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seijorhi · 4 years ago

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Finders Keepers

the long awaited (sorry!) zombie au. hope y’all enjoy

Seijoh 4 x female reader & Miya twins x female reader

TW Blood, gore, angst, um... toxic relationships?

“Let me see.”

It’s little more than a murmur, but in the quiet stillness of the night your voice carries. It hardly matters; Oikawa has you close, tucked under his arm with his injured leg stretched out between the two of you. He could stop you if he really wanted, but he only watches, those tired, wary eyes fixed on your face as you reach for his pants.

“It’s fine,” he grunts out, yet he can barely get the words out before he’s hissing through his teeth – a knee jerk reaction to the scrape of rough fabric against his wound. His fingers are digging painfully into your arm, and it doesn’t make a difference how gentle you try to be, how many stammered apologies fall from your lips, your fingers are stiff and clumsy and his pants are caked with dried blood and grime, hindering the process.

Pursing your lips, you glance up. “This would go easier if you took these off, you know.”

He cracks a smile at that, strained and tense, but your chest still flutters at the sight of it. “If you wanna get my pants off so badly, cutie, all you had to do was ask.”

“Tooru,” you begin, but he sighs heavily and that brief flicker of mirth glimmering in his eyes fades. Reaching over he picks up his hunting knife, pressing the handle into your palm and letting his fingers slowly curl around yours. The weight of it feels unwieldy and foreign in your hand, and you can’t quite say for sure if the way your breath picks up and hitches is due to your nerves or the way Oikawa’s watching you, his warm hand still wrapped around yours.

“Cut it, then.”

The knife helps, shearing through his pants like butter, but the wound itself is messy – torn threads plastered to congealed blood and dirt – and blunt fingernails sink into your skin and Oikawa grits out a curse when you try to gently ease them free.

It’s worse than you’d thought. A lot worse. Raked over his right knee, five gouges, jagged and gruesome, raw flesh and muscle exposed beneath. Your stomach roils at the sight of it, bile creeping up your throat, and for a moment you’re astounded by how calm he is, sitting there beside you.

If it were you, you’re fairly sure you’d be rolling on the ground howling by now, but the only hint of pain Oikawa’s face betrays is the tightness of his jaw, teeth clenched even as he looses a shuddering breath.

“I-I’ll go see if I can find something to…” to what? Clean the wound? Stitch it? You’re not an idiot, unless this little cottage has an incredibly well stocked first aid kit, you know you’re in trouble. And even if it does, beyond the very basics of clean, disinfect and bandage, you don’t know how the hell you’re supposed to fix this.

Iwaizumi was always the one to stitch up their wounds, muttering obscenities under his breath and glaring at them the whole time. It was their own idiot faults for putting themselves in a position where they could get hurt in the first place, he’d say, they could deal with a little pain while he fixed them up. But as you stare at the grisly mess of Oikawa’s knee, there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that this might be beyond even Iwa’s level of expertise.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because Iwa isn’t here.

Makki and Mattsun aren’t either.

And strangely enough, it’s not the fear of the creatures lurking in the woods that’s gnawing at your gut. It’s Oikawa’s injury, the blood and mangled mess that you can’t even begin to fix, the thought of the trap that’s awaiting the others back at the sanctuary. It’s that feeling of helplessness that’s tightening around your neck like a noose.

“Hey,” Oikawa calls, snagging at your wrist when you try to pull away. “They’ll find us, have a little faith.”

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you nod. “I know.”

You don’t have the guts to tell him that that’s only half the problem.

Making do with vodka and some old bandages you’d scrounged up from a first aid kit under the sink, you do what you can for Tooru’s knee. Working by the light of a few flickering candles, your hands shaking like a leaf, it's a job easier said than done, and you can’t help but wince at every pained hiss and grunt that escapes him.

It’s a hack job, a bandaid over a gaping wound, but he thanks you for it anyway, pressing an affectionate kiss to your temple as he drags you closer once more. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he murmurs, and the words hang heavy over the both of you; a promise and a sobering reminder in one.

Tucked up in his embrace, you shut your eyes and will yourself to fall asleep.

Yet the moment you do, you’re right back there again: the hallway doors bursting open and the undead pouring through. Rotting and snarling, the sound of panicked shrieks tearing through the sanctuary in their wake.

Tooru’s hand in yours, yanking you along as he ran. Your heartbeat, pounding in your ears as you gasped for breath, your chest burning. And the fear, the horror that threatened to choke you as the others fell behind, their frantic pleas turning into agonised screams.

Everybody else first. The words spoken before any one of them left the safety of the sanctuary; you’d always assumed it was a grim kind of joke between the boys, a good luck charm. How many times had you heard Mattsun laugh it, clapping Iwa on the shoulder, or Makki for that matter, or Oikawa?

‘Come home safe’, you’d thought it meant, not ‘rip the guns out of other survivors’ hands and throw them back into the path of the oncoming undead’.

And then you’d stumbled, tripping over your own two feet. You remember Oikawa cursing, the pain that radiated up your knees and the palms of your hands as you hit the floor hard, and the absolute, bone chilling terror that surged through you when you looked up and saw one of the undead creatures lunge for you; jaw hanging loose, more ripped flesh and gristle than an actual mouth–

Oikawa was too far away, too slow, and even if he wasn’t, you’d just witnessed the lengths he’d go to for self preservation. You’d screamed for him anyway, squeezing your eyes shut and praying you’d go quickly when those fingers and yellowing teeth dug into your flesh and ripped you apart.

And in the space of a single petrified heartbeat, three shots had rung through the air, a warm wetness splattering against your cheek. Tooru was there, kicking the rotting corpse away from you and hauling you back to your feet, back safely against his side.

But the next one was quicker, leaping over the husk of its fallen friend, snarling and bloody and savage, and then it was Tooru who was screaming, undead fingers sinking into the flesh of his leg, ripping as it tried to claw him back.

Heart pounding viciously, your eyes shoot open in the darkness.

Even with the reassurance of Oikawa’s frame pressed up behind you, his breath warm against your skin, sleep doesn’t come easy, and the dawn brings little reprieve.

Stupidly, you’d hoped – prayed – that somehow through the night he might’ve gotten better. It was early in the morning when you’d felt him start to shiver against you. You’d tried to roll away, to give him space so you wouldn’t accidentally knock his leg, but Tooru was having none of it, burrowing in closer, his grip tightening.

And when you’d felt him start to sweat, his arms becoming sticky and clammy, his shirt dampening at your back, that slow, cloying sense of dread took root inside of your stomach.

Under the first rays of morning light, the true extent of Oikawa’s condition is unignorable. Without the luxury of being able to properly close the wound, blood’s seeped through the bandages overnight, leaving them a mottled, macabre red. His face is pale, a thin sheen of sweat dotting at his brow and with every shallow, rattling breath he takes, his body trembles.

It’s more than just simple blood loss.

You think for a moment that he’s unconscious, long lashes fanned out over flushed cheekbones, but the moment you reach for the bandages, his eyes snap open. “Don’t,” he rasps.

You frown, “Tooru–”

“No,” he says. “It’s fine. Leave it alone.”

Between him and Iwaizumi, and to a certain extent, Makki and Mattsun, you’ve never had much of a say in how things are run. You’ve never questioned that they’re the ones in charge, Oikawa most of all. They’re the ones who’ve kept you safe, kept you alive all this time, and all they’ve ever asked of you is that you do what they say.

And you have. Always. Because without them, you’d be dead. You don’t have to pick up a gun and fight, because they do it for you. You don’t have to go on supply runs because they take care of it, they take care of you. And it’s never mattered whether it’s just been the five of you out there alone, or if you were banding together with other survivors; that’s never changed – no matter how many dirty looks it earned you from the others.

You are their responsibility, but in return, you do what they tell you without question.

But this–

This isn’t like that. This isn’t you begging Iwaizumi to take you with him on perimeter patrol because you’ve been cooped up for what feels like weeks, or pouting because they’re deliberately keeping things from you again.

And maybe they have kept you in the dark, but you’re not blind and you’re not stupid. The reality of this situation hasn’t escaped you.

The sanctuary’s overrun, and if – when – Iwa, Makki and Mattsun make it back, they’ll be walking into an ambush. Even if by some miracle they do manage to all make it out unscathed and somehow figure out a way to pick up your trail, there’s no telling how long it’ll take for them to find their way back to you.

(You can’t bear to think about the possibility of them not coming home; you won’t.)

Right now, it’s just you and Oikawa, stuck in some abandoned cottage in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a rifle and a baseball bat between you. You have no food, no supplies and he’s getting weaker by the minute.

You’re terrified.

And you don’t have the luxury of sitting back and letting somebody else take care of you anymore. You don’t stand a chance of survival without Oikawa, and right now he doesn’t stand a chance without you.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shake your head. “Okay, I won’t touch it, but I’m not just going to sit here and watch you get worse.” Smoothing your palms over your lap, you take a deep breath in through your nose. “There’s a prison–”

“No.”

“Tooru–”

“I said no,” he snaps.

Biting back a sigh, you try again, “Tooru, there might be supplies there,” you plead. “Painkillers, antibiotics, something that might help–”

“I don’t need antibiotics and you’re not leaving. We need to stay here where it’s safe until the others find us,” he grits out, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Normally, this would be the point that you’d back off, running off to lick your wounds before he decided to get mean, but even as some part of you cowers at the mere thought of upsetting him, this time you don’t back down.

He watches warily as you lean over, pressing a kiss to his cheek, gently smoothing damp brown locks back from his sweat slicked forehead. “I don’t know when Iwa’s coming back,” you murmur. “But until he does, the prison’s our best chance, if I can just–”

“No!” he snarls, cutting you off once again.

His eyes are manic now, blown wide and glazed over, he’s shivering, his breath a faint rattle – but his grip is iron, long fingers clutching at you desperately when you jerk back with a gasp.

“You don’t leave me.”

You don’t want to.

It’d be easy not to, to sit and stay with him and pretend that your world isn’t falling apart and he isn’t dying. You’ve never been a fighter, always too soft, too weak, too naive to survive out there on your own. The thought of setting one foot outside of that door without him by your side fills you with absolute terror, but what other options do you have?

He might not like it, but you’re out of time – this decision isn’t his to make anymore.

“Tooru, I-I have to, you know–”

“No!” he snaps, dragging you closer. “You’re not leaving me, I won’t fucking let you!”

Your hand trembles when you reach up to take his, easing it from your shirt and bringing it to your lips. Tears spill from your lashes, falling in heavy droplets against the back of his hand as Oikawa makes a pained sound.

“Please don’t go.”

You both know he can’t stop you.

“Keep the gun,” you tell him, mustering up a tight, watery smile. “Anything but Iwa and our boys comes through that door, shoot it.”

—

It seems a cruel, twisted joke that you find a perfectly good truck sitting a little ways up the driveway, just begging to be used – with no way of getting it started.

Mattsun always made hot wiring look so easy, tossing you a wink when the engine rumbled to life, as if it was a neat little party trick he’d pulled out just to impress you. He did it so quickly, so smoothly, ripping the wires out and sparking them like it was second nature, but he’d never bothered to actually explain what he was doing to you.

And why would he? Between the four of them, there’d always be somebody else to take care of it for you. It’s the same reason they never taught you how to shoot, never taught you how to fight beyond the very basics of self defence.

Now, trudging along the side of the barren road with nothing but your baseball bat and a canteen of water slung over your hip, you find yourself wishing you’d paid a little more attention. Ten miles hadn’t seemed that far on paper – it was less than the trek back into town and you’d figured a safer bet, but walking around in broad daylight without any kind of real protection feels like you’re begging to be preyed upon. Yet by some stroke of luck (and despite that persistent nagging sense that you’re being watched) you manage to make it to the perimeter gates without coming across another soul, dead or alive.

The towering brick walls topped with spirals of barbed wire that line the prison complex are as imposing as they are unbreachable, and for a moment, standing there staring up at them, you feel a crushing sense of disappointment. You’ve walked over two hours, left Tooru in pain and alone for nothing. There’s no way in hell you’re gonna be able to scale those walls, and without any kind of bolt cutters or firepower, you’re not sure how you’re supposed to get past the front gates.

Iwa would’ve known that. Iwa would’ve been better prepared.

But as you draw closer to the guardhouse, you’re pleasantly surprised to find that it’s not a problem. The heavy wrought iron gate’s already unlocked and open, creaking in the breeze. And really, that should have been the first warning sign, but you’re too busy thanking your lucky stars as you slide on through to pay attention to things like that.

The courtyard is just as deserted. The crunch of gravel underfoot echoes too loud, setting your nerves on edge as you make your way towards the imposing structure. It’s quiet, eerily so – even the birds seem to have disappeared. Is this how all raids feel, you wonder as you climb the steps towards the door. This sense of foreboding dread that settles in your stomach, the goosebumps that prickle down your arms?

Your grip tightens around the handle of your bat and you press gingerly against the door – just like the guardhouse gate, it gives under your touch, swinging open wide. It’s dark inside; you hadn’t thought to bring a torch and with the absence of any windows lining the corridor it’s near pitch black. Your heart hammers inside your chest, every cell in your body screaming at you to turn around and run back to Tooru, but you’ve come this far already.

The undead flock to fresh, living meat. It’s been months since the outbreak began; anyone unfortunate enough to have found themselves trapped inside when it happened is probably long dead, and any of the undead likely long gone.

It’s just a little darkness.

Steeling your nerves you creep through the black, clutching tightly at your bat, toeing your way down the corridor waiting for your eyes to adjust to the dim. Every breath you draw in feels too loud, every step too obnoxious. Deserted or not, the sooner you can find the med-bay, get what you need for Oikawa and get out, the better.

The layout’s simple enough – five looming multi-storied wings breaking off like fingers from the central watch-tower, but you don’t have a clue which one holds what you’re seeking. Your only option is to search them one by one and hope for the best.

You’d expected steel bars and heavy locks, but the prison reminds you strangely of a school instead; long hallways lined with doors, each with a tiny window to peek through. They’re all open now of course, whatever locking mechanism keeping them shut having failed when the generators ran out. The first few are empty, barren and stripped of everything but soiled mattresses – it should be a relief.

There’s nothing waiting for you in the darkness but empty halls and emptier rooms. If the others were here, they’d be teasing you for sure. Or Makki and Mattsun would, at least. You always were such a scared little baby – their scared little baby – you’d jump at your own shadow if you didn’t have them around.

And it’s easier to keep going imagining them there by your side, the jokes they’d crack, the warmth of Iwa’s hand in yours, or Makki’s arm slung over your shoulder. You’d feel safe with them. You wouldn’t need to feel afraid.

But no amount of pretend comfort is enough to allay the heavy sense of dread that’s sitting in your stomach, growing harder and harder to ignore with every passing minute. And the problem, you realise, with the prison being so deadly quiet is that every noise, no matter how quiet, echoes.

Climbing the stairs in the dark, you don’t notice the slickness on the walls either side of you, the red handprints smeared messily over white paint. You don’t see the broken, bloody fingernails littering the steps beneath you.

You hear it though, when you reach the landing. It’s soft. A quiet, wet squelching, ripping–

There’s no screams accompanying it like there were back when the sanctuary was overrun, but it’s not a sound you’re gonna be able to forget any time soon. In the dark you freeze, not daring to so much as breathe as you peer down the endless corridor, trying to pinpoint which of the cells it’s coming from.

In the end, you decide that it doesn’t matter.

They’re quicker when they’ve fed, stronger too, and there’s not a chance in hell that you’re going to be able to fumble past in the dark without drawing that thing’s attention. The wooden bat in your hands feels heavy, your palms already slick with sweat. You weren’t quick enough back at the sanctuary; without Tooru, that thing would’ve eaten you. And suddenly it seems laughable that you came out here, that you genuinely thought you could handle this – fight one of them off if it came down to it.

Tooru needs those meds, you know that, and you might be useless and weak and absolutely paralysed with fear, but you’re not stupid. You can’t help him at all if you’re torn apart by one of those creatures.

Your pulse racing, a potent mix of adrenaline and sheer, unrelenting terror coursing through your veins, you draw in a quiet breath, slowly lifting your foot to back away. It hasn’t heard you yet, and so long as it’s distracted–

“Oi, hurry up! I know what I saw, she came in this way.”

“Jesus, just shut up for a sec, wouldja! Ya don’t need to keep yellin’ at me, I’m comin’!”

Through the grate at your feet, you see two beams of light break through the darkness, the sound of loud, heavy footsteps echoing down the wing. Icy claws tighten like a vice around your heart and you still once more, squeezing your eyes shut as you listen, praying…

The squelching’s stopped.

Grip tight around the handle of your bat, your entire body quaking with fear, you watch with wide, stricken eyes as one of the doors halfway down the block slowly creaks outwards.

For a heartbeat, there’s nothing, and you try and convince yourself it’s just the wind, that you’re imagining things and your mind is playing mean tricks on you–

A feral snarl rips through the air, and before you can so much as scream it’s crashing through the open doorway, head swivelling as it searches for the source of the disturbance. In the dark you can’t make out much, only that it’s huge, half its flesh torn and decaying, smeared with blood and filth – but you see it when those white, cloudy eyes fix on you, its rotting mouth bared and salivating.

And this time you do scream. You scream for Oikawa, for Iwa, for Makki and Mattsun and the faceless strangers on the floor below as you cast your bat aside and run. You don’t dare look over your shoulder as you take the stairs two, three at a time, slipping and slamming into the stairwell wall, a sharp burst of pain radiating down your shoulder – you can hear it giving chase, the rabid growls and snarls too close for comfort.

Tears flood your eyes, your chest heaving with every desperate breath as your feet hit solid ground once more and you take off.

“Please!” you sob as you run, blinded by the brightness of the torch beam as it’s shone in your direction. “PLEASE HELP ME!”

You can’t outrun it forever. Even now, you hear it gaining on you, its hot, foul breath puffing against your back – it’s just like back at the sanctuary. It’s gonna catch you, rip into you and feast while you choke to death on your own blood and screams, and this time you won’t have Oikawa here to save you. You’re going to die in agony, torn apart and devoured, and it’s all your own stupid fault.

Your throat tightens, more tears springing free. You can’t see anything beyond those two blinding lights, moving now, dancing across the field of your vision. “PLEASE!” you shriek, desperate and hoarse as the undead creature behind you readies itself to pounce.

Please don’t leave me here to die.

And for one heart wrenching second, you think back to your boys, and the words they’d said before kissing you goodbye. Everybody else first. Maybe this is some kind of divine retribution, you think. Maybe when the world went to hell people became cold and selfish and you deserve this for sitting back and letting others die in your place.

“Get down!” the voice yells, and you don’t even stop to think before you drop, sliding across the floor. There’s another blinding flash, a shot fired into the dark and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and hug your knees to your chest as the creature snarls in anger and jerks backwards, a gruesome spurt of blood spraying over you.

“Ya fucking missed! How could ya fucking miss?!”

The gun cocks and reloads, another deafening shot ringing out above you and you flinch, your nails biting into the soft skin of your palm–

But this time the bullet hits its mark. The creature crashes to the floor with a loud thump and doesn’t move again.

You don’t waste a second scrambling to your feet, launching yourself into the arms of your saviour. You don’t care that you’re crying, that you’re covered in blood and filth and god knows what else, you cling to him like he’s a lifeline, sobbing into his shoulder. And instead of pushing you away like he probably should, he lets out a short huff that sounds almost like a laugh, his arm curling around your waist.

“I’m the one who shot the damn thing,” the other mutters sourly.

The man holding you snorts, “Nah, yer the idiot who missed.” Belatedly, you realise that he’s still gripping his gun, the brightness you’d assumed to have come from a torch actually from a light mounted to the barrel. He slings the rifle carelessly over his shoulder, drawing back slightly to appraise you. “Now, wanna tell me what a sweet thing like you’s doin’ all alone in a place like this?”

With your eyes now adjusting to the light, you can see that the two of them can’t be much older than you. They’re both tall, broad shouldered and handsome, the same jawline, the same slope to their nose, nearly identical hooded eyes – brothers you decide, maybe even twins. And they’re both smirking at you, not with the relief of just barely escaping a brush with a particularly gruesome death, but with an odd sort of lackadaisical amusement, as if this – skulking through dark, abandoned places, killing the undead – is nothing out of the ordinary for them.

And from the ease with which they carry their weapons, maybe it isn’t.

Oikawa warned you about men like them. Men in general, really. Even the ones who smiled at you back at the sanctuary, the ones who offered to help you move heavy supplies when they saw you struggling – at least, until Iwa or one of the others stepped in with a poisonous glare. Anyone who wasn’t them was dangerous, a threat, just waiting in the wings to take advantage of a pretty, dumb little thing like you.

And maybe he’s right, but when the one holding you instead drags you closer, wraps an arm around your shoulders and begins to lead you back towards the guard tower as his brother falls into step on your other side, you don’t shrug him off.

Oikawa isn’t here, and they have just saved your life. That has to count for something, right?

“I-I thought it’d be safe,” you confess breathlessly, trying not to focus on the thumb sweeping over the curve of your shoulder. “Well, empty at least. I didn’t have a choice.” And they listen, sharing glances in the dark as you tell them about what’d happened at the sanctuary, about Oikawa and the desperation that’d led you to leave him and walk miles alone to try and find some kind of medicine–

Until a snicker interrupts you. “Sorry,” the blonde mutters, though he doesn’t look all that sincere when your eyes flash to his. “It’s just…”

“Anythin’ worth taking woulda been snatched up months ago,” the darker haired one interjects.

“There ain’t nothin’ here but the occasional idiot tryna set up camp an’… Well, ya saw how well that turned out.”

It hits you like a gut punch, forcing the air from your lungs in a harsh, gasping breath. There was never anything here, everything… all of it was a waste. You came all this way, left him feverish and screaming himself hoarse for you, risked your life, almost died and–

It was all for nothing.

Fresh tears sting at your eyes, they’re still talking but it’s just white noise washing over you. You don’t even realise they’re leading you back outside until you’re walking through the doors, the sudden burst of sunlight making you flinch. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore.

You’re an idiot.

A naive, dumb little girl who was stupid enough to think this half cocked plan was gonna work. That you would make it back to Tooru in one piece, medicine in hand to save the day and prove you weren’t the helpless damsel they’d pegged you for.

You’ve wasted so much time, for nothing.

There’s no drugs, no food, nothing that’s gonna help either one of you make it through the next few days and suddenly you’re drowning under a wave of hopelessness and bitter disappointment. You fall to your knees in the dirt, taking both your saviours by surprise, and let out a painful, heart wrenching sob. And once you start, you can’t seem to stop. It’s overwhelming, every emotion you’ve bottled up and shoved aside over the last two days suddenly forced into the light. You cry for yourself, for Tooru – for Iwa and Makki and Mattsun. You cry until it feels like you can’t breathe anymore, and then there’s rough calloused fingers brushing your tears away.

You look up through wet lashes to find the dark-haired man crouching before you, his expression sober. “Ya don’t need to cry, sweetheart, we’re not monsters y’know.”

His brother chuckles behind you, “We’re not about to leave some pretty little thing all alone out here to starve to death.” His hand’s resting atop your head now, smoothing down the hair at your crown. It’s soft and soothing, and you’re so attuned to seeking comfort that you can’t help but lean into it, eyes momentarily fluttering shut. “We’ve got some friends nearby, a nice little hideaway stocked full of all kinds of shit. Everything ya could possibly need.”

“Y-you mean it?” you ask, wide eyes flickering to the dark haired one, who smiles at last. “You’ll share them with me?”

“‘Course we do. Meds, food, weapons. Whatever ya want, it’s yours.”

You take the hand he offers to help you stand, your limbs trembling once more – but this time it’s not from fear or exhaustion, but the overwhelming rush of sheer relief. You could kiss him, kiss them both, but you don’t.

Instead you settle for throwing your arms around them once more, breathless thanks falling from your lips faster than they can catch as you hug them tight. They don’t seem to mind though, sharing almost identical smirks as the three of you head out to an old, beat up camaro parked out by the entrance to the prison. While the blonde slides in the driver’s seat and his brother takes the passenger’s side, you climb up into the back seat.

“Is it far?” you ask as he kicks the car into gear and peels out onto the deserted road. Hopefully it’s not, the sooner you can get back to help Tooru the better.

“Nah, not too far. We’ll be home before ya know it.”

Of course, they’re driving you to their friends, but they haven’t promised anything about driving you back to the cottage and Oikawa–

Which is perfectly fine! You’re not going to push your luck, they’re already doing plenty for you. More than they really have to. You don’t even need that much – just some medicine for Tooru and enough food for the two of you to get through the next few days, and you’ll be fine. Whatever you can carry, which, admittedly isn’t much. There’s still a few hours of daylight left, if you’re lucky you’ll be able to make it back to him before nightfall.

Things are gonna be fine. You’ll bring the medicine and once he’s better, the two you can head out to find the others. Everything’s gonna be okay. You’ll be better when you’re all back together, the way things were meant to be.

You need them, if anything this little venture’s proven that much at least.

They’d promised that it wasn’t far, and maybe it’s just the exhaustion of the last few days creeping in, or the gentle hum of the engine as the car drives along the long, narrow stretch of road, but your eyelids start to droop, your breath evening out as sleep beckons.

And you’re just dancing on the edge of consciousness when a hushed voice breaks through the comfortable silence, dark eyes flickering up to watch your slumbering form in the rearview mirror. “Ya think Kita’ll be pissed?”

There’s a snort, “Nah. He’s always had a soft spot for strays, ‘specially the pretty ones.” He’s quiet for a moment, almost contemplative before he opens his mouth to add, “‘Sides, we’re gonna take real good care of her, ain’t we, Samu?”

The only reply he gives is a soft grunt of acknowledgement.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa x reader #yandere atsumu x reader #yandere osamu x reader #yandere iwaizumi x reader #yandere matsukawa x reader #yandere hanamaki x reader #tw blood #tw gore #angst #toxic relationships #i honestly do not know how to tag this #at this point it's practically sfw #if you ignore all the blood and injuries and zombie stuff

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graceverse · 3 years ago

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31 Days of Jonsa 2021

Day 7: Meeting on Vacation

Everyone gaped at the utter destruction displayed in front of them. Whoever the fuck was in charge with organizing their annual vacation was about to be eviscerated.

“It’s Theon, right?” Arya muttered, “please tell me all of these,” she gestured around her, “is Theon’s fault.”

It wasn’t. Technically. Yes, he booked everything, but not because he had stellar organizing skills. Months ago, he’d stupidly opened his mouth, casually commenting that arranging a summer vacation was all easy-peasy.

“Can do it eyes closed,” were his exact words. This of course annoyed Sansa, who usually did all the planning. After much trash talking, the task was handed down to him.

“Make it fucking memorable, Greyjoy.”

He actually did good. They’ve never travelled outside of Seven Kingdom before, but he’d managed to get huge discounts for tickets and accommodations.

What he didn’t know was that it was the season for hurricanes – they call it typhoon here – which explained the discounted everything. A severe typhoon made its landfall the day before their arrival and the promised paradise, sparkling blue-green water, pristine white fine sand, was now a churning brown-gray ocean. The shore was littered with shredded seaweeds, toppled down trees; debris everywhere, their seaside bungalow, without a roof.

“Should’ve definitely checked the weather app,” Sansa offered with the wisdom of an experienced holidaymaker.

The vacation could have been salvaged; they managed to find a hotel that was still standing, with serviceable water, electricity and enough space for them. However, incredibly there were four more typhoons heading their way. In fact, based on the newscast they were watching, horrified expressions on their faces, there were hundreds of massive typhoons sprouting all over the entire planet.

It’s the end of the world and they were stuck in an old hotel, with nowhere else to go.

“This fucking memorable enough, San?” Theon asked, earning him murderous glares. “Time to call your connections, Stark.” He added when the news channel abruptly went off air.

“Convenient he just happened to here, on the very same island.” Arya commented, glaring at the dark-haired man throwing out their luggage on the sand (“Can’t carry all that shit,” his only explanation).

Robb cleared his throat guiltily, looking away. Arya turned to Sansa, who was very blatantly engaging in eye sex as the man finally introduced himself.

“Jon Snow.”

“Sansa Stark.”

“Yes, I know.”

Arya sharply elbowed her brother.

“He’s the best pilot of the Brotherhood.” Robb confirmed. “I trained with him.”

“Better than you?” Arya asked in disbelief.

“Yes.” Robb grudgingly admitted. “Hey, stop looking at my sister that way.”

“He can fly us back to Winterfell on that thing?”

“It’s called Ghost.”

“I bet he can,” Sansa intoned in that voice she uses when she’s trying to sound sexy. Arya shuddered.

“Aye.” Snow offered his hand, boldly winking. “You wanna sit with me at the cockpit, Sansa?”

Sansa reddened, giggled, bit her lips and let Snow take her hand, leading her away.

Oh, seven fucking hells, Arya thought rolling her eyes.

#jonsa #jonsa fanfiction #jonsa fanfic #jon x sansa #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #31 days of jonsa 2021 #drabbles #day 7

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tenthgrove · 3 years ago

Note

yess thank you for letting me ask you about the lore >:3c so I have to get my absolute favorites outta the way first— what kinda lore and thoughts do you have for sorbet or gelato ( <- before they get together and the earlier years of them getting together if you need a specific period ) I have to also ask are you ok if I go down the “line” and get your thoughts in other asks about the rest of the la squadra babes? Thank you sm 💖💖 I hope you’re having a wonderf day/evening

Ah! Now this is one of my absolute favourites! Apologies to anyone who has already heard me ramble about my Sorbet and Gelato backstory ad nauseam on multiple occasions, but this is really an area where I can't help myself. Besides, this is my opportunity to go more in depth where I haven't before:

(Note after writing this: It's stupidly long. I'm sorry I just can't help myself with these backstories. I couldn't decide what to leave out so I decided nothing.)

(Also please feel free to ask me more lore questions because I love doing this)

We'll begin with Sorbet, born in Naples in February 1967 if you follow the canon timeline (although by default I write in modern AU so move the dates 20 years later). His situation at birth was absolutely dire, the eldest child of an incredibly vulnerable woman and one of her clients as a sex worker. Sorbet's mother was by all means a decent woman but her severe mental illness and drug addiction made it impossible for her to be a good mother, which of course had a bad effect on Sorbet growing up. After Sorbet, she had 5 more children, all through clients, and Sorbet was saddled with much of their care.

Though he loved his siblings, Sorbet was pretty much done with this life by age 12 and was easily swept up by older boys from the local street gang, who paid him well to peddle drugs when he should have been in school. This was a very underfunded neighbourhood so nobody questioned his truancy, and within the next couple of years he had stopped going to school entirely. Shortly after this, having acquired sufficient money through his crime involvement, Sorbet left his family to stay with his new friends, moving between them on a regular basis. He also discovered his sexuality around this time and dated a few male friends, though none of these relationships got very far.

By age 16, Sorbet had earned a reputation in the street gang for skilled and passionate violence, and was selected by the ringleader to commit the group's first planned murder, in exchange of course for a lucrative reward. Sorbet accepted, succeeded, and became the group's de-facto assassin whenever needed. He continued to hoard considerable money for the remainder of his adolescence, though continued to be functionally homeless since he didn't see it necessary when sofa-surfing was suiting him fine.

Before resuming with Sorbet, let's explain the life that Gelato came from. Gelato was born in October 1967 in St. Petersburg, Russia, (Note- I previously used the city of Minsk, unaware that this is in fact, in Belarus) to an upper-middle class businessman and his Italian wife, a distant relative of French Monarchy. Gelato's relationship with his parents was rocky from the start due to the fact they would have preferred a girl after three successive sons, but any parental love they had for their youngest child broke down entirely after he was diagnosed with both Autism and ADHD at age 5, in an evaluation intending to find the cause of some behavioural issues that were really, just a response to emotional neglect.

When Gelato was 13 he, his parents, and two of his three brothers (the eldest was already an adult by this time and elected to stay behind) moved to Italy to escape some allegations of corruption in the father's business. They moved to a rural village in North-West Italy where the community was very middle-class and quite stifling for Gelato, who had enough social rules to remember in the familiar, economically-diverse city he grew up in. His behavioural issues got worse and began to include things he would later regret, such as attacking and stealing from younger children, and things he would absolutely not, like attacking and stealing from teachers. By this point the family had largely written him off as a failure, revering instead their academically successful, well-behaved older children, which absolutely contributed to the spiralling cycle of behaviour issues Gelato faced.

Then, at age 17, Gelato failed a crucial exam and was expelled from high-school. His parents kicked him out on the spot, and with no other family in Italy Gelato had very few options on what to do next. He recalled, however, one older friend having links to a street gang in Naples, and decided to see if this boy might have a route out of destitution for him. Indeed, the friend did know of a man in Naples needing assistance within the gang, but could offer no help in getting Gelato there. Seeing no other way, Gelato walked the whole journey.

Arriving in Naples, the friend's associate announced that the position Gelato was after had been taken, but taking pity on his distress, informed him of another friend who needed someone to look after an unlicensed bar that served as one of the group's main meeting points. He agreed to arrange for the small apartment above the bar to be given as payment.

Gelato accepted, but although he had now solved the problem of homelessness his life was still incredibly miserable. For one, with his pay being the apartment he had to rely on measly tips to get by, which rarely left him with enough to eat let alone anything else. Additionally, as an outsider with little understanding of the way gangs work Gelato was an easy target for abuse, and was treated like absolute shit by the bar's patrons.

By this point in time, Sorbet had just turned 18. He was, incidentally, in the same gang Gelato had joined, and a regular at the bar he worked in. For a good couple of months they took no notice of each other, until Sorbet came to be in a coincidental feud with one of the men who was violent to Gelato at the bar. When Gelato witnessed the two of them in a fight, he made the spur-of-the-moment decision to join in on Sorbet's side, knocking the patron unconscious and leaving him too afraid to visit again. For his trouble, Sorbet gave Gelato a portion of the money he looted from the fight's loser, and flirted with him lightly before going about with his evening. Unknown to Sorbet, he had just sent Gelato falling head over hills in love.

Gelato found out about Sorbet's sexuality from other patrons and, delighted, attempted to flirt with him the next time they saw each other, but his attempts came off very poorly and Sorbet actually thought he was being insulted. Angered, he dragged Gelato into the cellar to demand what was going on. Gelato, terrified, admitted having a crush, which Sorbet found to be the sweetest and most genuine thing he'd ever heard. While he couldn't promise a relationship, he did agree to show Gelato more attention in the future. But, it was only a matter of days until Sorbet found himself loving Gelato back.

This whirlwind relationship continued happily for three weeks, Sorbet greatly improving Gelato's situation through his saved money and helping him fend off the abusive patrons. Gelato, in turn, offered Sorbet a permanent place to stay in the apartment, which he accepted. Sorbet was in the process of moving his things, and they had plans to refurbish the place to make it actually habitable.

But then, everything came crashing down. One night the bar was subject to a surprise raid by the police, operating by the false assumption it was empty. Sorbet and Gelato attempted to flee but were caught, and in a panic, Gelato shot a policeman dead. Rushing to his defence Sorbet killed two more, but a fourth escaped to tell the tale. The couple knew they were screwed. Running to the headquarters of their gang they begged for protection but were informed the small group simply could not save them from a charge this serious, and gave them only a single night of shelter to plan their next move. Gelato, who remember had never committed anything more serious than minor ABH before, had an absolute breakdown over this predicament that night, and whilst comforting him, Sorbet devised a blood pact with him to stick together no matter what came.

Over the next few days, Sorbet and Gelato fled north, avoiding the police through Sorbet's skills as a criminal and Gelato's very convincing Russian tourist impression. They were almost at the French border when Sorbet awoke one night to find Gelato missing behind him. He chased his tracks to the driveway of a rural house, a tearful Gelato clutching a knife at the shut door and trembling. He informed Sorbet that he had intentionally led him to the village where his family lived, with the intention to break in and kill them as revenge for the years of abuse. Sorbet warned Gelato that this would not be good for their attempts to flee, but said he understood fully and would help him if this is truly what he wanted. Gelato agreed, and together they broke into the house and slaughtered Gelato's mother and father, additionally killing one of his brothers after he woke from the noise. The other brother, the youngest other than Gelato, was spared, as Gelato felt his role in the abuse had been comparatively more minor and he did not deserve to die. This of course, left another witness.

The massacre in the village was quickly linked to the one at the bar and Gelato was promptly identified from a comparison of DNA found at the scene to his surviving brother's. Sorbet, a known criminal, was identified soon after. Not only were the pair now known but the police figured out what their plan was and informed the French police as well, making things exponentially harder for the couple.

They made do for a while by hanging low and keeping on the move, living off money stolen from the parents' house. Eventually however, they needed more, and began making deals with local crime organisations to carry out assassinations in exchange for money or temporary shelter. While Sorbet was already a pro at this, Gelato found himself a fast learner, and soon realised he shared Sorbet's adoration for the act of killing. He felt as though he was finally coming to meet his true self.

Though the assassination deals were lucrative, they did not help the couple keep a low profile and the attacks from police were relentless. Several times, they barely escaped capture. All this was not good on their mental states, and after two years, Sorbet knew it needed to end. He and Gelato returned to Naples in the hope their old gang might reconsider protecting them, but they were met with a surprise as their old gang had been completely overtaken by Passione. Even still, the new mobsters had heard a lot about Sorbet and Gelato's exploits and agreed to get them an audience with a local Capo, Pericolo, who was impressed by the men's skills and moved by the sense of honour suggested by their love for each other. He agreed to initiate them into the gang.

Soon after this, Sorbet and Gelato recieved stands which, although not very powerful, assisted them greatly in the art of assassination. Soon, they were natural choices for Passione whenever a hit needed carrying out in the Naples area. At some point a few years in, they befriended a man named Prosciutto who had been recently forced into Passione due to his heritage. Prosciutto was also funnelled into assassination jobs and, with less of a reputation for impulsivity than Sorbet and Gelato, was the one given the order to form a new assassination squad when the need arose, around 1993 if we're following canon.

(Note, I hc La Squadra was created by Passione in response to a real life government crackdown on the Italian mafia around 1992-93, in response to an incredibly scandalous series of assassinations. In such a climate, it would make sense for Passione to want to consolidate an elite squad of its best hitmen, do avoid future problems.)

Due to personal commitments Prosciutto did not want to be the captain, so attempted to give this responsibility to Sorbet, a request the boss promptly denied. Prosciutto was, however, allowed to add Sorbet and Gelato to the team's ranks, cementing the three of them as the first members of the team.

Prosciutto would, soon enough, find another person to give the title of captain to, but that's a story for another time.

#small asks #haha small #btw if you've already read my backstory for them this doesn't really add much except add a few new bits of trivia #la squadra #la squadra x reader

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mc-lukanette · 4 years ago

Text

The rock star life wasn't what Luka thought it'd be, though he supposed he could attribute it to his father constantly talking it up and raising his standards so high that nothing could've competed with them. It wasn't that he hated going on tours or playing for crowds, but there was definitely something wrong that he couldn't put into words.

Juleka at least seemed sympathetic to his concerns once he'd gotten back from his recent tour, and he chuckled when she threw him some money to solve the problem, insisting that he eat his sorrows away for now and worry about details later. They'd both planned to visit their mother to celebrate his return, so it was only appropriate that he be in higher spirits for it.

Rose was happy to give him the address of what was - according to her - "the best bakery in Paris," with Juleka non-subtly implying that the money she'd given wasn't only for him. Thoroughly amused, he complied, leaving to follow the directions to said bakery with his phone.

He felt lucky to have not run into any fans on the way there, hoping that the same would go for the way back. The last thing he wanted was to have his boxes of baked goods accidentally knocked over and ruined.

As he saw the bakery in the distance, he was surprised when he noticed that it had been right next to his and Juleka's old school. He distinctly remembered there being a bakery, but the name Rose had given him hadn't rung any bells. He checked his phone out of curiosity and confirmed that the name had been changed since his sister had been in the school, replacing the "Tom & Sabine" with "Dupain-Cheng."

With that mystery solved, he headed for the front door and opened it up, smiling at the chime of the bell that announced his entrance. There weren't any other customers around, leaving the lone worker to look over and notice him: a woman, probably around Juleka's age, dressed a little nicer than he'd expect and seeming to be in the middle of making something.

At the sight of him, she gasped and covered her mouth. "Y-you're—Luka Couffaine?!"

He flinched, expecting a fangirl moment, but instead, the girl blushed in embarrassment and ran away from him. She went over to a nearby towel, cleaning her hands of flour, then put the towel back and checked over her clothes.

"Sorry," she whined, glancing up at her hair and fussing over it. "I wasn't expecting any customers for a while."

She took a breath, then strutted over to the counter with the fake demeanor of a businesswoman. Placing her hands delicately on the counter's surface, she flashed him a shy smile, blushing as she asked, "Um... how may I help you?"

Oh, she was cute. That was Luka's entire train of thought, and he hadn't been able to catch it before his mind had already put it forth for him to both acknowledge and agree with.

"Ah—" He cleared his throat, only now realizing that he'd never asked Juleka what she wanted to eat.

"Do you need a drink?" the woman questioned, looking at him worriedly.

"Oh, no. Thank you though," he replied with a dismissive wave. "That was—I need to ask my sister what she wants."

"No problem!" She giggled. "It's not like you're holding up the line."

Really cute.

He tossed her a smile, then fished out his phone and quickly texted Juleka, asking her what he should be ordering. He knew he could've called her, but he preferred having something written to hand off instead of having to be the middle man between the Juleka on the phone and the woman in front of him.

Setting his phone down on the counter, where he'd see it once Juleka texted him back, he then turned his gaze back up. "So, you know me?"

"Yeah, I do. I'm actually a huge fan, and I have all of your albums," she replied. "Buuuuut, I've dealt with a lot of... over-enthusiastic people in my life, so I know what it's like. I'd hate to make you uncomfortable." A beat of silence passed, and she playfully added, "Plus, I'm on the clock."

He chuckled, half-wondering if she was actually different outside of work. "And... is this place yours? I saw that the name changed."

"Sort of." She shrugged. "It's a family business. My papa is Tom Dupain, my maman is Sabine Cheng, and I'm Marinette Dupain-Cheng."

He was glad she'd told him her name, thankful that he didn't have to non-subtly try to ask for her name now. Marinette.

She continued, "My parents went away on vacation, so I'm in charge." Puffing out her chest with pride, she assured, "I'm proving that I can handle everything myself."

Luka broke out into a huge grin, thoroughly charmed. "I'm sure you can. You definitely have the energy for it."

He tried to hide his amusement at seeing her try not to blush and turn shy from the compliment. She clearly wore her heart on her sleeve and couldn't hide anything if her life depended on it.

He'd never heard a song like hers before.

"S-so!" she deflected in a way she probably thought was skillful. "If you don't mind me asking, how was your tour?"

"Mm?" He was briefly caught off-guard, not expecting to have to talk about himself, though he supposed he should've, given that she was apparently a fan of his. "Oh, it was fine."

She tilted her head, suddenly concerned. "It was only fine?"

Oops. Luka hoped it didn't show on his face that he knew he'd slipped up. He didn't doubt - based on the small amount of time he'd known her - that Marinette would've listened to his worries, but he didn't want her to fret over his career when she was a fan of his.

Thinking quickly, he replied, "Well, I'm just glad to be back home. My family's here."

She nodded in understanding, not seeming to fully believe him - perceptive little thing - but accepting anyway. "That makes sense. I'd never be able to leave my parents for that long. I'd miss them too much!"

He chuckled. She seemed like the kind of person to overthink about people like that. "Yeah. My sister practically threw me onto the plane for my first tour." He grinned. "We still shared a room back then and I think she was desperate for privacy with her girlfriend."

Marinette covered her mouth, trying to hide a sweet giggle that he discreetly stored away in his memory.

"Still," she began, her gaze softening along with her voice. Luka detected a distinct change in atmosphere as she continued, "I don't think it's good if you miss them too much on tour. I think your fans would understand if you kept your them shorter." She smiled reassuringly. "I know I would, so please don't overdo it."

He blinked, staring at her with surprise. It was almost funny to him how he'd hoped not to run into any fans on the way there, yet here he was now, glad to have this particular fan to talk to.

She was sweet. She was cute. She seemed to genuinely care about him, and he was—

His phone chimed with a familiar tone, and Luka figured that it might've been for the best that he wasn't able to finish that thought, already hearing his dad's rambles about fans and attachment and keeping them at a stage's distance.

He picked up his phone, offering Marinette a quick "thank you" for her kind words before opening up his conversation with Juleka.

He blanked at the message she sent.

Hey, here's the list (by the way, say "hi" to the baker while you're there; not suggesting anything but she's cute and totally your type since you're both really lame):

Luka had too many questions all at once. Had his sister sent him there just to try and get him a date? Would she have sent him to the Dupain-Cheng bakery otherwise? Was Rose in on it too?

Did he really have a type?

Luka glanced briefly up at Marinette, who seemed wholly oblivious to his internal conflict. Trying not to just stand there stupidly, he copied the list Juleka sent and put it into a memo app on his phone, not wanting to risk Marinette seeing the rest of the message.

He took a quick look around the display cases and added something for himself to the list, then set his phone back on the counter and slid it over to Marinette. She leaned over, taking a look at the list, then gave him an acknowledging smile and went off to fill the order.

He waited to make sure that she had everything on the list memorized, then picked his phone back up and navigated to the camera app, now all too aware of what Juleka's smug reaction would be when he got back with the absolute dumbest look on his face.

"Luka?" Marinette called after an indistinguishable amount of time. He met her gaze and she added hurriedly, "I-I hope I wasn't interrupting anything, but here's your order."

She slid the boxes across the counter, having put them in a bag for easy carrying. He placed her payment on the counter and smiled at her, assuring, "You didn't interrupt anything. Thank you."

He didn't notice how warm his voice had sounded until after the words were already out, and by then it was already too late to change it. Slipping his hand through the bag's handles, he lifted it up and kept his phone held in his other hand.

"Oh!" Marinette gasped. "Let me get the door for you!"

"You don't have to—"

"It's okay! Your hands are full!"

He wouldn't define them as "full," but she was already rushing to make to the door before he did. He didn't miss how she opened it like a boyfriend would for their girlfriend, even adding a bow just for flair.

The bell chiming seemed to be emphasizing her voice rather than his exit.

"Please come again!" she recited like it was something she told everyone. She paused, then blushed and stood straight, any professionalism gone as she stammered, "I-I'm sorry, is that weird to say since I'm your fan? I didn't mean to, but—well, do come back, but only if you want! So—"

"I do," he cut in, much to her apparent surprise. He maintained eye contact on the way out, adding fondly, "See you later, Marinette?"

"A-ah... see you!"

He immediately had to look away to prevent her from seeing the way he grinned at the squeak in her voice. He heard the bakery door close behind him and held his phone back up to his face. Glad that there weren't many people in the immediate area, he spent probably five minutes trying to make faces at his camera.

Eventually, he had to give up hope that Juleka wouldn't tease him, because the smile wouldn't leave his face no matter how hard he tried.

That didn't mean he wasn't going to visit the bakery tomorrow though, of course.

#lukaneventte: No Context November #Flower Arrangement Shipping #Pro LukaMari #Lukanette

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leviiattacks · 4 years ago

Text

Two Faced | Chapter Eight

↳ levi ackerman, the very person who was about to kindly behead you by a surprising turn of events manages to become your loving husband? you would be elated if this was true love, but it’s all thanks to a mysterious magic spell that your life is spared, for now at least.

pairing :: duke!levi x duchess!reader genre :: royal au ??? (at this point idek) angst, fluff, slice of life etc ?? word count :: 4.8k author note :: i’ve been very ill so yeah, not the best writing but i really can’t go that long without wanting to write so i ended up writing an update, i hope you enjoy it, it’s longer than usual :D sorry for any mistakes it hasn’t been proof read at all :-( → next part coming soon!!

“Hey, newbie you haven't spoke about your home town much have ya?"

You lift your head, verifying Reiner's suspicions with a nod. You recall he's the same distasteful blonde brute who made those snide remarks about Hange. He must be at least a towering six foot if his shadow is able to cover the majority of the Sun's rays from hitting you.

You would maybe bother to give him and his inquiry more attention than you currently are if he hadn't been so unnecessarily impolite during the morning speeches.

Calves yelping in stinging pain from the first tastes of the full time training regime you simply cannot find the effort to strain your mind with small talk.

Temples throbbing it feels as if a sword has been forced through the side of your head, but that's not it at all. Reiner has thrown a small rock at you and you hear him chuckle under his breath.

Twisting your position so you face him you glare in displeasure.

Although you don't particularly enjoy the idea of joining Levi's unit and having to become a concealed agent of sorts you can't really take your pickings at how it is you wish to survive. You're going to have to deal with it and you've come to the stage of acceptance now.

However, you are not willing to respect the attitude some of these cadets are giving you, it's clear there's already a strong hierarchy in place.

Reiner just so happens to be one of the big guns from what you've been able to observe. He possess strong upper body strength and his hand to hand combat isn't a laughing matter either. That means he's higher up in the ladder of cadets, that's for sure. To top it all off you know you're not as powerful as other members in the team in terms of skill and he's probably silently making a mockery of you for it.

Pursing your lips you decide to play this game cautiously, asking him what it is he needs from you isn't the best option. You're aware he's after something, it's written all over his face. You practically know every deceptive look in the book off by heart. You suppose it's the only perk you got out of living in a noble household for most of your life.

"Why do you care?" You bluntly question him.

"Ohh, you're feisty. Might not want to butt heads with Annie."

"Not sure who that is but I don't plan on it."

Turning away from him it look like you're distracting yourself by collecting pieces of firewood. Trailing around you act as uncaring as possible to annoy him. You need to gauge this man's reaction somehow.

Your plan seems to be working in your favour because you're able to see his footing shift from his natural stance, it looks as if he's about to risk charging at you due to your vulnerable position but you rotate again offering him a knowing smile.

You don't tell him you're conscious of his suspicious nature but if he's quick witted enough he'll be able to figure out you aren't a threat and apparently don't have a clue what it is he's up to. The only reason he'd even consider attacking you would be if he saw you as an issue. For now your act should at least keep him at bay.

"Fine. I'll tell you about my hometown, I'm just..." You pause to make yourself look believable and proceed to look up at him through your lashes, you dart your gaze away and awkwardly scratch the back of your neck exuding coyness.

"I'm incredibly homesick. I miss mother. I always made supper for her, now I can only pray she's not eating burnt chicken." Your act has to be working because his eyes soften and he takes half of the firewood in your arms offering to help you carry it.

"My mum's a great cook, can't relate squirt."

"Who you calling squirt?" You playfully snap back.

"I call everybody that, even Captain Levi... Well, when he isn't around to hear it."

You bite the inside of your cheek at the mention of the Levi's name.

“So you and the Captain? What’s that all about?” His question makes no sense at all, one minute he wants to prod and poke in your personal home life yet the next minute he's asking questions about Levi. The doubts you have surrounding him only thicken.

You take a moment to consider his question,

“Whatever do you mean?” Clueless, you're delivery is excellent. Acting naive is easy enough, everyone within the corps has already decided that's what your automatic disposition is.

Reiner gives you a skeptical look then smiles faintly, “Glaring daggers at Jean after he got handsy with you?”

You cover your mouth with your free hand and laugh so hard the firewood nearly flies out of your grasp.

“Me and Jean are friends, and Levi? He just wanted to find a reason to get mad at us probably.” You hope the explanation suffices because you truly have no idea why Levi had done what he did.

Reiner hums in approval at your answer but he then grins.

“You on first name basis with the Captain?”

Fuck, you called him Levi.

Play it cool.

“Huh? When have I ever said his first name?” Clueless. Your delivery is still perfect.

“Just now.” He fires back, Reiner doesn't seem to be letting up but he doesn't know how smooth of a liar you are.

Living with your father for all those years conditioned you in ways you hadn't even noticed until quite recently.

“Did I? Pardon, I didn’t mean for it to slip out. Sometimes I silently curse him out in my head and forget to add his title.”

Your acting is impeccable, Reiner has no reason to doubt you. As you expect he doesn't instead he shifts the conversation to his hometown, just like you he doesn't explicitly mention a name. Reiner is sharp but he hasn't noticed the way you've left a name out just like him. He's terrible at catching out his own kind.

You decide at that moment that Reiner Braun is a liar. The accusation is more of a hunch meaning more investigation is required.

You won't inform any of the higher ups about it just yet.

The walk back to base is filled with excruciatingly troublesome small talk and you make a mental note to take Mikasa along with you next time it's your turn retrieve the firewood.

You can't afford any more close encounters with Braun or any of his possible accomplices.

Sniggers batter your ears as soon as you step foot onto the grounds, you have a sixth sense when it comes to spiteful bad-mouthing and after the abysmal day you've had you anticipate there will be unpleasant commentary.

"Seen the way Y/N ruined the assault course today?"

"We're the finalized cadets across all the regions of Paradis. That means we have to rely on that embarrassment to fight titans."

"Good Lord, someone have mercy on our souls."

Fellow cadets press on in their criticism thinking you aren't within earshot. That, or they purposefully aim for you to pay attention to the disapproval they have of your presence.

But, you do understand where they're coming from. You make another mental note - practice a bit more later today.

The gossiping isn't anything you're unfamiliar with, your father's palace never offered kindness to you or your existence. In fact it's rather comforting being talked badly about behind your back.

That statement sounds absurd but you can't explain it. Maybe it's due to Levi typically hurling his unnecessary remarks right at you without warning. Then again he does provide everyone with that treatment, even Commander Erwin.

As you hurry away increasing the distance between you and your loud mouthed team members you spot Levi from the corner of your eye. He's in conversation with Hange but you notice how his jaw is clenched in frustration, you feel a pinch over your skin when he spares you a fleeting look. Eyes acquainting yours. Paying no attention to him you walk away as fast as you can.

The cadets only blow up in volume now, they definitely want you to hear what they have to say.

"Maybe we should ask the higher ups to throw her ou-"

"Questioning authority? Pesky mutineers aren't you?" Levi's booming voice shakes anyone within a five metre vicinity, he comes out of nowhere and seems nothing short of furious.

"You're all," He continues, voice rising, "Incredibly spineless aren't you?"

One of the cadets embellishes their face with a scowl, it doesn't go unnoticed by Levi but he astonishingly doesn't lash out, physically at least. His deathly glare is more than enough to finish the job.

Stupidly you suffer feeling your heart palpitate in your chest watching him talk to the group of three. Stupidly, you're getting your hopes up again.

He scoffs coldly, "If you're all talk why not offer to duel her?"

It doesn't take long for your heart to stop throbbing with its previous intensity. You know it was too good to be true. Levi suddenly defending you that is.

The gesture isn't done to protect or shield you. No, you're sure this man loathes you and is intending to persist on making your life as bleak and dreary as possible.

"Up to a battle Y/N?" The unnamed blonde cadet's scoffs in derision and you find yourself wanting to punch her square in the jaw.

Irritation sears through you but you meekly shake your head mumbling a weak "No thanks.", you're much too afraid to duel anyone just yet and you don't remember her from the training sessions. She must have been in a corner keeping to herself.

With all that being said and done you pathetically withdraw, and just like the past few days you sense Levi's piercing gaze erupting into your soul.

The blistering Sun hits every nook and cranny of the training ground. Waking up early already has you wanting to pass out and the heat isn't any help.

The crowd of cadets mumble in fatigue but observant Mikasa jabs you in the shoulder pointing out how far away Jean has stood from you.

You feel guilty that Jean had to suffer through the humiliation tossed at him yesterday but you are grateful to not deal with his constant questioning and talkative self this early in the morning.

All the way at the other side of the throng of soldiers he stands with Bert, who might you add is a mammoth of a man.

Through some digging (more like asking Mikasa) you've discovered he's close with Reiner and the blonde cadet from yesterday's confrontation, turns out she's the Annie that Reiner warned you off.

"ATTENTION!" Hange sing songs at the front of the training ground. They're jumping around along with Squad Leader Mike checking if everyone's in the correct uniform - Apparently the year prior a cadet showed up wearing a thick cardigan and fainted from heat stroke...

“Today’s exercise is a time to redeem yourself!” Hange’s eyes dart towards you and you smile at one another.

“A FIGHT TO THE DEATH!”

Everyone murmurs looking at each other in pure confusion.

“A fight up against another person. Whoever wins their individual fights will receive extra special privileges." The explanation seems simple enough and you’re confident that if you’re put up against the right people you can make it out safe.

The promise of a reward is also enticing.

The 104th Training Corps are thrilled, there’s nothing too hazardous about the task and it’s nothing difficult to ask for. Even you’re looking forward to it. The chance to rescue your reputation has you pumped up with adrenaline.

“My, my my. Don’t excite yourselves just yet little hens, there’s a pretty little catch.” Hange's voice is laced in mischief. This can't be any good.

Everyone stops breathing in unison and it’s pin drop silent.

“You must cause harm to your opponent in some way. Whether it be making them faint, breaking an arm, breaking a leg. There are no rules when it comes to playing dirty!”

With a playful shrug of their shoulder Hange hops off the podium.

Squad Leader Mike pulls out the list of competitors. He’s decided the line-up on his own and begins the announcement with Bertholdt.

“BERTHOLDT HOOVER..."

Bert turns to look back at Reiner hesitantly and for such a giant it’s adorable how worried he is when everyone else is perturbed thinking about the poor individual who has to go up against him.

"AGAINST Y/N L/N!"

The crowd falls silent and your mouth is wide, this is unjust there’s no way this is allowed.

“Hey, don’t you think that’s kinda unfair?” Krista speaks out for you even though Ymir is by her side trying to talk her out of getting involved.

“She stands no chance against him.” Reiner is supporting your cause too.

Mikasa takes a step forward. “I agree, it’s not right, may I take her place instead?”

“No, no! It’s alright, I’ll go for it.”

Honestly you don’t want the corps to see you as a coward. Bravery and courage is what brought everyone here. Your story is different. You’re here to selfishly save your own life, you aren’t anywhere near as valiant as the rest of them. The very least you can do is partake in activities correctly.

Stepping up to the podium you stand by Bertholdt he gives you a pitiful look whilst he mutters an apology.

Mike continues announcing the names. A few include Jean against Mikasa (Jean may as well forfeit), Marco against Annie and Connie against Reiner - that pairing eases you. At least you aren't in this alone. You and Connie stand no chance against those beasts.

Everyone lines up in their separate areas and again Bertholdt is profusely apologizing asking if you want to fake faint or anything of the sort. You shake your head and promise to give it all you've got.

And then the games begin at the sound of the bell, and damn that Bertholdt because he isn't keeping to his end of the bargain. He lunges forward viciously aiming to crush your entire body but you swiftly dodge, he tries the same approach but when you duck out of the way again he stops knowing he needs to rethinks his strategy.

"Just give it up I'll win either way."

Well, the Mister nice guy act was definitely a believable performance. He was so convincing you even contemplated feigning unconsciousness when he proposed the idea to you.

Bertholdt is much slower than you giving you more time to deliberate your incoming moves. If you can get him to edge close enough to a nearby tree and deceive him into colliding with the oak trunk you should win - only on the condition that he passes out.

The scheme is far-fetched but it's your only hope.

Dashing from various corners he flies after you, each time unable to catch up to you.

That is until you stumble and lurch to the ground. The wind is knocked out of your lungs and you panic when a large hand clutches at your ankle. Your solution? Booting him right in the teeth.

However with an earth-shattering amount of force Hoover's hold on your ankle doesn't weaken. Instead he tightens his hold like a vice. You feel it bruise and the violet discoloration that'll be present in a few hours makes you wince.

Entire body going limp on command, you stop yourself from breathing - another talent you picked up back at the palace to avoid extra beatings.

When you no longer thrash around Bertholdt stalks in to check in on you and as expected he’s now towering over you, blood overflowing in terror.

"SQUAD LEADER HANGE, CAPTAIN LEVI SHE'S NOT MOVING!" He's roaring for their help frantic and anxious. If he's caused any permanent damage he's as good as dead meat.

"Oh my Lord. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."

Bertholdt's voice is fractured in unadulterated horror and judging by the direction you hear it at he has to be facing away from you.

Unbolting your eyes you learn your assumption is correct and despite hurried footsteps being within audible range you take your chance by the reigns.

Leaping to your feet and with no forewarning you swing your leg to the back of his neck. Stunned by the surprise attack he falls to his knees and you situate yourself in front of the oak tree you've been eyeing from the time the exercise began.

"You cunning bitch." Staggering back up he makes a swift rebound. At this point all mercy has left him and his one true aim is to completely pulverize you.

Everything is falling into place. All you need to do is wait for the right moment and finally you come across it when he suddenly pounces for you. Darting to the left you leave the space open for your prey.

Poor Bertholdt falls right into the palm of your hands like a rag doll. His momentum can't be controlled and he smashes headfirst into the trunk with a loud crunch sounding out. Bark splits and scrapes off the tree upon impact.

His head has to throb and you don't want to imagine how painful it is to feel the rivulets of soreness.

He doesn't get up and only groans, you feel half bad but after the tricks and antics he pulled you come to the conclusion that it's all deserved.

"Well, Y/N, you've proven yourself to be quite quick witted." Hange's praise is strange to hear but you beam proud that you've proven your worth.

"Oi, don't get ahead of yourself." Levi orders. "It could have been pure luck."

In spite of Levi's pessimism you bask in the glory of your win.

A week into joining Levi's unit you're becoming more accustomed to the new environment, in fact the gossiping and horrible rumours stop completely after your win and interactions with your fellow comrades feel easier and lighter.

You think the taunts will have only got more relentless after the duel fiasco but you suppose Annie chose to be considerate and take pity on you.

"Your progress has been remarkable so far." You jump when you hear Jean's deep voice appear right next to you.

Looking around to see if any other cadets are around you finally release a breath you didn't even know you were holding in.

"Ah. Thank you." You murmur quietly.

"I know it's been a week since I was scolded by the Captain but this won't count as flirting will it?"

Impeding the one sided conversation you're reflecting, you're not sure what exactly about. Probably whether or not you should maintain the discussion - if it can even be referred to as such.

Forget it. You know what they say, you only live once.

Flicking his forehead you roll your eyes, "We were never flirting he's just an over dramatic, bitter hag. I put my money on the fact he's never felt the touch of a woman before."

Jean's eyes widen in disbelief, you half expect he'll split open in tremendous laughter but he looks terrified. Then you become conscious of the fact he's not even staring at you, his eyes are engrossed by whatever is behind you.

Unfortunately for you your body tells you all you need to know. His cologne floods into your nostrils, you can't even reassure yourself and pretend it's anyone else, you know he's the only one who smells that strongly of fresh linen.

Being unable to see him doesn't stop you from imagining his dark lifeless eyes accompanying themselves with what is before them.

It doesn't even take Jean a minute to abandon you, he breaks out into an awkward smile, hurriedly pats your shoulder before dashing away, dispersing all the way to the other end of the hallway in a matter of seconds and turning the corner away from you.

Heart rate soaring you hesitantly spin on your heel. Levi's stood there, looking beyond unimpressed.

You intend to breeze past him, cool and collected. You take a step forward but God has never been one to bless you with luck, stumbling and tripping over thin air lands you flying.

Ready for impact you brace yourself but it never comes, instead solid hands are firmly placed at the small of your back steadying your position and your palms have unceremoniously landed atop his torso.

"Play along." Levi's voice is low and rumbling, and you can't look him in the eyes. Not out of fear or dread, more so exhaustion but you muster the energy to look to your left. There Erwin and Hange stand giggling to themselves like children. As quick as you spot them they vanish in the same fashion. It's as if they were never there.

You're worn out and fatigued wanting nothing more than a good night's rest. If there's one thing you haven't grown used to it's the lack of sleep.

"Let go." Moving to shift his hands away from your waist you halt your movements when he without warning lets go of you, not even giving you the opportunity to renovate your balance.

Flying to the ground and landing with a thud you rub your backside at the blow.

Mirthlessly chuckling the lack of amusement is clear in the way he composes himself.

Making a dash for it sounds tempting but you may as well let him have his way. There's no action you can take to avoid him reprimanding you. It's your fault for having the gall to make that crude and foul-mouthed comment in the first place.

You gulp comprehending the situation is even worse now since you really only said it for the sole reason of Kirstein's amusement.

"Y/N, I'd like to have a word with you."

Hesitantly you look up at Levi, he has an indecipherable expression on his face, it's been a while since you've last been left in his company alone.

The two of you are stood in his office, his desk is flooded with papers, they're haphazardly scattered all over the place and spikes of worry weirdly make them self present in your belly. This isn't right. He'd never leave his work space in this state.

"Are you okay?" You ask it because you’re sure he isn't.

His shoulders and spine stiffen. "Cut the crap and keep the formalities to yourself." He chides, most definitely defensive in his stance.

Without asking him you shuffle to his desk stacking the papers into organised piles, most of the documents are related to an up and coming expedition and it's all beginning to add up. Even humanities strongest soldier has moments where he cracks.

Then you notice your name on the formation plan but before you're able to make anything out of it Levi snatches it off his desk and away from you stuffing it into his pocket.

Without another sound he observes you cleaning the rest of the mess away but doesn't ask for you to stop. There's no reason for him to.

If you do this maybe he'll go easier on you, yeah that's what your motivation is. That's not exactly the truth, really you're just concerned about whatever has him worked up.

Placing the last document in its rightful place you want to give your mind a moment to recollect itself but Levi doesn't think the same.

He places his arms on either side of the desk, trapping you with no way out. Oddly, there's nothing threatening about him looking down at you this time, the greys and blues of his iris' captivate you.

"Do you enjoy making a mockery of your husband?" The question is whispered. It's unanticipated and the title of husband is uncharacteristic coming out of his mouth.

"It was just a joke." You mumble your answer under your breath.

"Would you have spouted that shit in front of the rest of the unit?"

Mildly shaking your head he then sighs. He’s not angry, he genuinely seems let down.

"Do you prefer him over me?” You swear you hear the faintest hint of self-doubt.

His questions are getting more out of the ordinary by the second and you’re waiting for him to crack a malevolent grin before he ridicules you like he always does.

“Of course I don’t prefer him over you.”

“Prove it.”

Tilting your head up towards him you have no idea what he wants for you to do or say, why does this suddenly even matter to him?

And then you imagine it happen, him digging his hands into your shoulders. Your weight along with his shifting up against the desk making it creak. Your mind details how he would kiss you agitatedly and you flush thinking about how you would feverishly return the favour.

It seems like your imagination predicts the future. He grips your jaw with his hand, his touch isn’t firm and for once it’s quite soft. Relishing in the new experience as he leans in you secure your eyes shut in expectation.

Stroking your cheek with his thumb the warm sensation that courses through your body is rather pleasant. His hands come out to run against your body, pinching the sides of your waist. The motion makes your heart stall for a second. Involuntarily, you find yourself leaning into him.

“This seem like a man who hasn’t felt the touch of a woman before?”

And just like that he leaves you hanging. You flutter your eyes open and there he is. He’s back, the same cynical man, smirk etched onto his features, his body still parallel to yours.

You find yourself enraged at how he's just lead and dragged you on, you should have stuck with your gut feeling and not given into temptation but you know what they say, curiosity killed the cat. It's very obvious who the cat is in this situation.

Brows furrowing you can’t face him ever again after the scalding embarrassment inhabits your abdomen.

"Going to cry, Cadet?" He's pushing all your buttons, eagerly choosing to provoke you.

The frustration you’ve been feeling fills you to the brim and you clamp down on your bottom lip. If you must turn to inflicting harm onto yourself just to muffle the sound of your whimpers you will.

“Did you need to do that?” You choke out your response feeling helpless, still not looking at him.

“Simply gave you a taste of your own medicine.”

Silence.

"Sometimes I wish you killed me back then."

Silver eyes become dark and he visibly flinches at your confession.

Still boxed in-between his arms you attempt to push past but he continues to obstruct the exit. He's not done yet.

"I gave you another chance at life." His blunt one-sided view is about to drive you crazy.

"Within my first day at this unit I had to avoid being attacked by another cadet in the forest if you call that a life I do-"

“Who?”

“Not important."

“If you know what's good for you, you'll spit it out."

For the sole purpose of irking him you heavily shake your head to emphasise your refusal to give in and name the culprit. It's not like you want Reiner to fall into trouble because of you. He hasn't shown any suspicious or out of the ordinary behaviour since then and you worry what Levi is capable of doing when given a reason to hurt someone.

Glancing at him dismissively you try to make your point again. "They haven't done anything since. Therefore, it's of no importance."

Conflicted emotions scurry over his face as he looks at you.

"It's of importance if my wif-" He growls and stops midway. His hands grip onto the desk even harder, knuckles turning white.

Was he about to say, wife?

Levi immediately realizes what he's nearly just said sounds exceedingly questionable. A look of uncertainty flashes over his face and then it seems he loses all regard for self-control. His willpower isn't enough to get him through this situation and he only amplifies.

Encroaching further into the very little space amongst the both of you his tone is icy. "Tell me." He's glowering and for Reiner's wellbeing you decide you should just come out with it now. He'll be in an even more difficult spot if you don't.

"Reiner, it was Reiner." You gasp out the answer, shallow breath ragged. Head turning away to the side you're not particularly sure why you're so shaky and why you feel a tremor flood past you inundating your movement. It may all be a combination of how close he's standing to you and how intoxicatingly strong his aura is.

Or, perhaps it's due to how he nearly referred to you as his wife during his primal outburst of anger.

He turns away. Automatically creating yet another blockade between the two of you.

"You're dismissed."

#levi #levi ackerman #aot #snk #attack on titan levi #attack on titan #levi x y/n #levi x reader #aot fanfiction #aot headcanons #duke levi #levi smut #levi angst #levi fluff #levi fanfiction #leviiattacks

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detective-grey · 3 years ago

Text

pumpkin patches and broken things

part 3 of "Wayhaven Frights - Connections" prompt "Harvest"

pairing: detective alexis "lex" crawford and adam du mortain

rating: t

summary: Lex has a thing for pumpkin patches and Adam has a thing for broken things.

read on ao3

The cool autumn wind brushed against her cheeks, lifting a few strands of mousy brown hair away from her face and dancing them through the breeze. The air smelled faintly of burnt wood and decay, that cold familiar scent that usually reminded one of late night bonfires, jewel colored leaves falling to the ground, hot ciders and mulled wines. A reminder of the end of a cycle, the buds of spring and the blooms of summer giving way to the harvests of fall and eventually the barren fields of winter.

The sky was that particular shade of icy blue that somehow only made an appearance in October and suddenly vanished once the grey tones of December spread through the atmosphere. Every now and then thin white clouds stretched their boney fingers across the sky, blocking out the false Sun that shone but offered no heat, and the shadows of late birds migrating south for the year dotted the ground.

Detective Alexis Crawford shoved her hands further into the pockets of her dark leather jacket and took a deep breath, enjoying the sting of the cool air in her throat. She closed her eyes and allowed herself this moment, this one singular moment of peace and quiet and-

“There you are!”

She flinched at the sudden noise, then kicked herself for her weakness.

She turned to find Unit Bravo walking towards her at varying strides. Farah led the pack in excitement, her golden eyes so at home in the late afternoon sun. She waved at Lex who made no effort to move in their direction but nodded at the motion. Nate trailed after Farah, his easy smile in place and his dark green jacket zipped up for the first time since Lex had known him. Morgan meandered behind everyone, somehow finding shadows to hide in even on the mostly vacant path, smoke from her lit cigarette twisting around her face.

Lex’s attention of course went straight to the actual leader of the group walking in the middle with an expression reminiscent of a frozen lake, calm ice on the surface with something deeper and more intense beneath. Adam had donned a black peacoat that accentuated his broad frame and squared shoulders, the dark fabric in stark contrast to his pale green eyes and blond hair. She told herself she noticed these things because it was her job to pay attention to details.

That she noticed the way his muscles rippled under the sleeves of his coat, however…

“See something ya like?”

Lex shifted her gaze to where Farah now stood next to her, watching with that annoyingly knowing smile. She rolled her eyes, causing Farah to burst into laughter as the others caught up.

“You guys are late,” she said, only somewhat trying to keep the annoyance she felt from lacing itself through her words. “How that’s possible given the fact that you literally have super speed, I’ll never know.”

“Blame that one,” Morgan accused, nodding her head in Farah’s direction.

“What? I just wanted to make sure I put on the proper clothes! I’ve never been to a pumpkin patch before, there were literally hundreds of options for me to sort through,” Farah explained, twirling around to show off her plaid skirt she had paired with wool leggings, boots, and a cardigan. She had a scarf wrapped around her neck as usual, though this one was a deep crimson red that matched the pattern of her skirt.

“It’s not really that big a deal, they’re just pumpkins,” Lex mumbled, turning to walk towards the entrance to the field where a few other Wayhaven residents stood waiting to gain access.

She hadn’t meant to mention her plan for the weekend to them, and she certainly hadn’t been prepared for everyone to come along. She didn’t consider herself to exactly be a “traditions” type of person, but for some damn reason she found herself back at this pumpkin patch at the beginning of October every year to find a stupidly large pumpkin to take home and carve. She made a whole day of it, usually spending an hour or two scouring the field for the perfect specimen before taking it home, cracking open a few beers (or whiskey, depending on the week), and taking a knife to the thing. She never claimed the title of “Artist” or “Supreme Pumpkin Carver”, indeed her designs and faces would never win any contests, but she found catharsis in the way she cleaned out the seeds, traced her patterns, cut into them with repetitive motions.

There was something to be said about the comfort she found in repeatedly stabbing something over and over, but she never lingered too longly on the thought.

Farah babbled excitedly as they walked towards the vendor. Lex fell into step beside Adam without even realizing it until his voice broke her concentration.

“Detective.”

She looked over at him, having to tilt her chin slightly up to meet his eyes.

“Agent,” she replied, matching his neutral tone.

After giving her a once over and seeming to be satisfied, Adam turned to face forward again and didn’t say another word. Lex knew better than to hold her breath expecting more from him, but for some reason the lack of so much as a “how are you?” stung. Annoyingly so.

She never quite knew where she stood with Adam. Most of the time she couldn’t stand the man, they fought each other tooth and nail on almost every single mission they went on, neither wanting to relinquish control over any situation. She loathed his arrogance, hated the way others automatically deferred to him for command like it was owed to him, meanwhile she’d had to fight her whole life for the scrap of command she held. Once, on a night that they’d spared one another more wounds to their respective prides, he had told her of his station in his previous life as the son of a noble. He had been born into power and he carried it well.

She envied and admired him for it. Both things she hated but couldn’t bury deep enough to forget.

There were other things, though. Things she genuinely appreciated about him. She understood his innate need to protect those he cared about, but the intensity with which he upheld that responsibility continued to surprise her. Never had she known someone with such ferocious loyalty paired with a cynical realism that rivaled her own. She even respected his physical prowess and intimidating presence, things that didn’t particularly phase her but that she could appreciate. Especially as she watched him move, a soldier groomed and transformed into the perfect predator. She should be afraid of him, terrified. And she was.

The feelings that had been stirring and building like kindling that would set fire and consume her terrified her more than anything she’d ever known.

“Detective Crawford! Always a pleasure to see you,” Terry, the owner of the pumpkin patch, called out as they made their way to the front of the line. He had to have been in his late sixties, and he’d been running this business every year for as long as Lex could remember. He’d always been kind to her, as a kid he’d let her get her pick of the field and never charged her anything.

“Hey,” Lex responded, nodding in his direction. She pulled her wallet out of her jacket pocket to pay the entrance fees for everyone as the owner continued.

“I see you brought them fancy agents with you this year, so glad to have you,” he continued, smiling genuinely at Unit Bravo, his eyes twinkling behind his large rimmed glasses. He caught sight of Lex pulling money out of her wallet and shook his head. “Absolutely not, Detective, I won’t see you pay another cent. Not after you’ve solved all those big cases recently.”

Had she more grace she might have blushed. Instead, she straightened her back and jutted her chin forward in what she could only hope would be seen as respectful defiance. “I can’t accept that, Terry. I will pay like everyone else, I’m no different nor more special than anyone.”

Morgan’s eye roll and Nate’s appreciative smile both irritated her, but she tried her best to ignore them. She laid a couple of bills on the table in front of Terry and thanked him before he could say anything else. He shook his head with an exasperated smile but waved them on through the entrance to the field.

Farah immediately began asking a million questions. “Which ones are the best ones?” “Do you think I should get a big one or a small one?” “What kind do you usually get?” “I didn’t know there were different colors, which ones carve better?”

Lex never counted patience as one of her greatest virtues and as much as she genuinely liked Farah and found at least some small appreciation for her...perkiness, she found herself just barely clinging on to whatever patience she actually did have.

Nate must have been a saint in another life because as if he could sense the calmness withering away in Lex, he pulled Farah down a far off lane in search of her very own pumpkin.

“Did you have any questions,” Lex asked Morgan probably more roughly than she should have, but Morgan could take it. She simply blew a puff of smoke towards Lex then turned and followed the other two.

Without bothering to look and see if he’d follow, Lex walked off in the opposite direction of the others and away from Adam.

“Are you angry at us for coming?”

He kept pace beside her as she carefully stepped over vines and divots in the hard dirt beneath their feet. There were a few other families out and about in the field, children running and laughing, parents bent over to pull pumpkins up, couples holding hands. She subconsciously looked over to watch Adam’s hands, casually swaying by his sides, before looking up to meet his eyes.

“Why do you ask?”

A somewhat bemused smile played at his lips. “Not that you ever give the warmest of greetings, but you haven’t exactly expressed much joy in seeing us today.”

“Oh.”

She tried to focus her attention on finding a goddamn pumpkin but how could she be expected to think about anything other than the fact that they were walking through a field on a nice day? Together? Or at least next to each other in a not-completely-hostile way?

“Detective, I-”

She rounded on him. “Look, far be it from me to prevent you all from picking a stupid pumpkin to take back to the warehouse and decorate or cook or what the fuck ever. I’m not mad that you guys came, in fact I think it’s smart for the people of Wayhaven to see you all out doing normal people things but please, just don’t bother me while I’m doing this.”

His eyes hardened. “If you didn’t want us here, you could have simply told us.”

She huffed and wanted to stomp her feet in frustration. Another thing she hated about him: he constantly made her feel everything so much more intensely.

“It’s not,” she took a breath and clenched her fingers into fists for a moment before breathing out and releasing some tension. “It’s not that I don’t want you here, I do. Want all of you, I mean. I mean I want you guys all here, with me.” Another breath. “Can we just find a pumpkin please?”

Lex turned away before he could reply and kept her eyes downcast. She could feel the moment he had caught up with her, matching her strides yet keeping enough distance to allow her the illusion of her own space. They continued on like that for several minutes, every now and then stopping to inspect one pumpkin or another.

“Rebecca and I used to come here every year.”

If she’d startled him with the willingness to give information, he hid it well. She for sure startled herself, even more so as she kept going.

“It’s no surprise she wasn’t exactly Mother of the Year, but one thing I could always rely on her for was taking me to pick a fucking pumpkin and then taking it home to carve. She stopped when I was about fourteen, too old for pumpkin picking I guess, but...I don’t know, I’d gotten so used to doing it every year that I just kept coming.”

Whether he felt her admission didn’t dignify a response or he just didn’t know what to say, Lex couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that he stayed silent for a while, maybe processing the information, maybe figuring out how best to respond. Maybe even just giving her the space to talk and say more if she so chose. She definitely wouldn’t, that she had already told him as much as she had mortified her. No, instead she again attempted to turn her attention to the field hoping to find anything at this point.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to keep traditions to yourself, especially ones as,” he paused, “intimate as this one.”

She scoffed. “Digging in the dirt is your idea of intimacy, Agent?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Hardly.”

They watched each other for a moment and then his eyes flicked up to the sky. “We might want to hurry this along.”

“Why,” she asked before following his gaze and finding massive dark grey clouds rolling in. They began swallowing the blue sky and in the distance she could hear the faint low rumble of thunder. “I don’t remember hearing anything about rain.”

“I doubt the weather would discuss its plans with you before changing, Detective.”

She rolled her eyes but followed him with renewed energy knowing that their time ran short now with the threat of a storm looming overhead. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Farah hoisting what must have been the largest pumpkin in the field into her arms and running back to the entrance with glee. Nate had found himself a medium-sized, perfectly round and spotless one that he kept in the crook of his elbow as he followed behind her. As far as Lex could tell, Morgan seemed content to simply smoke and make a snide remark here and there.

“What about this one?”

She swiveled back to him and when she saw his chosen specimen, she crossed her arms and looked at him incredulously.

"Seriously? There are literally hundreds of others in this field, why the fuck is that the one you pick," she asked dryly.

He shrugged. "I like this one."

Adam had pointed to a small, unassuming pumpkin that had almost been completely camouflaged by the leaves and vines of its neighbors. There wasn’t anything particularly special about it, in fact as far as Lex could tell it was one of the ugliest ones in the whole patch, discolored with spots of damage dotting its surface and roughing its edges.

But Adam had seen some sort of value in it, he had chosen it, so maybe it was worth something…

“Fine, sure, grab it so we can get out of here.”

She turned on her heels to leave, but felt a hand on her shoulder. She fought her initial instinct to break the hand and instead looked back at him. The look he gave her threatened to pull her in as the Moon pulled the tides.

“Alexis, I-”

He shook his head as if waking from a dream then removed his hand.

“I wanted to thank you for sharing this with us. I know the others have enjoyed the day so far and are looking forward to the other activities we have planned.”

She stared at him, taking in every detail, every line of his face and every stitch of his coat. For some reason she wanted to remember this moment, the moment where she realized that Adam had a thing for choosing broken things. After saving the mental picture and framing it in the back of her mind, she simply said, “just harvest the pumpkin, Adam.”

#wayhaven frights #the wayhaven chronicles #detective lex crawford #adam du mortain

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pjoseries · 4 years ago

Note

“i bear it so they won’t have to” + curse of achilles percy

oh this one’s a doozy, thank u emma 😋

(TLO AU)

══════════════════

Percy doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it—the bloodlust. It starts out as a whisper, a simple low hum drifting across the nape of his neck. It crawls in his ear and settles inside his brain and every time he uncaps Riptide, a single persistent thought crosses his mind: Show no mercy.

And he doesn’t. Not when a hoard of monsters comes barrelling through their ranks. Not when he sees the other campers on their feet, but flagging, exhaustion bogging them down as monster after monster charges at them. Percy holds his own on the front lines, raising his voice to be heard, “Fall back!”

He repeats it again for good measure and the piercing, confused stares from them quickly fade as he gains the attention of every monster in his vicinity. A grin slides across his face and he gives Riptide a twirl.

“How many of you do I have to kill before you get with the program,” Percy taunts. He lets one of them come close enough to sink their claws into his skin, but it just slides right off, ripping through his shirt instead.

The monster gapes for a moment and attempts to slice through him again, but Percy just tsks and tilts his head. “Nice try, but no dice, man.”

He impales the monster in a quick movement, leaving him in a shower of dust. He grimaces and looks at the others. They march towards him, but Percy doesn’t even think. He blocks and jabs and slices his way through the dust and the dirt and he feels nothing. The curse really works.

He doesn’t know how long it takes to slay the last monster. He just knows that at the end, he’s drenched in monster dust and sweat. Percy finally rolls his shoulders, taking in the damage. The borders are safe for now. He spots a few campers a ways away limping and handing each other ambrosia. Footsteps come towards him and he whirls and points Riptide at empty air.

It takes him a moment, but even that’s too long, before he lowers his sword. It’s Annabeth, of course. He furrows his brows. He knows it’s her. She wipes the sweat off her forehead and tucks her cap into her back pocket.

“Percy, what was that?” she asks, gray eyes glinting in the afternoon light.

“I, uh,” he says, pocketing Riptide back into his jeans. “I’ll tell you later. We have to check on—”

Annabeth stomps towards him and grips his arm. Logically, he knows how tight of a grip it is, but it’s weird that it doesn’t even sting. “Did you… gods, you didn’t. That trip with Nico… Percy, that is stupidly dangerous.”

She knows. Of course, she figures it out. Percy’s just a fool for thinking he could have broken the news to her later.

“I did what I had to do.” Percy grits his teeth and steps back.

She tugs him closer. “You could’ve died.”

Percy makes the mistake of looking into her eyes again, shiny with unshed tears and he falters. He can’t stand to see her cry. He musters up a wry smile and shrugs. “I’m here, though.”

He tells her nothing of what he saw as he made his way out of the River Styx, doesn’t say a single word about how the first time he ever felt like he would drown that her voice was the only thing he grabbed onto. All he does is loosen her grip with his free hand and gives it a small squeeze.

“I’ll tell you more about it later, okay?” Her hand is warm and callused from training and it takes him a few seconds to remember he has something to say. “We need to go to the Big House.”

Annabeth just nods and he lingers for a moment before he lets go. As they make their way to Chiron, their hands brush and all thoughts of the fight vanish from his mind.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

It’s on the bridge when he gets an inkling that something is wrong, not with the curse or with the battle itself, but him. It’s similar to the last fight, Percy yelling at the Apollo campers to retreat, but the last of the monsters are dead. All that remain is Kronos himself and his demigod army.

He slows himself down, aiming to knock them off their skeletal horses and send them running, not maim. Their swords bounce off his skin harmlessly and Percy vaguely notes that he’s ruining his already low supply of shirts.

The voice is louder now, but still the same. Persistent as a tic: Show no mercy.

Shut up, he wants to bite back, but he already looks insane just charging through a swarm of demigods and coming out completely unscathed. They make their way almost to the middle of the bridge when Percy freezes, like a lightning bolt just jolts through his body. Then: Annabeth screams.

“Annabeth!” he yells and turns. A guy stands over her, his knife bloodied and dripping. Percy sees red and the voice persists louder again and he’s almost tempted to take its advice if it isn’t for Annabeth’s weak gasps.

Percy would’ve died, if not for Annabeth and Annabeth’s dying because of him. Because he’s too damn focused on that stupid voice in his head that makes him want to tear the bridge apart and everyone in it. She doesn’t even know that’s his weak spot.

He locks eyes with the demigod—Ethan, his mind supplies—and stalks towards him. In a beat, Percy slams his sword hilt into his face and feels a bitter sense of satisfaction as he grunts out in pain and moves away. A couple of other demigods try to come closer, but he swings Riptide as a warning.

“Get back!” he growls. “No one touches her.”

Kronos merely hums. “Interesting.”

Percy just scowls and steps closer to Annabeth. Suddenly Achilles words come back to him: The heel is only my physical weakness, demigod. He was dumb enough to ignore Achilles’ warnings and now his weakness is staring him right in the face, her face turning ashy as her breaths weakening. Annabeth. His tie to the mortal world. He should’ve known. Maybe somewhere in the back of his mind, he always knew, but the war took precedence. Now look where it got him.

She’s dying and he’s surrounded by enemies.

“Bravely fought, Perseus Jackson,” Kronos says. “But it’s time to surrender, or she’ll die.”

Annabeth sits up and groans. “Don’t.”

Percy clenches his jaw and bites back the panic at the sight. Her shirt is soaked in blood and he has to get her to a healer. His mind swirls for an escape route and, in a second, he yells out, “Blackjack!”

The pegasus swoops and carries her out and away from any immediate danger. Percy’s glad he knows what to do because he doesn’t have any time to explain. Luke—Kronos’ face twists.

Percy meets the scythe with Riptide.

Then their battle begins. And for once, Percy lets the voice in his mind take over.

Show no mercy.

Percy smiles. He won’t.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

The voice stays with him, long after the war ends. Despite how many hours he’s clocking in that affects his sleeping schedule, or the lack of one, he notices that he’s itching for a fight.

It makes no sense. He wants to rest, but the voice tells him he has the curse for a reason. What use is he to his friends, to his family if he lets them go off on dangerous quests to get injured or worse? A couple of extra more hours of sleep is a petty consequence when it means saving everyone the trouble of getting hurt.

So despite Annabeth’s warnings, he volunteers to guard the fleece, or to head training, or to do any of the more dangerous missions. There’s an undisputed agreement amongst the campers that they’ll let Percy do whatever he wants which is kind of weird but it works in his favor, so he’ll take it. Well, unless their names are Annabeth and Grover, that is.

But after this one quest—if he can even call it that, maybe just a favor for his father—Percy lands back on the shore, sitting with his knees tucked to his chest. His hands tremble as they flex over his own legs. The water rushes to his ankles, an attempt to calm him down but he just flinches. It just makes things worse.

Percy’s no better than the monsters he fights.

He wonders if monsters never exploded into dust, if they bleed like he does. He wonders how much blood he’s spilled, how much it stains his hands, his heart, his soul.

“Percy?” Annabeth says quietly. She pads over to him, settling down right next to him. The water drenches her shoes, but she just places a warm hand on his. “Percy, hey. Are you… okay?”

Her tone is awkward, but there’s an earnestness to it that makes him soften slightly. So he lifts his shoulder in response and stares out into the water.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Percy clears his throat. “Do what?”

“Go on all these quests. Try to save everyone. The war’s over, Percy. You can just enjoy camp like everyone else, too. You don’t have to do everything. You’re not Atlas.”

“Annabeth, this curse… I have a responsibility. Why let everyone else get hurt if I can do it? They’re just kids.” Percy unfolds his legs and lets Annabeth’s weight ground him. It’s like the voice gets muffled when she’s near. “And besides, I bear it so they won’t have to.”

Annabeth’s fingers find his cheek and he crumbles under her touch. He turns and Annabeth has this expression on her face that he can’t parse out. He closes his eyes and lets her smooth out the wrinkle between his brows, lets her trace a swooping pattern on his cheek. “You’re sixteen, Percy, not sixty-five. You have to let yourself take a break, Percy. The others need to know how to survive out there without you. You’re not always gonna be there to protect them. You’re gonna run yourself to the ground and I’d like to see my boyfriend awake once in a while.”

“Guess my eyes have to be open for that.” Percy smiles into her fingertips and blinks exaggeratedly at her. She giggles and it sends warmth all the way down to his belly. She stands up and brushes off the sand from pants before she holds out her hand.

Golden light shines behind her, circling her like a halo. He’s suddenly reminded of his dip in the Styx, the way dream-Annabeth held in her laughter as she grabbed his hand and pulled him up. Real-Annabeth wiggles her fingers and he lets her haul him up.

“Promise you’ll take it easy?” she asks.

And his answer is an easy one. He kisses the side of her head. “Promise.”

Then they walk back to camp, their hands swinging between them.

#percabeth #percabeth fic #percy jackson #annabeth chase #f: pjo #p: percabeth #misc: fr #misc: fic #fic: living on a wire #t: ask #emma tag #*#my writing #bipercabeth #je réponds #la poste #prev. biannabethchase #100

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randomfandomimagine · 5 years ago

Text

Stars In Your Eyes (Cloud Strife x Reader)

Character: Cloud Strife

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Tags: Reader Insert, GenderNeutral!Reader, Fluff, Angst With A Happy Ending

Warnings: None

Summary: Y/N has feelings for Cloud, but is convinced that he can't reciprocate them. One night, thoughtfully looking at the stars, Cloud finds Y/N wanting to talk.

Word Count: 1,5k words

A/N: Since I’m playing Final Fantasy VII Remake and even only being a few hours in, I wanted to write a little Cloud thing because I’m falling in love with him all over again. Enjoy!

You looked up to the sky, admiring the stars as though they had the answers you seeked, as tough they could tell you what could have been, Their beautiful glint reminded you of someone’s eyes, even if they didn’t hold as much complexity in them. Or so it seemed, because you could read his eyes better than any constellation. Everything he hid, everything he held back, you knew.

Heaving a sigh, you forced your glance down.

It was so complicated... Even if you could tell what he wanted and you knew what you wanted as well... Well, you couldn’t force him to speak up, to admit his feelings to you when he couldn’t even admit them to himself.

“Y/N?” His very voice said amidst the heavy silence, causing you to jolt up.

“Cloud!” Your heart started hammering inside your chest when you turned to confirm it was indeed him. “You... scared me...”

Hoping he couldn’t notice the blush in your cheeks in the dim moonlight, you averted your gaze. Certainly, his silent footsteps had startled you since he hadn’t anounced his presence. But what made it worse was the fact that you had seem to conjure him with so many thoughts regarding him.

“Sorry...” He muttered, towering over you as you reluctantly moved your head to watch him from your sitting position. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I just wasn’t expecting you to appear out of nowhere”

“Not that” His voice was deadpan as usual, but a subtle frown on his brow betrayed his concern. “You look upset about something”

“Oh...” You fiddled with the fabric of your shirt, avoiding his eyes again. “That...”

Cloud hesitated, but ultimately went to sit down next to you. His closeness only managed to fluster you, even if he appeared calm and nonchalant. He propped his leg up and rested an elbow on his knee, as if he needed to appear any more attractive or cooler than he usually was.

“Tifa told me you two talked” His grave voice once again broke the heavy silence that settled. “’Bout something that was worrying you”

“Worrying is not the word I would use...” Relieved that Tifa hadn’t told him what was really the matter, you lingered in that secrecy.

“Wanna talk?”

“What?”

“I mean... I’m here, and I’ll listen if you wanna... I could help”

Your gazes unexpectedly met and your heart skipped a beat. Even in the darkness of the night, his eyes were absolutely beautiful. Blue mixed with a bit of green, a mako reminder of his past. They held so much contained emotion, so many unspoken feelings that he tried to conceal.

“I... uh...” You shook your head, trying to focus on the moment and not get carried away by your fantastical thoughts, by your romantic self that yearned for something that you may never have. At least not with who you wanted. “That’s very sweet, Cloud...”

He fidgeted a little, and you observed him in curiosity. Noticing how your comment flustered him, you smiled. A sudden urge overwhelmed you, telling you to hold his hand. But you couldn’t.

“That’s how I know something’s up” He suddenly said, perhaps to change the subject. “You’re in the clouds”

You rolled your eyes at his unintended pun. If only he knew what was going through your head...

“Yeah, you have no idea...” You sighed, shrinking over yourself pretending that you were cold because of the cool night breeze. In reality, you felt incredibly small. “But... I’m not sure I can tell you”

“I... Look, I’ll just do my best” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Even if all I can do is just be here”

“That’s not the problem, Cloud” You whispered, feeling yourself shaking slightly. “It’s... about you”

He quickly peered at you, equally intrigued and surprised. Cloud watched you with that piercing gaze, that which held such a mystery that only you seemed capable of solving.

“What’d I do?” He said in the same hushed tone.

“Nothing!” You exclaimed, startling him a little at your sudden loudness. “It’s just...”

You felt tears in your eyes. It hurt so much to love him and not be loved back. It hurt to be constantly charging against his defenses at top speed just to be pushed back time and again. How could you tell him any of this, though?

Shaking still, you hugged your legs.

“Y/N” His voice sounded stern, and still you recognized the panic layered under it, the anguish over seeing you in such state. “Tell me”

You paused under his scrutiny. A sob escaped your throat, and you heard him gasp when you began to cry and crumble before him. Your chest was tight and painful.

“I’m in love with you!” Finally, the words left your mouth before you could control yourself. Those words that had been captive in your heart for so long. When you spoke them, a heavy weight was lifted from your shoulders only to be replaced by one even greater. “And you don’t love me back...”

“I...” Cloud only said, restlessly turning his body to you. “Y/N, I...”

“Forget it...” You continued crying, feeling stupid, tired and hopeless. “Now you know, just... forget it”

Wishing to hide from that pain, you buried your face in your knees. Cloud lingered by your side, even if you had half expected him to walk away. But he was still there.

For several seconds that felt like an eternity, the quietness reigned. He fidgeted next to you, starting to mumble only to stay quiet again. You considered asking him to leave you alone, but at the same time you didn’t want him to. In a way, at least he was with you, by your side. It was the closest thing to having that which you craved.

“I never said that” Cloud suddenly piped up, much to your astonishment.

Cautiously, you looked up at him. His eyes were fixed on the sky above your heads.

“What?”

“I never said... I never said I don’t love you”

Your mouth fell agape as you watched him intently. He refused to meet your gaze.

“I’m just...” Cloud kept talking, and you allowed him. It wasn’t every day he spoke his mind like this, and especially, his heart. “It’s not easy to.... I’m not used to... well, it’s all new to me...”

You paused, waiting to see if he said something else. When he turned his head to you, you knew it was your turn to speak.

“Do you want to try?” Your voice came out as a whisper, this time unwillingly. It couldn’t gather the strength to be louder.

Remaining quiet now, Cloud nodded his head. The gesture was small and barely noticeable, but you saw it. That was all you needed. Tentatively, you leaned closer. He did too. Slowly, cautiously, but he did.

Your heart began racing, making you feel light-headed. The closeness was causing you to internally scream, you had never been so close to him. Your lips then connected and you felt yourself floating. His touch was clumsy and light, but soft and tender at the same time. It injected you with pure happiness, with a newfound euphoria you couldn’t believe was at the reach of your fingertips.

Cloud suddenly broke away, blinking in embarrassment. When he took a deep breath, overwhelmed, you read him once again, realizing why he pulled away.

“Sorry” He muttered, frowning as he absently looked back up at the sky.

“It’s okay” You dared to finally reach for his hand. “I understand”

“Thanks” He muttered, not pushing you away.

“We have time. If this is really what you want, we can take it slow”

You knew how hard it must be for him to open up, and you were willing to be patient. It was good enough that he had been honest and let the light shine through the cracks.

To your surprise, Cloud locked eyes with you. He didn’t look away even as his hand slowly wrapped around yours. It was shaking slightly, reminding you of your own trembling.

Mesmerized by his eyes, you smiled a little. He tilted his head, curious about the gesture.

“What?” Cloud asked, clinging to your hand.

“You... it looks like you have stars in your eyes” You mumbled, still feeling the after effects of the euphoria inducing kiss.

At first, Cloud frowned. After a few seconds, however, he smiled a little as well. You gawked at him, opening your mouth to point it out. However, and before you could, he spoke up.

“You’re shaking” Cloud said, as though that was his excuse to hold your hand so tightly.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“No, I’m pretty warm”

You chuckled, feeling stupidly happy even through that mild awkwardness. Hoping he didn’t mind, you leaned your head in his shoulder and shuffled closer to him. Indeed, his body radiated warmth, even if he was in his tank top.

The bare skin of his arms felt warm against yours, slowly ridding you of the shivering that the breeze caused in you. Feeling perfectly calm in that position, you sighed in content.

Cloud didn’t move, but you felt he was relaxed under your touch. It may take some time to get him to open up completely, but you could wait if he was willing to try as well.

You closed your eyes, trying to memorize that feeling of peace. As you sat there with him, you smiled. What you didn’t know was that, now that you weren’t looking, he allowed himself to smile again.

Tag list: @call-me-harley-quinn / @anxiouslyreckless / @xionroxas / @dancewaterdance02 / @little-faerie-artist / @x-joie-x / @honeybunhanbin / @legallyblindgamer727 / @goodmorningawfulbye / @trunks-kiwi // If you want to be added or taken off the tag list for these fandoms or characters, let me know!! // Reblogs and comments are appreciated!

#rfi writings #ficlet #cloud strife x reader #cloud strife #cloud strife ficlet #ff #final fantasy vii #final fantasy vii ficlet #ffvii #ffvii ficlet #final fantasy vii remake #final fantasy vii remake ficlet #reader insert #not requested #faves #ffviir #ffvii remake

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slasherholic · 5 years ago

Text

Prompt: “Drabble where reader has a head injury/concussion and Mikey takes advantage of their woozy/dazed state?”

Warnings: noncon, abuse, anal sex + vaginal sex, torture, edge play/fear play, animal death, no pronouns used but reader has a coochie

Word count: 10,700

Don’t Fear the Reaper | Michael Myers x Reader | NSFW

You are able to drink in the grisly sight for hardly more than a second before revulsion draws your gaze to your stairwell instead, teary-eyed and sniffling.

It’s the raccoon. It’s your raccoon.

Nailed to your bedroom door like christ on the cross, it’s delicate paws spread wide from it’s plump little body, pink organs hanging low, tongue drooping limply from beneath sharp yellow teeth, black eyes sightless, seeing nothing, and yet somehow staring you dead in the face, is your raccoon; the one you’ve been feeding almost nightly from your backyard porch when the sun sits a dying orange light on the horizon.

You’d been so careful not to let Michael see it. Oh-so-careful.

When the eager little animal would scurry to the bottom step and peer beggingly up at you, its wet nose twitching, you would first crane your head over your shoulder and scan the dimness of your kitchen, searching the hallway, searching all the way down to your front door for hidden, lurking shapes—before hastily dumping the last peanuts and cashews from your bag of trail-mix.

Michael must not see you feeding the raccoon. You knew full-well what would happen if Michael saw you feeding the Raccoon.

He saw it anyway.

From your bedroom window, probably. Perhaps he stood there hidden by the glare of the sun hitting the glass. Perhaps he’d been there every sunset, watching the plump little fellow scamper up to you, watching you offer it your scraps, watching it disappear again into the misty purple evening like a tiny bandit.

Bandit, you had named him, stupidly. Not in an out-loud sort of way like you would call a pet; just in your mind.

And now Bandit the Raccoon is nailed to your bedroom door with his fat little stomach sliced wide open.

He’s still watching you, whispers a cruel voice in your skull. You know it. You know that Michael has slaughtered your raccoon in the name of easy entertainment. You are his wind-up toy; and this was just the latest in an endless sequence of interesting ways to crank your gears and watch you go.

You do your best to ignore the bloody fingerprints on the handle of your rusted old hammer as you take it from the garage, positioning your ladder beneath the body. You do not want to touch Bandit. You do not want to look at him ever again.

But he needs to come down now, before your house starts to stink—and the culprit of this macabre practical joke certainly will not do it. Corpses will only entertain Michael for so long. His work is done; he has had his cheap thrill.

With your free hand you sweep away the angry tears as they spring to your eyes, and begin to climb. Your foot comes down on the third step of the ladder.

You slip.

Ladders should not be so slippery, an alarm screams in your brain, as you tumble backward through the open air, head over heels. And you are right. You’ve made a critical oversight in assuming that Michael’s sadistic practical joke is done and over with.

Racing head-first toward the floor, you know now, it isn’t.

Your head connects with the wood. For a time you know nothing at all.

...

...you blink yourself slowly back to awareness.

Reality reveals itself in faint slivers through your heavy eyelids. You see colors and looming shapes of indescribable form. Someone groans, but it can’t be you, because the sound is so distant and small that it seems almost shouted down a paper-cup telephone.

Then you get to blinking a little harder. One of those brooding figures standing over your body is the ladder,

and the other takes on human shape.

Michael is towering over you.

He leers down at you with the stare of a hawk. The hungry glint in his eyes is more than a statement of his interest—it is a weapon designed to unsettle. He straddles your ankles—if he shifts his boots an inch closer, their rubber soles will kiss your skin. He has probably been there for many minutes. Waiting for you to wake up. To notice him.

The danger registers in your nervous system faster than your conscious mind can process.

In a flurry of panic you are scrambling backwards across the slippery hardwood, hand over foot, putting distance between you and the predator that will seize you up and ravage your body at the slightest whim. Get away from Michael. Get away from Michael. Get away from Michael before he grabs you and catches you and maybe kills you this time.

You turn from him as you clamber to your feet. You stand.

When you do that, you draw back your lips sharply and utter a cry—the furious pounding in your head threatens to bring you right back down to your knees. In your fall, you must have hit your temple dangerously hard.

Your palm slams into the drywall. You practically push yourself toward the stairs. If Michael is coming after you, you can’t hear him; your world is upside-down and sideways. A roller coaster with no end in sight.

You reach the top of the staircase where the floor gives way to a waterfall of steps and clutch the railing as hard as you can. Your momentum threatens to carry you forward, pulling you like a magnet toward the lower floor. The world reels around you in a dizzy haze. You take a step.

And you plummet. Straight down to the bottom.

And now you are on your back again, your feet elevated above your head, your legs slumped at awkward angles on the staircase.

Michael, an unshakable phantom, is standing over you once more.

He is a titan in your blurry vision. Looming at the top of the steps, his powerful body occupies the space that you had less than a moment ago. His eyes are welded to you, his rosy lips parted slightly in a ravenous concentration. The charge in the air is suffocating.

Michael will not remain a statue for much longer; but for now, he is only studying you. You have intrigued him. He knows that something is wrong.

Your eyes well with tears. You feel like a wounded rabbit ringing a dinner bell, a bleeding seal in a deep dark sea teeming with sharks. And one has found you.

You are injured, and now, Michael is coming to inspect.

And if he’s feeling hungry,

probably to do a lot more to you than that.

Michael moves before you do. He shifts his weight gracefully forward and takes the first step as if he has all the time in the world to capture you. He does; you are caged prey. Your flight from him would not dare extend beyond the confines of your house. You are not allowed to run where he cannot follow.

And you must flee anyway.

It is the unspoken rule that he has rigorously instilled in the survival-center of your brain: when Michael chases, you run.

So you run.

But not very well.

Your foot bangs against the door stopper in the midst of your flight into the downstairs laundry room. You pitch forward into the tile and sprawl on the ground and knock your head again.

Michael’s bootsteps pound behind you. You rise to your hands and knees and now the charge in the air is turbulent and unrestrained and teeming with danger. His shadow engulfs you.

So do his powerful arms.

You thrash your head from side to side as his forearm snakes beneath your armpits and seizes you around your chest, his thick bicep constricting your side like a python. His fingers find purchase between the spokes of your ribs and dig in mercilessly. You squeal and pull wildly at the cage of his arm.

His other hot hand comes over your shoulder to clamp expertly around the front of your throat, a pair of deadly jaws; and just like that you’re captured. He’s got you. It’s over. You’re not going anywhere.

You fight Michael like your life depends on it anyway.

He drags you backward like a dog with a chew toy and you thrash your head from side to side and scream at him. He whisks you into the hallway and you scrabble for a grip on the jutting door frame. Your bare feet slap against the floor, heels digging in. You thrash and rage against him.

He tears you away from the door with monstrous ease.

In the hallway his arms lock tight around you, dreadful restraints. And now he has secured your kicking body so tightly against his chest that you can feel his heart pounding away through his pectoral, thump-thump-thumping against the meat of your back.

Sometimes—in the dead of night, when all is calm, when Michael is not hurting you—that unwaveringly steady heart is a bewildering comfort.

But right now it invades your body like a deadly parasite.

The constant thump-thump-thump of Michael’s heart pounds as if in time with the hideous throbbing in your skull and it is maddening. Petrifying. It whips you into a frightful frenzy. You bash the base of your head against his sternum. Your flailing toes do not touch the floor anymore and so you aim your kicks at his shins instead. You keep screaming at him.

In response, the hand around your neck lifts free,

and clamps down brutally over your mouth.

Harsh fingers engulf your face and curl around your jaw, the thumb digging in painfully beneath your cheekbone. You gag—his hand is still wet with raccoon blood.

You keep screaming into the hot, bloody palm anyway; but the only sounds that come out of you now are muffled and broken and quiet. Michael can silence you just as effectively as he can restrain you.

And now he seems content to just hold you, his arm seized around your chest, his hand slammed across your mouth, trapping you, muzzling you, rendering you unable to fight him, unable to struggle in any meaningful way, unable to do anything but hyperventilate and cry and wait.

For what, you don’t know.

Michael’s intentions are never predictable. Killing Bandit and greasing your ladder to make you fall and chasing you down and capturing you and scaring you half to death could be enough for him today—in just a few more seconds, he could decide that he is satisfied and let you go.

He could just as easily be about to murder you on the spot.

Your ribs rise and fall frantically against his dangerous arm and your heart beats like a tortured animal trying to burst free from its cage. Your eyes are huge and teeming with tears. You fight him for a while longer—and when you tire yourself out, you flop over in his arms and go limp.

Miraculously, the moment you stop struggling, Michael begins to lower your defeated body to the ground.

Perhaps that really is it, then. Perhaps he’s satisfied. You know that he enjoyed it; you need no other sign than the significant bulge of his arousal prodding hard against your lower-back.

You sniffle desolately as your feet touch the tile. The pounding in your head radiates out from the back of your skull, consuming your world in a dizzying blur of harsh light and swimming color.

The hand around your mouth comes away. So does the arm around your chest.

Michael’s boots squeak over the tile as he steps away from you, his heat and mass and hideous heartbeat retreating all at once. Relief washes over you like cool water over an infected wound.

And in the very next moment, you yearn for the support of his steady body again.

You sway like a leaf in a storm, your knees wobbling, legs threatening to buckle beneath you. You can’t stand on your own—you are far, far too dizzy.

With a whine you thrust your hands out behind you. You despise the thought of clinging to him now but you need Michael desperately to lean against before you collapse.

You give a hissing little cry when his hand comes down to grip the back of your head. The base of his palm descends right over the painful bump where your skull stopped your fall.

Oh; oh. You will get no help from Michael. He is only interested in letting nature run its course.

In fact, he’s going to help it.

Your eyes go huge and round, but before you can steady yourself,

He shoves you brutally.

Your arms windmill in front of your body. Your world churns nauseatingly. And now you are face-down on the tile, groaning wearily at the sudden loss of altitude and pressure.

You push your hands beneath your body and flip yourself, possibly out of sheer instinct—because that suffocating charge surrounding Michael still permeates the air and makes it hard to draw breath. It is not safe to stay down, scream your instincts; danger still lurks nearby. Get up. Up up up.

From the floor, through a thick veil of tears, you stare up again at Michael’s face.

His rosy lips are sealed sternly shut now. His faint, concentrated scowl lingers, as it always does, rendering his expression not quite empty—never empty—but always brooding with an inkling of his ill-concealed malice. Always, the murder is there. Always, it is brewing just below the thin ice.

Oh—but he could conceal that look, if he wanted to.

You know that Michael could conceal all the intensity in his eyes and render his face blanker than a stone slate, blanker than his mask. You know it.

You know that, if it suited his fancy, he could deceive all but the most trained of eyes and dwell as a wolf among sheep, unnoticed by the flock. You know this because he already lived that life for many years.

Perhaps that is why he is so unwilling to hide his truest nature, now. Perhaps it is what compels him to chase his every impulse and follow his every vicious instinct. Michael isn’t interested in pretending anymore; he has already played that game, and won; and now the prizes are his to reap.

Through the pitching, churning jumble of light and color that is your world, you gaze fearfully up into the devastating path of Michael’s stare, and for the first time today the tears welling in your eyes spill down the sides of your face. For just right now, you are this predator’s only prize.

And if the deadly fascination teeming in his gaze is any warning,

your injured state is only about to make you all the more thrilling to play with.

Everything has taken on a hazy sheen, soft-around-the-edges. The light falling down through the windows lining your garage pulses with an ethereal glow; far too bright. It throbs in time with the headache pounding in your temples.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

The pulse in your tied arms is just as furious.

A wiry rope snakes around your flesh from elbow to wrist, biting into you cruelly. You’re almost relieved by the fact that you can’t turn your head far enough to see the unhealthy purple hue your skin has taken on, nor feel the damage—your limbs have long since gone numb.

Michael has taken incredible caution to ensure that you will not be going anywhere. Not until he’s had his thrill. Not until he’s used you up and dumped you out the other side, broken and exhausted—and if you’re lucky, still alive—and if you’re even luckier, allowed to collapse into his chest and embrace the frightful, terrible, soothing thump-thump-thumping of his beating heart.

One can only hope to be so privileged.

The medicine ball beneath your feet is cushy and deflated from years of disuse, a woeful perch to balance on. You sway dangerously through your dizziness. Your body pitches side to side, back and forth. All the muscles in your core are contracted in the name of keeping your balance. It has been that way for a long time. They have begun to ache—you don’t care. Your only concern is balance.

The moment you become unbalanced, the slip-knot sitting against the base of your skull will pull tight enough to strangle you.

It is hard to swallow against your noose. When you try it your bobbing thyroid chafes painfully against the thick fiber and rubs the skin there raw. The rope is dangerously taut as-is, barely long enough to reach your neck. It hangs down from the metal pulley which opens your garage door, a solid wooden beam, more than enough to bear your weight, should you fall.

And if you fall, you will hang yourself.

Your calves ache from the strain and your back throbs and your abdomen is quivering jelly. The only remaining sensation in your arms is a volley of needle-like pinpricks, clammy and numb and cold.

But none of these miserable things occupy any degree of your attention.

Michael is circling you.

He slinks around your body with a grace that betrays his looming stature. Every time he passes in front of you, he meets your eyes. He does not look at you head-on; rather glares at you from beneath his dark curls, chin dipped toward his chest, head swiveling steadily to keep you in his sights as he goes.

It is the stare of a predator in the midst of ravenous concentration. It is the sort of stare that you would expect to see on the face of a hunting lion on the nature channel. It is the sort of stare that seems inconceivable on human features.

And yet Michael wears the stare effortlessly.

He wants you to fall; he wants to see you hang yourself. He is going to see you hang one way or another, and if you do not lose your balance eventually, he is going to kick that ball out from under your feet himself. That is the sort of brutality Michael’s eyes reveal.

You wish more than anything that you didn’t have to look at him.

But as soon as you shut your lids, the dizziness grows tenfold—and suddenly you are on that teacup ride from the annual autumn fair, pitching in a nauseating circle round and round and round again—and within seconds you are keeling forward, and the noose is snaking tighter, and you have no choice but to open your eyes again, no choice but to look your monster in the eye again.

Michael stops his pacing when that happens. He looms in front of you and leers at you without blinking.

You almost wish to face the empty black eye-sockets of his mask instead of his own calculated stare. At least with the mask on, you cannot see the hunger written so plainly on his face. At least with it on, you are not forced to watch the glint in his eyes darken as you sway and cower and try not to hang.

When Michael passes behind you, and you lose sight of him, every sound that is not him is gone. No birds chirp outside—no cars rumble down the cul-de-sac.

And every sound that is Michael dominates your skull.

His pacing boots fall quietly through the terrible exposed space behind you, moving purposefully from left to right. His magnified breathing whistles in and out.

Sometimes, in his circling, he will brush cruelly up against you—grazing your shoulder with his bicep just enough to send you spilling forward, your heart ramping up in your chest, a strangled little sound leaving your throat. It is a half-hearted attempt to knock you off your perch; he is still only playing.

But more frightening than all those things is when he stops behind you. Just stops. When his sounds vanish altogether, when you feel him go still, the air no longer moving in his wake. When you feel his dark and dangerous presence looming behind you, unseen.

It is a purposeful act; you know that Michael means to let all your alarm and dread and strangulating fear of him wash over your head. You know that he means to smother you in it.

He is doing it right now.

Michael stops behind you and he does not touch you, does not move, does not do anything at all.

Your sob starts in your abdomen. Your breath hitches and then it comes too fast. And now you are taking in air so quickly that without having even shut your eyes you are on the teacup ride again, spinning round and round and round. You sway dangerously on the medicine ball. Your toes curl and dig deep into the rubber. It’s not enough. You are hyperventilating—you are going to fall.

Behind you, the air around you moves again.

And suddenly Michael’s immense heat is rolling against you in thick waves.

He has stepped so closely that you can feel his breath beating down against the back of your head, fluttering through your hair. You suspect that if you were to lean back only slightly you would be supporting yourself against his chest.

You don’t dare.

The thought of him touching you right now is more frightening than the rope around your neck.

Which is why, as you feel the medicine ball beneath you dip, and Michael brings his boot to rest between your legs, you make a strangled sound somewhere between a choke and a hiccup.

He doesn’t move his boot. He rests it lazily there between your feet as though it is just the next sequence in his cruel game. As though he plans to do nothing with it at all. But the threatening charge in the air is positively crackling now. Your breath comes in and out as a whistle between parted teeth. Your eyes are dinner plates.

And oh, some primitive instinct warns you, Michael most certainly does plan on doing something with that boot.

You think you know what’s coming. You are allowed one more moment free of pain. With a miserable whine, you gulp in all the air your lungs can fit; for the first time today, Michael is about to put your life at risk in the name of his own pleasure.

Michael’s invasive boot begins to steal your perch out from underneath you, rolling the ball backwards, oh-so-slowly.

The noose around your neck slips dangerously tight—the heavy knot bites into your nape and chafes your skin raw. You dip precariously forward and your aching core contracts painfully, abdomen straining to keep you steady and upright at this awkward angle. You gasp and gag at the end of your leash. Tears gush at your eyes.

You are not choking, not yet—but if Michael sees it fit to steal another centimeter of your breathing room, you will be.

His knee now digs into the small of your back. His heat and weight and presence behind you are hideous. The charge surrounding him has spread now to engulf you entirely.

Hurting you this way must be just as gratifying as running a knife through your throat; and in Michael’s mind, it is hardly any different.

You know that what he is doing to you now, not just in this moment, but in every second you are allowed to continue existing, is hunting you. All of the familiar motions are in place; the chase, the capture, the momentary release of his vicious, violent dangerous impulses. You are prey, like all the rest. Eventually, you will go the way of all the rest.

But it does not need to happen yet.

Instead, your capture is allowed to last for as long as he pleases. His sadistic impulses are allowed to flourish; and you get to experience what happens when Michael’s release is free to express itself in other ways.

Ways that are not murder.

Decidedly more sinister ways.

It is hard for a living thing to envy the dead—but as you choke and sputter and wobble on the medicine ball, pitching at the end of your noose, you find yourself wishing that you had not been allowed to keep your life at all. Better to be dead and unfeeling than to suffer such dizzying fear. Better to be a corpse than to exist for the purpose of pleasuring a monster.

And then, your fantasies of being dead are gone in a single furious heartbeat—when Michael rolls the ball back another inch.

You pitch forward.

The slipknot tightens—

—your airway is clamped hopelessly shut.

Michael chokes you.

But only for a second.

Before the strangled syllables of the words Please and Michael and Don’t are leaving your purple lips in an airless rasp, before you can beg him not to kill you, he is already relenting.

His boot finds its home between your legs again as he rolls the ball back into place. The pressure of his knee against your back disappears. You are standing vertically again. You gasp for breath and sob.

But he does not take his boot away. His breath still beats steadily against your hair. The heat of him is suffocating. His body is so close. You sob even harder at the anticipation of it all; you do not know what’s coming next.

You do know that he has only gone so still to watch you cry and tremble and shake.

The possibility occurs to you that Michael had not even been trying to strangle you; at least not yet. Relief would not have come so readily; more likely, he is merely exploring the capabilities of his rig, only testing the limits of how far he is allowed to push his toy before you start to break.

His boot comes suddenly free of the ball.

You stagger at the sudden change of pressure beneath your feet. The air whooshes around your back as his looming body moves again, walking around to the front of you.

You are nearly level with Michael’s face at this height. He stands feet away and studies you. The faint rosy discoloration beneath his eyes is apparent at this distance and has the opposite effect of making him look tired; the contrast only adds to the intensity of his steel-blue stare. You stare back at him, because you are too afraid of what might happen the moment you look away.

And now he is reaching for the rope above your head.

Your face contorts in panic and your mouth snaps open and you sway slightly as he grips it. You are ready to beg him again.

But Michael does not yank it. He does more than not yank it.

He shifts his weight onto his back foot. His boot settles on the ball again and your eyes glisten with dread. His thigh comes slowly up between your legs until the coiled muscle meets your bottom.

He lifts you cleanly off the ball.

And now you are seated atop his knee, straddling his thigh like a log.

You clamp your legs around him in an instant to keep from sliding toward his hips. The rope around your neck has some slack now, and the slipknot does not dig so hard into your flesh; but you are dreadfully aware that this is no act of mercy on Michael’s part—it's just more fun and games.

Should you slide all the way down to Michael’s pelvis, you will meet the end of your noose, and strangle yourself.

His firm muscle contracts as he shifts his weight beneath you, staring you in the eyes, breathing steadily. His boot dips deeper into the medicine ball for traction. You know what he is about to do to you even before he does it.

But that doesn’t stop your terrified whine from leaving your lips as he does.

Michael begins to bounce you playfully on his knee.

The effort is half-hearted at best. You rise and fall easily with his leg as though riding a see-saw. His air about the whole thing is disgustingly innocent; he is still toying with you. When he is done playing, you will know it.

You hold out for nearly a minute, battling with all your strength to remain perched atop his knee despite his playful efforts.

And then you start to slip.

You cry out as you do—squeezing his leg tighter, clinging on to him for dear life—it’s no use. The dizziness consuming your world is loosening your grip on reality as well as your grip on Michael’s thigh. Your face twists with panic. You peer at him across the two feet of space separating you and sob.

Michael—leering at you as if to kill you with his eyes alone, the heat of his breath blowing steadily out through his nostrils, searing your flushed, pulsing cheeks— watches you sob.

His efforts ramp up before you know what hit you. His boot sinks deep into the ball and comes shooting suddenly upward again.

You scream in terror as you leave his leg. For a moment there is nothing but empty space beneath you and you are airborne. Your pulse in your neck spikes feverishly. The throbbing in your head is a hammer.

Then you slam painfully down on his thigh. His knee knocks hard against your pubic mound. The air leaves your lungs.

Before you can gasp and recover your breath he is pitching you into the air again, merciless.

You come down on him the same as before. A dull thudding ache shoots through your pelvis at the impact. He is actually trying to dislodge you now—you can see it in his eyes. You sob harder. You’re so dizzy. Your world is spinning. Your head is throbbing. He bounces you up again. Up and down. Relentlessly. The terror in your eyes is mounting with every second.

And worst of all, you’re sliding.

The slipknot is creeping tighter around your nape.

Tears stream down your face. Michael wants to see you hang.

With a frightful cry you come down hard on his knee again and brace yourself around him for the next jostle.

It never comes.

His thigh goes still beneath your backside. You feel the muscle slacken against your legs and go pliable.

Just like that, Michael has stopped.

Despite the fact that you are not yet choking, your muscles not yet clenching hopelessly around him to squeeze him while you sputter and die, Michael concludes his assault.

You brace for the next impact anyway.

His eyes sweep across your trembling lips and tear-ravaged cheeks and frantically flaring nostrils. You have never felt more vulnerable.

Then, his terrible hands are outstretching toward your middle.

You flinch hard away from him as though fleeing is even an option—but you have nowhere to go, and no way to fight him.

Instead, as Michael grabs you firmly but carefully around your waist—as if you were made of slippery glass, and dropping you would be bothersome—you just cry. Your sides heave beneath his hands as you suck in your terrified breaths, lamenting the weight of him on your body. You can no longer anticipate his actions. You have no clue in the world what he is about to do to you. The breathless anticipation of pain is just as horrible as the thought of hanging.

But no pain arrives.

Michael’s dangerous hands pry your deathgrip on his leg away with tremendous ease. And oh, you realize, he is only depositing you slowly and easily and almost cautiously back on the ball. He holds it in place with his boot, allowing you to stand again.

The slack in your rope is gone in an instant—the horrible tautness around your neck resumes. Your jellied knees quiver and knock together; and now, there is a cruel voice in your head sneering at you that when Michael’s horrible, steady hands come away from your waist, you will not be able to balance without his support.

You give a lamenting little whine as their heat leave your sides.

Michael steps away from you with a fluidity that reads almost feline. Your balancing act resumes right where it left off. Immediately, you start to sway.

From his new position, Michael studies you some more.

It is a horrible thing to meet his face; his rosy lips are pressed faintly together as if in contemplation of his work. His eyes flit across you, ever-roving to some new part of you, eager to devour.

He could be at this for hours before he takes all that he wants from your body. You know that if it tickled his fancy, he could keep you here in this garage and toy with you to his heart’s content all night, and all day tomorrow, and that as long as you show up for class on Monday in more or less one piece, nobody will ever suspect a thing.

Michael knows it, too.

Your face contorts with broken, desperate pleading. You plead at him with the tears shimmering in your eyes and the ones streaking down your pink exhausted cheeks. Stupid, stupid and pointless, says the cruel voice in your head, and you know, but you can’t help yourself. You plead at Michael with your ragged and whistling little breaths. Please, no more. Please, I’m already broken. Please just use me how you want and then take me down.

Michael devours your pleading, too.

And his stare says,

This is how I want to use you.

With a shudder and a sob, you plead at the garage floor instead.

You regret it the moment you take your eyes off of him.

He strikes faster than your mind can process. His fingertips are sandpaper as they clasp around your nape and burrow beneath your noose, hot and abrasive, chafing against your rawed skin.

You cry sharply, startled. You look up at him again; but only at his sternum. Michael is going to choke you. You can’t look him in the face while he does that. You can’t. His eyes will haunt you.

Careless of your abused flesh, the fingers pinch the front of your throat.

Your eyes snap shut like drawn shudders. You swallow automatically at the pressure and it comes out as a gag instead—his fingers are squeezing too hard to allow that. Yet you know in an instant that Michael is not trying to choke you; were that the case, you would already be collapsing over in a dead faint.

His hot thumbpad roves across the plane of your neck, poking your flesh deeply, searching. You clench your teeth and tremble. It is obvious to you what he is doing. It is a frighteningly familiar action:

Michael is seeking your pulse.

He is going to study it like a sculptor examining the results of his work. Your fluttering heart is the evidence he wants beyond your weeping eyes and your painfully-contorted face that he has plunged your entire body into a primal, desperate fear.

His thumb comes to rest across the artery. Your heartbeat thumps against his heavy pressure there, unsteady and racing, as though to prepare you for a struggle, or to flee from him, or to do something, anything, besides sitting here and allowing Michael to grope you. It doesn’t matter that you are hopelessly restrained—your body will not give up, even if your mind has. And so your heart still races.

Michael gazes at you steadily, motionless, listening, concentrating. Urgency grips you dizzyingly as you breathe shallowly against his restraining fingers—you need to calm your heart. A racing pulse will only serve to exhilarate him and solidify his desire to make you squeal, thrash, bleed.

You focus on the steady rise and fall of his broad chest. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe like Michael does.

Your throat is dry by the time his rough fingers loosen their grip on your neck. They graze your flesh with an accidental tenderness as they retreat. The sickening conflict of sensations makes your stomach knot; Michael has made his judgement.

He steps suddenly to the side of you and you stagger atop the ball, knees locking up painfully. You brace yourself to be grabbed, jostled, groped, brutalized.

But Michael does none of those things. He doesn’t even stop behind you. He keeps on walking.

Now, his footsteps are retreating for the door. Now, you hear the creak of the garage doorknob turning, the woosh of air as it opens—

—and Michael has left.

You are not sure whether to feel relief. Or more terror.

You are not left to stew in your dread for long; he is back again within the minute.

The door opens again, and now the dreadful bootsteps are drawing nearer. Your teary eyes flash with alarm. The stagnant air behind your back shifts to accommodate for his presence.

Michael is breathing down your neck again, looming over you, monstrous.

He is not interested in lurking this time, though. He has a purpose; he introduces you to it quickly. Strong fingers find purchase in the hem of your pajama bottoms. Blunt fingernails scrape against the flesh of your lower back.

It occurs to you passively that Michael is going to fuck you, now. The thought comes and casts its shade across the landscape of your mind and is gone again as easily as a passing cloud in the sky. It is hardly important. Hardly relevant. It just is.

Michael could shuck your pants down to your knees and be inside you within a second; but his impatience does not yet precede him.

He is still enjoying the show. He is in no rush to get to the climax.

And so instead of tearing your pants off your legs,

something slight and thin and sharp presses suddenly between your open thighs.

The tip of it rocks against the base of your pubic mound, pressing threateningly into the sensitive flesh, and even through the barrier of your pants its bite is unmistakable.

Michael is pressing his knife between your legs.

Your brows knit further together and bassy whimpers reverberate from the pit of your chest to escape beyond your dried lips. You will your knobbly knees to a painful stand-still as he digs the carving knife into your pajamas—you hear the harsh ripping and tearing of synthetic fabric as he saws the tip in deep, beginning to rock the knife against your cunt. The ease with which he could circumvent this playful escapade and claim your body is of no concern to Michael; he is toying with you exactly how he sees fit.

And right now he sees it fit to threaten you with terrible bodily harm.

Should his steady hand slip, should he accidentally apply an ounce too much of his monstrous, untempered strength, Michael will saw his knife into the flesh between your legs, and butcher you.

Your ribs heave and a cacophony of whimpers leave you as the knife tears mercilessly at your pants. Please be careful, you beg Michael, without words. Please don’t cut me there. Please don’t ruin me.

Michael does not.

The knife cuts a path in your pants from your clitoris to your tailbone, and all the while he holds the fabric away from your body so that its steel never slices you.

You stand now with your most vulnerable parts bared to him, defenseless, exposed.

It would be so incredibly trivial for him to ruin your flesh here. One cruel flick of his knife could cripple you forever—your reproductive capabilities, your necessary functions, your very pleasure. Michael could slice your sex up with all the concern of a butcher hacking into a pig. He could mutilate you, and nobody would ever know it; nobody, but you, and him.

He threatens to, sometimes; when he pulls back your skin with his thumb and presses the cold tip of that knife against your throbbing clitoris, and holds it there, just watching you. Your pleasure is not important to Michael. Such parts of your body are expendable—ready for the chopping block. Ready to be discarded in the name of the momentary sadistic thrill he would glean from seeing you scream and writhe.

But that moment, if it will ever come, has not yet. Michael has still allowed you to keep all of your parts.

You can only assume that a whole toy, who can still shiver and cry and tremble at the prospect of losing those parts, is more entertaining to him than a damaged one with nothing more to fear.

Your fuzzy black pajama pants now hang like a sliced-open torso between your legs, one side drooping lower than the other. You can feel the bitter chill of the morning air now nipping at your sex. You try to ignore it; faced with the prospect of hanging, it really should be an easy thing to ignore.

But Michael’s adamant presence between your legs is making such fanciful thinking impossible.

Behind you, there is the unmistakable drawing of the zipper on his coveralls. You shudder violently at the implication of that sound—it is Pavlovian conditioning. Your brain is trained to recognize and respond and fear the sound of Michael freeing his sex.

Or rather, to fear what comes next.

Perhaps you would not fear it so much if it did not hurt so much; if Michael possessed merely a fraction of the untempered strength that he is capable of, and not the staggering sum of it; if he was not strong enough to lift flailing bodies clean into the air, and jellify skulls beneath his boots, and murder a human as easily as one extinguishes a bug. If your tormentor were not so monstrous, you tell yourself, then you would not fear his primal, instinctive, impersonal need to copulate with your body and pump you full of his seed.

But Michael is that strong. He has strength for all of that and then some; and he does not offer you the luxury of controlling it when he seizes you in his dangerous, murdering hands, and impales your body in a way different from all the rest of his victims.

You suspect that sex, too, is still a hunt to Michael. It is still a ruthless domination of conquered prey—with slightly less bloodshed.

That is why, as you feel the burn of his firm arousal invading the shattered barrier of your pants, poking stiff and hard and hot against your far-less-heated entrance, a fresh set of heavy tears wells beneath your lids. The muscles in your abdomen heave at his sudden foreboding presence. Your sex clenches tighter as if to deny him entrance. Your entire body screams, don’t hurt me. Don’t damage me. Take me slowly, if there is no other option—but please, Michael, please don’t break me this time. Not permanently. Not forever.

The rope you hang from goes suddenly taut as Michael seizes it, hardly six inches above the crown of your head. His carelessness has you swaying on your perch. You utter a lamenting rasp as the heavy slip-knot finds its home at the base of your neck again.

Michael is going to yank on your rope. He is going to choke you.

Your entire body knows it and fears it. All the muscles in your abdomen clench tighter and your face pulls down into a look of staggering devastation. You gasp in huge lungfulls and sob and wait for the moment when you can no longer draw breath, the moment that Michael decides it would better suit his pleasure to deny you that privilege.

You wait.

And wait.

And by some miracle,

the dreadful moment when Michael steals your very breath away never arrives.

You know that he still holds the rope; you can feel it in the tension of the noose around your neck. You know it in the very fact that you do not sway so much anymore atop the medicine ball, supported now by the unshakable, unwavering force that is his body. Yet he is not trying to suffocate you.

The head of his cock prods more insistently against the skin of your folds.

Oh; oh. Now you get it.

He is only securing his prize in position, only lining himself up with his clenching, difficult target. He is steadying your squirming body enough to guarantee his own pleasure.

His throbbing, insistent tip begins to push suddenly upward into you, heedless of the tightness of your entrance. Your cunt blooms around the head of Michael’s violent arousal.

You chomp down hard on your lip at the tremendous stretch and pop of his member sliding into place. Claiming you now will be easy; to split you wide and fill you to the brim with his cock Michael need only slam his hips forward with a brutal thrust.

A staggering whine leaves you when he doesn’t; it is going to be slow, your cruel head-voice whispers, and that is even more terrible fate. Michael is not chasing instinct when he fucks you slowly—he’s just having fun. He’s seeking a reaction, and nothing more, and splitting you apart on his cock is a tried and true way to make you squirm and cry and scream.

Michael takes you at his leisure. His burning arousal fills you languidly, carelessly. He has all the time in the world to use you—you are captured prey. You are not going anywhere.

You make ugly rasping noises at the invasion. Your knees wobble horribly as your walls are split to accommodate his heat and girth, swaying dangerously on the ball. Your cunt spasms and clenches excruciatingly snug around him, out of terror and desperation, and perhaps a simple desire to continue breathing—because your body knows that if your struggle to keep him out does not satisfy, he will tug your noose tighter and tighter until it does.

Michael’s cock stabs at the fleshy roof of your walls, your cervix. And still you know you have not taken all of him.

His searing arousal forces your cervix upward and inward and you can feel him prodding agonizingly at the organs just beyond. If his rough hands reached around your body and pressed against your stomach, you suspect he could inspect his own imprint there, the firm outline of himself sheathed inside of you; that is how unforgivingly Michael fills you up.

You shiver and shake as his covered hips finally collide with the curve of your own fully-clothed ass, wheezing through your teeth. You are agonizingly full of Michael’s cock.

His monstrous body is frightfully still behind you. He does not make a single unchecked movement as you tremble against his pelvis, not a runaway sound. If he is reaping any pleasure from using you this way he givesno sign to betray it—even with his throbbing cock hilted inside of you, his air of detached, calloused, impersonal intrigue remains.

There is no intimacy whatsoever to Michael’s invasion of your body. You are just another exciting toy for this apex predator to use, and abuse, and in due time, discard.

The medicine ball beneath your feet dips down again as he rests his boot atop it, his weight returning. You are spinning now at the zenith of the teacup ride with your eyes snapped adamantly shut, your world pitching around and around.

The stretch and ache of him inside you retreats at a cruel, deliberate pace. He rolls your perch away from him with his heavy boot, using gravity to tilt your hips forward, sliding you lazily off his cock.

Your eyes go huge and round as the slipknot gets tighter and tighter until you are wheezing. Please put me back, you beg wordlessly, to nobody but the cruel voice inside your mind. You would rather be stretched and filled up torturously with dick than choke.

You get your wish

Michael lets you sputter at the end of your rope for a moment—and then he is rolling you back into place to split you on his cock again.

Your knees shake horribly as he sinks into you just as cruelly, just as slow. His pace can hardly even be called fucking—it doesn’t feel like fucking. It just feels like Michael enjoying the sensation of a warm, tight, frightened hole. There exists no rhyme or reason or goal to his actions beyond sadistic pleasure—watching you choke and writhe on his cock and all but beg for the embrace of his terrible hands to alleviate the torture of your noose is the best kind of entertainment a living body can offer him.

There was a time, oh-so long ago now, when you might have been disgusted by the thought of trading your bodily rights to continue existing as Michael’s plaything—back when he was only a foreboding headline on your Sunday paper, and not a tangible, touchable entity, ever-looming over your head, hurting you and then not hurting you, tricking you into needing him; if not needing his cock between your legs, then needing the weight of his touch at night.

When you hover at the precipice of unconsciousness, and so does Michael, the hand around your neck is no longer there to strangle you, or to cause you pain, but only to feel you; to hold you, and know that you are still at his side, that you cannot go anywhere, that you are still his to own.

In those coveted moments, Michael is just as beautiful to you as he is deadly.

He is a magnificent disaster. A violent storm on a calm sea. He is terrible and gorgeous, dreadful and breathtaking. To witness him is the privilege of a lifetime—to experience him will cost you your life. When Michael is not hurting you, it is a wonder to stand in his presence. When Michael is not hurting you, you are almost eager to be his.

You crave to be his.

You need to be his.

But right now, Michael is none of those things.

Right now, Michael is just the monster who is going to murder you some day. He is just the wicked, heartless, terrifying thing that is causing you pain.

He is just the Reaper.

Michael takes your body this way for a long time. You find that it is impossible to relax around his throbbing girth when everything below your waist has seized up in the name of maintaining your precarious balance; but he slides easier in and out of you now than when he first started. The simple fact of the cock filling you up, no matter how agonizing, has made you wet.

You nearly grow used to Michael’s cruel rhythm in and out of you. Nearly.

Then, he shatters the rhythm. This time when he pulls out of you, he does not tilt your ball forward again, does not impale you hopelessly on his heat and girth again. You think that might be it; that he’s had his fun. That it might be over.

Your hopes are shattered like a dropped glass the next second; when the hot palm that is not seizing your noose comes down to grab your ass through your pajama bottoms, squeezing brutally, splitting your cheeks apart.

And now Michael’s dick is prodding at your asshole.

Your eyes go round in horror as you heave out a desperate, pleading whine, long and breathless. Your stomach ties itself into a dreadful knot which has your insides cramping painfully as all your muscles clench in preparation of keeping Michael out. Your body knows that this is wrong—that he is not supposed to be there. He’s too big; he is too big, and far, far too strong for this. If Michael gets in, he is going to rip you apart.

And he is going to get in anyway—and your efforts to defend your innards will only make his invasion all the more torturous.

You whip your head violently back and forth as Michael lines up with his new target, the burning head of his arousal poking dauntingly at your puckered flesh. No, no, he can’t fuck you there; if he fucks you there you won’t be able to keep your balance. You will fall and hang and die. He is going to kill you this way.

He doesn’t sink in for a minute. He stands behind you, a terrible murderous presence, holding himself against your clenching sphincter, letting you squirm. Hot air from his lungs beats against your hair as he draws his measured breaths. He is watching you. Watching you and waiting for some invisible cup to fill up and spill over.

When Michael’s heat pushes adamantly against you, you nearly choke on your own cascading tears.

But he doesn’t manage to penetrate.

His prodding cock only tilts your body forward on the ball—you gasp and wheeze—you’re clenched too tightly. Your face goes white with dread when you realize what that means. He is going to have to hold you for leverage while he does it.

The sensation of burning hands gripping your arms hardly registers, because you are so, so incredibly numb back there. You sob harder.

And now, Michael’s arousal rocks against your asshole again.

The head of his member has beaded with hot precum that you feel oozing against your sphincter. You squirm at the horrible feeling, your chest heaving rapidly. You wiggle your hips and try to evade him. You don’t want him there. God, you don’t want him there. Not when your body is clenched so excruciatingly tight. Not when he is hurting you so horribly. Not when he is enjoying it. You squirm, despite the fact that it won’t work. You squirm, despite the fact that he is unstoppable.

You squirm despite the fact that there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop Michael from fucking your ass.

The awful murderous fingers around your numb arms dig in and grip you tighter. The throbbing head finds its mark.

It presses in slowly, splitting you on him.

You make a shattered sound and stagger at the stabbing pain, seeing stars. The stretch is already agonizing, white-hot. He’s going to tear you apart.

It is instantly apparent that Michael is going to fuck your sphincter as cruelly as he fucked your cunt. His hips rock lazily against you and you are filled repeatedly with just the tip of him. The pain is stabbing; your heart is pounding wildly. When he’s buried the head of his cock within your ass, he pulls himself slowly out again. Abusing your hole at his leisure. Rinse, wash, repeat.

There is a dreadful air of curiosity about Michael’s demeanor now and when you detect it you are nearly sick. It is as if the feeling of your asshole squeezing his arousal has consumed him with simple intrigue; fear has made you incredibly tight, perhaps tighter than he has ever felt. Your body <his toy, the cruel voice chants> has offered him a curious new sensation, which he is exploring readily.

Soon, Michael’s curiosity with your sphincter has peaked.

He starts to sink in deeper. Your tears are uncontrollable. The tap is turned on and it does not stop.

The stretch of Michael’s cock splitting your ass is nothing short of torture. He is a hot, burning rod inside of you, pushing up and up, endless. You gasp, struggling to take air into your lungs. You are convinced your vitals are cooking. You can’t breathe; the pain is too much. Your knees are trembling. You’re staggering dangerously on the ball. Michael’s grip has kept you from swaying too far for this long—but you know he won’t come to your rescue if your legs give out.

He presses on mercilessly, heedless of your tightness, searing in deeper. Every gasp you take is a battle to keep your volume down; you can’t scream. You can’t alert the neighbors. If Michael is interrupted now, he is going to kill you. You’re sure of it. But the pain is devastating; he hurts too bad. With every breath your sounds are getting sharper and shriller.

One of your wheezes builds into a guttural, shattered, piercing cry.

Michael’s hand rockets around your shoulder. His palm clasps down brutally over your mouth to kill the scream on your lips. Muzzling you again.

Now, you feel a distinct pop somewhere inside you.

His arousal is fully seated inside your ass.

You sob endlessly into Michael’s hand. His huge uncompromising body is flush against you, a terrible cage. You feel like your guts have been rearranged just to accommodate him. He might as well be stabbing your belly with his knife—you think it would hurt less. Tears streak freely down your face.

It is not your cruel parasitic head-voice doing the thinking now but your own voice, and in your own voice, you can admit that you are truly nothing but a possession. Michael doesn’t care if he breaks you; he will play with you as rough as he wishes, and if his roughhousing breaks you beyond repair, he will discard you just as readily as he captured you and find another toy to own.

So shocking is the pain of Michael filling your body that everything besides that pain registers only on a background level. Now, the ball beneath you is dipping with his weight again. Now, he is pressing his boot against the back of it. Now, he is lining up his boot like a soccer player preparing to punt his free foul into the net. Now, the suffocating charge in the air is not just threatening; it is murderous.

A sequence of events occurs to you all at once.

Michael is going to kick the ball.

He is going to kick the medicine ball out from beneath you.

He is going to hang you,

and he is going to fuck your ass while you hang.

You shake your head no and heave exhausted sobs which streak uselessly down Michael’s hand and plink against the medicine ball.

Please don’t let me hang, say your sobs. It could kill you. <That’s the point that’s the whole point he’s done with you he’s trying to kill you now.> Please don’t. You could just as easily snap your neck in your thrashing. Please don’t. It is a total throw of the dice. Please don’t. If the noose doesn’t kill you then the shock will. Please don’t. You bawl at him. Please don’t. <It’s not enough to stop him he’s going to do it.> Please don’t. You’re begging him out loud now, shouting muffled, unheard words into his burning hand. Please don’t. The garage is a sloppy blur because the tears are coming so hard. Please don’t. <It’s useless.> You know; but you can’t stop yourself. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please—

The momentum of his kick is brutal and swift. Your feet touch nothing.

You thrash in the air like a fish on a hook. Your face and lips are numb in an instant. The pressure in your head is worse than anything you have ever felt. There is a ghastly shape looming behind you and it is both Michael and the Reaper coming to collect because the two are one in the same.

Can’t breathe. Gaping. Legs kicking uselessly.

Blackness clouding. Pressure still building.

Hands seizing you now,

and a stabbing heat,

drilling into you,

splitting you open,

piercing your stomach,

rocking your body,

nothing but pain,

bursting inside of you,

and another heat,

filling you up,

gushing down your legs...

then blackness, throbbing, swallowing…

...

You wake.

Although immediately you wish you hadn’t.

Everything below your chest pounds, throbs, sore as though exerted near to tearing.

You wince as you sit upright against the wall and a hissing little breath leaves your horribly chapped lips, followed by a bassy groan. Your muscles feel jellified; slow to respond, unwilling to participate.

You cannot remember anything beyond the blackness. How long have you been asleep for? Days, you guess, because that’s what it feels like. The back of your skull is agony. When did you hit your head? You must be concussed.

You believe for a moment that you have been hit by a car because nothing else could possibly cause this sort of tremendous full-body ache. You believe it right up until the point when your blinking eyes come into focus; and you blink some more, until you realize what you are looking at.

There is a dead animal nailed to your bedroom door.

Then the floodgates are opened and it all comes rushing painfully back.

Oh; of course. Nothing could cause this sort of ache, except a car crash—

—or Michael.

You realize where you are now. You are sitting on a table stool against your bathroom door, just across the hall from your bedroom.

And Bandit the Raccoon is still crucified where Michael left him.

You shift uncomfortably on your unforgiving seat. Michael’s mess drips out of you in a clammy soup, pooling on the wood beneath your thighs and ass. It’s a lot. He had been using you for a long time. You blink languidly as you sift through foggy memories, trying to remember when and where and how—you can’t remember the first time.

That’s right. Because you had passed out. Because he did it while you were hanging.

You are grateful to let that memory die.

Lurching forward, you try to rise to your feet.

Except you can’t. Your neck meets more rope.

A rope of the very same thickness and coarseness as your noose had been. It probably is your noose, you realize.

Immediate panic floods your eyes. Oh no, please no. You’ve had enough for today. Please no more. You panic for a second longer. And then you realize that it is not a noose; not anymore.

It is just a collar.

The rope tied around your neck has been nailed into the door, keeping you from straying far—or at all, really. He’s secured your arms and ankles that way, too.

Looking side-to-side at your wrists, you see now what you couldn’t before—the ugly purple scar-like rashes where your arms had been lashed together unforgivingly. You look away quickly.

You give your restraints a half-hearted tug. Sure enough, the nails in your ropes do not so much as budge; you won’t be going anywhere. Michael must not be done with you yet. You must have stopped responding at some point during his torment and now he is just letting your batteries recharge.

And then he’s going to play with you some more.

You steel yourself before you gaze up at Bandit again. You do not want to; God, you don’t want to look at that stupid dead raccoon. You think you hate its dumb dead guts. Look what your generosity earned you. Even so, you cannot help but feel some twisted sense of comradery with Bandit—some inexplicable transcendent connection.

If anybody gets it, Bandit does. Bandit understands what it is like to experience Michael.

You study Bandit’s ruined corpse and dull eyes and masked face.

And then it dawns on you that Michael has restrained you in the exact position as the dead raccoon nailed to your bedroom door.

Both your arms are spread out wide from your bodies, palms out-turned, a pair of bastardized angels. Bandit has already earned his halo. You have lived to see another day without gaining one of your own.

You doubt your mock-crucifixion has any meaning at all beyond petty torment. Michael's sadistic practical joke still persists, even now.

You look at Bandit some more. You must be losing your mind because you’re speaking aloud to dead raccoons now.

“Out of the two of us,” you whisper up at him tearfully, “You’re the one that got off easy.”

Bandit peers down at your battered body with his dead black beady eyes.

Somehow, you think he agrees.

#tw: noncon #tw: abuse #tw: animal death #Michael Myers #michael myers x reader #halloween #slashers #slasher x reader #writing #fanfiction #reader insert #horror

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ansxit · 3 years ago

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Vive La Revolution

"ɪɴᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴅᴇ��ᴛʜ. ɪf ᴡᴇ ɢᴇᴛ ɴᴏ ʀᴇᴠᴏʟᴜᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴡᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ. ᴡᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴅɪᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ɢɪᴠᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴏɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴋɪɴɢᴅᴏᴍ."

(Y/n) was always loyal to Essemp. For clarification, She is the cousin to the young ruler of their nation, Clay. He wasn't the fairest ruler, but he still cherished his land and his friends. (Y/n) would always stand by her cousin's side whenever skirmishes and war broke throughout the kingdom.

Until she happened to fall for the leader of a revolution.

—

03 - Spionage

When you awoke, you were startled to find yourself under the soft sheets of your bed. Bright beams of sunlight shown through the open windows and your curtains drifted lazily through the breeze. You slowly got up, noticing you were still dressed in your blue gown from the night before.

On your bedside table sat a letter, followed by a petal of your favorite flower. You smiled and picked up the parchment, immediately recognizing Wilbur's messy handwriting. The ink was splotched in a few places, probably from having to write in candlelight.

"Y/n," the note read.

"I believe you owe me twice now, seeing as I had to carry you down three flights of stairs, it was rather tiring and I expect to be showered with total admiration and half of your plate at breakfast later this morning.

With care, Wilbur"

You smiled at his request and opened up the drawer. Inside were many different letters, organized by person and importance. You nearly folded the note and placed it with the rest of the messages Wilbur has sent to you. You also grabbed the petal of (f/f), and placed it in an empty jar sitting off to the side. A light knock on the door caught your attention, and one of your handmaidens walked in.

"Princess Y/n," she greeted with a curtsy. "King Dream has requested that you make your way down for breakfast."

You've always thought the name to be ridiculous. The name "Dream" doesn't really strike fear into anyone's hearts. It was a stupid nickname given to him since childhood because Clay always had his head stuck in the clouds. He was imaginative, creating stories to tell to You, Nick, and George.

"Of course, thank you," You smiled at the handmaiden and she backed out of your room. You made your way to the wardrobe and grabbed a forest green blouse and chestnut brown trousers. Once you were finished getting dressed, you started making your way down to the dining hall.

The suite halls were unusually empty, they're usually bustling with activity. Disturbed by the quiet, you looked around to see where your handmaiden went. Luck wasn't on your side this morning however, because she was nowhere to be found.

With a shrug, you started to head down to the dining hall, your footsteps echoing as you went.

The red seats in the hall were filled with lords and high ranked soldiers, all of who were laughing and joyously eating their meals. Plates and platters of food covered every square inch of the mahogany table as the bright sunlight filtered through the glass windows.

Clay was nowhere to be found at the table, and neither were George or Nick. It wasn't often that Clay chose to skip meals, especially with the room so full, but it wasn't entirely out of the ordinary for him.

You recognized some soldiers from your battalion, the ones who didn't need any immediate care, sitting along the table. Some gorging themselves on food, others sharing laughs with their comrades, and some both. As you passed many of them started clapping and cheering, but it was just swept into the sea of other voices. All clamoring over each other, like an arrangement of which could be the loudest and prominent.

In the far back of the room to the left of your empty seat, you could spot Wilbur lounging around with a bored expression. He was dressed in a white collared shirt with the first three buttons unbuttoned, and had his left arm hooked around the chair. His right hand was fiddling with the silverware, as he just stared at the mahogany table.

A lord to his right, dressed in a black admiral jacket with yellow decor, made eye contact with you heartily nudged his shoulder. Wilbur barely looked over at him and gave the brunet a half smile before turning back to his plate. The lord, Ponk, you recognized, shoved Wilbur again and threw his head in your direction. The brunet snapped his gaze towards you and a goofy run spread across his face almost instantly.

You picked up the pace a bit as you neared the end of table. Usually you could hear the drag of wood against wood, the echoing sound followed by the kings voice allowing people to begin eating. But instead laughter filled the joyous hall and the wooden noise was lost. Wilbur had tried to hide his goofy grin by a smug one.

"Y/n," he chastised, "I'm disappointed, truly, it isn't much like you to wake up so late is it? Especially since today is such an important day." The stupidly cute grin on his face told you he was just teasing, and it couldn't help but make you smile back.

"Oh I'm terribly sorry your grace," You bowed your head in a mock-apology. "I was up all night because a devilishly attractive bard snuck into my quarters and, well we had a lovely chat together." The tips of Wilbur's ears flushed pink and he hmmed while looking back at his empty plate. "You mentioned today was important, pray tell what for?"

"Well, if you can recall, Clay wanted to throw a banquet in celebration of capturing the leader of the revolts," Wilbur lazily fiddled with one of the many spoons at the table. "He told me last night 'bout it and we have that to deal with by the next week."

"It's just a party though," You grabbed one of the many bread rolls out of a wicker basket. "How does that make today special?" Wilbur gave a forced grin at you while you stuffed a roll in your mouth.

"That part isn't what's special, Y/n," Wilbur's usual mischievousness had returned and he grabbed your hand from across the table. "The exciting part is we get to finally continue with the Spionage."

Your heart skipped several beats. The Spionage was a passion project you and Wilbur had been working on for as long as you two had been friends. It was an elite group of soldiers picked out from just about anywhere that would be another inner circle to protect the crown. Clay had been putting multiple pauses on the plans, obsessively picking out every flaw. The revolts didn't help either, and it had been nearly half a year since you were able to work on it.

But the last time you had the chance, Clay finally gave it his approval: All that was needed left was the people to vigorously train for it. Wilbur said he already had some soldiers in mind; he was more in on the people finding than you- You were the strategic designer and executioner, not a social keeper.

"I already have the potentials waiting in the training yard." Wilbur's nonstop smile was mirroring your own now. "They're just waiting for us."

You quickly stood up from the dining chair, not bothering to tidy the silverware. "Lets go then," You had to restrain yourself from shouting in joy. "C'mon, hurry, hurry, hurry!" Wilbur reflected the growing excitement and you both took off towards the training grounds.

The guards in the far back of the room opened the doors for you both as you passed, giving their respective, yet hesitant bows. It appears seeing the stoic Princess and her closest friend running through the castle was a foreign event.

The halls were quiet again once the doors had closed, the laughter and chatter amongst people had faded out. All you could hear was the birds chirping outside and the sound of footsteps against the marble floors. The dining hall was only a few halls away from the training grounds, hidden in the far back of the palace. It resembled a Colosseum in a way, where observers could watch the knights train and place bets on the best knight there.

When You were younger, you were known as one of the best fighters in the land. Having bested both Clay and the Prince of an old neighboring kingdom in hand-to-hand combat and sword fighting. When you were in your early teens and met Wilbur, he was one of the first people to be able to disarm you in a fight. Although technically he cheated his way through by distracting you, but he would argue he never did such a thing in the fight.

After the day was over, you instantly recruited him in your ranks and the rest was self explanatory. You worked with each other for years in end, building friendships and being in charge of Essemp's strongest military. Which is why Spionage was so important; Essemp had many soldiers willing to sacrifice themselves for the kingdom but in the palace, knights like Schlatt, assassins, double-crossers could sneak in and murder the royal family without notice. The castle- no,You needed people who were headstrong, willing to take what they wanted, and also a great leader and comrade. People who are able to work together and someone who you could trust with your life. You needed more people like,

"Wilbur?" Your voice rang though the empty halls. You two had slowed to a walk, your hands still linked together.

"Yeah?" Wilbur glanced at you from the side, his grip on your fingers tightening just slightly.

"The revolution, Schlatt, they gave up too easily. Don't you think?" You felt a cold chill down your spine when remembering how the very man you're talking about was a few thousand feet below you. The catacombs ran deep under the kingdom, built upon an old structure to another realm. "I mean, all this buildup to our meeting with them, and for it to be over so quick- it doesn't feel right."

"Y/n," Wilbur had stopped and placed a warm hand on your shoulder. "You don't need to worry about these things, we captured their leader and the majority of their troops. There's not much else they can do." His brown eyes that were usually full of mischief had hints of regret in them, like he was holding something back from you. "We can rest easy, especially once we finish Spionage, we'll never have to feel threatened again." He gave a reassuring smile but it still didn't quite reach his eyes.

"How can you be certain?" You held his gaze for a minute longer before dropping your head. He didn't respond, and interlocked your hands again. You knew you wouldn't get any sure answer from him, so you both continued through the halls to the soldiers grounds. "I suppose your right, but I think the only thing I have to worry about is your judge of character." You winked at him and started into a brisk pace. "Lets hurry up, I want to finish this before dinner."

The midday sun shone brightly over the field and the soldiers all stood proudly in front of you. With their heads raised high and shoulders lifted, they held the perfect prep stance. You stalked the rows slowly, making direct eye contact with everyone standing there. Wilbur watched from the pedestal in front of the troops, watching you judge each and every person.

Most of them averted their gaze, deciding to look past you or up at the sky. It was rare to find soldiers willing to bite back at their superiors, majority of them being bootlickers and following orders.

Two soldiers in particular caught your attention, one obscenely tall, close to Wilbur's height, and lanky enough to look like a gust of wind would knock him over. His bright blue eyes held your stare and he struggled to maintain the stoic faces of the soldiers around him. He'd fidget ever so often, either his grip tightening on the stone sword you'd passed out, or shifting on his feet. He might've looked out of place with the battle-ridden troops around him, but he was prepared and on alert.

In a row a few behind him, the second soldier was shorter than most, and his stance not as confident as the others, but he held your gaze with unwitting determination. You could barely see his face underneath the iron helm much too big for him and his long brown hair that desperately needed a trim, but everything about him shown he was built for fighting.

You walked back to Wilbur, almost disappointed. None of the soldiers here except for save 10 out of the 60 Wilbur found were what you were looking for. They were all perfect soldiers, no doubt: But this was supposed to be different from the battalions you send to wars.

"Find anyone?" Wilbur asked, getting up from leaning against the podium and turning his head away from the soldiers.

"Rows 1 and 6 look like they belong in a daycare," You crossed your arms and squinted at the people a good twenty feet away from you. "The girl with pink hairs got major bite though, she'd be nice to have around." Said girl was about as tall as the brown haired kid- and she held herself so easily. Like she could blast open a skull and then go right back to carrying normal conversation. Nervousness was hidden deep in her eyes but gave an overall positive demeanor.

"Seven seems fine to me," Wilbur muttered and you're gaze flittered over to someone with a buzz cut and sunglasses obstructing your view of their eyes. His stance was the same as every other soldier, he looks like someone you'd see on the battlefield that just blends in. But there might be character Wilbur sees that you haven't had the chance to yet. The guy's jaw ticked and you could tell straight through the glasses he knew he was being scrutinized. You could see it now, how his stance changed to something more prepared—more battle-ready. "Yeah, he seems alright." You looked at Wilbur with a set smile, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Congratulations Wil, you found some pretty decent people."

"Decent?" Wilbur scoffed, "I'll have you know I watched these people train for hours on end while you were up in a study. They're more than decent I'd say."

"Then say you shall." You smirked at him then formally faced the rows. Around 100 people stood inform of you, all waiting for your next directions. "Soldiers, split into groups of five and line up at the respective archways of the Colosseum!" Wilbur flicked a lever by the main gate and the iron bars boarding the exits opened with a creaky noise.

"On our signal a good old game of capture the arrow will begin, only this time," You held out the gold-tipped arrow in your hand, "Team battle royal, show no mercy to the others and eliminations will continue as the games go on." The soldiers looked at each other in a slight panic and the podium Wilbur and You had been standing on began to rise to the audience section.

"Let the games begin!" Wilbur hollered.

#dream smp #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot #lmanburg #revolution #fantasy au #fanfiction

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earthfluuke · 4 years ago

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like a drum my heart never stops beating (for you)

summary: when you’re gifted, you’re family. or -- happy moments we don’t get to see, because the show producers are a bunch of meanies who want to see us suffer.

novemeber 10 brought two amazing people into this world. alexa - @sunsetskyline - and rahul - @gaysarawat - i wish you only the very best of birthdays! may this next year in your lives bring you nothing but love and happiness! i wanted to give you both something for your special days, so i hope that this fic will suffice! i got a bit carried away, and it’s way longer than i intended for it to be. but something tells me the two of you won’t mind.

this exists in a happy universe where supot doesn’t exist, and pom has been in charge of the gifted program ever since he became a teacher. i also had to come up with a few codenames for the characters that didn’t have them, so i hope the ones i came up with are good!

title comes from gone, gone, gone by phillip phillips.

my reasoning for why there are eight parts is because pang is in class eight. do not come for me please, it’s 4 in the morning when i’m finishing this.

i. teach & constellation

Falling face first into the comforter, Pom lets out a long, held in groan. He will never say that he hates his job, because it would just be untrue. Every day brings something new; every student is one he adores. Watching them grow into better versions of themselves is something he will never tire of. The comparison between where they start at the beginning of the year and where they end up brings him immense joy.

But as much as he can say that being a teacher is one of his greatest prides, he can also admit that some days, it exhausts him. Long class periods are followed by one-on-one sessions, and in between, he makes sure all of his students are well fed, properly hydrated, and – most importantly – mentally healthy. That alone is difficult. Add on the fact that they all have beyond human potentials, and Pom’s fatigue becomes much more reasonable.

A hand cards through his hair, gently breaking the coif he has gelled back. Bangs now drooping into his eyes, he leans into the hand, the feeling of fingertips scratching his scalp lulling him a bit. Before he can drift off completely, a voice – half amused, half fond – asks, “Long day?”

“Long week,” he corrects, finally allowing his chin to tilt up to look at his husband. He’s already changed for the evening, his night clothes clashing against the slacks and button-down Pom has yet to take off; the most he’s done is loosen his tie at the door and let it fall to the floor on his trek towards the bed. “The end of the semester is always the busiest. Final evaluations and all that.”

Chanon hums sympathetically, brushing some of his stray bangs behind his ear. “I can handle dinner for the rest of the semester then. Can’t have you overworking yourself any more than you already are.”

“My savior,” he teases, but he’s genuinely grateful for the offer.

Lips tilting up at the edges, Chanon smiles. “What can I say? My husband deserves a break. He’s always caring so much for everyone else; I’ve got to make sure he’s being taken care of too.”

It’s Pom’s turn to smile, and while he’s been looking at Chanon the entire while, he then really looks at him. The front of his hair swoops across his forehead while the back is tussled from where it has been leant against the pillow. He’s in a pair of fraying sweatpants and a t-shirt adorned with a space pun that he’d have to explain for Pom to understand. Resting on his nose are a pair of circular glasses. They’re not the same ones from high school; those had worn out two years into university. But they are similar enough to give Pom a sense of nostalgia. For as much as they’ve grown and aged, Chanon is same chubby cheeked and deeply telescope obsessed Chanon from high school. He is the Chanon that Pom fell in love with; he’s the Chanon that he is still stupidly, ridiculously, earnestly in love with.

Pushing himself farther up on the bed, he settles his head against Chanon’s thigh. The fingers in his hair do not hesitate to adjust to the new position, and it causes Pom to sag further into him.

“We can eat in a bit,” he murmurs, curling his legs up so that they don’t hang off the edge of the bed. “Let me just lay here for a while.”

He cannot see Chanon smile, but he can hear it in his voice when he says, “Whatever you want.” It’s a simple statement, seeing as the thing he desires most is right beside him.

ii. magician & lonely

Korn is truly an enigma, and Ohm is so far from cracking whatever code he’s programed with. He seemingly enjoys to keep to himself, but people can only enjoy that so much, right? Everyone wants company from time to time, and if it is his mission to make sure Korn knows that he’s as much a part of this odd little family as anyone else, then he will gladly fulfill it.

But it’s more difficult than he planned for. Currently sat in an empty classroom, he’s flipping through the photos on his camera, and Ohm would have been convinced that he’s ignoring him, if not for the one headphone pulled away from his ear to rest farther back on his head. For the better part of half an hour, he has been listing off suggestions for their class’s weekly dinner night with no avail. Every option he gives is met with a low hum and nothing else.

He may have a reputation for being a bit airheaded, but he notices much more than people give him credit for. Punn keeps the scarf that Claire used to wear around her shoulders in his bag to hold on to when he feels stressed. Jack and Jo don’t quite mind being referred to as ‘the twins,’ but when called by their names, there are slight flickers just beyond their eyes. And for as slick as Pang and Wave think they’re being, he is more than aware of their roof top rendezvous. They are all little things that apply to each of his classmates, supposedly useless knowledge that Ohm finds more than important (because they are all important to him).

So as much as Korn goes off to be on his own, Ohm still knows enough. Like that he tends to favor Japanese food over anything else. It’s why he’s slipped in the new sushi restaurant that opened not long ago at least a dozen times. It’s easy bait to get Korn to talk and yet, nothing.

Deciding enough is enough, he slides off the stool he’s been sulking on to stand right beside him. He pouts deeper and deeper until Korn finally looks to him out of the corner of his eye, brow raised. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.

“Because you won’t pick anything!” he whines. “I’ve suggested every restaurant inside the city limits, and you don’t like any of them!”

“It’s not that I don’t like them,” he amends. “It’s just that I don’t particularly care which one we order from. I’m really not that picky.”

“But the rest of us always choose. I want you to!” Grabbing hold of his arm, he bops the top of his head against his shoulder, nuzzling into. “Pretty, pretty please? We use Khu Pom’s credit card, so the price doesn’t even matter! Whatever you want, we’ll get!”

For a moment, Korn is silent, and Ohm is afraid he’ll have to throw in the towel and try another time. But then he feels him swallow thickly and softly say, “Whatever you want to get. That’s what I want.”

“Korn! I already said, we always choose what we get–”

“Not what the rest of them want,” he says. “What you want.”

Straightening quickly, he tries to catch his eye, but Korn has already tugged the stray headphone over his bare ear and pulled his camera closer to his face to block Ohm from his line of sight. He figures that it’s as much of an answer as he’s going to get out of him, and though he doesn’t quite understand, he takes his word. He can try again another time, but for now, he has a sushi order to place.

iii. bodyguard & angel

“I think this is a bit much, don’t you?” Namtaan says, tightening her arms around Mon’s neck. Her feet hang at her side, swinging back and forth as she’s carried piggyback style through the hallways and towards the dorm building. “Just because I don’t have your potential doesn’t mean I’m completely incapable of exercising.”

Earlier that day, she approached her girlfriend with the request of teaching her self-defense. The interest hadn’t sparked from any specific situation; she had only supposed that it was a useful skill to have. And with Mon’s proficiency in athletics, she seemed like the perfect person to ask. She wasn’t an easy opponent, but Namtaan hadn’t expected her to be. Practicing with someone who can out-fight anyone she may ever encounter will make her more than prepared.

What she failed to remember was that as soon as Mon stopped being her sparring partner, she went right back to being her girlfriend, and honestly, Namtaan isn’t quite sure which one is worse. After seeing her panting on the practice mats, she’d rushed over with a towel – careful to wipe off her sweat on a separate one first – and a water bottle. That was more than enough to tide her over but for Mon, not so much. And thus, she ended up on her back.

“But you do have high blood pressure,” Mon reminds her as she turns a corner. The sun is setting, shining bright as it hangs low in the sky. Namtaan has to duck her head into Mon’s shoulder so that she’s not blinded. “So I’m pretty sure a bit of caution is warranted.”

“Exercise actually helps with high blood pressure,” she points out. “So your argument is completely inaccurate. Want to give me another reason as to why I’m not currently walking on my own?”

Clinging to her when she hoists her higher up on her back, she feels like she’s falling before Mon has her arms hooked under her legs once more. It’s an entirely intentional move that has her kicking her girlfriend’s hips. Her only acknowledgement of it is a breathy laugh that tells Namtaan that she’s smiling and the quip of, “Maybe I just wanted carry my girlfriend around. What good is my potential if I can’t use it on what’s most important?”

Stunned into silence, Namtaan can do nothing more than bury further into where Mon’s neck meets her shoulder, pink cheeks completely hidden. The two of them are not often overt with affection in public settings, but their relationship is still new enough for her to be caught off guard with spontaneous bits of mush and gush. She has yet to find a good way to react to it, so for now, hiding is the best option she has.

“Next time I want to practice, I’m asking Punn,” she mumbles against her skin. Mon laughs, and she kicks her hips again, harder this time.

iv. idol and babies

It’s nice to know how everyone feels in any given situation. It leaves little room for confusion or possible hostilities that arise from deeply repressed emotions. But regardless of how useful her potential may be, Claire tends to keep other people’s privacy as just that.

There are times when the colors are too vibrant to ignore, and they manage to spill into her peripherals even when she isn’t utilizing her potential. And well, curiosity killed the cat after all; she takes a peek, just a small one. But even then, she keeps what only she can see to herself.

But then there are rarities where she can’t not involve herself, though it’s always for a good cause, trust her. Usually, it’s only when one of her classmates goes blue, and the littlest gesture of a drink left on their desk or snacks dropped off outside their door rooms suffices to draw a bit of yellow around them.

She says usually, but…she’s never been able to turn down helping someone who’s pink.

It doesn’t happen very often. Wave has slowly but surely grown from a soft rose to a bright fuchsia, but any advice she has attempted to offer him is met with fierce denial. She can’t comprehend why, seeing as even Ohm has caught on to his and Pang’s terribly hidden secret. Though she likes getting under his skin, they are far from the enemies they were in their first year, so a few light, jabbing teases is all she gives him. Mon and Namtaan are the only two, besides herself and Punn, who have their acts together, so she has nothing to worry about there. And Korn…that’s another conversation entirely.

It’s when she thinks that her romance expertise is no longer needed that she catches a pink glow coming from across the canteen. She hasn’t gotten to talk much to the younger gifted students much, what with the third years focusing on their potentials individually rather than in a group setting. But she knows their names, and more than anything, she knows when someone has a crush.

Her gaze lands on a girl – Grace, she remembers – sitting with her hands curled beneath her chin, and if anyone else were to look at her, they would think she’s staring off aimlessly. Claire, however, follows her line of sight to land on a girl at a table a few away from the one she’s sitting at. She’s talking a mile a minute, hands flying in front of her face for emphasis. When she turns back to Grace, she finds the faintest of smiles creeping its way to her lips. That, she thinks, is what has her moving.

Sitting in the empty space beside her, she doesn’t hesitate before speaking, low enough for only the two of them to hear, “Are you just going to keep staring, or will you actually go and talk to her?”

Grace flinches, head whipping towards her. Eyes wide, she stammers for a reply, “P’Claire–”

“Nothing will come from watching from afar,” she continues. “Believe me, I’m speaking from personal experience. You’ll never have a chance if you don’t even try.”

Swallowing, Grace dares a quick glance back to the girl. She sinks a bit in her seat, whispering, “And what if I do and still nothing comes of it?”

“Then you get to move on. But between you and me,” she brushes a piece of her wavy hair behind her ear and smiles, “I think things will turn out just fine. Trust me when I say that not knowing is much worse than any reaction she may have.”

It only takes another glance to the girl and a bite to her bottom lip before Grace is slowly getting up and approaching the girl. She gives her a bright grin and moves a seat over to make room for her at the table.

Claire’s heart swells. Just as she suspected, Grace has very little to worry about. And now that she’s settled that, she can deal with the dual pink bodies across the table. Third and Time have been bickering back and forth since she’d sat down, but what can she say? She’s always loved a challenge.

v. class eight kid & wizard

Wave can’t remember how he ended up crowded against the wall in one of the school’s stairways, but it’s the position he’s in. And from the looks of it, he’s not leaving it any time soon.

Pang has one hand resting on the wall beside his head, and he’s smiling at him like that. It’s infuriating, but even more so, it’s absolutely heart stopping. One of the sides of his mouth is raised just slightly higher than the other, and he’s looking directly into Wave’s eyes like they hold the answer to the universe. He can feel the glare he’s sending him softening by the second.

“We were supposed to meet up with the others ten minutes ago,” he reminds him, if only to break Pang’s gaze. He should know better; Pang is as stubborn as they come, and when his mind is set on something, it’s near impossible to stray it.

The one side of his mouth raises even higher, and he dares to lean in a bit closer. Wave’s head, already pressed flat against the wall, tilts up, trying to put more space between them. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Pang, far from it. Rather, he doesn’t know if he trusts himself. He’s meant to be the rational one between the two of them, and when he’s encroaching into his personal space, he finds it hard to not let himself be the careless one.

“That means we’re already late. What’s a few more minutes going to do?” It’s a test, Wave is sure. He’s never failed one of those, and he’s not going to start because of some reckless kid from Class Eight.

He’s annoying on the best of days; he gets on Wave’s last nerves on the worst. He’s stupidly slow at times, doesn’t comprehend the most basic of mathematics, cannot button a shirt to save his life, and yet, Wave is hopelessly attracted to him, flaws included. He wouldn’t be Pang without them.

He isn’t quite sure what Pang sees in him, and perhaps he never will. All that matters is that he sees something. Though he won’t admit it (not yet), he feels lucky for it. The way Pang’s eyes hang heavy and half lidded as his free hand plays with his fingers is enough to make him shout it out loud and have it echo around the school for everyone to hear. Instead, he does the only other thing he thinks to.

Gripping the hand that already has his, Wave pulls him the rest of the way in until there’s no space left between them. Kissing is new, and he’s not sure if he’s very good at it. But it’s a nice feeling, it’s Pang, and it’s enough.

Short, simple, and sweet is the best way to describe it. They’re at risk of someone finding them, and more so, it’s enough for Wave to slip away. Flustering his boyfriend is a game he can play just as well as Pang, and as he walks down the hall, hands shoved triumphantly in his pockets, he knows he’s won this round.

“Fifteen minutes,” he calls over his shoulder. “Ohm is going to get antsy and come looking for us. Better hurry and come up with an excuse before we get to the room.”

Quick footsteps patter behind him, and an arm slings around his shoulders as they walk together. Irritating, thick-skulled, and thoughtless does not begin to describe Pang. But understanding, kind, and all kinds of wonderful more than does.

vi. class eight kid, magician & angel

“Namtaan,” Ohm whines, drawing out her name as he drapes himself over her bed. He, along with Pang, have taken refuge in her room, looking for something to do. Unfortunately for them, she’s a bit too preoccupied for whatever they’re needy for this time around. “I can’t believe you’re abandoning us for Mon tonight. We had plans!”

“You had plans,” she corrects, uncapping a tube of mascara and brushing the wand through her lashes. “And you failed to tell me about said plans. So if you’d like to put blame on anyone, put it on yourself.” Eyes flickering away from her reflection in the mirror to look at Pang’s, she asks, “You’re not going to complain?”

Pang shrugs with a grin. “I’m just here, because Ohm dragged me along. I told him you’d probably be busy, but he said you’d never be too busy for us.”

“She wasn’t before she got a girlfriend!” Flipping onto his back, Ohm spreads his arms out wide, kicking his feet in a childish huff. “We watched movies! Had game nights! Now you’re off to dinner with Mon while we have to stay here alone!”

“We can still do all of those things another time,” she assures him, unable to hold back a thoughtful smile. As dramatic as he is, she’s still stupidly fond of him. “And you won’t be alone. You have each other for company.”

Ohm rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. You and I both know that as soon as Wave is done with his homework, Pang is going to ditch me for him.”

Pang lets out an exasperated noise. “What? I will not!”

“Sure you won’t. You’re telling me you haven’t already texted him to tell you when he’s done?”

“…you could come with me?”

“Absolutely not!”

Namtaan leaves them to bicker as she slips into the bathroom to change. Her level of primping is nowhere near Claire’s, but she enjoys looking nice, specifically on date nights. What shame is there in wanting to dress up a bit for her girlfriend?

Even so, it’s nothing far out of her comfort zone: a simple, floral dress with her favorite light blue cardigan. Turning around, she looks over her shoulder into the mirror, spinning a bit to see the end of the dress flutter about her knees. It’s nice, she thinks, to feel pretty sometimes.

Stepping back into the bedroom, she’s met by the boys’ argument, but it’s cut off by the time she shuts the bathroom door. The two of them are staring at her, slow blinks the only movements in their faces. She can’t remember a time either of them have been struck speechless, and she looks down at her outfit for a moment with concern. She understands it’s not her typical dress, but surely it isn’t different enough to garner this reaction.

Fingers curling into where the sleeves of her cardigan rest over her palms, she’s about to question them, but Ohm beats her to it. “Namtaan!” he exclaims. “You look so pretty!”

It’s her turn to blink, because whatever she expects the reasoning for their silence to be, this is not it. But their mouths are quickly breaking into excited smiles, and they’re looking at her like she’s the most amazing thing they’ve ever seen.

“How come you’ve never worn anything like this before?” Ohm asks, hanging over the end of her bed to get a closer look.

“I guess I’ve never had a reason to?” she answers. It’s never been something she’s thought about. More often than not, she’s in her school uniform, and if for some reason she isn’t, nothing she does warrants this level of dress. “I’ve never seen you in a suit or anything like that either, Ohm.”

“That would be fun though, wouldn’t it? If we all got dressed up really fancy?” His cheeks look as though they’re about to burst with how far the edges of his lips push into them. “It’s just…you look really pretty, Namtaan.”

She turns to Pang. He’s only the slightest bit more sensible, but he’s less likely to have the blinding positivity that Ohm does. He only nods in agreement. “You really do.”

This is so far from what she’s used to that she isn’t sure how to respond. It only takes one more look at them – the two impulsive yet caring boys she somehow got stuck with during her first year and never found reason to stray from – for her to return their smiles. They’re dense at times, don’t always think things through, but more than anything, they’re hers and that’s what matters most.

vii. idol, master & lonely

Ever since the gifted dorms had been split by boys and girls instead of provided on an individual basis, Korn has found it more and more difficult to find places to be alone. He can only stay in the classrooms for so long, and even those aren’t always empty. Their secret hideout is rarely vacant, more often than not littered with multiple of his classmates. Before, he’d at least had his dorm for solitude, but now, he doesn’t even have that.

Rationally, he knows that this should be good for him. Keeping to himself as much as he does isn’t healthy, and there are more than enough opportunities for him to spend time with the rest of the gifted kids, seeing as they tend to travel in somewhat of a pack. But jumping head first into the freezing cold water that is social interaction after going so long without it isn’t easy. He’s trying, truly, but sometimes, he needs some seclusion.

Mon is the safest space he has. She understands him in a way the others never will. Their potentials come with side effects that have had them wishing they were born without them on more than one occasion, and during those down times, they find comfort in each other.

It’s what has him stalking to the girls’ dorm room. With multiple nights without a wink of sleep, he feels himself slowly reaching the breaking point he’s talked himself away from too many times to count. If he’s lucky, he’ll catch Mon there alone. And if she’s not, she’ll know him enough to follow him to somewhere private.

The door is slightly cracked open, so he knocks once before sticking his head in. Instead of Mon, he finds the very last thing he wants to. Punn is propped up against the pillows on one of the bottom bunks, flipping through the pages of a book. Leaning against his side, Claire scrolls through her phone, glancing up at the sound of someone entering. She smiles at him, and it’s just too much.

Turning on his heel, he goes for the door, mumbling an apology under his breath. A frantic “Korn, wait!” is called after him, and a hand grabs his wrist. The grip is deliberate, and he knows by the way Claire’s fingertips go white beneath the pink polish on her nails that she won’t let him go without a fight.

He faces her, planting both feet firmly to show that he isn’t going to run. Even still, she won’t release him. Sighing, he asks, “What do you want, Claire?” Over her shoulder, he sees that they’ve captured Punn’s attention. He’s staring at him with a look to his eyes that Korn can’t quite decipher, but the last thing he wants to do is upset Claire enough to get him involved. So he softens his tone and says, “I was looking for Mon.”

“She just left with Namtaan,” Claire says. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t stay! We’re not really doing much, and it’s been so long we’ve talked.” There is desperation in her voice as well as in her eyes, and it pulls at a string of his heart that he thinks has always belonged to her. “Please, Korn?”

It’s then that he realizes that she’s wearing her glasses. It’s not a sight he sees very often, but it’s familiar and makes him feel warm. He doesn’t harbor any romantic feelings for her anymore; he’d gotten over those long, long ago. This is purely platonic, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t intense. This is the Claire – the Medfai – that he’s known since they were tripping over their shoelaces and sneaking bits of their lunches underneath their desks. A simple of pair of glasses reminds him of a far simpler time before potentials and gifted programs and multiple sleepless nights in a row. He so badly wants to cling to it, and he’s almost calls himself selfish until he remembers that this is something that Claire is offering.

“If you’re sure,” he says, as though he’s giving her one last chance to pull away.

“I am,” she assures. She sounds as though she’s holding back her excitement until he shuts the door and ventures further into the room.

Ultimately, it’s Punn that has him moving. “She’s not going to stop asking until you agree,” he says. He’s gone back to his book, and he casually flips a page before looking to Korn again. “It’s much easier to go along with whatever she wants. We both know that.”

We, not I. It’s the first time he can recall Punn acknowledging that he knows and cares for Claire as much as he does; it’s the first time ever that he doesn’t feel guilty for intruding on what he’s convinced himself isn’t a place he’s wanted.

“Okay.” Somehow, a single word brings her so much joy, and she’s tugging him towards her bed. He sits on the end, making sure there’s enough room between them, because there are still boundaries he’s not quite ready to break. But even with the space between them, he feels closer to anyone than he has in a very long time.

“So,” Claire chirps. Legs crossed in front of her, she’s leaning against her ankles and angling towards him. “Tell me what’s going on between you and Ohm.”

Groaning, he lets his head fall back against the wooden paneling around the edges of the bed. Claire is laughing, and he can hear Punn joining her. He would say he’s already regretting his decision, but he can’t; not when he finally feels like he’s starting to belong.

viii. teach & class xv

Pom has no reason to believe that this Tuesday will be different than any other, but he is sorely mistaken. Lesson plans tucked beneath his arm, he opens the door to his classroom and is met with a loud popping sound and a spray of multi colored confetti. Surprised enough to take a step back, he looks beyond the doorway and into the rest of the classroom.

The walls are draped in streamers, and there’s a long banner that reads ‘Thank You!!’ across the front board. On his desk is a tray of cupcakes in varying levels of proper decorations. Every desk has a bottled beverage atop it, and there’s one held out for him by Korn. He takes it, albeit slowly, and lets the door shut behind him.

This isn’t a special day, because he would have known if it was. He has every one of his students’ birthdays marked in the calendar in his office, and the little box for today’s date was empty when he last checked it. It isn’t his birthday either, so he’s at a loss for just what they’re meant to be celebrating.

“Want to explain to me what’s going on?” he asks as he reaches the front of the room. He places his things down, and the kids all take their seats, smiles still plastered across all of their faces. “I wasn’t aware there was something worth celebrating.”

“Of course there is!” Ohm says, because of course it’s him. “It’s the last week of the semester!”

“Ah,” he nods, their actions beginning to make more sense. “Prebreak excitement then? You do know that you still have your final evaluations, right?”

“We know,” Claire says. She points to her protective sunglasses, and even behind them, Pom can see her affectionate eyeroll. “We’ve been practicing nonstop on top of studying for our normal exams.”

“But that’s not why we’re celebrating,” Wave adds.

“We only have one semester left here,” Pang continues. “One semester left of the gifted program. And one semester left with you.”

“You’ve done so much for us over the past three years,” Namtaan finishes for them. “You’ve helped us with much more than our potentials, and I think I speak for all of us when I say that we’re very grateful that we got to have you as a teacher.”

The entire class nods in unison, and it takes a good few blinks to clear the tears from his eyes. It feels like yesterday that he told Chanon that he wanted to be a teacher. Classes have come and gone, and somehow another is almost out the door. He doesn’t pick favorites; he loves all of the kids he’s had and will love all the ones he will ever have in the future equally. But that doesn’t stop the special pocket in his heart that has tucked itself away for these ten kids.

He won’t break down, not until he’s in the confines of his apartment, and he has his husband’s chest to hide in. For now, he returns their smiles with one of his own and pretends it’s not a bit wobbly at the edges.

“And I’m just as grateful to have had all of you as my students,” he says. He hopes they don’t catch the shake in his voice, but if they do, they don’t make mention of it. “Now, come on, these cupcakes aren’t going to eat themselves. Maybe they’ll sweeten the fact that I have the order for all of your individual examination times.”

A chorus of groans echoes through the room as they all file to get their hands on a cupcake. He watches them all, and in each of them, he sees how much they’ve grown from the first day he met them. He never forgets a student, and he sees no reason that this batch will be any different.

#the gifted #the gifted the series #the gifted graduation #the gifted: graduation #tgg #my writing #there is so much to unpack here #there are so many pairings #so many friendships we haven't gotten to see #and a bunch of stuff the fan base has made up on their own #did i add ohmkorn just for rahul?#of course i did #how could i not?#i hope it was happy and fluffy enough to make up for all the insanity tgg is giving us #okay seriously it's 4 am i need to sleep #but happy birthday to you both!

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littlesliceofmarvel · 4 years ago

Text

manipulating a god | chpt. eight

Synopsis: Trying to break the information out of Loki during the attack of 2012 wasn’t exactly the easiest task, but it was a challenge you were willing to take head on. So, what happened when a master manipulator tried to get information from the God of Mischief?

Series warnings: swearing, mentions of violence, blood, gore

Pairings: Stark!Reader x Loki

A/N: hope you enjoy this next chapter :) it’s picking up, at last! (gif not mine)

Bruce looked down to his right hand, eyes narrowing once he noticed that he was indeed carrying the weapon. He looked back up to face the group, eyes wide and confused. You had to admit, he didn’t even seem like he remembered grabbing it.

You nearly jumped out of your bones when a loud beeping sounded from one of the computers — it signalled that the location of the Tesseract had been found.

“Oh, goodie,” you sighed sarcastically, crossing your arms and squinting to see the screen. The tension in the room was palpable and you hated it.

No one dared to speak as Bruce placed the sceptre down, “Sorry kids, you don’t get to see my party trick after all.” He walked over to the beeping computer, tense and angry. You nerves were on edge.

“You located the Tesseract?” Thor asked, his loud voice startling you. It was rather loud in the quiet room, you thought.

“I could get there fastest,” Tony raised his hand before crossing his arms. You turned over to him, nodding your head, before turning back to face Bruce.

Thor spoke up again, “The Tesseract belongs on Asgard. No human is a match for it.” He looked over to Fury, hoping the director would understand.

“We should send you to get it then,” you said, nudging your head in Thor’s direction, “I don’t want to go near that thing.”

Tony began to walk towards the doorway, mumbling something about ‘I’ll do it myself’ — until, however, he was cut off by Steve grabbing his arm.

“You’re not going alone,” Steve said, glaring at Tony.

“You’re gonna stop me?” your brother pressed, stepping closer to Steve. Both of them seemed to radiate anger and you stepped back to avoid being caught in the crossfire.

“Put on the suit, let’s find out,” Steve’s eyebrows were furrowed, his eyes thin.

“I’m not afraid to hit an old man,” Tony rebutted through gritted teeth. He seemed calmer than Steve, but you knew your brother well enough to tell he was running on a short fuse.

“Chill, divas,” you put an arm between them, “We need to work together.”

Steve ignored you, pushing your arm out of the way and stepping even closer, “Put on the suit.”

You sighed, throwing your arms in the air. There was nothing you could do to to pry these two apart. You supposed that’s what happens when you put two hotheads together, though.

“Oh, my God,” Bruce’s voice caught your attention. You looked over, stepping closer to see if you could see anything.

“What—,”

You were knocked backwards, flying through the air and crashing into a wall. An explosion had been set off, fire coming up through the grates in the floor. The entire helicarrier shook and the sound was deafening.

Shit.

You groaned, trying your best to lift your head. You placed your hand to your forehead, a small trickle of blood making its way down your face.

Your mind was fuzzy and your body felt numb as you pushed yourself up. The rest of the group was scattered — but Bruce and Natasha were gone. You looked down, spotting a massive hole in the floor, and figured they probably fell down there.

You heard Steve’s voice through the smoke, “Put on the suit.”

Tony agreed, and you could hear the two of them rushing out of the room. Before he could exit, however, Tony stopped in front of you and helped you up.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes wide.

You nodded slowly, “Yeah. Just go. I gotta go check on Loki.”

He stood up and ran, Steve by his side, and disappeared down the smoky corridor. You placed a hand to your ear, turning on your Bluetooth earpiece and checked once more to make sure everyone in the room was stable before darting down the same way Tony and Steve had just went.

Loki was on your mind; this had to be his doing. You weren’t sure how anyone had found him, but that was the only explanation you could think of.

“All hands to stations,” you heard through the PA, not slowing down as you continued running. Your ears were ringing and your hands felt tingly, but you didn’t stop. You aimed to stop this before it escalated.

You were slowly starting to regret signing up for this.

You arrived at Loki’s cell, flashing your ID badge and making sure the door shut behind you as you walked in. You were well aware you looked dirty and panicked, but Loki looked relatively calm and collected.

A small smirk graced his lips, “Ah. Welcome back, Y/N.”

“Cut the bullshit,” you snapped, causing his smirk to grow, “What the hell happened out there?”

You could hear Fury and Romanoff talking through your earpiece, but you ignored it best you could as you stormed straight up to the glass cell.

“Lovely to see you too,” he replied cooly, eyes darting back and forth between you and the door behind you. You stepped away from it; there had to be a reason he kept looking at it and you did not want to be in the way if anything happened.

“Loki, this isn’t a game,” you crossed your arms, watching in anticipation as he walked over to you slowly.

“I suggest you get off of this ship if you want to stay away from harm,” he shrugged, placing his fist against the glass and looking down at you. Even under his piercing, angry gaze, you couldn’t help the fact that your knees bucked.

As if on cue, the door behind you opened and a group of men dressed in all black tactical suits barged in. You didn’t recognize any of them, but it was easy to decipher they weren’t working for Shield.

“Get the girl,” one of them shouted, causing your breath to hitch in your throat.

“Don’t harm her,” Loki told him as the man grabbed you by the waist, pressing the cool barrel of the gun against your temple. Your hands began to shake and fear flooded you — with everyone busy fixing the engine, how were you supposed to get out of this?

Before anyone could respond, you heard a roar-like yell echo through the vents.

Your breathing was heavy and your mind was scattered, but you knew exactly what that was. And based on Loki’s smirk, he knew what it was too. Bruce had become the Hulk.

“I have to—,” you began to speak, mind racing, but were shortly cut off by the man gripping you even tighter. You winced, your ribs already feeling sore from being blasted backwards after the explosion.

“What’s the code?” one of the men asked, looking over at you, “The code to open the cell.”

You swallowed thickly, wishing more than anything that someone would come in to save you. Being responsible for giving Loki’s men the code to help him escape was not something you wanted on your conscious.

“1234,” you replied grimly, mustering the most deadly glare you could. The men all chuckled at the ridiculous password before the one at the control panel pressed away at the keypad.

You watched with bated breath as the cell opened up, Loki’s smirk never faltering as he stepped out.

Great, you thought, another fucking problem.

Loki slowly walked over to you, his eyes glistening. He seemed way too pleased about al of this — but then again, this had been his plan all along. Of course he was pleased.

“How can I ever repay you?” he asked surprisingly softly, placing his hand on your forehead. His fingers were cold — it was soothing against the burning wound there.

“Get off our planet,” you growled, trying to wiggle away from the man still holding you, “It would be a lovely way to repay me.”

He chuckled, his gaze turning harsh as he looked at the man holding you, “Let go of her, you mortal.”

You sighed in relief as the man let go of you before turning back to Loki, “Seems you’re also a hypocrite. What was all that shit about you won’t be spared, huh?”

He grabbed you by the forearm, bringing you close to him so he was practically flushed against you, “Seems I’ve had a change of heart. Now, you’re coming with me.”

“Oh, no I’m not,” you scoffed, trying your best to dig your feet into the ground as he began to pull you alongside him. His men had picked up on the fact that he wanted to leave; they had all exited the room.

“Yes, you are,” he turned around, a sinister smile on his face. It made your blood run cold. How could someone be so terrifying, yet so stupidly attractive? It didn’t make sense.

As he began to drag you, the entire ship seemed to topple over as another engine seemed to fail. You lost your balance, Loki tightening his grip on you to help keep you up. You could hear Tony and Steve bantering through your earpiece as they tried to fix the engines.

You stabilized yourself and peered behind Loki, stopping dead in your tracks as you looked at the cell. There was another Loki in it, watching as the cell door slowly opened in front of him.

“What the hell—,”

Thor suddenly charged through the door of the room, trying to keep his brother trapped in, only to fall right through the illusion of him and have the cell shut and trap him in.

“Thor!” you pulled away from Loki, who was pressing the button, and rushed over to the cell, slamming your fist against the glass, “Loki, you slithering bastard, let him out.”

Thor looked up, his face falling as he spotted the real Loki.

“Are you ever not going to fall for that?” Loki smirked, placing his arms behind his back and walking over to you, grabbing your wrist once more.

“Let go of me!” you pulled against him to no avail. Your fighting only seemed to cause Loki’s smirk to grow.

Oh, how you couldn’t wait for the day you’d get to stab him in his perfect cheekbones.

You looked over to Thor, who’s eyes were wide and watching Loki drag you back to the control panel. You looked at Thor in panic, your breathing ragged.

Thor, running low on options, lifted his hammer, smashing it against the glass. It didn’t break, but the crack it left was enough to set the suspensions off.

“Don’t touch the glass!” you cried, “It’ll only drop you!”

Loki let go of you, his mouth curving up into a grin. The door behind you opened and one of his men walked back into the room, a large gun strapped to his chest.

Somehow, you feared him more than you feared Loki.

“The humans think us immortal,” Loki spoke to Thor, eyeing the control panel with delighted interest, “Shall we test that?”

Your heart felt as if it had stopped as Loki approached the button.

“No!”

“Oh—,”

Your eyes snapped to where Loki’s defense man fell to the ground, out cold. Phil Coulson stood above him, an even larger gun in his hand, rather proud of himself for taking the guy out.

“Oh, shit,” you scurried out of the way, trying your best to avoid being caught in the aim. You recognized the weapon as one of the ones Fury had designed — but you had no idea what it was capable of.

“Move away, please,” Phil’s voice was firm, steady, as he approached Loki, who was slowly stepping away from the control panel with his hands up.

The tension was high. You were pressed up against a wall, Thor was trapped in a cage, and Phil was slowly cornering Loki.

“You like this?” Phil asked, lifting the gun slightly, “We started working on the prototype after you sent the Destroyer. Even I don’t know what it does.”

Loki’s surrender seemed too easy — and you knew you were right as soon as another Loki appeared behind Phil, his sceptre inches away from stabbing him through the chest.

Without thinking, you rushed towards him, knocking Phil out of the way and bringing Loki down to the ground with a loud echoing thud.

Instinct wasn’t always the right choice, and you knew that was right when Loki spun you around, pushing you to the ground.

“How dare you—,”

“You were about to fucking kill him,” you shouted, lifting your knee and kicking him between the legs. Loki groaned, kneeling over.

“Phil, get out!” you shouted, waving your hand like a maniac as you noticed Phil was still standing there, his gun aimed at Loki.

Phil seemed to sense your tone, gripping the large weapon even tighter as he sighed and began to exit the room. You wished he had left the gun behind — it would have come in useful — but you were glad he was out of harm’s way for the moment.

Loki forced you to the ground once more and stepped over you, approaching the control panel and pressing the large button before anyone else could interrupt him.

“No!”

You watched in horror as the helicarrier opened up below, and Thor — stuck inside the cage — fell from the sky.

taglist

(message me or comment if you want to be added/removed. if you are in bold it is because i am unable to tag you.)

@dapperappleton @what-a-fantasy @the-girl-of-many-fandoms1414 @brighteyedmichelle @leasly @cassiopeia-barrow @jay-the-mothafuckin-gay @themusingsofmany @bambamwolf87 @thefandomzoneisdangerous @cyberskeletonhandsbat @ultracarpediemfan @vgirl-10123 @bangvateez @leximills666 @littleredstarfish @blue-spider-official @benji-booxx @georgeousgodzilla @hello-lemons @yandereforyou @godhateskyleigh @cutie1365 @mochminnie @sleighmylife @boom-bunny @crazymclazy @xvixie13x @kingtwhiddleston @keijibum

#loki #loki imagine #loki imagines #loki fanfic #loki fanfics #loki x reader #loki reader insert #loki one shot #marvel imagine #marvel imagines #avengers imagine #avengers imagines #loki series #manipulating a god

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smythesm · 3 years ago

Text

Mini Para: My Train Could Take You Home

Rating: PG.

Pairing: Seblaine.

Blaine: @andersoncharm

Sebastian: @smythesm

When: (Three month time skip.) Friday, August 13, 2021

Location: Marblehead, Massachusetts- Blaine’s gifted magical beach cottage.

Notes: Sebastian talks with Blaine about their future.

Warnings: None for this particular Para. However, this RP in general includes; Mentions of death. Parental Death (Blaine’s Mom), Mentions of toxic past relationships. Mentions of brief past Klaine. Depression. Anxiety.

Extra Warnings: (This RP is not Kurt Hummel friendly. You’ve all been warned.)

Para Title Taken From: Willow by Taylor Swift

Extra Information: We will be doing a series of little mini’s to progress over the next few years of this RP. Things might get a little confusing but we promise to date them accordingly.

Under Cut to keep it uniform. Work is mostly unedited as usual.

Sebastian’s POV:

Salt air ghosted across Sebastian’s skin in the small cottage bedroom. Blaine was asleep on his chest still and he could see the moon perched perfectly above the dark ocean through the window they always left open. He wasn’t sure what had woken him up, he just sort of gently fell out of a dream and was looking out at the sea as he listened to the other man breathe. He noticed a large dark figure poke its head up and dive back into the water-it was Flotsam. The past few months had been a whirlwind of hopping back and forth between the apartment and the cottage, an ever-growing sea monster and work for the both of them. Sometimes it was long hours at the office for Sebastian, other times Blaine would spend hours making draughts and tea blends for Hunter and Tony or leaving before the sun rose to start baking at the Snowed In.

Seb’s mind was wandering in the fuzzy way they often did when you were in between dreams and being fully awake. He would still be able to fall asleep if he just rolled over and let his eyes flutter closed. Instead, he was thinking about time and how much had passed which turned into him thinking about how long he and Blaine had been together which snowballed into the fact that they had spent all this time in an apartment that only one of them had picked out. Seb wondered how Blaine would feel about maybe, possibly moving. They could afford it and more space might be nice.

Sebastian felt Blaine stir against his chest, “Hey, B? Are you up?” He twirled his fingers playfully in his boyfriend’s messy bed head of curls. He waited until the other man groggily muttered. “I was wondering….how would you feel about moving? The two of us, I mean.” The words were out before he could stop himself, it was probably the anxiety and excitement of the thought. “You know what? This can wait until morning.”

Blaine’s POV:

The night had been an ordinary yet perfect night, filled with things they did weekly- Seb working through cases on the sofa, books spread across the table, the little line of concentration that lived between his eyes in place while Blaine made a fresh batch of energy and sleep draughts for his friends in the open kitchen. He wasn’t supposed to make them, they had other Witches that were assigned to that, but he’d always help them- The elders could exile him from his world, but it would always be a part of him and he always did what he could. Plus, it helped ground him and connect him to his magic more. Ras and Freya were somewhere out in the sand taunting Flotsam to the shore. The night ended in a tangle of limbs and lips and yet another whisper of let’s just sleep here tonight. The waxing moon sat low and lazy in her sky palace over the quiet sea. Her bright, thin crescent was the last image Blaine had before he’d slipped off into a satisfied and peaceful sleep, his cheek resting against Sebastian’s chest, his boyfriend's sure and steady heartbeat, and the gentle ripple of waves shushing him to dreams better than any lullaby.

Blaine had never been happier.

He sensed Sebastian awake more than heard him, his connection to the other man prickling in the back of his skull and tingling his skin like an electric charge. He could tell nothing was wrong, but at the same time, something was different in the air around them. He lifted his head and pressed it back into Seb’s hand, enjoying the feeling of his fingers in his hair- his eyes meeting the green-blue of Seb’s as he listened to his boyfriend talk. It took a moment for the words to catch up to his brain. Seb wanted to move?

“Hey, now, no waiting, I’m awake. Talk to me, baby. What’s all this?” He propped himself up on the bed, his face still hovering over Seb’s chest, his thumb slowly stroking over his skin soothingly. “I mean it’s technically morning now anyway. ” He paused and kept his tone light, his curiosity and even excitement creeping upon him. They had so many memories in that apartment, what could make Seb want to up and leave it?

Their three year anniversary was coming up, not to mention Sebastian’s twenty-seventh birthday and Blaine had spent weeks bothering his boyfriend about what they’d do for each thing, and what he might want. But the bothering always turned into teasing about how Seb had everything he needed and the teasing turned into forgetting that Blaine had even asked at all, but it didn’t matter anyway, they’d be together for whatever they picked, Blaine was sure he’d make it perfect for his guy.

He had never been more sure and more confident about the direction his life was going than he was right now. Sure, he still had days where he ached for his old world and his mom and now his dad who was just out of reach, and he wasn’t chasing his musical therapy dream, the one he was free to pursue now- he’d wanted it so long even though he’d known he’d be stuck being Headmaster of LeFay, but now it seemed wrong for him. And working at the Snowed In was the most therapeutic thing in the world to him. He got to bake and be around people and he got to lead them and it made him stupidly happy. He was even managing to do freelance tutoring on the side, teaching people to play whatever instrument they wanted to. He was in such a good place right now. They both were. Could a move possibly make that better? Gods, they could build a home together… Blaine had inherited a great deal of money that he had no clue what to do with. He was from a world where he could make anything he wanted. He bit his lip and went on.

“What brought thought on? You’re excited by the thought, aren’t you? I can sense it. Have you been thinking about it a lot and it’s serious or are these the thoughts of a content, sleepy man? I’m not saying no, I mean, I’d go anywhere with you. But, what’s this about?”

Sebastian’s POV:

Sebastian could feel Blaine lean into his touch, he was looking up at him with sleepy but present eyes. He wasn’t surprised that Blaine wanted to talk now, he knew that the other man could sense emotions as he primarily worked with those.

“I just think it might be time, you know? I picked that apartment out intending to only be there during school and I never really pictured making it into a home. I just never imagined that for myself. It’s the only thing I see now. We should find a place together that we...could see ourselves staying in for a while.”

He bit his bottom lip, sort of embarrassed at how cheesy his words felt. But, all of it was true. Seb wanted a home with the other man, wanted a yard for Enjolras, windows for Freya to perch on.

“I know that your stuff is there and I know you have this cottage but, I think starting together from scratch and having our stuff just sort of naturally blend together would be nice. I know that this is a pretty big step but, I don’t know, I’m ready to start taking...big….steps. “

Sebastian wanted to crawl into himself. Being open and honest was so scary and still felt fresh and the burn of blush on his cheeks always tore his icy façade down, which was hard for him. He had no protection when he was vulnerable but, if he wanted to keep moving forward, it was what needed to be done.

“What do you think?”

Blaine’s POV:

Blaine let his fingers trace lightly over Seb’s chest and then over to his arms and slowly back again, able to tell that the things his beautiful boyfriend was saying were incredibly difficult for him to articulate. I love you had once been hard for Seb, and now it was as easy as breathing for them to say, but this was different. Sebastian had always struggled with saying a lot, he showed how he felt every day, of course, but for him to be this open with Blaine, to put into this many words what he wanted showed Blaine that Sebastian was serious. He could feel Seb’s embarrassment and he wanted to soothe it away, but his own emotions were too busy wiggling with excitement.

Sebastian wanted to buy a house, no- a home, with Blaine. Wanted to live there for a long time, maybe forever… Blaine couldn’t stop the smile that attacked his face. This shouldn’t be a shock, they loved each other, they were soulmates, they were meant to be and both had suffered losses for it. But, it mattered to him that Seb had voiced the want out loud in such a sweet way. Blaine let out a breathy little laugh and gave his boyfriend's arm a squeeze to show him he agreed. Seb’s lingering words about big steps echoed in his ears and his heart thudded and flipped and the butterflies that had lived in his belly since the day he’d met this man flittered to life. What did that mean? Would they get to travel the world one day? Maybe adopt another pet and grow old holding hands on a porch swing with no worries in the world like some perfect book ending… Did that mean that maybe Sebastian would want to marry him even though doing that came with more secrets and baggage? His heart pounded harder.

Blaine knew Seb was his, knew that he had him and they'd always be together. He’d thought about marriage to Seb, of course, and he'd thought of children with him, which was a loss he had to carry and yes, it was a heavy loss and sometimes it got to him. But he'd known they’d be together no matter what and assumed they’d stay just like this because it was safe. They’d live in that apartment and magic travel to the beach cottage to get away from reminders of the trial and other bad memories. He never thought he’d get anything more. He didn’t need anything more, he was happy and content and still so in love… And yet here he was being offered a new home, a home that he got to build with his person and a promise of something more.

“I w-,” he tried to speak, his voice again too breathy and small to take up much space in the room. “I want that, too.” He laughed again, a strange elation falling over his whole being and suddenly he couldn’t stop talking.

“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes I think we should do it. As I said, I’d go anywhere with you or to be with you.” He pulled himself up, forgetting how naked he still was, and pressed his smiling lips to his boyfriend’s and giggled again. He wondered if decorating this place had led him to think about this or if it had always been there in his mind, either way, he was happy for it.

“We could get all new stuff, pick everything out together and build a home. Of course we’d keep some older stuff and memories too. And I could have a little space for magic in the new house, and you could have an office and oh, yes we’d keep the beach cottage- we still have to have a getaway. But, yes, we could have a home together. Would we stay in the state- oh! We could buy a house with a huge kitchen, I could cook so much better for you-” He was talking fast, hardly breathing as he spoke. He paused and shook his head, his smile a little bashful.

“Gods, I’m sorry, I’m just so happy right now. I never thought… I-I’m just happy, Seb. You have no idea.” He leaned down and kissed Seb once more. “It makes me want to get online and look at the market right now.” His cheeks flared in a blush and he had to hide his face in Seb’s neck to hide it.

Sebastian’s POV:

Sebastian loved the look of elation that fell over Blaine’s features. He could practically feel his happiness thrum against him under the covers. Seb kissed his boyfriend despite the smile on his face and wished they could go buy a house right then and there.

“I’d love all of that and don’t be sorry, I’m happy that you’re into this.”

He rubbed circles over Blaine’s strong shoulders, “We can start looking whenever you want but, maybe we should sleep a little bit more and then eat breakfast first?” Sebastian’s face slowly spread into a sly grin. He knew that B would have his laptop out and logged onto Zillow as soon as they stepped back into the apartment.

“I’m happy, too. This will be good for us.” Seb cuddled in closer to his boyfriend. “You’ll get to pick out paint swatches and furniture to match.” He knew that Blaine’s stomach would flip at the idea.

Sebastian wanted to spend his whole life making Blaine smile that infectious smile.

Blaine’s POV:

“I’m just happy.” He said the words with a grin and nuzzled his nose into Seb’s neck again after accepting his kiss. He traced over his mother’s protective crystal that still lived over Sebastian’s heart before leaning down and pressing a kiss to Seb’s chest. He could feel the rhythm of his boyfriend’s heart and it told Blaine that Seb was just as happy as he was. This was one of those moments where he wanted to take the memory and scoop it up into a snow globe so he could take it down and rewatch it again later. The scars around his wrists and the ones on his mind seemed all the more worth it in moments like this.

“I suppose you’re right, we can wait until we’re rested.” Blaine could have easily gotten up and given them both an energy potion so they could work through it all right now. Blaine could have them moved in a week if he used magic, he could speed up the process. But, one look at Seb’s hopeful face basked in the soft glow of the magical candles that permanently lit the whole beach cottage told him that he needed to do this all naturally. They needed to do it the hard way to get the full experience of building it together. Blaine could share some of his magic with Seb, but for the most part, it was his. This needed to be theirs.

“Don’t you dare tease me with that right now, I’ll never sleep.” He openly laughed, his voice causing Ras and Freya both to come shambling into the bedroom. Freya gave him a look and Blaine knew she approved without her having to tell him. Enjolras hopped up onto the bed and promptly snuggled at the foot of their bed, exhausted from playing one the shore with Freya and Flotsam. Freya got herself comfortable by snuggling into Ras and before long the two of them were asleep. Blaine loved that they were all together.

“We can sleep, I can wait.” He snuggled down into the covers, his arms pulling Sebastian close to him, whispers of I love you were exchanged and his boyfriend was fast asleep in minutes. Blaine held him close, relishing in the feeling of sleepy, hopefully, contentedness. He felt safe, not just because an actual magical sea creature was watching over them, but because they were all together. He finally let himself relax and drifted off to sleep with an itch in his fingertips- not for magic this time, but with the urge to pick up his phone and begin the search for their perfect home. Luckily Seb’s gentle breathing in his ear and Ras’ soft snores guided him away and into a deep slumber.

/fin.

#para #seblaine #smythesm #andersoncharm #My Train Could Take You Home #seblaine witch rp

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cakesunflower · 5 years ago

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No Need Convincing Me [Tattoo Artist!Calum AU] Part 3

Summary: Elodie Banks hadn’t expected to get so caught up in her best friend’s tattoo artist. But all it took was one meeting with Calum Hood for Elodie to feel herself drawing towards him and the ink on his skin. Maybe once she was rid of a miserable relationship and the insecurities that came with it, she’d allow herself to realize that Calum was just as wrapped up in her.

All Parts: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Part 3

The bedroom door swung open, the music playing throughout the apartment no longer muffled as Elodie turned around instantly, eyes landing on Calum standing in the doorway. “Oh, shit—sorry,” he apologized with a quick chuckle, one hand still on the doorknob while the other scratched at the back of his head. Elodie blinked at him, at the boyish grin on his face and the flush in his cheeks. He was drunk, or tipsy, maybe. “Thought this was the bathroom.”

“It’s okay,” Elodie assured him with a smile of her own. The nervous flutter returned in the pit of her stomach, but the smile that tilted her lips was one she couldn’t control. Calum came into view and so did her smile. Gesturing towards the ensuite, Elodie told him, “You could use this one.”

Calum nodded, shutting the door behind him as his dark eyes took in the sight of Elodie as the music blaring throughout Dominique’s home was just slightly muffled once more. She felt a familiar flush overtake her body as Calum stepped into the room some more, the heat of his gaze freezing Elodie in place as he took her in. Well, her and her costume; she and Dominique decided to dress up as Cher and Dionne from Clueless, complete with a form fitting white crop top under a black and yellow plaid blazer with a matching mini skirt, knee high socks and heels—the last two a combination only reserved for Halloween.

And with him openly observing her costume, Elodie did the same to him; she knew, thanks to Dominique, that he and Ashton were dressed up in costumes from Reservoir Dogs, their looks complete with white button downs splattered with fake blood, dress pants with matching suits and sunglasses. She’d only been around Calum a couple of times, and even though his clothes had fake blood on them, Elodie still found herself admiring the sight of him in dressy clothes. He looked good, which wasn’t a surprise.

What came as a surprise, though, was the fact that Elodie found herself liking it more when Calum wore his chains and leather jacket; both looks suited him, truthfully, but for some reason the sight of Calum in a leather jacket was burned into Elodie’s brain. And she didn’t mind it a bit.

She wasn’t entirely sure how Calum got so close to her, the distance between them minimal as he stopped a foot or so away from her. His body towered over hers, more so than Nathan’s did, and yet. . . There was nothing suffocating about this. Elodie’s stomach flipped at the way Calum’s broad frame dominated hers, but there was no real intimidation. The sound of her heart beating in her ears was louder than the music. Calum didn’t make her feel small.

Elodie looked up at him through her lashes, breath hitching when she noted the pink in his cheeks. It wasn’t a sight she’d seen before, not that she’d been around Calum enough times, but it was adorable. His lips curled, and Elodie figured it was a lot easier for him to smile when he was a bit inebriated. Voice low, yet always carrying that rasp, Calum murmured, “You look pretty.” And he meant it.

How was it so easy for him to compliment her? It should be alarming, how effortlessly Calum ignites a fire in Elodie’s face and intensifies the butterflies in her stomach she hadn’t felt in a long time. It should raise red flags that he could make her breath hitch in her throat with just a few simple words and a look casted by those dark brown eyes. But it wasn’t any of that. It felt good.

Her lips curled, her smile shy and sweet and honest, and instead of saying thank you, she wanted to return the compliment despite the nervous twisting of her stomach. “You look—”

“Badass?” Calum supplied, looking down at her as he made his eyebrows jump twice, quickly, and it was like he sensed how she was feeling and decided to make it easier, make it light with a joke and a smirk that was more charming than condescending. And, God, the slight lisp kind of flustered Elodie even more.

“I was gonna say handsome,” she told him, her voice as soft and genuine as her smile, the heat in her cheeks returning as quickly as the confidence that allowed her to return the compliment left. But Calum’s eyes glimmered at her words, his smirk softening into a smile of his own, and Elodie’s heart was in her throat as the familiar scent of his cologne began overwhelming her. Throat working, she gestured with a small laugh, “Didn’t you have to use the bathroom?”

Calum blinked, as if just remembering why he entered the room in the first place. His eyes darted towards the other door as he sounded an absent, “Right.” Looking back at her, he winked, quick and flirty and heart stopping, as he said, “Be right back,” before entering the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

Elodie let out a slow breath as she heard the lock click, head tilting back to look up at the ceiling. Was she flirting with him? Did that count as flirting? Fucking hell, Elodie wasn’t even sure what constituted as flirting anymore. Nathan didn’t even flirt with her.

Her eyes clenched shut at the reminder of her boyfriend. Whatever she just engaged in with Calum, whether it was flirting or not, should not have felt as easy and good as it did. Not when that few minutes of conversation was far better than just being in her own boyfriend’s presence.

And it was as if the universe wasn’t on her side, because the bedroom door opened, and in walked Nathan, dressed as. . . Nothing. Because God forbid he took part in something as childish as Halloween—or Dominique’s birthday. So he had arrived in one of his many custom tailored suits, looking like he did every other day of his life. Elodie didn’t get butterflies at the sight of him. She froze up—but not in the kind of way she did with Calum. Not in the excited way.

“What’re you doing in the guest room?” Nathan questioned as he walked in, not entirely shutting the door as the sound of the music and the party filtered in.

“It’s not the guest room,” Elodie found herself saying before she could stop. And she didn’t want to stop. So she smiled, allowing herself to be excited and thrilled and everything else that she was since she arrived at Dominique’s penthouse so they could get ready for the party. The birthday girl had decided she wanted to have fun at her own house, so she and her hired security could be more in charge of who arrived. Gesturing to the room with her hands, Elodie told Nathan with an exhilarated grin, “It’s my room. I’m moving in with Dom.”

He didn’t smile or share in Elodie’s excitement but, then again, she hadn’t entirely expected him to. Instead, Nathan just raised his eyebrows, a scoff of a laugh escaping him as he asked, “You’re what?”

She didn’t want him to step on her happiness, so she kept the smile on her face, even if it became a bit painful to keep. “I’m moving in with her,” Elodie repeated patiently. “She surprised me with the idea and my parents think it’s great, too. I’m gonna start packing my things up soon.”

Nathan’s eyebrows drew together, his disdain with the idea clear on his face as he began walking towards her. It was terrible, how almost everything Elodie said or decided was something Nathan couldn’t bring it in himself to feel happy about for her. What kind of boyfriend was he? What kind of relationship had Elodie been subjecting herself to? “If you wanna move out of your house, move in with me, El. It’s more practical to live with your boyfriend at this age than your best friend.”

If Elodie was someone else, she would’ve laughed in Nathan’s face at his ridiculous words. Last time she checked, there was no age limit in living with your best friend. What’s more, her and Nathan had been together for, what, six months? And most of them were miserable because Elodie allowed herself to suffer being with someone who wasn’t good to her because the image they created was good enough. Living with him sounded like the worst idea she had ever heard—the thought of it was enough to make her nauseous.

“I’m not going to move in with you, Nathan,” Elodie told him calmly, hands at her back as she nervously played with the material of her skirt. “It’s not practical.”

She could see the anger quickly brewing in the green of his eyes. He never hesitated in getting pissed off at her. She wished she was numb to his piercing scowl, but it never failed to anxiously jump her heart. Nathan’s voice was harsh as he demanded, “Why the hell not?”

He was storming towards her as he spoke, encroaching on her personal space that Elodie decided, right then and there, that she didn’t ever want him near again. So as he approached her, Elodie found herself taking a few steps back, the action only serving to piss Nathan off even more. If he was a decent boyfriend, one would think the sight of his girlfriend backing away from him—out of fear—was an alarming sight on its own. But it didn’t even seem to register as concerning to Nathan. No, it only served to aggravate him more. How twisted.

Maybe it was the notion of Nathan never seeming to be on board with any idea that allowed for Elodie to have her own independence, or the horrific reminder that getting utterly pissed off at her for no solid or logical reason seemed to be his favorite pastime, but whatever it was, it finally had Elodie uttering the words she had stupidly been fighting herself from saying, words that were only a hint at what Dominique had probably been wanting to hear her to actually say for a long time.

“Because I can’t live with you if you’re not my boyfriend,” Elodie stated, the words rushing out of her quickly and without thought, like she wanted to get them out in the open as fast as possible and hope they didn’t leave a bitter taste in her mouth. They didn’t.

Her heart was thundering as she looked at Nathan, who had stopped just a foot in front of her, looking down at her with a startled, angered and glaring expression as her words registered. Her heart was too loud in her ears, filling the silence followed by her words despite the lively party going on. God. Elodie should be out there celebrating her best friend’s birthday. Though, part of her figured Dominique wouldn’t mind if she’d heard what Elodie had just said.

Nathan’s eyes were narrowed suddenly, challenging and mocking at the same time. “Are you breaking up with me?” He let out a laugh, the sound empty and humorless and twisting Elodie’s stomach unpleasantly. She looked up at him, her own eyes widened at what she had said, though not at all regretful. But she watched him warily, worriedly, not entirely sure where this was going. Because normally Elodie would just submit, she would do or say whatever she needed to in order to appease Nathan, but that was out of the window. Now, she was doing and saying as she wanted to, and there was no telling how this was going to go. The fear she felt prickling her skin was yet another sign that she had stuck around for far longer than she should’ve.

Instead of letting Elodie answer his probably rhetoric question, the empty smile that had upturned Nathan’s lips to release his humorless laugh dropped, the fire in his eyes a full on blazon as his jaw tightened. “You can’t fucking end this, Elodie.”

Somehow, through the dryness of her throat and the trembling of her fingers, Elodie managed to return, “You can’t keep around someone who doesn’t want to be with you, Nathan.” She gave a shake of her head, unable to let the guilt from seeping into her tone and saddening her eyes as she added, “It was my fault for making you think I wanted to stay longer than I ever did.”

Her words, though riddled with guilt and sadness because that’s just the kind of person Elodie was, had been pushing enough to enrage Nathan all the more. Because next thing she knew, right once she had finished speaking, Nathan’s expression contorted into one of rage, eyes fierce and lips snarling, as his right hand lifted and Elodie’s heart dropped to the pit of her stomach as his guttural voice raged, “You fucking bi—”

Elodie’s initial reaction wasn’t to shrink away and squeeze her eyes shut. Because this had never happened before. For all his faults in their mess of a relationship, Nathan had never raised a hand at Elodie, and so she hadn’t seen it coming. She’d frozen, lips parting to inhale a sharp breath out of utter startlement for what he was about to do, eyes widening in a sick combination of horror and confusion and terror because, shit, had she been naive enough to never expect this from him?

But what Nathan aimed to do, he didn’t get to. Because neither of them had heard the sound of the bathroom door opening, nor the quick footsteps to approach them just in time for Calum’s hand to catch Nathan’s in the air before it descended. Elodie found herself stumbling back a step, heart pounding against her check, hand pressing to her stomach as some kind of defense as she looked on with widened eyes. No tears, no tears, no tears. She didn’t want to cry. No matter how scared she felt in Nathan’s presence.

If Elodie thought Nathan’s rage towards her had been terrifying, it was nothing compared to the unabated fury etched on Calum’s face. He no longer looked like his flushed, maybe tipsy self from before; instead, his dark eyes were sharp and menacing, lips pressed together tightly yet twisted upwards in obvious outrage. His grip on Nathan’s arm was tight, strong, iron clad in the way Nathan’s arm shook in trying to break out from the grasp but being unable to do so.

Elodie was frozen where she stood, troubled head trying hard to catch up with what was happening, as Nathan turned his head slightly to meet Calum’s gaze. She watched the way Calum looked down at him, noted the muscle in his jaw jumping as he tried to control whatever anger was burning through his veins right now. “Were you really ’bout to do what it looked like?” Elodie’s throat worked at the sound of Calum’s voice. The deep timber she enjoyed the sound of was dark, heavy in the promise of violence as his focus remained solely on Nathan, who struggled to get out of Calum’s grip. He was a big guy, but Elodie didn’t know he was so strong to so easily keep Nathan in place. Calum licked his lips before letting out a quiet breath, chin tilting to bring his mouth closer to Nathan’s ear as he baited lowly, in a dangerously challenging tone , “Motherfucker, give me a reason to break your fucking arm right now.”

Nathan’s breathing quickened from his own anger, and Elodie wondered if there was a bit of panic mixing in on his end, as he jerked his shoulders to get away from Calum’s grip. But with one hand holding Nathan’s arm and the other, Elodie realized, holding Nathan’s other arm behind his back, Calum had an unforgiving grip on him. “Get your fucking hands off me!”

“So you can try and put yours on her again?” Calum scoffed, but it was controlled. Everything about him in this moment, Elodie noticed, was controlled. His expression was threatening to twitch into something far more savage than it was, his deep voice, though dark, trembled just a bit with the fury igniting his system. Calum was much better at controlling his temper than Nathan was. “Don’t think so. Let’s go.”

He was moving them, then, and Elodie watched with widened eyes as Calum forced Nathan around, hands still gripping him, as he pushed him out of the room. Nathan’s struggling grunts and curses were drowned by the music, and Elodie snapped herself out of her shocked trance as they disappeared around the corner, Calum’s broad frame easily overpowering Nathan’s, barely stumbling over her feet and following them out.

Elodie’s heart was drumming, quicker than the bass of the music playing through the penthouse, and she pushed her way past the people enjoying themselves as she looked over their heads to catch sight of the two guys. Her brown eyes darted around, unsure if she was breathing heavily from panic or surprise, as she finally caught sight of them towards the front door.

She stumbled out of the front door into the wide hallway just in time to see Calum let go of Nathan with a shove. She stood a few feet behind them, the door shutting behind them as her hand gripped the doorframe as she watched Nathan swiveled around, tugging to straighten out his suit jacket as his angrily wide eyes landed on Calum. He looked outrage, like he couldn’t believe Calum would put his hands on him, as he let out a sharp breath.

Nathan stormed over, eyes narrowed as he demanded, “Who the fuck do you think you are?” He pointed a finger at Calum warningly, a lock of his blonde hair falling across his forehead, as his voice remained tight. “You don’t put your fucking hands on me.”

Elodie feared that the veins in Nathan’s forehead and neck were about to burst, face red, and it was almost alarming how kept together Calum looked compared to him, despite the look of wrath he’d been wearing. Of course, she couldn’t really see his face; just the tightness of his jaw, his sharp gaze focused on Nathan and nothing else. He stood tall, chin jutted and hands curled into fists at his side. He was like a barrier between her and Nathan, and Elodie appreciated it more than she could say.

“Leave,” Calum said, his tone hard with no room for arguments.

Nathan exhaled sharply, his gaze moving past Calum to look at Elodie, and she felt her body tensing at the anger still present in his eyes. He didn’t even try to wash it over, instead looked at her with the same fierce look that showed the rage that didn’t diminish. Nathan’s breathing was unsteady, his aggravation keeping him from taking any stable breaths. “Elodie, let’s just talk—” he stared as he took he tried to take a few steps towards her.

Calum didn’t allow him to finish, side stepping to press a hand against Nathan’s chest and pushing him back. “Are you serious right now?” Calum scoffed, an incredulous chuckle escaping him as he shook his head at Nathan. He didn’t waver under the glare shot his way. “Fuck out of here.”

Elodie kept her lips pressed together, throat working as she watched the scene in front of her. God, all she wanted to do was head back inside and drink and celebrate with Dominique. This had escalated more than she expected. Her heart still hadn’t calmed down after Nathan raised his hand at her—he was about to hit her, for God’s sake. She thought many things of Nathan, but someone capable of doing that had never been one of them. Not until now. And to think she was just saying the absolute worst thing to him away from getting him to this point had her stomach twisting uncomfortably, terrifyingly. How could it have gotten so bad?

She watched, with scared eyes, as Nathan shot them both one last outraged look before letting out a scoff and began walking backwards down the hall to where the elevators were. His eyes met Elodie’s as he jammed the button, gaze sharp as he told her from where he stood, “You’re making a mistake.”

Elodie took a breath, shaky and catching in her throat, as she blinked quickly to rid of the tears that had gathered. Last time. If she was going to cry because of Nathan again, this would be the last time it would happen. Because she was done; she’d managed to grow some kind of spine and end things with him, and even though she ultimately needed Calum’s help, she still did it. She put an end to an unhappy chapter of her life. Nathan wasn’t going to make her cry anymore.

So she swallowed the lump in her throat, grip on the door frame tight as she responded as steadily as she could, “I don’t think I am.”

His expression hardened. As expected. And with a snarling curl of his lips and scowl that sent a shiver down Elodie’s spine, Nathan was gone.

And she could breathe.

“I’m sorry.”

Elodie’s gaze lifted, widened and glassy eyes landed on the only other person in the hallway. She tried to focus past the sound of her drumming heart and muffled music from inside, blinking as her eyebrows drew together in a gentle frown. “What?” she asked in confusion. “What’re you sorry for?”

“Uh,” Calum sounded, now facing her as he reached up to rub the back of his head. When Elodie got a look at him, she noted the expression on his face, one that was ridden with guilt as he took a few steps towards her. Coming to a stop in front of Elodie, Calum’s dark eyes met hers, and she was almost shocked at how there was little to no trace of the anger she had seen. Or, maybe, it was there, laying under the concerned softness of his gaze, but because it wasn’t meant for her he didn’t show it. Was it strange that Elodie found that sweet? Calum’s throat worked as he let out a breath. “I’m sorry that you had to see me. . . Like that. And I’m sorry that he thought that kind of behavior would ever be okay.”

Elodie couldn’t help it—she gaped at him. Her lips parted, widened eyes staring at him as if he had two heads, when in actuality, he’d only uttered words any decent human being would. And it was almost sad, how much Calum’s apology meant to Elodie, because Nathan had never thought to utter the words I’m sorry after the things he’d say. But here was Calum, apologizing for something he didn’t have to feel guilty about.

“Y-You don’t have to apologize,” Elodie told him, not caring too much about how she stumbled over her words a bit. The shock was only beginning to wear off. Elodie blinked quickly, clearing her throat as her cheeks pinkened and she added gratefully, “Thank you for jumping in and defending me.”

“’Course,” Calum responded, his voice softer than she thought was capable, the word slipping from his lips so easily as if he had never been second guessed his actions. His eyebrows then knitted together, some edge creeping back into his voice as he said, “He had no right to even try.” With a clench of his jaw and his dark eyes meeting hers, he asked slowly, “Has he done that before?”

The way he asked reluctantly had Elodie realizing that Calum was dreading her possible answer. Like if she said yes, he wouldn’t hesitate to turn to the elevator and find Nathan to finish what he’d started. And while violence wasn’t something Elodie promoted, the mere idea of Calum caring about the situation to the point where he’d consider doing something like that had her stomach twisting. But not in a bad way.

“No,” she answered truthfully, rolling her lips into her mouth as her gaze dropped. Her eyebrows furrowed as she felt her own guilt pool in the pit of her stomach. She knew it wasn’t her fault, knew that what had just happened was because of Nathan’s own flaws; but being with someone like him long enough and having to endure him drop remarks that somehow everything seemed to be her fault made it difficult to not blame herself. She had acted and he reacted, terrifyingly so, and it was she who had pushed him over the edge, wasn’t it?

“Hey, stop that.” Elodie blinked, gaze lifting to look at Calum, taking a gentle breath to keep the stinging in her eyes at bay. Don’t cry. It’s over. Calum’s frown went from a glare at the thought of Nathan to a softer, concerned one, just barely a hint of sternness present. He stood in front of her, his figure tall yet a comforting presence, and Calum ducked his head slightly to keep their gazes locked. Elodie just barely glanced at a tattoo on his collarbone peeking out from under the collar of his shirt. “It’s important that you know that none of this was your fault, alright? He’s the only one to blame.”

He was right. Elodie knew he was, but Nathan had such an imprint on her that she still found herself parting her lips to argue, “But—”

“No buts, Elodie.” The words died in her throat as her name slipped from his mouth, pressing her lips together when his hands gripped her shoulders. Just as he did so, Calum’s gaze dropped to his hands, like he was suddenly aware of him touching her without warning, and Elodie felt her heart jump at the mild panic that seeped into his dark eyes. But she remained still, silently letting him know that it was okay, that his touch was burning her and she welcomed it. Calum’s throat worked, eyes meeting hers once more, looking at her like he wanted her to truly understand what he was saying. “You weren’t the cause of any of this. A grown man should know how to act. I barely know the guy and already saw him cross so many lines. You did the right thing.”

Elodie knew Calum’s words were meant to be comforting to her, to let her know that the choice she made tonight was valid. But it also served to remind her that the choices she’d made to get to this point had been so wrong. To let it get this far. . . What had she been thinking? Her skin was hot—whether it was from shame or guilt or Calum’s proximity, she didn’t know. But Elodie’s throat worked as she blinked her gaze away, sniffling ever so slightly as she looked at the wall and found herself muttering, “You probably think I was stupid to be with him in the first place.”

“No. I think you had your reasons.” Elodie’s gaze shifted back to Calum, at the understanding that softened his features as he offered a slight shrug. “You don’t have to tell ’em to me. And it might not mean much, but—” His lips quirked up ever so slightly, honest and real as he gave her shoulders a squeeze. “—I think you’re better off without him.”

Elodie’s throat tightened, brown eyes on his, and in a moment of feeling forward, she reached a hand up and squeezed Calum’s wrist. She felt the cool metal of his chain bracelet under her touch, sending a shiver down her spine despite the warmth of his skin. When Calum raised his eyebrows, not at her touch but as a way of silently asking if she understood what he was telling her, Elodie found herself smiling. And finally let the guilt slip away as she agreed, “I think so, too.”

Satisfied by her answer, Calum’s lips quirked into a smirk before dropping his hands from her shoulders, and Elodie tried not to be disappointed by the lack of his touch as Calum ticked his head to the door. “Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

*****

When Elodie stepped into H & H Tattoo and Piercings, she was greeted by Michael exclaiming her name in happy surprise over the sound of the unfamiliar song playing through the shop, leaning away from the computer at the reception desk and pushing himself into the back of his chair hands thrown up. “Where’d you come from?” he asked with a laugh as they pulled away from a hug shared over the counter.

“I ran into her at the Starbucks down the block,” Sierra said as she walked around the desk, waving Michael away, who got up with a sigh as she returned to her rightful chair. “Asked her to come by and hang because I’m so bored.”

Elodie smiled as Michael snorted, raising his eyebrows at Sierra. “So you basically kidnapped her from the rest of her day to bring her here?”

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Elodie assured with a shake of her head and a gentle smile, one hand still holding her frappe cup. “I just got out of class and had nothing else to do.”

And it was true. After class, she’d gotten into the car and asked her driver to take her to Starbucks because she needed it even after sitting through three classes. Running into Sierra had been out of the blue, and when she was invited to come hang out at the tattoo shop, Elodie would be lying if she said her heart hadn’t jumped up to her throat at the thought of seeing Calum. It was the first thing that popped into Elodie’s head as soon as she heard Sierra’s offer, an excited flutter in her stomach to see him again.

Ever since Dominique’s party four days ago, Elodie hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Calum. There were moments during the past few days that thoughts of Nathan would creep into her mind without her content, where she’d feel her heart racing as she remembered what he almost did to her after she finally stood up for herself. And then she’d think of Calum, and she’d relax. She found herself being able to breathe again—not just because of Calum, but because she was no longer tied to Nathan. She did that.

“Ready to get that nose piercing?”

The sound of his voice had Elodie’s breath hitching and she turned around in time to see Calum strolling over, tall and broad shouldered in black track pants and a red tee that hugged him snugly. She noted the bit of scruff that had become more prominent around his mouth and on his chin, and not that her opinion mattered, but she liked it. Nathan was always clean shaven, and this time around, Elodie didn’t feel much guilt for thinking how boring he was. Was that stupid? To think someone was boring because they didn’t like growing facial hair?

Elodie decided that no, it wasn’t. Because everything about Nathan had been clean shaven. Except his uncontrollable anger. She quickly pushed thoughts of him out of her head, unwanted and unneeded, as she focused on Calum. The tattoos on his arm were on full display, the black ink intricate against his brown skin, and Elodie’s curiosity once again came in full swing. She hadn’t ever seen all of his tattoos before; words and pictures alike decorating him. Elodie wanted to know what they all meant.

The smile on her face came easily as response to Calum’s welcoming smirk as he reached her, arm going around her shoulders to pull her in a hug that was just as comforting as the cologne that washed over her, fresh and woodsy as it took over the faint scent of antiseptic and something pleasant she couldn’t put her finger on. Elodie didn’t want to pull away from Calum’s hug, but she felt her heart jump when she noted that Calum didn’t move away from her.

“That hadn’t been on the agenda today,” she told him truthfully, one hand gripping her Starbucks cup while the fingers of the other played with the green straw.

Michael grinned. “Nothing like a spontaneous piercing,” he told her, finger reaching up to flick the silver cross dangling from his ear.

Elodie laughed with a raise of her eyebrows before rolling her lips into her mouth. Her initial thought was that she could wait to get a piercing, but as she let the thought play around in her head, Elodie couldn’t help but wonder, why wait? She was here now, and wanting to get her nose pierced was something she wanted to do for a long time. She always liked the way they looked on other people and there really wasn’t anything stopping her from getting it done.

She wasn’t one for spontaneous actions. Breaking up with Nathan was the biggest unexpected thing she’d done. Why stop now?

“Okay.” The word slipped past her lips before she truly comprehended it, but she didn’t regret it. She saw the grin that quirked at Michael’s lips, mirroring it a bit nervously before her gaze slid over to Calum, who was looking down at her with raised, almost impressed eyebrows. The smirk remained. “Can I get it today?”

It wasn’t long until Elodie was sitting in the same chair Dominique had been sitting in, after signing the papers Sierra had given her before Calum led her to one of the curtain separated rooms. And as she sat, her bag on one of the spare stools as she lightly drummed her fingers on her jeans clad thighs, her eyes took in Calum and his actions. He was getting everything ready, and as the song on the shop’s playlist changed to one she recognized by The Weeknd, Calum asked with his back still to her, “You nervous?”

Her eyes were on his back, on the broad expanse of his shoulders, and Elodie felt the need to touch the soft material of his red shirt again. She licked her lips as she asked, “Should I be?”

Calum turned around, gloves on his hands as he approached her, an easy and boyish smirk on his face that had her heart jolting within her chest. Elodie couldn’t help but admire how in his element he looked as he prepared to pierce her nose, tall and confident and cool. “No,” he told her truthfully, settling on the stool and being somewhat at eye level with her. Calum’s smile turned warm, friendly, and the way it put her at ease almost instantly wasn’t lost on Elodie as he promised in his usual rasp, “You’re in good hands.”

Elodie’s throat worked. She had no doubt about that.

Honestly, the whole process passed a bit too soon. But Elodie knew it was because she was more focused on Calum than what he was doing. Her heart had been in her throat as he sterilized the area, the closeness making her skin flush like a middle schooler. It was almost embarrassing. When he’d marked her nose and had her check in the mirror to approve of where the piercing would go, Elodie found herself still hyper aware of Calum’s proximity. She tried to pay attention to the sound of The Weeknd’s voice playing through the shop, on the vague sounds of Michael and Sierra chatting over in the main area. Her attention couldn’t even focus on how she stood out in the shop; how her light jeans and pastel yellow top were a splash of color against the black and reds of the parlor, that everything about her didn’t necessarily belong in Calum’s shop.

They were so different. Elodie wondered if Calum noticed, too.

No, of course not. Why would he spend time thinking about her?

“Alright, you ready?” He’s to her right, and his voice was low and gentle, like he didn’t want to startle her. Calum spoke to her in the opposite way of which he looked; all tall and set features and dark eyes but a voice that’s friendly and soft and sends butterflies erupting in her stomach each time. Elodie knew that was dangerous.

She wanted to look at him, but she kept her head straight, focused on his presence and voice and the faint scent of his cologne. Elodie twisted her fingers on her lap, keeping herself from clicking her nails as she hummed an affirmative, “Yeah.”

Making it a point not to look at the instruments he was going to use, Elodie slid her gaze to the posters on the wall to her left, but felt her eyes automatically fluttering closed when she felt the cool metal on her nose, biting the inside of her cheek as she felt the brief pinch of the needle piercing her. She felt her eye water, something Calum had told her would happen, but she barely paid attention to it when Calum, as quickly as he’d started, announced, “All done.”

Her eyes opened, eyebrows rising as she found herself asking in surprise, “That’s it?”

Next to her, Calum chuckled and Elodie told herself she was imagining the fondness in the sound as he handed her a tissue. “Yup,” he smiled, watching as she dabbed at the tear that had escaped her eye, the chain of his necklace glinting under the bright lights. Smile turning into a lazy smirk, he praised jokingly, “You were a real trooper.”

Elodie scoffed out a laugh, cheeks warm, as Calum handed her the mirror. She could feel his eyes on her as she turned her head to the left a bit to look at the piercing. Her lips quirked up at the sight of the silver stud in her slightly pinkened nose, glimmering prettily, and she instantly adored how it looked. “I love it,” she said happily, turning her head to look at Calum, who’d been watching her. His dark eyes were warm as he sat relaxed on the stool, gloves off. “Thank you.”

He mirrored her smile, shrugging modestly, before jutting his chin at her. “Told you it suited you.”

Far beyond her control, Calum could already effortlessly ignite a blush in Elodie’s cheeks, so when he so easily complimented her, Elodie damn near felt like she was on fire. Moving her legs so she was now sitting sideways on the chair, feet touching the ground, Elodie gripped the edge of the leather chair as she asked him earnestly, “How much do I owe you?”

Calum rolled his eyes, pushing back the stool as he licked the inside of his lower lip before his tongue poked at his cheek and stood up, body easily towering over Elodie’s seated figure as she tilted her head back a bit to look up at him. “You don’t,” he told her with a raise of his eyebrows, a silent reminder of when he told her it was on him. “On the house, remember?”

Elodie let out a breath. She appreciated the offer, thought it was so sweet of him to give her her first piercing for free, but Elodie had never been one to comfortably accept free things. Which was hilarious because this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened; the status of her family made for benefits such as this, but Elodie didn’t want to reap Calum of the same conveniences. Even if he was being friendly. And maybe sweeter than she deserved.

“Are you su—”

“Elodie,” Calum cut her off, a breathy chuckle escaping him as he stood in front of her. Then Calum shifted, taking a step away from her to allow himself to bend forward, his hands on the chair right next to hers and lowering his head enough to be at eye level with her. His chain necklace dangled a bit at his new position, and Elodie’s heart thrummed in her throat at their proximity because he was so close. And in that moment, she allowed herself to get lost in him for as much as she could before the distance came between them once more.

The brown of his eyes was a bit lighter than Elodie thought, a warmer brown that made them all the more inviting, framed by long eyelashes. His gaze was honest and Elodie felt the air rush out of her lungs because Calum wasn’t just watching her—he was looking at her, making sure she could see the honesty in his eyes that he was offering. Elodie didn’t think anyone looked at her the way Calum did.

“It’s on me,” Calum said, pulling her out of reverie of admiring him. He tilted his head then, a smile pulling on his soft looking lips. Did they feel as they looked? “Let me do somethin’ nice for you, okay?”

Elodie couldn’t help the way she sank her teeth into her lower lip, skin warming when Calum’s gaze dropped ever so slightly to note the minor movement of her mouth. She didn’t miss the subtle clench of his jaw, and Elodie wasn’t going to lie to herself—the urge to close the gap between them was overwhelming. But she stayed put, releasing her lip to offer a pretty smile as she said, in more of a whisper than anything else, “You’re sweet.”

Calum let out a breath through his nose, lips quirking as told her, “Haven’t been told that one before.”

Her hands itched to make the subtle movements so they were touching Calum’s instead of just feeling the warmth of their proximity. She wanted to close the distance, wanted to feel him in combination with the heat of his body. It was too inviting. Maybe it wasn’t ideal to be so. . . Attracted to someone right after getting out of a relationship as messy as hers and Nathan’s had been. And she hadn’t known Calum long, but she couldn’t lie and say whatever she felt whenever she saw him or thought about him was ordinary. Elodie could easily recognize that whatever she felt for Calum wasn’t something she normally felt. It was exciting.

She wasn’t sure if she was responding to herself or to Calum as her smile widened. “First time for everything.”

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