giggles like she thinks the hard-on against her belly is for her.

He can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right. Dean should have caught his eye before slipping outside, given him a signal that it was time for the real fun to start. He’s casual when he asks the girl if she wants to play some pool with him.

“I haven’t played much,” she says. “Tables are usually full.”

“I’ll teach you, baby,” Sam purrs, imitating Dean. Arm around her waist as he steers them to the pool tables, and very casually, “Those guys who were here earlier, they usually take over the games?”

She nods, makes a show of running her hands up and down the pool cues and probably thinks it’s seductive. “They’re bad news.”

Sam racks the balls, rolls his eyes behind her back when she bends over too far with her cue held deliberately wrong but plays along, leaning over her and guiding her hands correctly. “Bet I could take ‘em.”

She laughs then, turns in his arms so she’s half-lying on the table beneath him. “They’d like you to try. They like pretty strangers. It’s a good thing you aren’t the only new blood in town.”

Dean’s got to be the prettiest stranger they’ve ever seen, and he was playing pool with the bad news while Sam was separating this bit of fun from the herd instead of watching his back. Sam grits his teeth while he takes a shot, sinks a few before missing to give her another turn. He trails his fingers over her arms, her neck, her thighs while she lines up a shot, leans in to whisper, “Sink the eight ball and I’ll give you a special prize,” and she does, no hesitation.

“So where’s my prize?” she asks, light and teasing and sparkling eyes.

“Come back to my room with me,” he says, and she smiles. Lets him take her hand and lead her outside, to the Impala, black and gleaming in the moonlight.

Dean’s not in the back. That’s okay. Sam will find him soon.

She doesn’t start to get worried until he’s driven past the only motel in town with no sign of slowing.

“I think you missed your turn,” and her voice is shaking, just a little, and this is the part where Dean should rise up out of hiding, lock his arm around her throat and squeezesqueezesqueeze until she’s unconscious but Dean’s not there and Sam can’t enjoy her fear when his own is clamoring louder and louder in his brain.

“Shut up.”

She’s scrambling for the handle now, and he pushes the gas pedal to the floor, racing down dark deserted roads towards the old abandoned farmhouse he and Dean had found that morning. The reason they stopped here instead of driving on through town, and Sam’s already picturing it going up in gasoline-fueled flames when he’s done because if they hadn’t stopped Dean wouldn’t be missing.

“I wanna go home,” she whimpers.

“Shut. Up!” Sam takes one hand off the wheel, grabs the back of her head and slams her forward against the dashboard. She goes limp beside him.

She doesn’t come back around until he throws a bucket of water over her face, and if Dean wasn’t missing Sam would enjoy the disorientation melting into panic as she realizes she’s hanging from her wrists, feet just barely touching the floor.

“Oh God, oh God,” she cries, twisting around, trying to see something outside the puddle of light cast by oil lamps around her feet. Sam steps into the light behind her, waits for her to twist back around, and she screams when she sees him. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to tell me about bad news. And what they did with my brother.”

“What?”

“Wrong answer.” Sam takes his knife, drags it down her body from her collarbone to her cunt, pressing deep enough that her skin rips along with the fabric of her dress, and she screams and tries to twist away. “Careful,” he says, letting the knife press deeper at her ribs, “if you move too much I might lose control.” The dress falls open, red blood on her skin giving the illusion that it’s still whole.

“You’re sick!”

“And you’re not answering my question.” Sam slices through the straps holding her dress up, watches it slide off her body to the floor. “No panties? Bad girl.”

“You seemed to like it earlier.”

“Darling, I was thinking of my brother.” Even with Dean missing, Sam relishes the look of disgust on her face. “Which brings me back to my question: who were the men he was playing with, why are they bad news, and where is Dean?”

“I don’t know!”

“I don’t believe you.” He pulls a lighter from his pocket, flicks it on, holds it in front of her face. Eyes wide with terror, whites showing all around as she strains her head back from the flames. He laughs at her, brings it closer until he can see the babyfine hairs on her cheek shrivel in the heat. “You’re lucky I don’t have time to set up all my toys. I got a poker - it gets real hot when I let it sit in a fire, makes the flesh sizzle when I play. You ever hear human flesh sizzle?”

She doesn’t answer, just sobs, eyes focused on the flame in his hand.

“Sounds just like burgers on a grill. My brother loves burgers. He likes the sizzle sound, too.” He flicks the lighter closed and puts a gentle hand on her cheek, gives her the earnest eyes that drew her in earlier, suppresses a laugh when she jerks her head away from his touch. “I just want my brother back. Just… tell me what you know, and this’ll be over.”

“They’ll hurt me,” she whimpers softly.

Sam smiles at her. “I’ll hurt you more.”

She cries as she tells him everything she knows about the Pickering men: their cruelty in the town, how the shopkeepers and bartenders and even the sheriff are afraid of them, how sometimes when a traveler is passing through town they turn up missing, and how they have a hunting cabin a little ways out into the wilderness and the whole town breathes a sigh of relief when their truck trundles out for a stay. Sam strokes her hair, croons at her that she’s being so good, thanks her for the information. When she’s done, she looks at him with hope bright in her eyes. “So… you’ll let me go now?”

Sam cups her face in his hands, marvels at how small she looks, presses a soft kiss to her forehead. She looks almost giddy with relief, and he desperately wishes Dean were here to watch it turn to despair when he says, “No.”

He leaves her alive, bars the door and throws a match on the oil-soaked wood. It catches immediately, and he can hear her start to scream when the fire licks its way inside. He sits in the Impala, watches the old barn burning brighter and brighter, strains his ears to hear her over the increasing roar of the flames, jerks himself roughly and thinks about how good Dean’s mouth would feel if he were here, sucking him off while Sam watched the fire. It’s not good enough, and Sam tucks himself back into his jeans unsatisfied.

He’ll come with Dean, or not at all.

Sam finds his brother bound to a chair in a filthy cellar, the last of the Pickering men standing behind him with a knife to his throat. Dean looks bored, rolls his eyes when the man says “If you come any closer I’ll kill him!”

Sam ignores him, takes the last steps down the stairs. “Dean?”

“I’m fine, Sammy. They’ve been very hospitable.”

“That’s a big word for you.”

“Shut up.” The affectionate grin Dean gives him brings an answering smile to Sam as he starts towards them.

The knife at Dean’s throat bites in deeper, a drop of blood trickling down towards the collarbone and Sam wants to be done with the Pickerings so he can lick the drop away, suck Dean’s skin clean.

“I mean it, stop!” The man sounds hysterical, and Sam glances up at him.

“Any objections if I just blow this one’s face off?” he asks Dean.

“Kinda got plans for his face,” Dean says.

Sam thinks about what sort of plans Dean might have. Really wants to watch whatever Dean’s wanting to do. “Okay, then.”

The man had underestimated how fast Sam could move - most people did, thought big and tall also meant slow. Sam’s at his side before he realizes Sam’s running, fingers digging into the man’s wrist as he forces the knife away from Dean’s throat. He manages to land a fist in Sam’s ribs, and Sam twists his hand, breaks the wrist he’s holding like snapping a twig. The knife drops and the man howls as Sam forces him to the ground, kicks his head to knock him out.

“Took you long enough to get here,” Dean says while Sam cuts him free.

Dean stands up, rubbing at his wrists and scowling as blood flows back to his hands.

“Let me.” Sam grabs his hands, rubs them briskly, gives the nerves something to feel other than pins and needles. “I had a bitch of a time getting info on where these dicks were.”

“Yeah, well.”

It’s not in Dean’s nature to admit he was worried, but Sam doesn’t have a problem with it and he pulls Dean against him, wraps his arms around Dean, marvels that he got here before the Pickerings really got started on him, buries his face against Dean’s neck and breathes in the gunpowder and blood scent that means home. “I was worried about you. Jerk.”

Dean’s hand strokes over his hair, and he can hear the smile in Dean’s voice when he says, “Bitch.”

They tie the man in the cellar to the chair Dean had been bound to, head upstairs to put some restraints on the others. Dean grins at the two unconscious men, left in a heap by the front door. “You get me the nicest gifts, Sammy,” and Sam glows at the praise.

“Thought you’d wanna play with them yourself.”

“You know me so well.”

There’s a bed in a backroom, not quite a single but not big enough to be a double and the sheets have seen better days, but Sam doesn’t object when Dean pushes him down onto it. Doesn’t object to the ropes Dean holds up, one eyebrow raised in a silent question, lets Dean tie his wrists to the bedposts and opens his legs, lets Dean slide his body into the perfect fit space between them.

Dean growls as he fucks Sam, one hand pressed over Sam’s throat and squeezing off his air, and the ecstasy on Sam’s face spurs him on. He dips his head to kiss Sam and Sam licks flamehot into his mouth, tastes like candy and ash and blood and it’s heaven. He finishes before Sam and leaves him hanging, ignores the protest as he walks out naked.

Comes back with a Pickering on a leash and stands in the doorway for a minute, admiring the way Sammy looks tied to a bed and thoroughly debauched, cock hard and dripping precum on his abs. “Such a pretty picture, Sammy. Isn’t he pretty?” he asks the man he’s dragging.

“Fuck you!”

“Well, that’s just rude. I let you see my baby brother, the prettiest thing in the world, and you don’t even say ‘thank you.’ Can you believe him, Sammy?”

Sam’s scowl makes Dean laugh. “Yeah, you’re right, Sammy. Can’t have him walking around with this memory. I’m jealous like that.”

Dean’s covered in the man’s blood when he comes back to the bed for round two. He goes slowly, jacking Sam through a first orgasm and fingering his already loosened ass through a second, soft kisses across his nose and cheeks as Dean thrusts slow and deep until Sam’s shuddering through a third.

The second Pickering dies quickly, eyes gouged out before Dean pulls him into the room and Sam’s murmured approval as Dean takes a hammer to his major bones before smashing his skull in.

Dean slides into Sam easily, cumslick and open for him and Sam moans happily, gives a full-body wriggle beneath him and blinks sleepy eyes and when he’s done Dean unties Sam, lets him curl up under a ratty quilt while he goes to get the last man.

The one in the cellar.

He’s just coming around from Sam’s kick when Dean drags him still tied to the chair into the room. His face is a bit addled, like if they let him live he’d never be quite right in the head again but the only regret there is he won’t really understand what’s happening to him.

Dean took time to grab his tools from the Impala, and he makes sure Sam is watching when he stands behind the man, holds his chin in one hand and presses a surgically sharp blade into the skin at his hairline. “Told ya I had plans for this one, Sammy,” Dean says and loves the way Sam’s eyes light up.

He watches Sam’s smile as he slices around the man’s face, starts to peel back skin and flesh while the man screams and screams.

“Touch yourself, Sammy. Wanna watch.”

And Sam does, rubs his oversensitive dick and whimpers at his own touch, runs his thumb over the head, curls over and presses the fingers of his other hand into his hole.

The face comes free under Dean’s knife, and the man is twitching. Dying, probably, shock and blood loss draining the life from him. As he dies, Dean leans in to whisper in his ear. “You made several mistakes here, buddy. One was hunting where you live. That’s just plain stupid. Another was hunting me - I’m Dean Winchester, and it’s too bad you won’t live long enough for the FBI to tell you what that means.” He chuckles. “But your biggest mistake? The fatal flaw? You didn’t account for my brother.”

Dean ends the man’s suffering with a knife across the throat, arterial spray splattering over Sam as Sam comes. They fuck one last time in the outdoor shower, rinsing blood and worse of their skin and out of their hair, and Sam goes to his knees under the spray to suck Dean off again before they leave.

Currently thinking of Henriksen in the middle of summer, and he knows the Winchesters aren’t going to go months without a kill so when a call comes in that might be his sort of thing, he gathers up the team and heads out. Finds himself in a small town, with a burnt down barn and a woman’s charred body hanging from a chain inside. An old cabin just outside town, and shallow graves that the locals are digging up, filled with bodies that belong to at least fourteen missing persons, and they’re still finding more. The locals are avoiding going inside the farmhouse, but the green faces on several of them say they’ve taken a peek.

Inside, it’s Winchester work.

“What do you think happened, sir?”

“I think those brotherfuckers did us a favor for once. Bartender says these sick fucks left with a man matching Dean’s description.”

“And?”

“Guess they didn’t know he had a brother.”

#currently thinking of henriksen #wincest #serial killer au #serial killer dean #serial killer sam #murder #like so much murder #tw: blood #tw: violence #they like murder a lot #in a 🍋 sort of way #🍋#i've missed writing this 'verse

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searchingforstarss · 5 years ago

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written for this anon that sent me this prompt a few weeks ago! i answered the original ask & i promise it was meant to be posted sooner but then i realised it was going to be a lot longer than the 1k i originally planned and then the holidays happened and i forgot about it in my drafts so here we are! i hope you see it and enjoy it x

---

“Shit, Parker, you good?”

That’s the only thing Peter hears crackling through his comms the second he hits the ground.

It’s Bucky’s voice, and he figures it’s probably a fair question. He’s just been thrown to the ground by a blast from a some sort of energy gun that one of the crazy guys on the ground is wielding, and he, Sam and Bucky are trying their best to get them to just stop and go the hell home.

“I, uh, yeah, I think I’m-”

There’s a creaking sound above from where he’s still sprawled out on the ground, trying to catch his breath without exacerbating the twinging in his ribs.

He cuts himself off suddenly to raise his gaze, sucking in a sharp breath as he sees the bodega on the corner of 82nd Street that he landed beside begin to lean, the structure looking like it’s beginning to give way, groaning under its own weight.

Before he can even think about opening his mouth again to call for assistance, for someone to help him out of here, anything, the whole thing collapses and caves in beside him, cracking steel, concrete and ply raining down on him.

He screws his eyes shut desperately, curling in on himself. He tries to bring his arms up to shield his head, but before he gets the chance, his right arm is pinned to the asphalt by a steel support beam. It must have have once been holding the building up but it's now clearly been rendered useless considering the majority of the building is sitting in pieces surrounding him.

He waits for the claustrophobia to set in, for the memories of Toomes to come rushing back and debilitate him but they don’t. He lets out a breathy sigh and lets the fact that he can still see the clear blue of the sky above him, the rubble not entirely hemming him in, comfort him. He’s okay. Someone will come for him.

Slightly fruitlessly, he pulls to try and tug his arm out from where it’s lodged underneath the mangled wreck of steel. Usually, he’d be able to lift it off himself without even thinking twice, but with only one working arm at his disposal and his body worn from a fight they were so close to winning, he’s not exactly at his strongest. He gives one last yank, pulling on his right arm with his left but it doesn’t move. Pain races through his muscles and he lets out a muffled groan. “Ah, fuck, ouch.”

“Language, tiny-tot,” Sam jibes, but when Peter doesn’t answer, too busy trying to steady his breathing, his voice grows serious. “Spider-Man. Peter. You okay under there? We saw that building go down on you, man.”

Awesome. Fantastic. How incredibly embarrassing.

This is what he likes about fighting alongside Sam and Bucky, though. They let him have free rein, they trust him implicitly to make his own decisions and they don’t freak out or fly off the handle the second something slightly varies from how it was meant to go - unlike Tony, who seems to find it difficult to deal with Peter getting hurt while fighting alongside the Avengers. Part of him is glad the man is preoccupied with investor meetings today. He would have lost his mind the second he saw the building go down, probably (no, scratch that - definitely).

“Yeah, I’m okay. Most of it missed me.”

Sam seems to consider this reply because there’s silence over their line. Peter reaches up with his free hand instinctively to shove his comms deeper into his ear through the mask, to make sure it hasn’t just busted as well. In moments like this, he’s grateful that the team forces him and Tony to wear their own earpieces, despite their undying faith in both their AIs, for moments when things go awry - exactly like this one. He’s almost positive Karen is offline after the blows to the suit - both the initial blast and the impact of the building - because usually, she would be chirping in his ear by now, offering him a blow by blow recap of any damage to the suit or injuries sustained and offering assistance, which usually (or, always) involves calling Tony.

“Are you injured at all? In any pain?” That’s Bucky’s voice now, and Peter pauses to consider. He’s not in any actual pain, really. Sure, the steel that’s pressing against his arm and keeping him pinned down underneath the remnants of the bodega is kinda sore, but he’s not bleeding out. He’s had a lot worse than this.

“Nope, no pain. My arm’s kinda stuck though, so I don’t think I’ll be able to get myself out of this one in a hurry…” Peter admits.

“Don’t worry about it, short-stuff. Buck and I will be down as soon as possible, it won’t be longer than ten minutes, just sit tight, okay? We’ve nearly got this.”

“Will do,” Peter answers in the affirmative, “good luck.” Then, the comms line goes silent again.

He’ll be fine. Ten minutes isn’t that long. He can wait.

---

Turns out he and Sam must have a very different idea of ten minutes because it feels like hours that Peter’s been lying here.

That would be all okay normally - he thinks he would probably have gotten the better end of the deal, settling back under here while Sam and Bucky continue to fight, if it wasn’t for the unforgiving, bitter cold of the clear New York winter day.

He’s lived in New York for his entire life, he knows how to protect himself from the bitingly low temperatures of December and January. He’s spent years bundling himself up in second-hand sweaters, coats, scarves (and then usually a beanie and gloves at Ben and May’s, and then just May’s, insistence) before he steps outside. He can deal with the cold. It got a bit harder after the spider bite, getting used the thermoregulation abilities, or rather, the complete lack of thermoregulation abilities of a spider, but he’s managed it.

Even so, this? This is something else. He’s got nothing but the thin material of the Spider-Man suit to protect him against the elements and it definitely, one hundred per cent, does not help that along with Karen being damaged in the fall, Peter’s certain the energy blast must have short-circuited the whole suit because he’s becoming more and more aware by the second that the heater built into the suit is currently completely nonfunctional.

Peter is freezing, lying under the half-decimated building on the icy sidewalk, frosty cold creeping up around him and wrapping him in its frigid hold, binding his limbs stiff and numb.

He’s trying his hardest to not think about this, though, instead trying to focus on the blue of the sky he can still see above him. It doesn’t work that well, not when the tips of his fingers and lips are tingling from the chill in the air and he can barely feel his trapped arm anymore. He’s not so sure that’s a good sign.

He tries once more in vain to pull it free with as much force as he can muster, but that’s not much with the shivers running through him and cold dampening his strength.

He sort of regrets what he was thinking about Sam and Bucky before, and about Tony not being here. If Tony was here he would have had Peter dug out within minutes of the structure collapsing inwards, to hell with anything else he would be meant to be focusing on. It’s a selfish thought, Peter knows, because he shouldn’t want people to sacrifice the whole fight just to save himself from a little discomfort, but god, what he wouldn’t give to be warm right now.

A groan pulls itself from the back of his throat before he can stop it when a gust of wind rushes past, sending a wave of icy air hurtling over him. He bites down on his lip as soon as he hears the sound escape his lips, but it’s too late, and his comms line is crackling to life in his ear again.

“Come in Spider-Man? Are you there? Peter?”

Peter groans again. He’s just cold.

“Mmm, ‘m here.”

Bucky makes what sounds like a slightly unimpressed hum of approval.

“Update us. How are you doing down there?”

Peter briefly considers brushing everything off, but one of the many things Mister Stark has been trying to instil into him, specifically to ‘ask for help when you need it, you self-sacrificing idiot child,’ springs to mind.

“I, uh, just… how long do you guys think you’ll be? It’s kinda super cold down here,” Peter admits, trying to force words out around his numb lips.

“Hopefully only five minutes out now, I’ve just got to take out the last guy on my block then I’ll be straight down to you. Can you wait that long?”

Peter considers. Can he wait five minutes? He thinks so. Plus, he doesn’t want to seem weak. Five minutes is manageable.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. It’s just uh, my suit’s heater broke, so y’know…” Peter says, trailing off when he hears Bucky bark out a short laugh.

“Of course Stark built you a damn heater,” he quips. “I’ll see you in five. Try not to die from such tragic hardship until then.”

Bucky’s teasing like he always does, Peter can tell, but even so, the tiniest spark of indignation rises inside Peter. It’s not his fault that his stupid spidery DNA doesn’t know how to stop itself from freezing completely.

He wants Tony, but his only link to him has been severed so he knows he doesn’t have any choice but to wait this one out.

---

Seconds and minutes seem to freeze in the chill of the air.

Time slows in the cold.

Peter’s just fighting to stay awake at this point, though he can’t really remember why he’s trying to stay awake? Is someone coming for him? That would be nice, he thinks.

He’s reduced to nothing but the shivers that wrack his body and the icy air that feels like it’s stabbing him everywhere he can reach with a thousand tiny knives, biting him right down to the bone.

At one point, he must have tried to curl himself into a fetal position because his knees are tucked up as close to his legs as he can get them, but it’s not really doing all that much and the little body heat he has left that he’s trying to preserve seems to be rapidly escaping him.

Soon there will be nothing but winter inside of him, not a single spark of heat remaining to sustain him.

He still just wants Tony.

He was on a mission, right? He thinks so. Why isn’t Tony here?

Tony.

Peter’s teeth are chattering as he tries to force words out. He can barely move his lips. “K-K’ren? Mister St’rk? Call Mister St’rk. Pl’se?”

No reply. The faint static continues. Cold surrounds him.

---

There are voices in his ear somewhere, drifting around him, and he strains to focus in on them but the cold running through his veins has paralysed him and he feels like he’s far, far away. He wishes that if he has to be this far away, then it could at least be warm wherever he is, but it’s not. It’s cold.

He doesn’t want to be cold anymore.

He’s cold. So, so cold.

Scraps of metal and wood are being lifted from around him, and he blinks slowly a few times behind the mask. Then the steel is dislodged from on top of his arm, but he just stares at it stupidly. He can’t feel anything. Why can’t he feel anything?

“Peter?”

Peter tries to focus his eyes above him. All he can see is dark brown hair hanging across someone’s face, dark eyes with something like worry in them, maybe. Bucky? He was here right?

Peter isn’t sure anymore. He just wants Tony, but Tony doesn’t have long hair. At least he thinks he doesn’t. This isn’t Tony.

He closes his eyes again behind the mask. Maybe if he sleeps then when he wakes up Tony will be by his side. That’s usually how it works.

His mask is being tugged up off his face and he wants to protest but that seems like a lot of effort. He scrunches his eyes up against the brightness of the afternoon, no longer filtered by the mask. Too bright. Too cold.

“We’ve got you, Peter, you need to keep your eyes open. Do you think you can do that?”

No. He feels as if he’s encased in ice and it’s making his whole body feel heavy; his eyelids are hard to keep open. It’s all too hard.

“Can’t.”

“Shit, fuck, Sam, his lips are blue,” the voice - Bucky?- says, sounding worried.

Are lips supposed to be blue? Before he can answer his own question, his eyes fall shut again and the cold wraps around him, submerging him. The voices are drowned out by the steady nothingness of unconsciousness a few seconds later.

---

There’s a slow and steady bumping movement somewhere beneath him. Peter can’t quite pinpoint where it's coming from because his eyes still feel too heavy to drag open but he’s not sure why the pavement is moving until he realizes that what he’s lying on is far too soft to be the sidewalk.

He’s wrapped in a blanket as well. That’s nice.

There’s a low whirring, the rumbling of an engine, rubber on asphalt, and Peter knows he must be in the back of a van. He would panic, it sure seems like a situation to be panicking, but then a familiar voice fills his ears and he relaxes just a fraction.

“We need to call Stark” - it’s Sam’s voice, but that’s not what Peter’s focused on. Stark. He knows that name. Why does he know that name? It sounds safe and he wants them - “otherwise he’ll have a heart attack when he sees Peter when we get back and I don’t really fancy that on my conscience.”

Why is Peter going to give Stark… Mister Stark… a heart attack? He doesn’t want to do that. No, no, no.

Then there’s ringing filling the van. It’s a little shrill and high-pitched. Peter moves to tug his hands out from where they’re encased in the slightly scratchy woollen blanket to press them up to his ears when the sound is cut off by a voice.

“Wilson? If no one is dying this probably needs to wait, I’m in the middle of-”

Peter knows that voice. It’s the Stark they keep mentioning. Mister Stark. He’d quite like to see him right about now. Is he here?

“No one’s dying, but we just wanted to give you heads up about Peter-” - Huh. Peter. That’s him. He wonders distantly what he’s done. Nothing too awful, he hopes - “before we get back. He’s not in, uh, not exactly in the best shape.”

Rude, Peter thinks.

There’s an immediate change in tone, and Mister Stark’s voice becomes sharp at the edges with a tense kind of worry. “What happened? Do you need me down there? How bad is it?”

“We’re on our way back to the tower now, we’ve got him. He was, uh, stuck under some rubble round by 82nd for maybe twenty minutes or so, but he’s a bit out of it, and colder than he probably should be-”

“And you left him there? For twenty minutes?”

“In our defence, we didn’t realise how cold it was going to be for him, he said he was-”

“Fine, right? Is that what he said? For Christ’s sake, have neither of you learnt that the kid is always full of shit when he says he’s fine?”

The voice - Mister Stark, Peter’s hazy mind has to remind itself - is angry now and Peter doesn’t like that. He doesn’t want anyone to be angry with him, but he’s not quite sure how to make anything better. He whines, low and desperate in the back of his throat.

“Shit. Bad idea. Take him off speaker,” someone is saying, and then Mister Stark’s voice disappears. He waits a minute for it to return, but it doesn’t, the van only filled by the other two voices and Peter doesn’t like this. Is Mister Stark so angry that he left? He wants him back.

He whines again, stupid and needy. Where did the voice go? Where did Mister Stark go? He wants him back.

“M’ster St’rk,” Peter calls plaintively, finally managing to blink open his eye as wide as he can to search for him but all he finds is Sam and Bucky sitting strapped in opposite him. He frowns when he doesn’t get an answer.

Sam glances at him briefly, before turning his attention back to the phone pressed to his ear. Ah. That must be why Peter can’t see Mister Stark. Doesn’t change the fact that he wants him here though. “Look, we’re nearly back at the tower. We’ll talk to you then.”

The tower sounds familiar to Peter. If that’s where they’re going then that’s okay with him. He hopes they get there soon.

After this, everything falls into silence. Mister Stark’s voice still doesn’t come back.

---

When they pull up in the parking garage, Peter manages to stumble out the back of the van, legs still weak and shaky beneath him as he shivers. Bucky casts a strong arm around his shoulders and he leans into the support to stop himself from pitching forward and ending up sprawled face-first on the concrete.

Tony is the first thing Peter lays eyes on.

The man had been pacing back and forth in front of the elevator when they first pulled in but stilled as soon as he met Peter’s gaze.

He’s wearing a slightly rumpled looking suit jacket and dress shirt, the top few buttons undone. If he was ever wearing a tie, it’s been discarded somewhere along the way. He’s got a navy blue blanket gathered in his arms, as well. It’s worn like it’s had one too many trips through the washing machine, but even so, it’s still stained in the odd place if you look close enough, marks that look suspiciously like hot chocolate, and maybe butter from popcorn spillages adoring the fluffy material. Tony doesn’t seem to mind as he cradles it close to his chest.

He steps forward to meet them, taking a few hurried strides before he extends the arm that isn’t curled around the blanket to sweep Peter out from under Bucky’s arm into his own. Not that it takes much effort, because Peter is reaching for him the second he’s close enough.

They meet in the middle and Peter, the cold having sucked all of the little grace he had in his body, all but falls into Tony’s arms, trusting the way his arms shoot out to catch him, wrapping around him and keeping him close. Tony’s warm and it’s nice.

“Hey, Mister Stark,” he murmurs blearily into the fabric of Tony’s suit, where he’s immediately pressed his face into his shoulder. “‘M fine, I promise.”

Tony hums. He’s got his gaze fixed down on Peter, seemingly ignoring Bucky and Sam, who are standing off to the side. Peter feels kind of bad for them, but he doesn’t have the mental energy to try and deal with too many things at once. He’s tired and he still feels like remnants of cold have hidden themselves away inside of him. He can’t stop shaking. He leeches as much warmth from Tony as he can.

“I’m not all too convinced of that, kiddo,” Tony says softly, “but lucky for you, I don’t think it’s anything we can’t fix. We can’t get rid of you that easy, huh?”

Peter gives a tiny laugh, more sad and worn than joyful. “Guess not.”

Tony pulls away from Peter for a brief second, only to tug the blanket he’s still wrapped in off. It looks like it might be an old SHIELD issue one and Tony wants it off. He replaces it with the worn blue one that he’s holding and Peter instantly recognises it as the one that lives on the sofa (or folded neatly over the back, if Pepper’s home), that they curl up under during movie marathons, or the nights after the particularly hard patrols when Peter stumbles into the living room and collapses next to Tony and can’t find the energy to move to his own room. It's comforting. Familiar.

“You’re still shivering,” Tony notes as he smoothes the blanket over Peter’s shoulders with gentle hands.

Peter nods defeatedly. “Yeah. ‘M sorry, I messed up. The suits busted. Karen, my heater, all of it.”

Tony glances over at Bucky and Sam briefly with narrowed eyes, before he asks, “wait, your heater?” Peter pulls back at the sharp, biting tone. He didn’t mean to make him angry again.

He nods cautiously. “Uh, yeah. There was a guy with a gun, um, a ray thing, and he got me with his blast.”

Tony pulls his lips together into a tense line. “We’re calling Bruce.”

“I feel fine. A little longer under this,” Peter says, gesturing to the blanket as he pulls it further around his shoulders, “and I’ll be fine.”

“Nuh-uh. You were lying there without your heater for almost half an hour, do you have any idea how cold it is out there?”

Peter furrows his brows. Uh, of course he does. He’s just been lying out there in the same cold Tony’s talking about. “Yeah, it’s cold, but I swear, I’m-”

“Nope. Not doing this with you, buddy. C’mon,” Tony asserts, and Peter is too tired to argue, plus the weight of Tony’s arm hooked around his shoulders is steadying and warm and he kind of doesn’t want to risk doing anything that might make it go away. He takes a few steps forward before he jolts back a little and spins around in Tony’s hold to glance back at Bucky and Sam.

“Uh, I’ll see you later guys. I’m sorry I kinda got in the way and stuff,” Peter offers suddenly. Tony decidedly doesn’t turn around, but he does pause his footsteps to let Peter take the moment.

“Don’t say that, Peter. You did great. I’m sorry we couldn’t get to you sooner,” Sam tells him. Peter smiles, albeit a little wanly.

“It’s not your fault,” Peter says softly. He hopes they believe him, but the forlorn look on Bucky’s face tells him that maybe they don’t. He also hopes they both don’t notice the way Tony stiffens at Peter’s words, as if he doesn’t believe them either.

---

Bruce only hovers over Peter up in the penthouse for ten minutes or so, checking his vitals and running tests for hypothermia, before eventually deciding that if Peter was hypothermic, that he’s fairly stable now. Tony relaxes back into the couch - where he’s sitting next to Peter, almost shoulder to shoulder - at this.

“I’ll be back up in an hour or two, okay Peter?” Bruce tells him, but his eyes flit over to Tony as well. Peter knows what he’s doing, making sure Tony doesn't let him move from the couch. Jokes on both of them, though, because he doesn’t think he could muster up the energy even if he tried. “I just want to make sure that your temperature has stabilized and it’s not at risk of going south again. You’re sitting around 95 degrees at the moment which I’m happy with considering you run a little cool, anyway. If you can maintain that then I’ll let you go.”

“Mhmm, got it, Doctor Banner. Thank you,” Peter says, giving a sleepy nod in additional confirmation against where he’s still resting against Tony’s shoulder. It seems like a lot of words but his tired mind gets the general gist of the whole thing.

Bruce turns to leave the room and Peter turns his gaze up towards Tony. “You gonna stay?”

Tony nods obviously, as if it was a stupid question in the first place. “Course. It’s my living room after all,” he jests, “plus, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t freeze.”

“Thanks, Mister Stark,” Peter says, completely earnestly, ignoring Tony’s sarcastic comments and seeing right through them to see them as what they are. Tony offering to stay with him. Tony wanting to stay with him.

“No problem,” Tony says, and his voice doesn’t sound as easy as it had before, as if he’s slightly taken aback by Peter’s sincerity. “You wanna try to rest your eyes for a bit?” Tony offers, and Peter doesn’t respond. He's tired and he's just been offered sleep, so he lets his eyes fall closed and knows that he can fall asleep safe and warm.

---

Peter wakes up, once again, to the sound of voices surrounding him sometime later. He feels decidedly less lethargic, but he’s still too comfortable to move so he just lies there and listens for a moment. Tony’s speaking anyway, and he sounds terse again, so Peter figures that maybe right now isn’t the best time to interrupt. He thinks maybe he’s on the phone until he hears Sam’s voice.

“We didn’t know. I had no idea about him and the cold, or why he needed his heater, I swear Tony, otherwise we wouldn’t have-”

Tony cuts him off. “It isn’t just about that though. God, he’s sixteen and he was caught underneath a goddamn corner store and you left him there.”

“I know, I know, it sounds bad, and it is bad, but we were all there because we had a job to do, Tony. You know how it works. There were people, civilians, Peter would have killed us if we left them there to go and help him.”

Tony huffs out a sigh and grumbles half-heartedly in a way that tells Peter that he isn’t actually quite as angry as he’s letting on. He must know that Sam and Bucky are right. Because they are, Peter would have been so mad if they chose to put him above everyone else. He’s a superhero, that’s not how it’s meant to work.

“Yeah,” Tony says, a tiny show of concession. “I know what we do is high stakes and I also know what he’s like. He’s irritatingly stubborn, I get it. Other things were going on, he said he was fine, whatever. But when I send him out with you guys, with any of you, I trust you to protect him. He hasn't got the experience that we do. I needed you both to look out for him and you didn’t. He’s a kid - he’s my kid, that means I need him safe, you get that?”

Neither Sam nor Bucky have kids so they don’t look like they particularly understand the exact sentiment, but what they do get is that fierce protection that radiates off Tony whenever he’s close to Peter is not something to be messed with - ever.

“I - we really are sorry, Tony. Let us know when Peter’s awake?” Sam asks tentatively, and there’s silence for a moment.

“Yeah, yeah, will do. Just get out of my living room.”

Peter waits strategically for a few minutes, staying still as he lies where he’s burrowed up against Tony. He thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of faking it until Tony speaks up again eventually, exasperation and amusement lacing his tone. “You can open your eyes now, Pete. I know you’re awake.”

Peter opens one eye tentatively and offers Tony a sheepish grin.

“How d’you always know?”

“Your nose twitches more when you’re awake,” Tony says, as if that’s a perfectly normal observation to be making. Peter figures that for the two of them and the amount of time they spend together, it probably isn’t that far out of the ballpark of normal - whatever the hell that means when it comes to them.

“They didn’t mean to, you know. They didn’t know. They looked after me real well, once they got me out and all that” Peter offers, changing the subject back to Sam and Bucky in a way that makes Tony’s shoulders stiffen just a fraction.

Tony gives a one-shouldered shrug after a moment. “Yeah, I know,” he says. His voice sounds slightly defeated, and he sucks in a sharp breath of air. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be pissed at them for not protecting you.”

“I’m Spider-Man, I don’t need protecting,” Peter protests, but Tony just raises an eyebrow.

“I think we’re gonna have to agree to disagree on that one, kid.” He pauses for a moment. When he speaks next, his voice is lighter. “I’m making your next suit out of merino. Insulating, temperature-regulating, all that good stuff. With a heater and fabric like that, you’ll never even be able to imagine being cold in the suit.”

Peter rolls his eyes up towards Tony. “That seems unnecessary.”

“I wasn’t asking for feedback. This is entirely non-negotiable,” Tony presses on, but he chuckles when Peter tugs one hand out from underneath the blanket and curls it into a loose fist to bump into Tony’s shoulder.

“You worry too much.”

“You get hurt too much.”

“Part of the job, not my fault” Peter counters, voice lowered slightly as he mutters under his breath in that petulant, teenager-esque way that Tony adores because it reminds him that Peter still knows how to act his age underneath all the superhero-bravado.

Tony pauses. “As it turns out, worrying is part of my job as well,” he says gently. Exactly what job he’s referring to goes unspoken, but at this point, they both know it’s probably gone well past the slightly distant mentor job Tony originally undertook.

Peter pauses and considers this. A barely suppressed dopey smile pulls at his lips. “Maybe we both just can’t help it,” Peter decides. Tony nods. This seems fair - and also kinda true.

“You got that right, buddy.”

Peter leans further back against the couch and curls closer to Tony, letting the man fuss for a second and wrap the blanket tighter around his shoulders. There’s probably no need, the shivers have stopped and he’s perfectly still now, body temperature holding steady. He allows it, though, and just burrows into the fluffy fabric. It feels nice to be looked after, to be protected.

He cracks one eye open again.

“Did you really have to call me irritatingly stubborn?”

---

Two weeks later, the weekend is forecast to be the coldest of the winter so far.

Peter wakes the next morning to find a suit made of merino wool, as promised by Tony, alongside a pair of gloves modified to fit his web-shooters, wrapped and sitting at the end of his bed.

He rolls his eyes but wears it once - partly just to humour Tony and partly because it really is damn cold - and he hates that it’s the coziest he’s felt on patrol all winter. He also just looks straight-up ridiculous.

(If he wears it a few more times - only on the coldest of days - then that’s nobody's business).

#prompt fill #my writing #irondad #irondad fic #poor peter i really have been putting him through it lately

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book-addict-03 · 4 years ago

Text

Hello, starting a Tenrose fic and wanting some advice. Constructive criticism is highly appreciated <3

Chapter I - The Beginning and The End

Rose knew it was a stupid idea, even as she was sitting, watching the house full of Torchwood agents. The only reason she even considered it was because she was so tired of running. She was even more tired of losing people. It didn’t matter that there was no one left. It didn’t matter that she was finally going to give them what they wanted.

She listened to the fallen Autumn leaves crunch under her boots as she stalked towards the house. The rustling sounds of the trees and the chatter of distant birds soothed her as she headed towards what would surely result in her torture. After all, why hunt someone for over 60 years if you didn’t have a truly malicious plan in mind?

As she kicked the door open, she couldn’t help the small smirk that graced her features. She had planned to surprise them, of course, but she was pleased to see the shocked and flummoxed looks on the faces of all 15 Torchwood Agents. She would take this sight with her, to pass away the time while she’s strapped down to a table in the Labs.

They had started hunting her when she turned 40 and it became clear to everyone that she hadn’t aged past 20. Of course, they’d suspected it throughout the years, especially when paired with her rapid healing. She’d had the extent of her healing tested throughout the years, obviously, but when it became clear that her young looks were truly unorthodox rather than good genes, Torchwood had started seeking her out for tests on top of her usual quarterly examinations. She hadn’t planned on going into hiding, but eventually she was left with no other choice.

So here she was, aged 107 years old looking no older than 20, surrounded by confused Torchwood agents, finally handing herself in. It had taken over half a century, but they were finally seeing it. Rose Tyler had finally given up.

She didn’t fight back, even as four men jumped to wrestle her to the ground, all flailing limbs and elbows. Truly terrible form, she thought, their training regime really must have changed if they thought this sort of performance would suffice in the capture of London’s most wanted criminal.

Of course, she could have fought back if she’d wanted to, years of running and fighting had left her with a toned and strong body, as well as a full martial arts skillset from her training and employment at Torchwood. So no, she hadn’t been overcome, she had submitted. She knew the distinction wouldn’t be made in the records or to the public, but she had to keep her pride intact if nothing else. Honestly, who would expect anything else from the long-lost heiress of the Vitex fortune?

“Hello boys!” she said with a wide grin, seemingly nonplussed by the agents currently holding her to the cold, hard concrete floor, “Honestly, is this how you greet your guests? I must say, this is really poor hospitality. I mean, I’ve been in some really bad establishments, and when I say really bad, I mean really bad but honestly, this is unrivalled.”

“Shut up, you bitch” said the person wearing the boots that were currently right in front of her face. The man laying across the top of her back prevented her from angling her neck to see the speakers face but from the burly voice, she decided it was safe to assume the person was male. “Goodard, get up and chain her.” Also in a role of power, she noted as she was roughly jerked upright and put straight into a cold metal chair. She tried to cross her knees but the men chaining her down wouldn’t allow it. With an exaggerated huff, she allowed the young men to chain her to the chair, ankles tied firmly to the legs of the chair.

Finally allowed to see the man that would probably be hailed as her captor, Rose took a few moments to observe his harsh features. If she was being honest to herself, he looked like a stereotypical Disney villain. He sneered down at her with a sharp, elongated face, greying hair and a rapidly receding hairline. He could be no older than 50, but he had only a small amount of hair left.

“If you’re tying an old woman down with truck chains then I must be making a good impression.” She said, with a smirk. She was bored and wished, not for the first time, that she could just fast forward through certain moments.

“You and I both know your age is not an accurate depiction of your strength or abilities, which is precisely why we’ve been looking for you for so long, Agent Tyler.” He said, clearly enunciating her previous title from her employment at Torchwood. If he expected a reaction, he must’ve been sorely disappointed, because the next words out of his mouth were:

“Fingal! Jab her, get her in the truck and let’s go” followed by a sharp prick in her neck and a veil of black taking over her consciousness.

…~oOo~…

Six months later, Rose was recovering from her 17th surgery while also preparing for her 46th MRI. This time they were going to try drowning her to see what would happen afterwards. It was one of the least imaginative deaths they had come up with so far, but she still wasn’t looking forward to the time spent swimming in a swirling haze of pain that always followed her death.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time she’d died.

The first time had been a shock, she had been hit by a stray bullet, fired by a hunter who must’ve thought her to be a deer or some other sort of animal. Her mother and Tony were still alive at the time. They had discussed what was to be done in the event of her death a while beforehand, so they had carted her body off to a cave deeper in the woods to wait until nightfall so they could light a pyre. Just as twilight peaked, Rose woke up with a gasp and scared the absolute shit out of her family. Her mother had been yelling at her for weeks after that, saying that Rose had surely knocked 10 years off her life span.

That time she’d been out for over 5 hours, lately they had been cut down to an hour or less. Rose assumed it was a ‘practice makes perfect’ sort of scenario. Well, she hoped.

…~oOo~…

Rose knew something was different from the moment she stepped into the room. Her skin felt tingly and she felt slightly invigorated, she knew her evolved senses were picking up on something, something she was unable to interpret. Of course, the strange occurrence didn’t change her actions. She didn’t even falter, she knew doing anything other than what they asked was pointless. No matter what, they were going to force her into the tub of cold water. She could do nothing to stop them, she’d tried before on several occasions. They always sent her with multitudes of armed guards who were instructed to use brutal force if she showed any sign of resistance. So, she’d pretended nothing was amiss and forced herself to place one foot in front of the other, climb into the tub and accept the blanket of numbness that was handed to her as the water blacked out her vision.

She swam in the inky depths of her mind, waiting for her body to come alive once again. Usually, it just felt as though she had been asleep, sometimes she would remember different moments of her life or dream of a different future for herself. This time was different, she was aware of everything going on outside of her own head but remained unable to do anything. Instead, it was like she was in a viewing panel inside her own mind. Weird.

“Hello, my Wolf,” said a mystical voice from behind her. She turned to see herself, wearing different clothes and with the bleached blonde hair she had grown out decades ago, but still her. She immediately knew who was speaking to her through her own image, because who else could it be?

“TARDIS” she greeted with a nod and grin, “it’s been a long time since we’ve spoken. Though I must say, we don’t really speak, do we? It’s usually like a telepathic game of charades. This is new,” she said, waving at the whole of the entity in front of her.

The TARDIS smiled and nodded to Rose, “I have no other corporeal image for myself other than you, the one who shares my heart. You must know by now that your link to Bad Wolf was not removed from you, as my Thief had thought” Rose wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question, but she nodded anyway. “Good, that makes this easier”

“Makes what easier?” Rose asked, with a suspicious expression marring her features.

“My magnificent plan, of course. I know that your journey since the Bay has been taxing on your soul. You have lost many, and I want you to know that I cannot fix that. I wish to give my Wolf and my Thief the second chance they deserve… I believe that you both need each other; you know that as well as I do. This is my gift to you. I can take you back to your own universe. I can take you back to him.”

The TARDIS said this with an air of finality that didn’t sit well with Rose. Her passionate yet detached deliverance of her speech didn’t do anything to help either. She was sick of detachment. She hadn’t spoken any of this to anyone, so when the TARDIS prodded at such painful memories, the floodgates of thoughts and feelings hidden away over decades of life faltered and she broke.

“What if I don’t want to go back? I have lost everything since Bad Wolf Bay, I lost my chance at a normal life, I lost my family, all because your thief didn’t give me a choice! What makes you think I’d willingly go back to him?” She was pacing, her minor rant had made her realise how exhausted she was and the warmth on her face alerted her to the fact that she was crying.

“You need home. The TARDIS is and always will be your home. I will care for you, as I always have. I can’t help you while you’re here though. You don’t belong in this universe; you already know that they will not accept your modified biology. You know that my Thief will at least understand your situation and the loss that has followed. I wish for no more than to allow you both the comfort you desire, but it is still your choice. Do you wish to stay here, or are you ready to come home?” Her soft-spoken words pierced Rose’s armour and she crumpled to the floor. Decades of loss, sorrow and pain suddenly cascading through her barriers.

“Please. Please, take me home” She sobbed. The TARDIS gave a small, affectionate smile. Her plan would work. She just knew it.

Of course, she knew her Wolf’s anger and nonchalance were a shield to protect her already worn-down heart, much like her Thief and his indifference towards others who seek to help him. The fact that the Void had warped time a lot more for this universe than her own was likely going to be a slight issue, but that couldn’t be helped. She would take care of them; she would make sure they were happy again. Together.

#dr who tenth #rose tyler #tenrose #tenth doctor x rose tyler #doctor rose fic #tenrose fic #fanfic #fan fiction

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bnha-mha-imagines · 5 years ago

Text

Secret Santa 2019!!!

So some of us creators participated in a secret santa, and I got the lovely Liz, @eraserheadsmanbun (by total coincidence, haha!), so here is the final gift for her :) It IS holiday themed, and though I struggled at first to write Aizawa--(I don’t think I’ve written him before?? hmm)--I really like how it turned out! As requested, I shoved fluff down this fic’s throat haha! I really hope you enjoy ;) Happy holidays Liz!! <3

Word Count: 2838

Warnings: Light cursing

The city was still as it tucked itself under a quiet blanket of snowfall. On the sidewalk, the snow seemed to glow in multi-colors as it reflected the lights of the sleeping city. Winter always brings out the beauty in everything; even in the concrete jungle, where winter is particularly cold and the people frigid and gray, beauty blossomed like snowdrops thawing in even the coldest of hearts.

You were always a fan of the juxtaposition of winter. How strange and miraculous was it that subfreezing weather left you feeling the warmest. Though, you wouldn’t lie, this particular night, Christmas Eve, felt endlessly frozen and devoid of any warmth. Walking the empty but well-lit streets, you sighed through your gloves in hopes that some of the warmth from your breath might reach your frosted fingertips.

Seeing the usually boisterous city so peaceful and motionless was almost startling. Yours was the only set of footprints in the fresh snow, and the snowflakes falling assured you that they would soon be hidden. Who would be out on such a late, chilly night like this one anyways? Surely everyone was tucked inside their homes behind frosted windows spending the holiday with their loved ones. Even now, the only reason you were out in the first place was to find any store still open in hopes that you could buy more eggnog for the party back at your work.

You could already feel the cold settling into your bones, something that was easily preventable if you had properly dressed yourself; however, in your rush out, you neglected to grab much winter wear, instead choosing to combat the cold night air with an ugly sweater, jingly elf hat, and striped candy cane stockings.

Shivering, you held your arms against your chest, hands tucked into your armpits as you tried to see past your foggy breath. Turning the corner, it was as if your prayers were answered when you finally spotted an LED neon sign flashing ‘open’ at you. The store was a tiny little thing, but you had faith in Christmas miracles, and knew in your heart that eggnog was soon to be in your possession.

You quicken your pace in an attempt to escape the cold sooner, though as you approach you halt momentarily. What you had first took for trash bags along the curb was a man sitting outside the store with his arms resting against his knees. The footprints leading up to him seemed already half covered by the snow, leaving you wondering how long he’d been sitting there.

Without moving his head, the gruff looking man raised his tired eyes to look at you; feeling embarrassed for being caught staring, you ducked your head slightly and walked past him into the store to carry on with your business. The slight jingle of the bell on your hat mixed with the one of the door, alerting the single store worker of your presence. “You must be crazy going out in this weather,” the cashier said, only looking up from their game of solitaire for a second to glance at you. “Nice outfit.” They cracked a small, tired smile, which you returned tenfold. Though your funny little get-up did poor to keep out the cold, seeing it was probably the highlight of the cashier's slow night.

“Thank you,” you said in good spirits before turning to look at the aisles. The store wasn’t much larger than a gas station convenience store, and you quickly found the frozen aisle. Walking down it, you were already beginning to feel warmer in the heated store. Scanning the refrigerators as you walked past, your eyes fell onto the festive drinks you’d been looking for. You reach in and grab two jugs of eggnog, bringing them up to the counter.

“Will this be all for you?” the cashier asked as he turned away from his game to scan your items. Glancing to your left at the rows of candies, you hesitated a moment before grabbing a candy cane and placing that onto the counter as well. After ringing up your items, you made sure to leave the man a tip as a gesture of kindness.

“Have a good night,” you called as you pushed your way back outside into the cold. The door jingled again before shutting softly behind you. Turning your head forward, you froze when you saw that the man from earlier was still sitting outside on the curb. The flashing lights of the neon open sign hit against his back and scarf in small veins of red and blue. After a moment of contemplation, you swallow the lump in your throat and slowly move toward the man.

The snow crunched softly underfoot as you stepped down from the curb, and you brush some snowflakes from your pants before sitting down beside the man. The man made no reaction to you; he didn’t turn his head, and no words escaped his mouth as you placed yourself next to him. Placing the bag of eggnog to the side, you tuck your knees to your chest and fold your hands around them. Following his gaze, you faced ahead and watch as the snow slowly falls to the earth like specks of glittering sugar.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe out, the words misty and visible as they leave your lips. The man emits a low hum in response, never turning his eyes from the view in front of him. A comfortable silence falls onto the both of you as you watch the tiny ice crystals dance in the air. After a moment, you move one of your hands and reach into the bag next to you, retrieving the candy cane and extending it out to the man.

This time, he turns to look at you, and for the first time you get a good look at his face. His dark hair was longer, reaching down to be about shoulder length. He had a bit of stubble along his chin and above his lip, though you thought he wore it well. Some of his hair hung in front of his face, but through it you could see his eyes. The large scar beneath his right eye caught your attention for a second, but you didn’t stare at it. His eyes themselves were deep and dark, and though they looked tired, you could read the confused expression in them.

“For you,” you answered his silent question, pushing the candy cane a little closer toward him. After a few moments of stillness, he reaches one hand up, his fingers brushing against yours for a moment as he takes the offering from you.

You watched as he unwrapped one end of it, popping it into his mouth before leaning back onto his hands in a more relaxed posture. He turned his head back to stare straight out into the snowy streets of the city. Your fingers and toes were beginning to feel numb and sting. You really wish you brought more to wear with you.

“Why are you here?” the low voice startled you, and you looked at the side of his face with furrowed eyebrows.

“I’m sorry?” you asked, a little confused by what he meant.

The man sucked on the candy cane before repeating his question. “Why are you here? You clearly have someplace to be…” He turned his head slightly to look at you from the side of his eyes.

Shivering quite a bit, you offer him a soft smile. “Ah, you’re right. I should be back at the work holiday party right about now.” You don’t answer his question, not quite sure of the answer yourself.

The man in your company looked at you for a few moments, and if not for the chill of the air already affecting you, you would have felt a shiver run down your back. After observing you, the man spoke again. You found yourself quite liking his voice. “Perhaps you should head back, you’re all but shaking out of your boots.”

You feel your eyebrows knit upward, your chapped lips pursing. “Well what about you?” you asked. “Who would keep you company then?” At this, the man’s eyes narrowed a little. Before you could protest, he began to unravel the scarf from around his neck and plop in onto your shoulders.

“Why are you so stubborn? You’d really freeze outside for some stranger? You don’t even know my name.” Despite removing his scarf, the man next to you appeared indifferent to the cold.

Stunned at his actions, you blinked your eyes wide. After a few moments, you chuckled a little. “Well, thank you for this,” you smiled, tucking your chin into the scarf. Funny how your companion complained about you freezing for a stranger when he was doing exactly the same. “And though I don’t know your name, you’re no stranger...Eraserhead.”

At this, the man seemed to sit up straighter, surprised. You couldn’t help but smile a little at him, it was his biggest reaction to anything you’ve said so far. “I...wasn’t aware I was so recognizable,” he said flatly, and you couldn’t tell if he was surprised or disgruntled at you knowing him. Perhaps both.

You shrugged, rubbing your hands together to bring any kind of warmth to your hands. “Ah, well you weren’t at first. I only knew it was you, Eraserhead, when I sat down and saw you up close.” You turn to him, cheeks red in the frigid weather. “And, so that we’re even, my name is (Y/n).”

At your introduction, his face seemed to relax before he hummed lowly. “Well, we’re not exactly even. You don’t have to call me Eraserhead, Aizawa is fine.”

You nod your head at that, pleased. “Say, Aizawa, why are you sitting out here anyways? You didn’t have any plans for Christmas Eve?” You cock your head at him, the weight of the scarf already warming you up quite a bit.

Aizawa turns to look up at the dark sky, some of the white snowflakes getting tangled into his dark hair. “No,” he said plainly, not particularly concerned. “I don’t do big social events, so Christmas is no different.”

You feel your heart twinge a little at his words. Although he didn’t seem bothered by his situation, you couldn’t accept in your heart that anyone would want to be completely alone on a cold Christmas Eve such as this one. “In that case,” you began, “no one would be missing you if I invited you back to have some eggnog?”

Aizawa looked at you, an unreadable expression on his face. “Like I said, I don’t really do--”

You cut him off quickly. “You misunderstand me, I meant...just us. We could have some eggnog over dinner, and it’s warmer at my place than out here, I can promise you that.” Aizawa seemed frozen, staring at you as if he couldn’t believe you’d just invited him. Receiving no response from him for a while, you began to feel a bit nervous. Did you overstep? You cleared your throat. “O-Of course, you don’t have to, I just figured you might want...some company. Sorry, I didn’t mean to...”

You trail off as Aizawa shakes his head. “Don’t apologize, I just...I just don’t understand why you’re being so kind to me? We hardly know each other.”

You smile sheepishly at him. “You don’t have to know someone to be kind to them. Besides, you hardly know me and you gave me your scarf, didn’t you?” He seemed pensive at that, not answering. “I promise I’m a good cook, if that’s what your reservation is.”

Aizawa cleared his throat, but there was no mistaking the slight upturn of his lips. Despite his tired eyes, a twinkle of amusement flickered in them. “Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?” he smirked at you, causing a huge bloom of warmth to erupt in your chest. You hadn’t noticed it earlier but...he was rather attractive. Despite the ice frozen against your ass, you thanked the cold for hiding the blush on your cheeks.

You crack a smile at him, starting to push yourself back onto your feet. “I’ve convinced you then! Great. My apartment isn’t far from here.” You started to peel the scarf from your neck to return it, but Aizawa stands and stops you.

“Keep it for now,” he droned. “Unlike you, I remember to wear a coat when it snows.” Before you could retort, Aizawa reaches down and grabs the bag of eggnog for you, still sucking on the candy cane you gave him. By now the stripes were beginning to disappear. Being a man of few words, he looks at you with half lidded eyes and gives a slight nod of his head for you to lead the way.

The snow makes a satisfying sound as your feet press into it, and you lead your new addition back to your apartment. You occasionally make a light comment on the way, though you both seem comfortable enough with one another to walk in quiet and enjoy the peaceful ambience.

Unlocking the door to your one bedroom apartment, you flick on the lights and are immediately greeted with the colorful lights of your tree and various decorations around the house. Though it looked like a reindeer threw up Christmas all over your front room, Aizawa still gave a quiet “nice place” as he wiped the snow off his shoes.

Hanging up his wet scarf for him on the coat rack, you slip off your shoes and gesture to the various seats for him. “Feel free to sit and make yourself at home! I’ll get to making a quick dinner.”

Despite your offer, Aizawa follows you to the kitchen counter. “Allow me to help where you need me,” he said in his characteristically grumbly voice. Though the host in you wanted to treat your guest, you allowed him to help you cut some of the vegetables. Due to the unexpectedness of your guest, you were unprepared to make a traditionally festive meal, so you settle for soup. After spending so much time out in the cold, you knew it would hit the spot.

Moving the bowls to the coffee table, you set up a holiday movie and two heaping glasses of egg nog. Plopping down on the couch next to Aizawa, you throw a blanket over the two of you and settle in for a laid back evening. During the movie, you strike up pleasant conversations and learn a bit more about one another. You learn about his work as a teacher, and he even tells you how he got his scar. At one point he mentions that he's single, a mental note that you are more than happy to make.

By the time you’re talking through what must be the fourth or so movie, your bodies had gradually shifted closer to one another on the couch. By now it had gotten rather late, and it was becoming increasingly harder to keep the sleep from your voice. You lean into his side a little, eyelids heavy as you hum in response to him saying your name.

“I...don’t usually celebrate the winter holidays with anyone, and until now I’ve never minded that. But...thank you for the kindness you’ve shown me tonight. Surprisingly, I rather enjoyed spending the holiday with someone...with you.” Aizawa’s eyes shift to look at you as you let out a sleepy sigh, feeling your head gently start to fall onto him. Carefully, he lifts his arm and wraps it around the couch behind you, allowing you better access to rest your head more comfortably against him.

Exhaling, Aizawa brings his hand to your face and brushes some stray strands of hair from your face, tucking them behind your ear. Looking into your rosy, sleepy face, he feels a twinge in his chest. His eyes soften, and he knows immediately that you’re dangerous; he’d known you for only 6 hours and already he could feel himself falling for you faster than he’d ever fallen before. Since when did he get so soft?

With a light sigh at his own sentimentality, he cranes his head to press a chaste kiss against your temple before allowing his chin to rest against the top of your head. His tired eyes droop slightly as he watches your tree bask the room in a soft, rainbow light. After a moment, he rests his eyes, drifting off into the most comfortable sleep he’s had in a while.

Outside the frozen windows of the apartment, the snow continues to spiral down like tiny ballerinas. The glass is fogged slightly, a testimony to how frigid the world is outside. The night is consumed by the quiet, and the whole city holds its breath.

Two strangers find themselves alone together in the city, warm and cozy beside one another as the storm hails outside. Despite its cold appearance, winter always brings out the warmth and beauty in everything.

#secret santa #bnha x reader #mha x reader #aizawa shouta #aizawa x reader #bnha aizawa #merry christmas #happy holidays #secret santa 2019 #gift #bnha christmas #bnha secret santa

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