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weemssapphic · 1 year

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HEY QUEEN

How are you? Hope you're doing well

Could you write a Larissa x Reader fic based on "Two Ghosts" by Harry Styles?

Ps. Keep going on you're AMAZING I LOVE you fics

Kisses

HI BESTIE! I am doing well - I hope you are as well :) this song hurts so much 🥲 I hope you like the fic <3 hugs and kisses!

We’re not who we used to be

Larissa Weems x reader

Summary: Loving Larissa Weems has been the greatest privilege of your life. But sometimes, people change. And sometimes, love isn’t enough. (Songfic to “Two Ghosts” by Harry Styles)

Words: ~1.3k | ao3 link in title

Content/warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, no happy ending, breakups/divorce

youtube

Same lips red, same eyes blue Same white shirt, couple more tattoos But it's not you and it's not me

One of the first things you’d noticed about Larissa when she’d walked into the Weathervane was the striking contrast of red lips against her pale skin - followed closely by the bright blue of her eyes, her gaze intense and all-consuming. You’d gotten so lost in her eyes that she’d had to repeat her order - large hot chocolate, hold the whipped cream - twice. You’d blushed so hard that, even years later, Larissa would tease you about it. The knowing smile you’d received in return had caused your heart to pound - it was the moment you knew you were fucked.

Every day Larissa would visit the Weathervane and order her hot chocolate, and every day you would draw a little heart on the cup. She would see it and smile, then she would lock eyes with you and wink. Then she would leave, returning the next day to do the same little dance. Until one day, when you’d written your number next to the heart - it was a bold move, but it was a chance you had to take. A chance that had paid off.

It had been Larissa’s turn to blush - she’d been so stunned that she didn’t even wink at you, just looked up in shock and left the Weathervane in a hurry. You’d have been heartbroken - if you hadn’t received a call from an unknown number not even 10 minutes later, asking in the most breathless, seductive tone if you’d like to go on a date on Friday.

Your relationship was bliss in those days. You’d stop by Nevermore after your morning shift to bring her a hot chocolate or a coffee and a pastry, always rewarded with a brilliant smile that reached her eyes and made her nose crinkle, and a tender kiss that would take both of your breaths away. In turn, you’d return home from a late shift at work to a massive bouquet of flowers waiting in front of your door - you’d call Larissa to say thank you and she would explain the meaning behind the flowers she’d chosen.

Getting to know the shapeshifting principal was the best thing that could’ve happened to you. You’d never felt so understood or so loved before, and you’d never loved someone so hard either. Within two years, you were married and had moved in together - calling Larissa Weems your wife felt surreal, the greatest privilege you’d ever been given.

The fridge light washes this room white Moon dances over your good side And this was all we used to need

On nights like this, you like to remember those early days. Nights where everything feels heavy, where Larissa is so close to you, yet so far away. She’s lying right next to you in bed, her eyes closed, her lips parted to let out deep breaths. Drool pools on the pillow under her head - you used to giggle at this. The ever professional, ever put-together principal of Nevermore Academy drooling on her pillow, her hair messy and her limbs tangled in the sheets.

Tonight, it makes your heart clench, because everything about her that used to be cute or beautiful or mesmerizing now just leaves you feeling hollow and craving a past you doubt you can ever go back to.

Moonlight dances across the side of her face and shoulder, illuminating her hair like a halo and making her milky, freckled skin glow. She looks so human, so flawed - the little dent at the tip of her nose is accentuated by the shadows, the scar by her top lip shines silver in the faint light, strands of long, platinum hair fall messily across her cheek - all things that used to make her even more radiant to you, and maybe they still do, a little, but mostly they just make you sad now.

We're not who we used to be We're not who we used to be We're just two ghosts standing in the place of you and me Trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat

You barely recognize Larissa anymore. The lovestruck, seductive girlfriend and sweet, thoughtful wife you’d once had was nowhere to be found.

Well… that was not entirely true. But the glimpses of that woman were few and far between, becoming less and less as time went on. It started with rescheduling dates - “I just have too much paperwork tonight, darling, we’ll go tomorrow - I promise. I’ll make it up to you.” And she did - at first.

Eventually, she simply stopped rescheduling. The dates were canceled and never made up for. Even worse, some dates were forgotten entirely. You’d gotten used to sitting alone at a restaurant, or waiting in your parked car in front of the movie theater. Waiting, waiting, waiting for a woman who would never come - a woman who sat behind her desk, pouring herself another glass of wine and scrolling through her emails, a woman who came home well after midnight, not bothering to press a kiss to your cheek anymore before settling in to sleep.

You know she feels guilty - you can see it in her eyes, in her apologetic smile, even in the almost timid way she moves around your home. You feel guilty, too - it’s not all her fault. You could’ve tried harder. You really should’ve tried harder. But now it feels too late, like the connection, the intimacy you once had has simply gotten lost somewhere along the way.

Back then, she’d just started out as principal - full of energy and passion. You’d just moved to Vermont, intent on getting your masters as you worked your way through school. But, like all things, life sometimes has other plans. Larissa is, first and foremost, married to her job. And you, you never made it past being a barista. You wonder sometimes if that’s the reason Larissa has fallen out of love with you - after all, to a woman fiercely climbing the ladder of success, your decision to be content working at a local cafe in a small town must make you seem silly and foolish.

She used to deny it. “I’ll love you no matter what, darling. Your job isn’t important to me, it’s your compassion, your generosity, your light that attracts me to you.”

She hasn’t said anything like that in a long time. Perhaps she’s changed her mind - just as you find you can no longer tolerate her late nights at Nevermore, can no longer stomach her weak excuses for spending more and more time away from you.

We're just two ghosts swimming in a glass half empty Trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat

Your eyes trace the soft curve of Larissa’s jaw, kissed by moonlight. You cannot help yourself - you reach over and tuck a stray platinum curl behind Larissa’s ear. There, that’s better, you think. Larissa’s nose twitches as she sleeps - once upon a time, that would have made your heart skip a beat. Now, it just causes a twinge of pain.

Pain, because your fingers brushing against the shell of her ear in this moment is the most you’ve touched her in weeks. She used to crave your touch - a soothing hand on the small of her back, a kiss pressed to her cheek, fingernails raking her scalp, your head resting against her shoulder. It grounds her, she’d told you, it makes her feel close to you.

Now she avoids it. She’s tired. She feels crowded. She feels overwhelmed. You ask her what you can do for her instead - she shrugs, she tells you there’s nothing you can do, she tells you she needs time. Time, time, time - you’re running out of time.

You lean in and press a feather-light kiss to Larissa’s nose, careful not to wake her. It’s the last nose-kiss you’ll ever give her - tomorrow morning, you’ll tell her you’re leaving.

I'm just trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat

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zealousleopard · 10 months

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The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie - Henry Cooldown x OC

Hi, this has been in the vault for over a few months. I have an intense amount of brainrot over Henry Cooldown, and made a character to keep him company after his divorce with Sylvia. This is the first part of maybe Two (2), this includes their backstory and such.

Also pay no mind to how i draw Henry, thats how he looks in my Mind (tm). (And the fact that the title of this fic is the name of a song on my characters playlist,,,)

Anyway, its 5,351 words under the cut, and I hope you enjoy!

The scarred woman wielded a long and heavy broadsword, and her black eyes were as cold as its gleam. With spurred cowboy boots on her feet, she could be heard from a mile away, not caring less if her enemies could hear her coming. Her name? Maeve Marie.

She was known as one of the deadliest assassins in North America. Countless enemies and assassins alike had called her the hardest bitch they'd ever met, and it's rumored no one had ever lived to see her smile.

But, there was one man whom she had a soft spot for, and in all of the ten years she’d known him, she only called him by his last name.

Nine years ago, before Maeve was able to gain as much of her infamy, she was tracking down yet another target of hers. It was another ranked match with some really flashy fella.

She was never one to care about reputation and reverence (unlike many others who shared her line of work), but she still participated in matches because the dough was decent.

Right as she was about to let herself be known to her opponent, something unbelievable happened.

There was a flash of bright purple light, and before Maeve could do anything else, her glittering foe was cut clean in half.

Needless to say, she was absolutely pissed. How dare somebody she didn’t even know waltz into her match and steal her kill? The poor bastard didn’t even get a chance to scream before he was sliced in two.

She glared at the perpetrator behind her opponent's (now divided) corpse, her broadsword already unsheathed from its holster.

The thief was a sharply dressed man carrying a beam katana. Upon first glance, Maeve didn’t recognize the guy. Blinded with rage, she began marching right up to him.

“Miss Marie, is it not?”

An Irish cadence left his mouth. She didn’t stop walking upon hearing him, nor did she answer his question, but she did slow her stride. Narrowing her eyes, she began to inspect the man in front of her.

Tall and slender, three-piece suit, a beam katana to wield, and Irish. She wasn’t one to care for gossip or rumors, but based on what she’d heard through the grapevine, the fucker who had just stolen her kill was none other than—

“Henry. Henry Cooldown.”

He spoke again, the ends of his lips upturned, leaving him with a small smile. She only glared daggers at him in return.

The rest of that encounter was filled with an intense battle, one that surprised the Irishman himself. Despite her cumbersome weapon, she was swift and agile on her feet. Tales of the silent southern belle proved to be true. Maeve was more than a formidable foe, their scuffle had lasted hours before Henry had somewhere else to be.

That fateful night was not the last the two assassins would see of each other, oh no. In fact, it was the start of a fiery rivalry between them. Each time they dueled, it was exhilarating-- and the banter between them was always rich.

Henry took great amusement in making any of his opponents pissed off. But with Maeve, it was oh too easy. What she lacked in chattiness and pleasantries, she never failed to make up for in combat. What little she did say was always as sharp as her blade. He felt fulfillment in battles with her, and that was something that he scarcely felt with…

Sylvia.

She was the typical French bombshell, a rude shopaholic who always had things her way. While she was quite spontaneous, Henry found a way to categorize her chaos into a schedule, one that he swore by. He was a man of patterns and rhythms, keeping things clean and precise in his life like a true gentleman would.

Sylvia was Henry's wife of four years by the time that Henry and Maeve met. They had gotten married in college, when they were both only 17 years old. How Henry fell in love with a woman like Sylvia was very… unclear, but she was his rock nonetheless.

However, as the years passed and his rivalry with that specific assassin grew older, he found Maeve's presence a welcome distraction from his orderly schedule. She gave off a gruff color to his rather uniform life. Her brief speech and skill on the battlefield provided turbulence in his routine, something that he quite enjoyed.

In fact, the assassins' rivalry between one another had sparked up quite the rumors around Santa Destroy. Onlookers assumed that they were together, or if not, that they had already been there and done that.

Henry always scoffed at the gossip, being unimpressed and deeming it distasteful. It was clear that he would never do anything to jeopardize his marriage with Sylvia (no matter how many times she would borrow one of his credit cards and not return it).

He was many things, but a cheater would never be one of them. It wasn't in his character to be an unloyal man, and he didn't see the point in being unfaithful to Sylvia after all of the patience he had already extended.

They had been married so long that he figured the two of them were in it for the long haul, and he was quite satisfied with that. Besides, he was a gentleman, and cheating was trashy by his standards.

When Maeve caught wind of the rumors at first, she wasn't pleased either. Hell, she was furious. The talk around Santa Destroy was nothing but bullshit, and proof that people needed to keep their nose in their own damn business.

In all of her years of living she never met a man who talked in the specific way he did. With the specific type of dry, sarcastic humor he had. Who always wore the most formal clothes, regardless of their typically gruesome line of work. Frankly, he confused the hell out of her.

So, why did Maeve feel the way she did about Henry, regardless?

Soon enough, the pure feelings of annoyance and rivalry Maeve bore for Henry all these years grew into stronger emotions that she couldn’t quite explain—nor stand. The realization that she kept fighting Henry because she actually was attracted to him was something she didn’t want to come to terms with quite yet, or ever.

In order to get her feelings in check, she quit seeking Henry out in exchange for other jobs and work. So, she promptly left Santa Destroy behind. Her next weeks were very busy, searching for distractions of any kind in hopes of getting the Irishman out of her head.

The first few months on the road were tolerable enough. But as time went on she grew more and more restless, relying on her vices to get her from job to job. Scattered work across the country, taking in multiple jobs a night, countless motel rooms, and bars filled her time.

Eventually, an entire year had passed before work started to slow down for the southern belle, a predicament which left her with no other options. She had to go back to Santa Destroy.

Finally, after a long train ride from butt fuck nowhere, Maeve finally arrived once again to the assassins' hub it was. She quickly navigated herself to the familiar United Assassin's Association, looking for more work.

She didn’t expect to see Henry there.

His eyes locked on her the moment she walked into the waiting room. He was surprised, that was for sure. It had been a while, an entire year, yet he felt the same old rush as he saw her again. He had to suppress a smirk when his eyes landed on her weapon.

Her wide and heavy broadsword was resting against her back, inside its large sheath. It was a blade that Henry had grown to know well throughout the years of their rivalry. Oh, the games they could have...

"Hello, Maeve." He greeted, casually raising a hand to smooth his tie. "It's been a while, hasn’t it? I was wondering if you'd decided to leave this all behind."

He was careful of his tone, making his words come off as more teasing than flirtatious. Yet the intention was obvious, and he knew she would pick up on it.

"You wondered wrong." She scoffed at his question. The reality was that Maeve had been working nearly double the amount since she had last seen Henry.

"What, you missed me?" She asked rhetorically, alluding to the countless battles they've had against one another.

Henry leaned forward, putting every ounce of his attention on her.

"I'm a man of routine, and the last couple months have been decidedly routine-less." He said, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he continued.

"You were part of that routine, Maeve. I wanted to see if maybe you had changed your mind about our little tradition."

He wasn't even trying to be subtle. He wanted her to come back. So bad it hurt. And he was about to push the issue further if she didn't agree.

Henry's smirk was accompanied by a casual nod of respect when she responded with a simple grunt. This woman was an assassin, after all- not someone you try to charm with empty words.

"Tell me something, Maeve." His voice remained low. He wasn't really trying to charm her anymore- just to remind her of why they were so much fun together.

"Was I on your mind as much as you were on mine over the last year?"

There was always something different that Henry had over the other men Maeve had met. Something infuriating, that leaves her more confused whenever he is around. That was the precise reason he hadn’t left her mind at all. And the reason she left.

Maeve tried to bite down the warm feelings in her stomach upon hearing his words. She looked away from him, stuffing her hands in her front jean pockets.

"You wish."

A low, warm chuckle escaped him at her words. Henry didn't bother hiding his amusement. In fact, he even turned his entire body to look at her. This woman was impossible to manipulate and so stubborn that she would sooner cut off her own hand before admitting someone was right.

It was endearing... and sexy.

"Oh, come on now. Don't be like that." He said. He was getting somewhere. He could feel it…

Maeve rolled her eyes, she wouldn’t say a damn thing. Besides, her chances with the assassin were slim to none.

She’d never have a shot with the Irishman, no matter how much he was on her mind. Maeve and Henry were rivals, and that's all they'd ever be. She just had to settle for that.

"You're starting to piss me off, Cooldown."

His smug smile widened at her words. She was just as stubborn as ever, but he knew she was just being coy.

"You know, I think you like it when I annoy you," He said. "It's cute."

He was right yet again, but she refused his claims, as she always had. Maeve found her patience growing thinner the more she listened to his goading. Her lips curled down into a scowl.

"You know, I can tell you're interested. You're getting flustered. Your eyes are darting all over the place." He said, a smug smirk on his face.

The bastard was loving it. It only caused her to get even more pissed, tremendously so. Her scowl deepened further as she glared at him through her hair. If she hadn't wanted to fight him before, there was no doubt about it now.

"You can't tell shit." Maeve spat at him, her voice filled with venom.

"Oh, I can tell a lot more than you think I can." He said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth once again.

"You're definitely hiding something. Whether it’s your feelings or a knife behind your back, I'm not sure yet."

He stood up, putting his arms behind his back. Now that he had walked up to her, it was a bit harder for Maeve to hide how he made her feel. Maeve could smell his cologne with how close he was, the smooth scent only fueling her frustration.

Henry's smirk slowly widened as they stood there, faces mere centimeters apart. The tension in the air was suffocating, but it only served to excite him further.

"Maybe I should frisk you to find out."

He dared her to do something. Any reaction from her would be met with his own, and the outcome would be glorious.

Suddenly, her left hand shot up from the inside of her pocket and instantly wrapped around Henry's wrist. Before he could say another word, Maeve pulled him out of the United Assassination Association, not caring what he was there for in the first place. They were on our way to duel somewhere, now.

He followed her out of the Association, not sure what she had in mind, but he certainly wasn't resisting. Maeve's stride was fast as she held onto his wrist, dragging him along. He made sure to keep up with Maeve's frantic pace, easily able to match her stride.

They were on the way to the site of the last battle they had, a whole year ago. It was a rooftop on one of the tallest buildings in Santa Destroy.

"Did you finally come to your senses and decide to resume our tradition?" Henry asked, his voice calm and collected despite his racing mind.

"I believe it was you who was on the losing end last time we fought," He said calmly, smirk still intact.

"Shut the hell up. I'm putting you in your place." She barked at him in reply.

They got to the building after a short walk, and after multiple flights of stairs (all of which Maeve's hand never left Henry's wrist), they arrived on the rooftop.

He stopped them when they reached the roof, turning around to face her. "Let's try and make it as fun as last time." He said. "No mercy."

She finally let go to stand across from him, unsheathing her broadsword from its holster on her back. She was still very much pissed, frustrated (in more ways than one), and ready to duel.

Henry wielded his beam katana, the weapon activating with a menacing drone. Once it was completely out, he took up a duelist stance. His sword held out in one hand, body facing Maeves, the other hand held in front of himself.

He didn't want to risk saying anything right now. So, in true assassin tradition, he nodded his head and gave her a slight wave.

The tension in the air was at an all time high, and Maeve wanted nothing more than for Henry to eat his words.

Maeve charged at him, starting the fight with haste.

This exchange of swings, jabs, and thrusts went on for what seemed like hours. They seemed to be evenly matched in this explosive battle, and it was nothing short of intense.

Maeve had some of the most fierce technique he had ever seen, the woman was like a wild animal. Yet, he still held his own, of course. His strikes and dodges were a reflection of his counterpart. Even in this state, he refused to let up.

"I thought you wanted to put me in my place?" He taunted. "Where is that place, exactly?"

As quickly as he was able to speak, he changed the momentum of the duel. Sweat started to form at Maeve's brow as he showered her with a seemingly endless amount of jabs and thrusts of his weapon.

With a powerful swing of his beam katana against her sword, it flew out of her hand and onto the pavement, skidding across the concrete. Maeve was now unarmed.

Before Henry could capitalize on this, she dashed behind him, locking two strong arms around his waist. Maeve then bent backwards, throwing him into a powerful german suplex.

He landed hard on his back, his sword flying from his grasp as he suppressed a groan of pain. His weapon clattered to the ground, leaving him unarmed as well.

That was certainly the smartest move Maeve made all night. As both arms locked around his waist, Henry’s mind was racing as to what to do here, but all he could feel was that rush... that rush he had always loved.

They were left to wrestle now.

"You had enough yet?" Maeve asked, her drawl coming through a bit strained as she grappled him.

She had him tight and firm, he was completely unable to escape her hold. The air on the rooftop grew hot as the tension between them grew more primal.

"Not even close," He said between pants. "You'll have to drag me to hell before I tell you that." He continued to struggle as he looked into her eyes, refusing to give her the victory she so desperately craved.

"Bet you’d like that, huh?" Maeve's black eyes glared daggers into his as she looked down at him with a scowl. Her fingers tightened around his wrists. She was always the better wrestler out of the two assassins.

"I would..." He said, his words coming out slightly more hoarsely than she might have been used to. Despite how tired and sore his arms were from trying to get out of her grasp, he continued to look forward, a smug grin on his face.

"But you'd like that even more," he teased. "You just love seeing me struggle like this, don't yo—"

"I'd love for you to shut the fuck up."

Maeve nearly growled at him. She couldn't outright deny his claims, as he was right. But she wasn't nearly as verbose and frankly, shameless, to admit it.

"Oh, darling- do not deny what's so obvious," he said, his tone of voice dripping with frustration. Her body was just so... hot. "I think you might even be enjoying yourself more than I am."

She pinned his wrists down over his head, making it even harder for him to move. Her legs were now straddling his hips.

This time when she moved, Henry didn't resist. Their faces were just inches apart from each other, their breath mixing. She could hear his heartbeat pounding through his chest, his body moving with her every movement.

Maeve would never admit it to anyone, but she had never felt so alive as she felt now, with him under her grip.

They had been here many, many times, but never had they been this close, in every possible sense. The two of their bodies struggled against each other, and he wanted more.

She wanted multiple things. One of those things was for Henry to finally close his damned mouth, and stop making her feel such intense emotions that she could do nothing with. She couldn't have him, no matter how much she wanted to kiss him right then and there.

The nerves between the two assassins were high as ever while he looked up at her with a smoldering gaze.

"You think you're in the driver seat right now." Henry said, his voice filled with snark. "But oh, dear Maeve," He teased, "You can't deny what's happening here."

He raised his eyebrows as he let his gaze flutter across her face. He knew he was breaking her down little by little. She was so close to admitting how she truly felt, he could feel it.

The air was charged with tension. Every hair on his body was on end and he could feel each and every heartbeat pound into his chest.

"I'm not admitting shit." She snarled at him.

Maeve was always a woman of few words, but even if she wasn't, there was no way she could verbalize just how much she longed for him all the years of their rivalry.

She had avoided him the entirety of last year in an attempt to lose her feelings for the married assassin, only for her silent, harbored affections for him to grow stronger against her will. She didn't understand what Henry wanted from her, why he wanted her to give in. It was pointless.

Henry laughed as he continued to look up at her. He loved her stubbornness.

"You can act as tough and cold as you want but I know you're thinking differently deep down." He said, his voice filled with arrogance.

He knew how to break her down, and he used every tool at his disposal to do so. As their eyes met, he knew he was winning. And he wasn't about to let up now.

"So goddamned what?" Maeve snapped at him, her temper beginning to unravel completely.

"That doesn't change the fact that you're married. You’ve been married for God knows how long, so what does it even matter?"

Henry raised an eyebrow, his grin growing wide.

"But dear, how do you know I'm still married?" He asked, his tone of voice slightly teasing.

He kept his nose pressed against hers, not backing down despite how close their faces were. In fact, he seemed to enjoy being this close, the heat and scents of their bodies against each other sending his heart racing even faster than before.

Maeve's black eyes immediately widened with disbelief. She stared at him, scanning his face for any traces of deceit. After a few intense moments of silence, she finally spoke.

"...What?"

"That's right, sweetheart," Henry said, his voice still low and filled with snark. "I'm not married anymore."

Maeve was shocked. If he was telling the truth, it would mean that her world had been flipped upside down.

She must have started avoiding Henry right before his divorce with Sylvia. If she had just stayed around for a little while longer…

Henry kept up his smirk as he watched Maeve's reaction. It was priceless, really. He kept his eyes on hers, her body close to his.

"And now your excuses are running thin. I feel it. I see it."

Maeve's grip on his wrists was dangerously loose as she sat on top of him, and when he spoke, she let them go completely. Her eyes were filled with emotion, ones of surprise, and disbelief, but Henry could see the hints of yearning and desire in them clearly.

He leaned his head in slightly, their noses touching again.

"All you want is to kiss me, isn't it? You're just too proud to admit it."

Without any warning, she cupped his face with her hands and crashed her mouth against his, kissing him with years worth of repressed passion. The moment he felt Maeve's lips press against his, Henry could hold back no longer.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her as close to him as he possibly could. He kissed her with the same intensity that they used to grapple with, the same intensity that had been brewing inside of him.

This was his moment. The moment he had been waiting for. He wanted her, and she wanted him. His lips didn't leave hers, his tongue exploring the depths of her mouth. All he wanted was her. And right now, he had her.

He would have stayed like this for hours, maybe even days, if he could. He needed to have her. The way her tongue explored his mouth, the way that she tasted on his lips... it was a perfect match.

All of those years, all of that desire, all that wanting... A few more long moments of the most passionate kiss of Henry's life, and Maeve briefly broke the kiss to catch her breath.

But alas, they could not stay like this forever. He tried his best to resist, but eventually Henry stopped kissing her for a moment.

He tried to speak. But he couldn't. His skin was hot to the touch, his breath catching in his throat. The taste of Maeve's lips was still on his tongue, every nerve in his body feeling alive with anticipation.

He knew he couldn't just sit there in silence.

"I..." He tried again. "I want you."

The words were out. For the first time, to anyone other than Sylvia, he had spoken about how he felt towards another person.

Although, it was worth it to see her face right now. Her eyebrows raised at his admission, she was seemingly surprised by his direct admission.

"How much?" She asked with one corner of her lips upturned. She was curious as to what he'd have to say. Henry didn't hold back.

"I want you with every fiber of my being. Every minute that we haven't been together feels like a torment to me," He whispered to her. He wished he was exaggerating at the moment, but he wasn't.

The words felt like a weight off his back for the first time. It was nice to be so clear about how he felt, and the fact that Maeve's expression was now filled to the brim with desire, made it even better.

She was clearly pleased with the fellow assassin's words, despite doing quite well to keep her composure. The thought that Henry really missed her when she disappeared that year ago, made her feel unbelievably fulfilled.

"Well, we oughta do something about that."

It was all Henry could do not to smile at Maeve's words. She was finally admitting she wanted this as much as he did, and that was everything he could ever ask for.

He nodded. "My apartment's just a stone's throw from here." He placed a slow kiss on her lips again, his tone of voice low and sultry. She leaned into his kiss and rested her forehead against his, keeping close as he spoke. "I'd like to take you there."

She finally rolled off of Henry. Crouching, she outstretched a hand for him so that he could stand as well. Henry took it and pulled himself up, dusting himself off, and wiping a bead of sweat away from his face.

He looked at Maeve, as if seeing her for the first time after the kiss.

"Thank you," He told her. They both knew what they were feeling now, and that was enough to see him through this night.

The two assassins picked up their weapons from the rooftop and made their way down the stairs. He took her hand, as he didn't want to spend another minute away from her.

The cool autumn air was pleasant as the two strolled on their way to Henry's apartment. As the two of them walked, the wind rustling the tree leaves, Henry finally felt as if everything was right once again. He was going to stay close to Maeve. Very, very close to her.

"So," he started, turning his gaze to Maeve's face as they walked on the sidewalk. "What else did you do in the year that we were apart?" He asked.

Maeve grunted, reminiscing of the entire year she hadn't seen Henry. She was avoiding him back then. Trying to distract herself from feelings she thought were unrequited.

"Work, really. Seeing where the wind blew me, finding jobs and clients there." She spoke casually, extremely so. Henry saw right through it. He tilted his head to the side.

"But, you must have been busy. Did anyone keep you company?" He turned his gaze back forward, still holding Maeve’s hand.

If anyone had made Maeve's heart race even halfway as much as he had, Henry knew there would be trouble. He wanted to be the only thing Maeve's heart beat for, even in the time they were apart. He needed to be.

“Nobody.” She answered honestly.

In truth, she felt so strongly for Henry that it made the concept of anyone else plain inadequate. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to admit that yet, to flatter the Irishman who had been on her mind.

"No one could..." she mumbled, seemingly adding that on accident. Maeve's gaze was on her boots, flickering between them and her hand that was still holding Henry's.

He didn't say anything. He already knew what Maeve's words meant. It was clear that in the year they had spent apart, that she had been unable to replace him. It sounded like she had been unable to even start a relationship with someone else. She hadn't tried.

It was the same with Henry. The year they had spent apart, he hadn't done anything that would even classify as romantic. Just like Maeve's words, his eyes gave it all away.

Henry didn't say anything at first. How could he? Maeve's confession earlier had made his whole world feel so right. So many times he had questioned why he felt so strongly for her. Why did he still feel that way?

Maeve had just answered every single one of those questions, and it wasn't with words at all. It was the way she held him by the hand. It was her gaze. And it was her silence.

He finally spoke.

"You don't have to worry, sweetheart,"

She queried an eyebrow when he did, wondering what he meant. Her expression urged him to continue.

"No one could ever compare to you." Henry continued, as the two of them continued walking toward his apartment.

"From the moment I met you, you were different from anyone else I’d battled. And in a way, I always hoped. I hoped that maybe, just maybe, what I felt was mutual. You just never made it too clear..."

He looked at Maeve's lips again.

"...until tonight."

"I couldn't." Maeve replied. "You had already been married for god knows how long. Why’d you and Sylvia split anyway?"

Henry turned his gaze away from Maeve's lips as he continued speaking. Those words were just about the last thing in the world that Henry felt like talking about right now, but she had reminded him that he hadn't told her everything yet.

"She cheated," He answered flatly.

Maeve's eyes widened at his admission. She was thoroughly shocked. "No fuckin’ way."

She couldn't fathom a man like Henry getting cheated on. Her hand squeezed Henry's tighter than it had before, without her noticing. Henry felt his hand being squeezed, but he didn't mind. In fact, he had started to squeeze her hand back.

Her fury and shock were both justified, as he had felt the exact same way. Sylvia had broken him in ways that no one ever had, but Maeve's presence was healing him more and more with every second that passed.

Her hand squeezing his made him feel like he was the luckiest man alive, despite all that had happened to him.

"It was... a bad time," He continued. "But it's water under the bridge. All that matters now, is us."

Us? She scoffed at his phrasing, as it seemed too good to be true. He made her feel so much with just a few slick words of his. He always had.

Returning to Santa Destroy was a last resort for her when the rest of work around the country was dry. Yet he held out for her. How did he even know that she'd come back? Her hand squeezed his again.

"You're goddamn crazy."

Henry chuckled.

"Maybe I am, to have ever thought that you would be so easy to get away from," He told her, giving Maeve's hand a quick squeeze in turn.

"It was like trying to avoid rain while living in Ireland," He said. "It was unavoidable."

He looked ahead, seeing the apartment building finally coming into view. Maeve shook her head as they walked up to his apartment, half in disbelief. But the small smile that was growing on her face told Henry all he needed to know. She even chuckled, a rare occurrence.

Henry turned to Maeve's face as he held the apartment's door open for her.

Her eyes. For some reason, her eyes just seemed so appealing. So captivating.

"Please, after you." He told her, gesturing inside.

She nodded, and walked into the apartment as he asked. Henry followed, locking the front door behind them.

#henry cooldown #character x oc #no more heroes #no more heroes 2 #black oc

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rcmndedlisten · 2 years

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Interview: Tay Roebuck of Smut On The Band’s New Album ‘How the Light Felt’

Photo by: Jaycee Rockhold

How The Light Felt, the sophomore effort from Smut, is a reckoning on a personal and creative level unlike anything which the Chicago-based quintet has contended with thus far. Born out of tragedy following the death of vocalist Tay Roebuck’s sister in 2017, she alongside guitarist Andrew Min, bassist and synthesist Bell Cenower, guitarist and synthesist Sam Ruschman, and drummer Aidan O’Connor have crafted a sonic document of deep grief through spells of dream-pop, alternative pop-rock and trip-hop that ultimately transcend the darkness and redefine what hope sounds like upon breaking through the other side.

+rcmndedlisten spoke with Tay Roebuck via e-mail about interpreting the personal through their art, the ‘90s gaze in today’s current music spectrum, and what comes next after this moment.

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+rl: There's the natural desire to want to describe Smut as a dream-pop band who meshes into the walls of '90s luminaries like the Sundays, Massive Attack, and early Cranberries, but there's also an unassuming aggressiveness on tracks like "Janeway" and more unorthodox bedroom-styled production on closer "Unbroken Thought" that stop you in your tracks from doing so, and instead draw tangents to modern artists like Nothing and just nothing else really at all. How do you search for creative inspo in a scene that's so familiar to the ear?

Tay Roebuck: The best thing about our band is that we all take inspiration from different places. Yes, we all have a love for ‘90s music, but that spans genres. If you think about bands from the ‘90s, they take a lot of inspirations from the ‘70s and bands from the ‘70s riff off the ‘50s. Music to us is a lot about finding the sounds you love and expanding on them. It’s what a lot of great bands do!

+rl: How the Light Felt is an album that is deceptively heavy (even more so than your 2017 punk-driven debut, End of Sam-Soon) despite how it feels on the surface, which in turn, puts a metaphorical focus on the album's title itself. Personal grief and loss permeate throughout the listen, but tracks like "Soft Engine" and "After Silver Leaves" are soft, luminous, warm and comforting in a manner that makes each song sound like a breakthrough to the other side. Was the way you crafted your sound on this effort part of the healing process?

TR: To be honest, when writing the lyrics for this album, I wasn’t intending anything. I was going through something raw and getting it out of me in the way. I had learned to process my emotions by writing. I didn’t want to quit the band, but I couldn’t really keep writing and performing the way I did before. We were making aggressive songs with abstract lyrics and to do that after my sister’s death felt impossible. So the natural solution was to change how I performed and to change what I wrote about. Only after it was done and sent away to be pressed and sold did I feel the reckoning of having written it. Imagine selling the worst thing that ever happened to you to an audience. It was something I was fully unprepared for and still struggle with. I wouldn’t say it’s been exactly healing in the long run in that sense.

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+rl: At the same time, How the Light Felt could easily be interpreted as an album about love and the sensation of falling in love through its veiled sunlight by turning its lyricism toward it with a longing romanticism. Did the dichotomy between two profoundly different emotions meeting in the center come across to you during the songwriting, or was that a beautiful accident?

TR: The sound itself was crafted by all members of the band. The content of the album lyric-wise is very much my life and experiences, but the instrumentation itself is the growth of four other people and me. The comforting sounds to me can almost be read as the symbiotic relationship Smut has. They were and are the comfort and support that lifts my heavy experiences and that gives levity to the outside audience. I think they add hope to the songs that I wouldn’t be able to give on my own.

In this moment, this album also sounds like the Smut's fullest realization yet, and should be appreciated for that. From here, do you start to creatively look to where the path leads next, or have the experiences lived throughout this listen redefined your perspective on that process as well?

TR: I think we as a group are ready to move on to the next thing, which will hopefully be an evolution of How the Light Felt into a more energetic sound. Now that we’ve cried it out and seen the positive effect the album seems to be having, I think we are all ready to get out there and fuck it up. I’m personally setting my sights on this next album to speak more broadly to the injustices happening in our country. I’ve thought about myself enough for the time being. We are itching to speak to the people, make ‘em dance, and maybe inspire them.

How the Light Felt by smut

Smut’s How the Light Felt is available now on Bayonet Records.

#interviews #smut #bayonet records

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oh-no-melon · 2 years

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...maybe this year will be better than the last.

#stobotnik #agent stone #robotnik #jimbotnik #eggman #fanart #fan art #art #sonic cinematic universe #sonic the hedgehog #anyone else hate summer so they draw fall and winter scenes to combat the heat?#and does anyone else have insane insomnia thats keeping them awake and drawing rather than sleeping?#AND WHILE WERE AT IT #will i stop drawing these two and basing their titles off of songs i happen to enjoy?#answer is no i will not stop

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alwaysmarveling · 3 years

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Socks

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Warnings: toxic relationships, small mentions of death, gaslighting, fighting, and miscarriage

Word Count: 4k (literally exactly 4k, I’m kinda proud)

A/N: Based on the song “1 Step Forward, 3 Steps Back” by Olivia Rodrigo as suggested by @vancityfire13, I hope this meets all your hopes and expectations <3 also technically this is my first prompt from someone who’s not me??!

You met Wanda at the library. Your legs crossed, eyebrows scrunched, and bottom lip caught between your teeth, you’d settled in the familiar corner of the library's world languages section. That area was always quiet, which you’d found out after many trips to the library as a kid. When the occasional patron did wander through, perusing the shelves, sometimes they brought family or friends, weaving together sounds and syllables that had to be from another language. It was the only sound you’d tolerate while you were immersed in your reading. Well, to be fully honest, you loved it, wondering what the hushed voices were saying, what stories they were telling. So Wanda’s English was a jarring wake-up call.

“I like your socks.” Her eyes flashed to your ankles, leaving you wondering if she was more drawn to the sky blue color or the characters covering it.

You’d noticed the brunette walking the aisles about ten minutes ago. Unlike most, she ran her fingers along the worn spines, seeming only half-interested in what the titles read.

“Thanks.” Your voice was cold, unwelcoming. She gave you a terse nod before heading off, her footsteps silent against the worn carpet. You thought she was gone.

A week later, you were back at your spot. You’d finally finished the work you’d been putting off for weeks, just about to reward yourself with a reread of Little Women, a book you’d read an uncountable number of times since you were a child. She was an unwelcome interruption.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but-”

“I was looking for a book for my brother. His name is Pietro. Was Pietro. There was a Sokovian fairytale he always loved. Begged my mother to read it to us every night. He could recite it by memory by the time he was five, knew every word. I thought I did too.” Your eyes traced down the curve of her spine. Your mother would have scolded you for standing so poorly.

“I’m sorry for your loss” was all you said, your lips forming a tight line when you finished.

“I couldn’t- I can’t remember the title.”

“I can try to help you find it?” You weren’t sure why you offered, maybe the lost look in her eyes, the growing strength of her accent as she talked, or the way her fingers traced her empty palms. No one should leave a library empty-handed.

“Do you speak Sokovian?” The corners of her eyes creased as you shook your head.

“I suppose you won’t be much help then, will you?” Her words held no bite, only the sadness of a stranger who was trying to hold herself together, her emotions threatening to unravel her at the weakened seams. You matched her facial expression out of sympathy, but she was gone before you had a chance to apologize.

“Do you like Disney?” she had asked you. Her eyes were back on your ankles. You were wearing the same socks as when the two of you first met. You were milliseconds away from answering, your tongue already against the roof of your mouth, ready to shut down the conversation immediately afterward. But then you noticed the way her hands fidgeted in her lap, her fingers always moving, almost like they were dancing. You sighed. You should be nicer; she’d really done nothing wrong.

“It’s alright.” Your shoulders raised and dropped, your answer purposefully vague. “Did you manage to find the book?” The darkening of her eyes was enough to tell you that, no, she hadn’t found it. “What’s the main character’s name?” Her gaze followed you as you pulled out your laptop.

“Boleslav,” she answered finally. Her gaze was timid, unsure. Why were you helping her? You’d been so closed off before.

“Do you know any major points of the story? The names of the other characters?” Before she could answer, you eyed the pillow that sat next to you. She took a seat.

The two of you poured over Google, eventually finding the story and its location in the library. But by that point, you were too wrapped up in your findings on the Internet to get up. Too wrapped up in each other.

---

Wanda insisted she make it up to you, for finding the book for her.

“For helping me find my brother,” she insisted, pulling you out of the library. If she was anyone else, you would have responded by saying that she could make it up to you by leaving you alone with your books, but she wasn’t anyone else. So you let her tug you out of the building, Mirabelle, the librarian, giving you a wink upon seeing you leaving the building with someone else, soft smiles gracing your faces.

You thought she would’ve brought you to coffee, but it seemed you hadn’t yet developed the ability to understand her. She brought you to the city, a small store on the corner. Socks lined the walls, the different colors and patterns flooding your vision.

“Your Disney ones looked old.” You half-nodded as you scanned the store, your hand going limp in hers. You remembered learning about rods and cones in class ages ago, not quite remembering what each one did but remembering that one of them was involved in seeing colors. Those—whatever they were called—must’ve been on overdrive.

You picked one pair for her, and she, one for you. You wore those socks constantly, slipping them over your feet the second they were out of the wash. You never told Wanda about it, but you didn’t have to; her eyes fell to your ankles every time she saw you, a small smile on her face. You didn’t know if you did it for her reaction or simply because you loved them. Maybe it was both.

---

Wanda drew you into her world. Some might have used the word “yanked” given how quickly your relationship moved. But that made it sound involuntary, as if she’d forced you to move in with her when she’d asked you exactly eight months after your first date. And if you’d known she had powers when you first met her, you might’ve agreed. Maybe she’d entranced you and now you were stuck with her, even if you didn’t really want to be.

But the truth was that you did, you wanted to be with her every second you could. And though magic never left her hands when she was with you, even her name was magic, the way those two syllables rang beautifully in the air as she formally introduced herself for the first time. She spoke English when she talked to you, but you swore that whatever left her mouth was a language of her own, so elegant, sweet, and charming in a way that no English speaker could replicate.

But, one night, her words twisted into daggers, punctuated syllables sharpening into dangerous ends, the beginning of each sentence like a handle she grabbed and used to hurt you further, twist until it was lodged as deeply into your chest as it could go.

You weren’t sure what you did to make it happen. Maybe it was just a bad night. She was drunk, after all, home from some party with the Avengers that you hadn’t gone to. The two of you had talked it over before, though, both agreeing that it was too soon in your relationship to attend anything where it’d be publicly released, which was why you were confused about why she was cursing you out for abandoning her, not being there when you needed her.

You promised that you’d be sure to go next time. Wanda just turned around, dismissing you without another word. You weren’t sure what was worse, the silence or her words. She somehow missed the tears that streamed down your face.

The next day, she knocked on your door. This time, she was the one in tears, the rate at which they fell only increasing when she saw how puffy your eyes were.

“I- I’m sorry,” she bumbled, the sounds tumbling out of her mouth like a barrel coming down the Niagara Falls. She couldn’t have stopped them if she tried. You watched her struggle through an apology, something about her insecurities being magnified as she saw all the other couples around her seemingly happy. She just wanted that. And even though her speech was much more clumsy than the usual effortless diction you were used to hearing from her, you allowed her words to draw you in, provide you shelter from the horrors you’d experienced yesterday, when your heart raced and blood rushed your ears and your palms were so sweaty you couldn’t get a grip on anything. You allowed her arms to draw you in, make you feel safe. You allowed her to bring you home.

---

Wanda saw a side of you that no one had ever seen before. Scratch that, Wanda saw all of you. Where others would’ve looked away or missed the true meaning of your words, she dug deeper. You lived your whole life with a mask on, swapping one out for another to appease those around you. Wanda took them all off.

But she didn’t force them off; she made you want to take them off. You were the one who peeled them off one by one, the experience being extremely unnerving every time you revealed that much more of yourself to her, but you always found yourself relieved at the end. Because she accepted you, she loved you.

Right?

---

You called her once, during a mission. It was something the two of you had been doing ever since you started dating. You would ask how she was doing, make sure she was okay, and she’d do the same for you. Of course, when her missions were off-the-grid you didn’t call, but if the two of you were allowed to stay in contact, she insisted that you guys do so.

“I have to make sure my love is okay,” she’d murmured, just before she left for her first mission since the two of you started your relationship. She was holding you in her arms as the two of you swayed back and forth. Your feet were bare for once, the cold kitchen tile underfoot grounding the both of you. Neither of you had wanted to let go; your hands were clasped firmly together around her waist, and hers rested on top of yours. But eventually, the incessant honking from Tony became too much, and the two of you reluctantly moved apart.

“I’ll call you the second I can, yeah? And make sure you call me in the morning when you wake up.”

“I will,” you nodded as Wanda’s hand came up to brush against your cheek.

But somehow she’d forgotten about your agreement, and nothing but annoyance filled your ear, the phone pressed up against it.

“Y/N, I really don’t have time for this right now.” You sucked in a breath, her tone an instant reminder of that night she’d yelled at you. But that was so long ago. And you hadn’t done anything; there wasn’t a party you’d missed since then, not a moment since then that you’d let her feel alone. Or was there?

“I- I’m sorry,” you stuttered. “Should I call you back later?” All you got was a sigh, doubt and panic filling your chest in the momentary silence.

“We’ll see. Goodbye, milaya.” There was barely a pause in between her voice and the disconnect tone. You weren’t sure if the pet name was sincere or a habit leftover from the good times.

Were you still in the good times?

What went wrong?

Where did you go wrong?

She came back from the mission, and all was well again. She spun you around and around, her melodious giggles filling your ears and causing the corners of your mouth to lift. But you couldn’t help your brows from cinching inwards, wondering where this Wanda had been when you’d called. Was it just another fluke, or maybe something you’d imagined?

“I love you, printsessa, so, so much,” Wanda whispered. You loved the way her smooth voice filled your ears, made you feel whole again. Maybe it was the kitchen? Was that the place she felt safe, the place where she felt like she could love you fully? Maybe that’s why she seemed so closed off during the mission. When you didn’t respond, too lost in thought, she spoke up again.

“Detka, d’you know you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me? I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Her eyes sparkled. No red mist emerged from her fingertips, but you swore Wanda’s essence was magic in and of itself. How could you ever deny her?

You surrendered.

“I love you too. More than anything in the world.”

---

The next day, Wanda woke you up with excitement filling her voice, insisting that you come with her to the compound to pick up some of the things she’d left behind.

“I want to show you off,” she’d laughed as she rolled you over.

“We’ve already met, babe. They love me, you’ve said so yourself,” you groaned. She shook her head as she corralled you into the bathroom.

“You haven’t met all of them! Now c’mon, let’s go!” You agreed, and she was right, there were lots of new people there.

“You must be Y/N, right?” You nodded as you shook the man’s hand.

“I’m Clint. I’ve heard, um, lots about you. And your socks.” The two of you laughed at his joke, but something about his chuckle was off. His smile never quite reached his eyes. Wanda whisked you off too soon for you to figure out why though, bringing you over to a rather large man. No, god, he’s a god. Thor, he said. His name is Thor.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you’d responded.

“The love of my life,” Wanda sighed, her voice wispy and dreamy. The god’s eyebrows had raised at that.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you then, Y/N. I didn’t know Wanda was so fortunate as to have a love so strong.” Sometimes you had to remind yourself of that too. “You are very lucky, my friend.” Am I?

You exchanged jokes with Natasha, learned of some of Bruce and Tony’s new projects, listened to stories of Thor’s childhood adventures on Asgard; the night went well. Until it didn’t.

You were yanked into a mostly empty room, the door quickly shut behind you. Was that a flash of red you’d seen in the corner of your eye?

“What did you do?” someone hissed. The voice was familiar, but by this point, you weren’t sure if it filled you with dread or joy when you heard it. Was that part of the excitement of your relationship, trying to figure out the complexities of it all, trying to predict which version of your lover you’d get this time?

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “I didn’t do anything, Wanda, I swear!”

“Then why is Clint telling me to break up with you? What did you say to him?” Your head shook, your whole body shook. This was news to you.

“I didn’t say anything. Please, Wan-”

“How am I supposed to believe that, Y/N? Do you really think he’d just make that up out of nowhere?” You tried to find the words, the ones you should say, the ones she’d want you to say. You had nothing. The witch’s anger grew, her hands slamming down on her sides. “God, Y/N! It’s like sometimes I don’t even know who you are!”

But wait, that was how you felt. Wasn’t it? Or had you dreamed that up too? What had you done?

“Wanda, I promise I didn’t do anything. I’ve been friendly to him all night.”

“So you expect me to believe he’s lying, then.” Your eyes fell to her chest, its rise and fall rapid but deep, going up and down several times before she spoke again. “Y/N, he named his child after my brother. Why would he lie to me?” You could do nothing, say nothing to fix this. You weren’t sure exactly what you did, but you’d messed up. Again.

“Maybe he’s right, then.” Her hand ran through her hair, the brown locks that you loved to twist around your own fingers, play with as she laid in your lap, a show playing in the background. You missed those times.

But weren’t you just doing that last night?

You weren’t sure. It seemed like so long ago.

---

Weeks, months, even a year passed. Wanda had apologized for that night at the compound. She’d also apologized for the countless number of other times the two of you had fought since then. But it was okay, you’d thought, because for all those arguments was an equal number of moments where the two of you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe, slow-danced at 3 AM, used your hairbrushes as microphones to sing concerts for your millions of fans. At least, you thought it was an equal number. Did number matter anyway?

Wanda went from being your girlfriend, to being your fiancé, to being your wife. Like Thor had said, you were “very lucky.” You are very lucky. Because right now, you’re looking down at the stick in your hand, and there are two lines, not one. The two of you had done something so many couldn’t; that was a huge blessing. And now you had to tell Wanda.

Finding the box was harder than you thought, but the other part was much easier. All you had to do was go to the store Wanda had taken you to all that time ago, the small store on the corner. And when the brunette lifted open the lid to find a pair of socks so tiny they could only be for one thing, one person, one baby, she knew. She was ecstatic. You were relieved.

Four weeks. Four weeks later from that day was the worst day of your life. Just as quickly as the baby had come, it had gone. He or she was gone. Was it your fault? The doctor had been quick to shut those thoughts down, insisting that there were many factors that could’ve caused the miscarriage, but you certainly weren’t one of them.

But Wanda didn’t talk to you for a whole week, spending the nights in the guest bedroom to avoid you. It was the longest the two of you had gone without speaking. That had to mean something, right?

It did. It meant that it shouldn’t have been a surprise when you came home from work the following Monday to find half of the things missing. All of her things.

The box was still there, though; you saw it out of the corner of your eye. It sat on top of a cabinet, the two socks poking out of the top.

The two of you had fallen in love with those tiny socks faster than you’d fallen in love with each other. They held so much love, so much promise. But now they were empty, devoid of anything they might’ve held just hours before. They were nothing more than a painful reminder of what could have been, what should have been. Meanwhile, your own socks were still on, the same ones Wanda had given to you on your first date. You weren’t sure you could take them off if you tried. Was that a reminder too? Did it have significance?

The ticking of the clock suddenly caught your attention. You had been standing at the doorway for thirty minutes, but what were you supposed to do? Were you supposed to go somewhere? Where would you go? Wanda was gone, not leaving any clue as to where she could’ve run off to, and you were alone.

When was the last time you’d been truly alone?

Didn’t you use to like being alone?

You grabbed your keys. You weren’t sure what you were looking for, but whatever it was, you wouldn’t find it here.

You push open the door, always the one on the right. Walk twenty or so steps through the entrance, turn left. Take another left, then walk-

It was different. Completely different. The shelves weren’t the same color, metal had been swapped for wood, the carpet was new; what had happened?

“Y/N, sweetie, is that you?” Mirabelle’s voice. At least she was still here. You turned to face her, taking in her wrinkled face, the tortoiseshell glasses that had been perched on her nose since you met her as a child. “Oh my goodness, it is! We haven’t seen you in ages. We were all so worried.”

“Wha- what happened to the library?” Her kind smile flipped, her lips separated with their corners turning downwards.

“We got a renovation at the end of last year, honey. Didn’t you see it on the news?”

“Right,” you nodded, swallowing again, trying to push down the lump that had been growing in your throat for over an hour. “Um, where’s the world languages section?”

“Upstairs, love. Take two rights and you’ll see it. Enjoy your visit, okay?” You nodded again, pressing your lips into a wavering smile that Mirabelle accepted.

You found the section easily enough, pushing yourself into one of the beanbags that crowded the floor. It was quiet—you supposed not many people came to the library on a late Tuesday afternoon—but something was missing.

No, that wasn’t it. Nothing was missing. Everything had changed, and you couldn’t settle yourself no matter how hard you tried. You couldn’t recognize the white walls or the large windows that surrounded you. You couldn’t recognize the book in your shaking hands; the title read “Little Women,” but it lacked the comfort and familiarity it once brought you. You couldn’t recognize the artwork that hung on the walls, the large signs suspended from the ceiling.

You caught a reflection in the shiny metal of a book cart that lay several feet away from you.

You couldn’t recognize yourself.

When you finally left the library, Mirabelle frowned as she watched you exit the doors, not stopping to check out a book like you always did. No one should ever leave a library empty-handed. You’d forgotten that too.

---

She came back less than a week later, her cheeks tear-stained and her eyes rimmed with red as she stumbled her way through an apology.

“It was a mistake, detka, I promise. I made such an awful mistake, and I’ll never forgive myself. I won’t blame you if you don’t forgive me either.” You stared at her, neither your eyes nor your mouth moving as you tried to take in what she was saying, tried to come up with an adequate response.

Which had changed more, the library or you?

“Please, you’re the only thing that matters in my life. I can’t lose you.” The melody of her once-full voice was broken, the chords fragmented and notes falling out of tune. It was as broken as you’d felt for the past few days. Maybe she understood. But you couldn’t think anymore because you were suddenly in her arms again, her tears soaking your shirt as she sobbed.

The library had been renovated, its modernity and welcoming environment being a major improvement to the once somewhat dilapidated building. You had slipped, your feet wrapped in the socks Wanda had given you as you stumbled down the dark, crooked hallway of your life, trying desperately to get a hand on the wall, grab a solid footing.

You had two options: save yourself or fall.

“Please, Y/N, please. Promise you’ll stay.”

You fell backwards, your head being the first to slam into the floor.

“Of course I’ll stay, Wan. I’d never leave you.”

You weren’t sure if you’d ever get up. After all, changed or not, what’s a library without its books? Who are you without her?

-----

🏷 : @007giu

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff angst #wanda maximoff #avengers x reader #marvel #mcu #I wrote something #alwaysmarveling

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author-morgan · 4 years

Text

Title: Sweet Caroline

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Rating: M

Summary: One day a man in black comes to take you away and it just happens he’s the best man you’ve ever met. Tagging the crew: @dynamicorbit @kvitravn @wolfxkissed

Header image by @kvitravn

BE WARY OF a man in black. In retrospect, you should have heeded your mother’s wisdom and warning —would have saved you a lot of pain and headaches to learn from her mistakes instead of making the same ones. Arthur Morgan had been a man in black when he rode into town at the head of a band of nefarious outlaws one crisp autumn morning.

The Van der Linde gang left the small town with a dozen bags heavy with gold and silver, a trail of corpses of those who stood in their way lining the streets. That’d been years ago, about seven by your reckoning. You’ve made too many mistakes to count since then but asking Arthur Morgan to take you away from a small-town hell wasn’t one of them.

Pearson howls like a wolf at the full moon when you dig into the bloody hole on his calf, pulling the slug free. The silver round clinks when you drop it into the washbasin, leaning back with a sigh as John takes your spot, dressing the gunshot wound with a thick salve and torn piece of calico fabric. A quick buck off a set of loaded dice in an alleyway hadn’t turned out in Pearson’s favor —luck saved him from a bullet in the head, just like luck saved him from the loan sharks a few months back.

Rising, you pat the Fat Man’s cheek, leaving behind a bloody handprint fore wandering off to the edge of camp for a breath of air away from the fire and those gathered around it. Arthur follows after you, not ready to let you out of his sight after he almost lost you in the shootout with the law and those wronged following Pearson’s foolish gamble. There was a reason the camp’s cook was supposed to stay behind on missions and errands —his days as a soldier in the navy were long past.

You dip your hands into the wash barrel, scrubbing away from blood from beneath your fingertips. Too often, you find yourself with the blood of those you care about on your hands and clothes. Should’ve listened to mother, you think, bitter. Bracing your arms across the barrel, you look down at your reflection —increasingly unhappy with the woman looking back at you.

“He gone be okay?” Arthur asks, stopping next to you with his arms crossed. He worries about the gang, even if he tries not to show it, but seeing through his hardened exterior is something he almost hates you for. When Arthur Morgan rode out of some rinky-dink town in the middle of nowhere with you on the back of his horse, he would have never guessed it would turn into this. You worked off your debt a hundred times over and still stayed.

Straightening, you dry your hands with the apron on the front of your shirtwaist and skirt —the finely made ensemble less than a month old and already ruined. “Cooking’ll still be shit,” you laugh, the crooked smile on your lips not quite reaching your eyes, “but he’ll live.”

Broken chords from Javier’s flamenco guitar fill the air as the night’s revelries startup with a song and dance. Arthur reaches for you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, pulling you toward him. You lean your forehead against his shoulder, feeling the weight of the day settle in as the sun sets. “I can’t keep this up, Art,” you breathe, hand twisting into his blue-cotton shirt. First, it had been him, then Sean and John, and now Pearson. “One day, I ain’t gone be able to patch you boys up.”

This work is dangerous, and it’s just a matter of time before someone makes a dire mistake or the law catches up —losing people is inevitable. You know it, everyone knows it. Arthur props his chin on the crown of your head, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. “Don’t think ‘bout that day then.” Looking at the heart of the camp, he thinks the two of you won’t be missed too much for just the night. He leads you to his black Arabian steed —a handsome mount affectionately named Topthorn— and helps you up into the saddle before mounting behind you and taking the reins.

Away from camp, the path steepens and grows rockier. Off in the distance, you can hear the burbling of a stream growing closer. “Where we goin’?” You ask, looking over your shoulder.

His arm tightens around your waist, drawing you back flush against his chest. “Ain’t far,” he says at your ear, “promise.” It’s a place he stumbled across north of camp tracking the poor deer who became supper a few nights back. A quiet spot at the base of the mountains —perfect for a swim, a bath, or even contemplating life. The trees part off the rugged trail, and Arthur pulls back on Topthorn’s reins when the small waterfall comes into view —the water almost glowing in the silver light of a full moon. He slides out of the saddle, hands quickly finding your waist to help you down.

“Been a while since it was jus’ you and me,” Arthur notes, hand splayed across your lower back.

“That it has,” you agree, turning to drape your arms over his shoulders —fingers locking together at the nape of his neck as you look up at him. Kiss me, you think, and it is as though you’ve said the words aloud. Arthur reaches for you, pulling you closer to him by the hips so he can kiss you breathless. You sigh into his kiss, hands sliding down the broad planes of his chest as you tilt your head so your noses don’t bump together. It’s a lazy kind of kiss—slow, unhurried, but with heat, you’re never quite able to describe when talking to the girls about some of your little escapades with him.

He pulls back too soon for your liking, laughing softly when you make a sound of protest as you chase his mouth with yours. “What’d I do to deserve you?” He asks, lips curving into a lopsided smile as he takes your face in his hands, thumbs softly stroking your cheeks. You run your thumb over the scars on his chin and reach up on your toes, lips brushing against his. It’s all the answer he needs —I love you.

Stepping back, you work the mother-of-pearl buttons on your shirtwaist free and then the belt of your walking shirt, shrugging both pieces off and into a small heap next to you. “What’re you doin’?” Arthur asks, scratching the back of his neck as he turns his gaze. It’s far from the first time he’s seen you in this state of undress, but ever the gentleman, he still looks away —even if the curve of his lips says he’ll steal a glimpse or two.

“You can’t bring a lady to a waterfall–” you pluck out the pin holding the twist in your hair in place “–and not expect her to want to freshen up, Mr. Morgan.” Mr. Morgan, he smirks, shaking his head —it’s the way you say his name like a sweet song that does him in every time. “Now–” you push aside your hair, revealing the laces of your corset “–help me?” Arthur steps behind you, hands working the ties of the undergarment. You turn back to him as he drops the corset atop your discarded clothes, his eyes flitting over curves barely hidden under a threadbare chemise.

Wordlessly, he sinks to his knees and pushes the hem of the chemise up around your waist. Your fingers brush his as you take hold of your skirt —holding it out of the way. Arthur lifts one of your legs from the ground, sliding off your boot as he drags the stubble on his jaw across the inside of your ankle and calf, stopping just at the bend of your knee with a soft kiss. He places your foot back down and repeats the same teasing motions, but this time, his kiss does not stop at the knee. Scooting closer, he lifts your leg over his shoulder —hot breath fanning across your inner thighs.

Setting his hat aside, he starts with a slow line of open-mouth kisses and listening to how your breathing hitches and body tenses in anticipation. He drags the flat of his tongue over you, stopping to flick the tip against your clit —sweet torture. “Arthur,” you gasp, hand twisting into his honey-colored locks. He repeats the motion, again-and-again until his fingers brush the inside of your thigh, and he shifts. Your honey-sweet taste and moans harden his cock. First, it’s one finger, then two thrusting and curling inside you as his mouth tends to your clit, laving, and suckling.

His blue eyes flash upwards and meet your desperate gaze, and he grins, sucking your clit into his mouth. That’s all it takes. You tremble, knees wobbling as you breathe Arthur’s name in a broken voice as he holds you up, still lapping at the sweet release like a he’s a man lost in the desert, and you’re an oasis. His lips and stubble on his chin glisten with your essence as he sits back on his haunches, easing your leg from his shoulder.

When he rises, he trails his fingers along the neckline of your chemise, pushing it off your shoulders, leaving your bare in the cool night air as you step out of the puddle of stained cotton and toward him. You can taste yourself on his lips when they finally meet, his tongue sweeping across your bottom lip before kissing you slowly. The kiss is languid and soft, your hands grasping at Arthur’s back to pull his chest to your own. Your hands wander down to his hips, unbuckling his belt and undoing the button and zipper of his pants as he undoes the buttons on his shirt —adding it to the growing pile of clothes.

Arthur curses and groans when your hand slides into his undone pants, fingers wrapping around his hard cock —stroking him slowly as you pepper kisses along his jaw and down his neck, across his chest. “Darlin’,” he chokes, voice wrecked and breathing heavy. It’s a heady feeling, knowing he’s like this because of you. As much as he doesn’t want to, Arthur pushes your hand away and hastily kicks off his boots, stepping out of his pants so he’s just as bare as you.

You take a moment to admire him. Strong arms and legs, a broad chest covered with a dusting of hair, a real man right down to his hard cock, throbbing and dripping with need —built for riding, fighting, and fucking, you’d told him one night drunk on shine when you crawled into his tent. Arthur pulls you down onto the blanket of moss and grass at the water’s edge. His hands leave your waist and slide up to your breasts, cupping them gently. You moan, feeling his smile against the side of your throat. He trails kisses down to the junction of your neck and shoulder, biting down slightly. He kisses down your throat to your chest, stopping when he reaches a rosy nipple.

His eyes look back up at you, and his grin is devilish before his tongue drags across the sensitive flesh, making you gasp, hips grinding into him. “Arthur, please,” you whisper, back arching as he takes your nipple into his mouth, softly sucking at your flesh. He pulls away after a moment, looking up at you with lust burning bright in his eyes. Settling between your thighs, Arthur braces his weight on one of his forearms —staring down at you as cock presses into your warmth. Your walls flutter around him, and you spread your thighs wider, helping guide him as deep as he can go.

He groans, rolling his hips into yours as he kisses you again, slow and thorough, mapping out your mouth with his tongue. You moan into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders as he breaks the kiss, eyes looking into yours once again, the lust quelled by something sweeter. Arthur grips your thighs tight, releasing one of them in favor of stroking over your lips and cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. Between the little noises you make, and how your body starts to tense and spasm around him, Arthur knows he won’t last long —not after it’s been so long since he had you proper.

You draw your legs up his sides and push your hands into his hair, clinging to him as his thrusts become faster, harder, more erratic. He slides a hand between your bodies, finding your clit with his thumb. “Arthur,” you cry, feeling the budding heat rise in your belly again and control slipping away. “Babe,” you gasp, tugging on his hair. Eyes screwed shut and teeth bared, he ruts into you, even as the wave of fire floods your veins and your walls squeeze his cock. It’s enough to break him as he chases his end.

He pulls away, hips stuttering, nearing his peak, and buries his face in the juncture where your neck and shoulder meet. Biting down hard, and you feel the warmth of his release spreading in your core as he thrusts weakly a few more times before stilling. Arthur rests his head on your breast as he strokes your side, listening to the frantic beat of your heart as it slows with your breathing. You whine at the empty feeling when slides his softening cock from your cunt, rolling off to the side. He grabs his drawers and shirt —you both can worry with bathing and dressing in the morning. For now, Arthur only wants to keep you at his side.

Arthur brushes off his hat and sets it on your head. The black hat is a little big, the brim dropping down over your eyes, you tilt it back into place. “Looks good on you,” he muses with a crooked grin. His shirt looks good on you too —the old blue shirt half unbuttoned and hanging off one shoulder. A sight he wouldn’t mind waking up to every morning.

“Think so?” You ask with a smile. He nods and, it's like you can see the cogs turning in his mind. What’re you even doin’ with an ugly old man like me? You can hear him saying. Sighing, you sit up and swing over into his lap, placing his hat back atop his head. “Well, I think it looks better on you,” you tell him. He won’t argue, not when your lips are brushing against his.

He folds his hands behind his head, looking up at the sky, and smiles to himself when you rest your head on the crook of his arm. Glancing between Arthur and the clear night sky, you start humming the old song your father used to sing about his sweet Caroline. The tune sounds familiar, and after a moment, he knows the words, it’s one he’s heard before in saloons and whispered at babes’ ears like a lullaby. Arthur draws in a slow breath, picking up at the next verse in a low rasp “…the grave and the garden won’t be satisfied till your name is next to mine.”

You shift, half sitting up. His eyes fixed on you —gaze softer than a bed of summer wildflowers— with a smile tugging at his lips. In these rare moments, Arthur Morgan is at peace. He reaches out for you, calloused hand cupping your cheek as he tries to memorize the lines and curves of your face and how you sigh and lean into his touch, settling back down against him.

It’s nights like these you long for the most, and every time you wish they could last just a little longer. Just laying under the night sky forever with Arthur Morgan, the man you loved. No more killing. No more stealing. No more running. Just the two of you and the cosmos overhead. You rest your head on his chest, running your fingers along the trail of dark hair down his stomach as he traces lazy shapes on your back, still softly humming the same sweet song.

Be wary of a man in black, your mother used to say, holding your hand as you both watched from the front porch as your father rode off into the sunset, he’ll steal your heart. She’d been right, of course.

#Arthur Morgan #Arthur Morgan x Reader #Arthur Morgan Fanfiction #Arthur Morgan Smut #Red Dead Redemption 2 #my writing #yall should listen to Caroline by Colter Wall #just saying #oops #kinda went ham #have a lemonade with some emotions

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neovisioned · 4 years

Text

♡ꜜ lipstick stain﹫jaemin na

she looks so perfect - 5 seconds of summer

pairing : jaemin x reader (f)

genre : smut with little plot, roommate!jaemin, college!au.

warnings : solo masturbation.

word count : +2,5k

synopsis : you leave lip stick stains on your roommate Jaemin’s skin before leaving for the night and he can’t help himself and his hidden feelings. or : “your lipstick stain is a work of art, i got your name tattooed in an arrow heart.”

“Y/N, what are you doing ?”, Jaemin wonders out loud, a small laugh coming out of his lips after taking your expression in. Resting the controller of his PlayStation 4 on his thigh, covered by his light grey sweatpants, your roommate lets his eyes wonder up to you as his game loads on the screen of your shared television. From his spot on the couch of your apartment, he was watching you carefully tap your index on your lower lip, before examining your fingertip with a bit too much curiosity.

“I need to see if my lipstick is going to stay through the night, Jaems.”, you explain like it’s obvious, eyes still on your reflection in the entrance’s mirror. Tapping once again your finger on your bottom lip, you slowly check the makeup you flawlessly applied to your features moments prior. You were going out tonight. Any other night, you would probably go out with your beloved roommate but, you were seeing old high school friends. A reunion organized by teachers you barely kept in contact with and, you unfortunately wouldn’t bring the pink haired man with you. You have to say, you wish you could have him with you. The dress you’re wearing hugs your body, your makeup is flawless if it is not for the said lipstick. You know your presence alone will be able to take some people’s breaths away just like it took your roommate’s. But, having Jaemin with you would’ve sealed the deal. Maybe it was a bit childish, wanting to make people jealous. Can you blame yourself ? You were the first to gush over your roommate’s looks and melt at his sweet and gentleman-like personality. Let’s say he isn’t helping you at all at this very moment, legs spread wide, he isn’t wearing a shirt, abdomen on full display.

“Is that the one you got last week ?”, asks the tallest, eyes quickly going back from his game to your figure. The theme song of The Last of Us Part Two plays in the background, the young man’s eyes get stuck on your exposed neck for a bit too long. Brushing your hair with one hand, you use the other to apply some perfume to the base of your neck. Jaemin has to say, you look good every day of the week, every hour of the day. You look ravishing when you two go out every now and then but, it’s clear you decided to make a lot more today. He couldn’t complain, having a roommate like this but God, he wishes he could come with you at this reunion, make sure everyone understands you’re bound to be his. You hum at his question, unaware of his racing thoughts, remembering the day you dragged him to some makeup store, right after getting your paycheck. Fortunately, he didn’t complain, or maybe you just didn’t listen to his desperate sighs. Regardless, he helped you pick a color, he thought would go well with you after some minutes of thinking in front of the large display.

“Why don’t you just do the thing you do with your hand.”, he asks gesturing to the top of his hand. You and Jaemin decided to live together at the beginning of university and, after some years, he caught on to some things. Like how you had the habit of placing your lips on the back of your hand to check if any product would transfer on your skin. He had a good point, you would. But, you were too lazy to wash your hand after, your nails were freshly painted and you were running late.

“Ugh, I’m too lazy to wash my hand after. We’re also out of tissues.”, you sigh, eyebrows raised. Jaemin was the one who finished the roll and didn’t even think about buying a new one. Looking at the watch adoring your wrist, you quietly smack your lips together, hoping the lipstick wouldn’t leave a mark on the cups and straws at the reunion. You had a…weird hatred for lipstick stains. Jaemin laughs a bit at your antics, leaving his controller on the side. Getting up, he doesn’t hesitate to stand right next to you. Extremely underdressed, he pushes your shoulder with his, checking his own appearance in the mirror. The pink haired man loves annoying you a little bit every now and then.

For a split second, you look over at your friend in the mirror. “We’d look good together”, you think to yourself but, you have to brush the thought away in a flash. See, for the past months, you stopped seeing Jaemin as a friend. And you hated it. You hated how whenever the two of you would cuddle in front of a movie, you’d wish he wouldn’t let go of the embrace to walk to his own, separate room. You started hating the way he’d sing while doing the dishes and while taking a shower. You wanted more and yet, couldn’t see yourself bring the subject up.

“Do it here, we’ll see if it leaves a stain.”, your roommate proposes, taking you out of your thoughts. His finger points at his slightly rounded cheek. Worst thing is, it isn’t the first time that the pink haired allowed you to test your lipsticks on him, he probably knew you were dying to test this one on him too. It happened one time where you were on a rush for work, no tissues or anything else to place your lips on and take the excess product out. Jaemin didn’t mind having a stain as he didn’t have class this morning, he could wash off properly right after and, he gained the guinea pig title. You don’t think twice, grabbing your roommate’s chin between your fingers. Under your touch, Jaemin faces you, angelic face too close to your own. He doesn’t seem to mind either, innocently blinking. There’s a small sigh coming from your lips, one Jaemin doesn’t bring up, like you can’t believe you’re doing this to your crush. You’ve faced it, the growing feeling, blooming butterflies whenever the man would look down at you, whenever he’d smile at one of your jokes. Your lips quickly find his cheek in a loud kiss, a dramatic “mwah” to dedramatize. They trail down without you understanding or processing your actions, placing your lips on his jaw and right under the sharp bone as he willingly tilts his head.

“Oh, that’s a lot...!”, you notice out loud, brushing your actions off, eyebrows furrowed. A mark of your lips was clearly visible of his cheek, another one on the sharp jawline, and the last one in the middle of his neck. Faded, sure, but still clearly visible. “I’m taking it with me, will probably have to do some touch ups, y’know.”, you mumble quickly, grabbing the lipstick before throwing it in your purse. Get out, quick. Jaemin’s eyes are glued on the mirror, not daring to look at you. Pupils blowing a little wider, they expend a bit more at each new stain discovered. His lips are dry, he noticed. Poking his pink tongue out to wet his bottom lip, he slowly parts them, a feeling he knows too well growing in his stomach.

Biting softly on his chest, he nods as he hears you saying something about time and some teacher you’re excited to see. The pink haired doesn’t pay attention, a finger coming to touch the stain on his neck, cheek growing the same color as his locks. Why was he so…turned on by such a simple thing ? Was it the stains, or you ? Probably both ? The marks, proofs of your lips on his skin, he wonders what they’d look like lower, lower. His pants grow tighter, the poor thing has to move to the side and hopefully hide the print on the grey fabric. The heat travels down to his chest, coloring the smooth skin there. His breath gets caught in his throat for a second and he has to clear it to hide the fact, wrapping his wondering hand around his upper arm. It’s aching to wrap around his growing length, release the tension growing, but his line of thoughts gets cut by the loud sound of the front door closing behind him. He didn’t even hear you saying good bye, he doesn’t even know when you’re coming back but all of this, are second thoughts.

His breath grows uneven as he looks around the now empty apartment. When the thought finally registers in this foggy brain, he quickly walks towards his room, the theme song of his game still playing. He doesn’t care to close his door, leaving it slightly open. He can not believe he’s already semi-hard, the young man will never understand the affect you have on him. His mind, his body, it all reacts too quickly to anything you do. From the way you make playlists for his showers and manage to always bend down for the washing machine just at the right moment for him to see by the opened door of the kitchen. Sitting on the edge of his bed, the mattress sinks down under his weight, Jaemin faces the mirror installed right in front of him. Giving him a full view of his body, Jaemin leans back on his hand, his free one wondering on the smooth skin of his chest. With the huge mirror, it was even better. He could clearly see the three marks along his cheek and neck, the last one almost looking like a fading hickey. Oh, how his imagination could wonder so far, so quickly. The young man’s mouth falls slightly agape at how good the color looks on his skin, contrasting with his epiderma. Veiny hand goes down to his bulge, feeling his semi length through the fabric of his pants. His digits wrap around the base, sighing as he teased himself like he knows you’d do too. Lips reddened by his relentless biting, glittering with a coat of saliva, Jaemin’s hand grabs his sheet as the other sneaked beneath the fabric of his sweatpants. Finally giving himself some skin to skin contact he was craving for, though he wishes it was someone else’s. A sigh of relief leaves the pink haired’s lips when he feel his rough hand wrapping around his base, tinted lock falling in front of his dark eyes. His dick feels heavy in his hand, a vein pumping at the side. Ever so slowly, his hand moves up, and down. Drawing the pleasure out, his thumb wipes the small pearl of precum threatening to fall. He uses it for smoother movements, lewd sounds echoing in his room. Mind blurred, focused on the ounce of pleasure he was giving himself, he tilts his head to the side. Jaemin was trying his hardest not to close his eyes, he wanted to see the marks and his skin. He was feeding off of them, letting the most perverted side of his brain make whatever he could up in his daze. A pleased sigh leaves his lips the moment he fully pumps his shaft up and down. They grow faster, pleasure taking over his body, sweat gathering at his hairline and soon enough, he was pushing the hem of his pants down. Entirely exposing himself, his imagination was out of control. He wasn’t picturing his hand, rather yours. Petite compared to his, wrapping around his thick shaft, Jaemin wondered what you’d look like, on your knees in front of him. He knows you’d let your tongue drag up his length just like when you catch a drop of melted ice cream. A grown leaves his lips when he vividly pictures your mouth around him and deep down he knows, he knows you’d beg him to fuck you in front of this very mirror. The sound of skin fills the room, rhythmically. Alongside, his sighs grow deeper and deeper, turning into groans and desperate moans. Jaemin doesn’t care to hide them, all alone in his bedroom. He tries his best to remember the feeling of your lips on his skin, picturing them kissing his neck, down his torso, and his hand pumps faster. Maybe your lipstick would leave a few rings around his shaft, a deep moan coming from his chest at the thought, his eyes screwing shut. “God.”, he whines, his hips bucking against his hand. A gasp leaves his lips as his lips his hips fuck his fist. He pictures you again, seeing you in that dress, how the silky fabric hugs deliciously hugs your body. Wishing he could take it off, he’d probably let the fragile fabric rip under his hands, Jaemin couldn’t help himself when it came to you. He wonders, what does you skin would feel like under his fingers, he knows you’d react in the most hypnotizing way to his teases, he knows he can make you cry his name out if you’d let him. His lip gets caught between his pearly teeth again, drawing blood. The iron taste lingers on his tongue, fighting with the newly made fantasy of your arousal coating his tongue. God, he wishes you didn’t leave, his hand moving faster and faster, chasing his high desperately. “Y/N, fuck.”, it leaves his lips without thinking, he doesn’t care to understand the meaning behind the desperate moan. The blurry image of your body underneath his clouds his mind, made up moans of his name, picturing just how you’d babble because of his cock. God, he wants to hear you moaning, whining, begging. Even better, not being able to form coherent sentence just because of him, coming around his cock because of his, for him. The pink haired loses track as he wonders, getting closer and closer to your climax. His Adam’s apple bobs against the skin of his throat, regular gasp leaving his lips as he mumbles incoherent phrases himself, because of you and, you aren’t even there. He knows he’s about to come, bucking his hips. Letting out a loud moan, his voice cracks towards the end in what sounds like your name, yet again. Jaemin comes in a few short moments, hand never stopping as he milks, giving himself too much pleasure. Zoned out, he pants, a familiar ringing blocking his hearing, some cum on the smooth, slightly red skin of his torso. Jaemin slowly opens his eyes, slightly regaining more coherent thoughts. Chest falling up and down at an irregular pace, he tries to catch his breath as best as he can, a small curse falling from his lip as his strong orgasm fades away. Damp colored hair in front of his eyes, Jaemin tries to comprehend everything, letting his body fall down on his bed. Closing his eyes, his veiny hands half of his face and he doesn’t even bother covering himself. Poor thing only now starts to calm down, hear clearly again. It’s weird, did he turn his game o-.

“Jaemin…? I forgot my wallet.”

His eyes shot open.

#neowritingsnet #NCT-WRITERS #na jaemin #jaemin smut #nct smut #nct dream smut #nct #nct dream #neovisioned

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carelessannie · 3 years

Text

lookin for love (in all the wrong places)

chapter five

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

In CA:CW Steve kicks Spider-Man in the chest, awakening a soul deep bond and sending Peter into his first heat, before running away to Wakanda.

The soul bond, omegaverse, Spidershield angsty romance everyone needs.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Peter Parker Chapters: 5/ Chapter word count: 6.5K Fic Rating: E Warnings: mild violence and implied sex trafficking, extreme levels of fluff Read it here on AO3 Title is from this song by Johnny Lee

Steve

The ferry docks in the Åland Islands for a few hours overnight, allowing the two of them to sleep in shifts to be safe. After dinner, they had swept the ship for suspicious persons and bugs, tagging three places around their hallway with ears to keep an eye out for possible threats.

Even with the precautions, Steve feels on edge as they sail in the morning. Neither he nor Natasha get more than a few hours of sleep, and once the sun rises, they decide to spend the rest of the journey on the upper deck. Separating for the duration of the trip, Steve takes the helm while Natasha lounges closer to the stern.

There’s no attack, no threat to be concerned about— so when the ferry docks a few hours later, the two of them are already seated in their car and driving down the off-ramp. Steve takes the wheel first, while Natasha guides him East, following the sun until it sits high in the sky.

They stop at the border to Russia and switch vehicles, easily slipping through as the newly-mated Alpha and Omega couple on their Russian passports.

And if Natasha bats her eyes and gets them a free passage to St. Petersburg, Steve isn’t complaining.

It’s as they’re driving away that Natasha flinches at something one of the border police says under their breath, and Steve raises his eyebrow in question as he steers to merge back onto the highway. If Natasha is showing her reactions, it has to be important.

“They thought…” she pauses, chewing on her lower lip, before starting over, “When they reviewed our documents, they thought you might be my... trophy Alpha.”

“Okay,” Steve says slowly, furrowing his eyebrows, “Is that bad for us?” He doesn’t quite understand what the issue is, or why Natasha might be anxious. The two men— Betas, probably— had given them a suspicious onceover, but otherwise let them travel in peace.

Natasha makes a frustrated noise, “I’m not translating it right. They think you’re my stud— that I brought you in from America or England to… breed.”

Horrified, Steve almost swerves the car off the road. “What— does that happen often?”

“Often enough that they may call it in. It’s not illegal, technically, but if they catch wind of possible trafficking…”

“Oh,” Steve checks the rearview mirror, suddenly all too aware of the surrounding cars and trucks. “What’s our move, Nat? Do you think they’ll actually come after us?”

She shakes her head again, “Best to get to St. Petersburg. We can call Tony from there, and switch out cars. If someone’s on our tail, they’re bound to know where we’re headed anyways. Stark can get us new documents by the time we reach the base.”

“Fine. I assume you know your way around the city?”

“Steve,” Natasha coos, “haven’t I taught you not to ask questions you already know the answer to?”

He shoots her a grin, “Good, then you’re in charge of ditching our ride. I’ll make a few calls.”

“Teamwork makes the dream work,” Natasha murmurs as she reclines in the seat, shifting to give herself a good view of both side mirrors while still seeing clearly out the front windshield. She crosses her feet at the ankle and pulls down the lid of a carefully worn baseball cap. If Steve didn’t know better, he would assume she fell asleep in the passenger seat.

They spend the last two hours of the drive in a tense silence, both of them on high alert. Steve knows from experience that Hydra likes to hide in plain sight— so he scans license plates, calculates distances, and carefully surveys the people in each car, looking for anything out of the ordinary. So far, nothing.

That changes when they enter the city.

Immediately, both of them sit up straighter, scanning the surrounding lanes for a threat.

“Do you—”

“Yes, stay alert,” Natasha hisses. Her hands are digging rapidly through her backpack until they pull out their last international phone. In one swift motion, she destroys it on the dashboard, lowering the window to sprinkle pieces onto the highway, sure to be crushed further by oncoming vehicles.

Steve changes lanes, inching closer to the quickly passing exit ramps. He doesn’t see a suspicious car— no black sedans, no tinted windows— but the feeling of being watched is undeniable.

“Exit here.”

Natasha’s voice is flat, and if Steve wasn’t listening for it, he would have missed the direction. Instead, he steps on the gas and throws the car into the right lane, barely avoiding the traffic cones as he speeds down the single exit ramp.

“Slower,” Natasha is reaching behind him as he merges back into traffic, this time heading West into the heart of the city. “When we get into the city, look for a coffee shop. You’re going to drop me off. Drive around the corner and watch for me— I’ll order you a drink inside and pretend I’m grabbing an item from my car. Instead, you will switch places with me, and sit outdoors drinking what I order. Keep your eyes up, run if you need to. I’ll rendezvous within an hour. Got it?”

“Got it,” Steve confirms, already slowing down as they breach the populated city limits. It isn’t long until he’s pulling up to a small café and Natasha is sauntering down the sidewalk, drawing any nearby attention to herself as he swings the car around back.

Traffic is thick, stifling, and he’s grateful to have the intel portion of this operation. Within five minutes, Natasha is in his rearview mirror, and he steps out of the vehicle to offer her the wheel.

He pulls his own hat lower to shield his face before slipping into the coffee shop, sidestepping immediately and settling into a corner table. There are three other patrons, all scattered throughout the space and engaged in the work in front of them. No threats yet.

“Peter?” a heavily accented voice calls, and Steve has to stop himself from flinching. It’s a common name— he needs to get himself under control. The voice calls out, “Peter?” once more, just as a tall, well-built man strides through the door, walking up the counter and picking up the drink.

The man turns around, “Huh. Didn’t know you were goin’ by Peter these days.”

“Sam,” Steve breathes, meeting his friends’ eyes with a shocked smile. He jumps to his feet and pulls the other man into a hug. It’s shakey— both of them chuckling and holding on tight— but the embrace is warm and feels like home.

“The hell are you doing here?” Steve grabs his arm, steering them both outside and towards the patio. “Not that I’m not grateful to see you, but… how did you find us?”

Sam shoots him a disbelieving look, placing the coffee cup between them before reclining back in his seat, “I got a tip a few days ago— something about Hydra and a base nearby. Stark got me a ride over yesterday and said I could plan on intercepting you here.”

Something in his face turns thoughtful, “You seriously didn’t see Redwing on the way in?”

“Uh,” Steve sorts through the details of their fast paced cut into the city, but can’t remember Sam’s drone being anywhere in sight.

Sam chuckles, “I followed you from the moment you entered the city— c’mon, you can’t tell me you didn’t see him, not with the way you were driving.”

“Dammit, Sam,” Steve curses. “We thought…” and then he laughs, slumping back into the patio chair and scrubbing his face. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

Sam spreads his arms wide, and gives Steve his widest, most charming smile, “Takes one to know one, Cap.”

There’s a beat of silence as Steve sips his drink— it’s perfect, not that he expected anything less from Natasha. Sam looks good, if not a bit tired. The smile on his face is practiced, and Steve knows it’s more for his sake than anything. They’ve never lied to each other, never had the opportunity to, so if Sam is appearing strained and weary, Steve knows he’s supposed to notice.

“Decide not to take a pardon, then?” Steve hedges, watching as Sam raises an eyebrow in amusement.

“No, Steve,” he looks out into traffic, carefully thoughtful, “it’s been a rough few months since Germany, but Sharon and I have been doing some ground work wherever King T’Challa is willing to send us. There’s a lot of shit going down, and— up until now— the only goal I really had was finding you again.”

A rush of guilt hits Steve in the chest, and he winces, “Look, I’m sorry for leaving you—”

“Hey, no— don’t do that,” Sam dismisses him, waving away the apology with one hand, “I knew you had to go to Wakanda, I had other shit that needed to get done.”

“Still, you deserved a better friend than that.”

Sam laughs, but the sound lacks any real joy, “I think we all deserved better than we got.”

There’s not much to say after, and Steve takes a long pull of his drink, trying discreetly to check his watch. Forty minutes until Natasha returns.

And speaking of, “So where did the Widow herself head off to?” Sam asks, checking his own watch. “Thought I’d catch both of you here.”

“Switching out cars. We assumed Hydra was tracking us into the city,” Steve narrows his eyes across the table, and it makes Sam laugh again.

“Damn, well... can’t say I’m sorry. Stark wanted me to keep a low profile until we crossed paths, and…” Sam sits up taller and leans across the table, forcing Steve to meet his eyes, “he mentioned something about keeping you stable.”

“God dammit—”

“Language.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Steve huffs, scrubbing his face with one hand, “why can’t Tony keep shit to himself.”

“Something I shouldn’t know about?”

Sam’s always been good at coaxing answers out of him, and Steve curses the other Alpha mentally for it. Why does he always attract friends who know him better than he knows himself?

“I found my soulmate, Sam.”

Jerking forward, the other Alpha’s eyes grow wide as his hands come down, hard, on the table. “Shit, Steve. When on earth did you have time—”

“I didn’t, Sam. That’s the thing. Fuck—”

He feels rage flow through his body for the first time in ages, and Steve’s hit with a flash of their bonding moment, marred by fear and devastation from his young Omega. He closes his eyes, remembering the residual pain from each heat. Scared and empty and alone.

There’s a hand on his arm, but Steve shakes it off, “Remember the kid Stark brought to Germany? Spider-man?”

“Sure, Bucky and I fought the kid, and he stuck us to the floor.”

“I fought him, too,” Steve sighs, rolling up the sleeve over his left arm to show the bright red and irritated word etched into his skin, “and I kicked him right in the chest.”

Sam doesn’t reach forward to touch. He barely gives it a glance, reaching over to roll up his own sleeve. Steve has to stop himself from growling in sympathy— the writing is black, smudged and illegible.

“Sam…”

With a sad smile, Sam rolls his shirt back in place, “It was years ago— and we bonded in combat. I got a few years with him on active duty, and then I felt when he was shot out of the sky.”

Sam meets his eyes, “Fucked me up good for a few years.”

“I had no idea.”

“I’m better now, sure. Wouldn’t show you if I wasn’t. Just letting you know, whatever you’re going through with this kid— because obviously you’re not with him now— that you’ve gotta value whatever time you get. In our line of business? I’m grateful I got years instead of moments, you know?”

Something clenches in his chest. Steve feels tears prick his eyes. He has to look away, afraid of the suddenly all too real possibility of crying in public. Quickly, he covers it up with a swig of cooling coffee, letting the emotions wash away alongside the bitter, familiar taste.

“I’ve never even met the kid, Sam. All I know is that he’s an Omega, and he has a strong bond with Tony.” Steve sighs, checking his watch again, “We were supposed to be extracted in Oslo, but got the tip instead. I’ll head home to him after we take care of the threat here.”

He can tell Sam disapproves of this choice, but the other Alpha just shakes his head, nodding to draw Steve’s attention back to the street, “Looks like our ride is here,” he chuckles just as a beat up Jeep swerves across traffic, coming to an abrupt stop in front of them.

The window rolls down, and Natasha makes a show of lowering her sunglasses, “Pickin’ up strays, Rogers?”

Both of them stand and approach the car, and Sam smiles as he takes the backseat, “Good to see you too, Romanoff.”

“I hope you brought your uniform,” she muses, swerving back into traffic once both of them are buckled in, “we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

---

Peter

I think you’d hate my friends, Alpha. I don’t know, maybe not. I think you’d like that they wanna take care of me, even if they’re both little pieces of shit. I bet a visit from Captain America would shut them up. Or… Are you still Captain America, Steve?

Just as Peter finishes the line, the main cafeteria doors slam open. Both of his friends— MJ and Ned— have their arms in the air, gesturing animatedly.

“There you are!”

It’s as if he summoned them. Damn Spidey-senses, never working when he needs them to.

Peter squirms in his seat, “Hey, guys…” he checks his exits, noting quick escape routes. Sure, he’s never actually needed to run from his friends, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. “What’s up?”

Ned scoots into the bench next to him, pressing in close and draping an arm over Peter’s shoulders. MJ takes a seat on Peter’s other side, and both of them give Peter award-winning smiles— terrifying, really. Matching smiles only usually mean one thing.

“Can’t we just hang anymore, Parker?” MJ rolls her eyes, taking a discreet look at the pages in front of Peter on the table.

He quickly closes his notebook, “Sure, sure. I mean, we can hang— we hang all the time,” Peter catches them exchanging a glance, and sighs, “is there something you want? I’m trying to get homework done before practice.”

With a shake to his shoulders, Ned chuckles nervously, “No, no… we’re just looking out— ow!”

Peter looks down. MJ definitely kicked him.

“— I mean, we’re just wondering…”

“You wanna go to a Halloween party, Peter?” MJ cuts in, flicking at Ned’s arm where it’s still draped around his shoulder. Her face is open, fairly honest, and it catches Peter off guard.

“When’s Halloween?” he asks, thankful when Ned pulls his arm back.

The two of them exchange another look, “Uh…” Ned clears his throat, “it’s today, Peter. Today’s Halloween.”

“Oh.” Peter peeks into his folders to check the date on today’s homework, and sure enough, October Thirtyfirst is printed clearly across every page. Huh. He’s usually great at remembering holidays like this. “I wonder why May didn’t say anything…”

“Because,” MJ grabs his backpack, starting to shove notebooks and textbooks back inside, “we asked her to keep it a surprise. And your mom, too. We just didn’t think you were enough of a dumbass to miss the whole holiday.”

“Honestly, Peter, I don’t get how clueless you can be.”

He just nods along, letting the two of them pull him out of the cafeteria and walk towards the carpool lane. Maybe some part of him wanted them to find him today— who knows? Several other, better, hiding spots come to mind, but Peter doesn’t have it in him to protest.

A night off sounds like too much fun.

His mood immediately improves when they step outside. Parked closest to them, dark and intimidating on the curb, is one of Mr. Stark’s cars.

Happy is standing outside, holding the back door open, “Hey, kid. C’mon— haven’t got all day.”

“Oh!” Peter turns to his friends, both of their expressions smug and satisfied, “Please tell me the party’s at the compound? Oh god, I literally have nothing to wear. I have no idea—”

“We’ve got it taken care of,” MJ pushes him from behind, and Ned laughs, motioning for Peter to get in the car first.

“How did you—” Peter slides into the back seat, freezing when he sees who’s waiting for him, “Mama!”

Mr. Stark smiles— wide and genuine— and opens his arms wide. “Hey, kid. Surprise?”

Peter melts into the older Omega’s arms and squirms to get closer, ignoring how his friends laugh and tease him as he does so. Mr. Stark ruffles his hair, and rearranges them as the car starts moving. Ducking under his arm, Peter settles into Mr. Stark’s side and lets his eyes slip shut with the steady movement and noise of chatter in the background.

“You have a good day, Pete?”

He looks up to Mr. Stark and smiles, “It was okay, a lot better now. Did you help plan this?”

“What do you think, bambino? These friends of yours are… passionate.”

The description makes Peter chuckle. He’s fully aware just how passionate his friends can be. They are digging through the amenities stored in hidden compartments, and somehow both end up with a can of soda and several boxes of candy.

Peter ignores them in favor of burying himself into the warmth of Mr. Stark’s scent. There are lazy, calloused fingers in his hair, and he relaxes even more— a pleased purr building effortlessly from his chest.

When they eventually pull up to the compound, Ned and MJ are out in a shot— barreling through the doors and screaming into the empty halls.

Before Peter can leave the car, Mr. Stark grabs his shoulders and turns them to face each other, staring intentionally into his eyes. “If you don’t want to do this, Peter, we don’t have to? I have about fifty people coming over for a costume party, but I can cancel it and we can spend the night just us, if you’d like?”

He takes a moment to actually think it over. His skin is crawling, eyes already heavy with exhaustion. The thought of socializing with more than a few people is turning his stomach, and he looks into Mr. Stark’s eyes with a helpless grimace, “I guess I wouldn’t mind a party…”

“But you’d rather not?” Mr. Stark guesses, giving him a knowing smirk. Peter scrunches up his nose and shakes his head, and gets a chuckle in response, “Alright bambino, let me make a few calls. Why don’t you go inside and coral the animals.”

Peter laughs and leans in to give Mr. Stark a quick peck on the cheek, “Okay, Mama. Don’t work too hard.”

He catches a glimpse of Mr. Stark’s embarrassed flush before hopping out of the car, skipping towards the compound joyfully. Now that the threat of social interaction is out of the way, Peter feels excited about Halloween and the evening ahead of them.

“Ned?” He calls out, “MJ? Where are you guys?”

“Try the Eastern living room, Peter,” Friday’s voice rings out in the hallway, and Peter turns around to race down the corridor in the opposite direction, still calling out their names.

“In here, Pete!” Ned hollers.

When he turns the corner, Peter comes face to face with the classiest Halloween party room he’s ever seen. Every wall is covered in glass decorations, backlit with soft lights in various colors. An entire section of the room has been converted to a wardrobe, and both of his friends are rifling through the options.

Peter gravitates towards them, pushing aside different dresses and masks, “What’s…”

“Look, Pete— I’m you!” MJ has a Spider-man mask pulled down over her face as she laughs, pretending to shoot webs from her wrists, “bet I’d be a kick-ass Spider-man.”

He just shakes his head, “I bet you would, MJ.”

“What about me?”

Both of them turn to look at Ned as he wobbles over, legs and arms shoved haphazardly into the wrong end of a Spider-man onesie. His face is so confident as he stands in the middle of the room, and Peter can’t help the cackle that bursts out of his mouth, bringing tears to his eyes as he keels over in laughter.

“Where did… what did…” he can barely breathe, and looking up again at Ned is just a mistake.

MJ isn’t any better. She tears off the mask and coughs loudly, falling to the floor in a heap, “Ned! Where did you find that?”

“What?” Ned whines, striking a pose that sends them back into a fit of hysterics, “I don’t get how you can fight bad guys in this Peter— I feel too sexy for crime right now.”

“Please!” Peter begs as he wipes away tears, “mercy!”

“What’s all the— oh mother of god,” Mr. Stark’s voice rings out in the room, and it sends all three teenagers back into peels of laughter. He stands at the entrance to the living room with his arms crossed and an indulgent smile stretched across his face, and Peter lets himself roll on the floor and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Peter turns onto his back and lets the tears flow. They drench his cheeks and drip onto the rug, creating small spots on both sides of his head. It feels good— freeing. His next inhale is deep, his mind clears completely, and Peter realizes this is the first time he’s laughed in months. That every time he’s cried in the past few weeks has been full of devastation and sorrow.

Their combined scents slowly fill the room and bind them together as the evening progresses, each of them relaxing further and further into the moment. By the time the sun’s setting, Ms. Potts and Aunt May arrive with delivery, and the small group of them curl up on the couches to watch a Halloween movie.

Mr. Stark and Pepper take the love seat, and— with one last, longing gaze at the small spot in between them— Peter settles into a lump of blankets and pillows on the far end of the longer couch. He keeps a good distance between himself and his friends at the other end, but he can tell that there’s some awkward tension in the room as the movie starts to play.

He tries to ignore it, but Aunt May keeps giving him a look from her seat on a nearby chair.

“What?” he hisses at her, pouting a bit when she smirks.

May points at the loveseat and whispers, “You should sit with them. I know you wanna.”

“Stop!” Peter shakes his head in denial, “I’m not going to—”

“Hey, pup!” Mr. Stark calls from across the room, and Peter flushes. He knows the nickname is aimed at him.

Peter pulls the blankets up around his face, “Yes, Mama?”

There’s a snort from the MJ-Ned-shaped-lump, but it’s ignored. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts exchange a few hushed words before motioning for him to join them, “Come on over, Peter,” Pepper says with a confident smile, “plenty of room to join us.”

He’s up and out of the seat before he even processes moving.

At different points in his life, Peter has imagined how it might feel to curl up, safe and warm, between his parents. Never, in a million years, did he think he would get to experience that.

But the space between Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts feels like home. Scents like home. It’s sweet and warm in a way Aunt May’s Beta scent has never been. Peter has never scented Ms. Potts up close, but he’s not surprised when her scent has him immediately relaxing, melting back into the couch cushions.

The only Alpha he’s ever been close to is MJ, and her scent is terrifying .

Pepper lifts her arm and gives him a small smile, “You comfortable, Peter?”

Words won’t come, his senses are on overload. He feels a hand on his shoulder as Mr. Stark moves him, turning him bodily to lay across their laps with his feet in Pepper’s lap, head on Mr. Stark’s shoulder.

“Just relax, bambino,” Mr. Stark whispers, scratching at the baby hairs behind Peter’s ear, “we’ve got you.”

He lets his eyes close slowly. Both of them are scent-marking him subtly— squeezing his arms and legs, kissing his hair, and laying a blanket over him sometime later. The movie passes by completely unnoticed, and Peter dozes comfortably.

Why can’t every night be like tonight?

As the thrill of the night is fading away, Peter hears Mr. Stark offer his friends a ride back to the city. The two of them are fading as well, and it doesn’t take much convincing to get them out the door and into a waiting car.

May kisses him on the head before she leaves, “Sure you don’t want me to stay, Pete?”

“M’sure,” he murmurs, blinking up at her lazily, “you have work in the morning, right?”

“Yeah, champ. I do. You okay staying the night here, or do you want to head back with me?”

Peter looks back at Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts with a hopeful smile. Both of them laugh, and Mr. Stark waves his hand dismissively, “You know you’re always wanted here, Pete.”

“By both of us,” Pepper adds, squeezing his leg where her hand is resting.

“Alright, alright, I can take a hint,” May chuckles. She leans in for another kiss and Mr. Stark gets up to walk her out, leaving Peter and Pepper together on the couch.

He looks up at her. Everything about Pepper screams an intimidating mix of composure and warmth. Now that Mr. Stark is gone, he can separate their scents— and something about her distinct Alpha scent has him ducking his head, shy and submissive.

There’s a light touch on his arm, “Don’t hide from me, Peter,” her grin is soft and reassuring, “if you feel uncomfortable with me like this, you don’t have to stay— you know that, right?”

Her eyes are kind and not at all judgemental. He believes her doubtlessly.

“We haven’t spent much time together, have we?” Peter asks, hesitantly.

Pepper shakes her head, strawberry hair sweeping gracefully over her shoulder, “No, I don’t think so. Tony does come home smelling of you often, though.”

“Oh!” Peter sniffs his shirt, grimacing, “sorry about that, he helps me…”

“No, don’t worry, Peter,” she places a hand on his shoulder again, “I just meant that I’m familiar with your scent already. Tony even puts some of your items in our nest— I know he wants me to get used to our scents together.”

“Why… why would he do that?”

“Oh, Peter,” Pepper sighs. She shakes her head and leans back against the cushions, “we’re gone on you Peter. We really want to adopt you… at least informally.”

“She’s right.”

Mr. Stark’s voice is loud in the living room as he makes his way back to the couch. With a little bit of maneuvering, Peter is stuck in between them again, and this time he’s resting against Pepper’s chest. Her arms easily settle next to him on the sofa, aware of his space and cautious not to close him in.

“We have a secret plot to adopt and steal you away, kid,” Mr. Stark smirks and kicks his legs up, sipping on a drink as they settle together. “I just needed to get proper approval beforehand, you know?”

Peter hums, and he knows his own scent has gone sweet in satisfaction. The thought of being adopted— having a mom and dad, Alpha and Omega— is overwhelming.

“You promise?” Peter whispers. Part of him is scared of the possible rejection, even though he knows Mr. Stark rarely lies to him.

“Of course, bambino— whatever you want.”

As they cuddle together on the couch, trading hushed stories and sweet laughter, Peter has a thought.

It’s not the most responsible thought he’s ever had. If Mr. Stark digs too deep, he’ll chalk it up to being a teenager, being emotional, being an Omega.

“Mama?” Peter stares up at Mr. Stark with his best puppy-dog expression, and pouts his bottom lip, “Can I ask a favor?”

“I’m suspicious already, but sure— what is it?”

Pepper chuckles behind him, and Peter reaches down to hold her hand for comfort, “Can you get my letters to Steve?”

With a loud cough, Mr. Stark chokes on his drink and sputters. His hands fly up and wave around frantically, possibly looking for something to anchor him. Peter curls further into the shield of Pepper’s body and lets her deal with the aftermath— patting Mr. Stark’s back and criticizing him for being so dramatic.

“In what—“ Mr. Stark starts, coughing hard, “In what universe would that be a good idea, Peter?”

“I... I didn’t...”

“Actually,” Pepper interrupts, interlacing their fingers together, “I think that might be a good idea.”

Mr. Stark looks betrayed, affronted. Peter turns to smile up at her, “Really? You think so?”

“Once your hormones are stable, why not?” Pepper asks, kicking at Mr. Stark when her Omega makes a disappointed face, “It might be helpful for your Alpha to hear from you.”

“Get his head on straight,” Mr. Stark grumbles. His hands are clenched, and he refuses to look at them.

There’s a beat of silence where Peter just stares at Mr. Stark, hoping for an answer. He knows it’s a big favor to ask— but if anyone can get it done, he knows Tony Stark can.

“Fine.”

---

Hi Steven Grant Rogers, God. Would you make me take your name? I really hate that. Maybe I’ll ask you to take my name instead. Mr. Stark said I could send you one letter every month, and that if you respond, I can have that letter back. I hope you respond. Uh... I’m not sure what else to say. My name is Peter and I’m in high school. I know that makes things hard for you, being old as dirt, but I hope when we meet that it won’t be too awkward. I hope you stay safe. I’m finally on suppressants and doing better than I was before. Your words on my arm barely hurt anymore. Okay. That’s all for now. Yours, Peter Benjamin Parker Oh! PS I’ve sent a little sample of what I scent like. Mama said that you would like that.

Tag list (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @purplefreakwolffish @instantsharkskeletonpizza @justslightlycrazy @angelstarker @femmeparker @starkeraddictbaby @starkentrprises @snowstark @sarcastich

#spidershield #lookin for love #lfl #spidershield: lfl #update #fanfic #steve x peter #ao3 fanfic #fluff #found family #no hurt this chapter! yay!#chapter 5 #mcu #rare pair

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sweetpeasgirl · 4 years

Text

Treat You Better | Sweet Pea

Description: Based on the song “Treat You Better” by Shawn Mendes, Jughead and Y/n’s relationship is at it’s bittersweet end and Sweet Pea, her best friend, is there to defend her

Word Count: 2.3k

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Female!Reader

Warnings: Kinda angsty but not really

Tags: Angst, FLUFF

The White Wrym is not where you thought you would spend your Saturday night but Jughead had said that he needed to take care of a few things and you didn't want to be blown off again. You understand that he's busy, you really do. He's the son of the former Serpent leader; of course he's going to have a lot more on his plate. You just didn't think he'd push you off of it- the plate.

Sweet Pea had warned you about that. It was the latest topic of argument between you. For best friends, the two of you fight a lot. You know he's just trying to look out for you, that's been his role since the two of you were kids. He's in the grade above you, and was originally your older brother's friend, but they fell out a couple years ago. He never left you though.

He's always been the one watching your back. At first he just kept you out of harm's way, whether that be from grade school bullies or the men who lurk in alleyways when you're trying to walk home. Now, though, he has to watch out for boys who say they care about you but don't. He has to watch out for heartbreak.

That's where Jughead comes in. Sweet Pea is just being his overprotective self, like usual. Sure, you've had your fair share of walking out into the busy street with your head down, and he's had to pull you back quite a few times, but this is different. He can't save a heart that's supposed to break. Jughead does care about you, or at least he did when you first got together last year. Some things, however, just aren't meant to last forever.

Forever is a long time and time has a funny way of changing things.

"Juggie, it's your turn," your voice is quiet as you hand him the wooden pool cue, trying not to draw attention to yourself.

It's cold in the bar and you had been alerted so suddenly that date night was getting moved here that you didn't have time to grab a sweater. You can feel the stares burning into uncovered shoulders. It puts you on edge as Jughead accepts the cue from your shaky hands and takes his shot absentmindedly. Something's going on in his head, you can tell by the way he furrows his eyebrows and watches the people around him.

You, meanwhile, are trying hard not to look anywhere but the green felt of the pool table. There's commotion all around you. Shouts can be heard from the bar and the sound of smashing bottles that accompanies them. There's laughter coming from somewhere else but it doesn't sound friendly. Whatever it's about is cruel; it’s something that should not be made a joke of.

You're definitely way out of your comfort zone. Hell, you're way out of your un-comfort zone. You're just plain scared and, with the lack of conversation that Jughead is providing, the regret is bubbling quick in your chest. You almost wish he would just break up with you so you can cry and move on already.

"Jughead," a loud voice breaks the awkward silence around the crowded pool table, "there you are boy. We can finally discuss what you wanted to talk about now."

A tall, middle aged man with light brown hair and a weeks worth of beard growth pats your boyfriend on the back. Jughead shoots you an apologetic look as he passes the pool cue back to you once more. Your blood runs cold as he starts to walk in the opposite direction with the newcomer. He's seriously leaving you alone, in a room full of people who honestly aren't the safest characters, on what was supposed to be your night. Something happened to the boy you first knew and this just settled what you already thought. It’s over.

Your eyes blur with unshed tears at the hurt and fear circulating through your veins. He disappears from sight and the dark atmosphere gets hazier as you grip the side of the table to keep yourself steady. You can once again feel the stares burning into your back. It's like they were waiting for you to be left unattended. When you're with Jughead, the heir of the Serpent crown, you can't be touched. When you're with Sweet Pea, their deadly warrior, you can't be touched. When it's just you, though, anything goes.

You don't know what to do. It's only a matter of time before someone approaches you and when that happens you'll be in a situation that you probably won't be able to get yourself out of. That's the one thing your mother always told not to do; never put yourself into a situation that you can't get out of. Sweet Pea would not be happy.

"Y/n, what the hell are you doing here?"

Case in point. You jump at the sound of his voice but spin around instantly and bury yourself into his chest nonetheless. The tears fall down your face before you can stop them but you really couldn't care less. The smell of leather and pine surrounds you and warmth finally fills your body. Apparently you're colder than you had originally thought.

The relief that fills you is unmeasurable and you cling to Sweet Pea tightly, "It was supposed to be our night but-” you hiccup, tugging on his jacket- “I didn't want to miss another date night-” another hiccup- “I didn't want to-” you rub your forehead against his chest, your voice now just a whisper- “he left."

Your thoughts come out scrambled and between ugly sobs but it's enough for Sweet Pea to gather the overall picture of what happened. After all, he has been doing this for a while. He tightens his arms around you, the anger radiating off his uncovered skin in heated waves.

"He left you? Here?" Sweet Pea is seething when he pulls back.

He lifts you to sit on the edge of the pool table, the game laying discarded behind you. The visual reminder only makes the tears come faster and the warmth leave your bones again. You start shivering but this time you can't steel yourself enough to stop, the realization dawning before you can lie to yourself again. You and Jughead are done. You have been for a long time now and everyone else saw it before you did.

"Pea, we're over," you can't raise your voice above a harsh whisper, covering your raw face with your hands to suffocate the onslaught of cries you can feel bubbling to the surface, "we're over now. You were right."

You close your eyes to avoid staring into Sweet Pea's murderous chocolate ones. All you feel now is the ice circling your veins.

"Baby, hey," a large jacket that smells too much like Sweet Pea to not belong to him is draped over your shoulders, "it's okay. We'll go home."

The anger seeps out of his voice and you peer up to see the concerned face of your best friend once more. He's looking at you in the same way he was the time fell out of Jughead's tree house. You had blacked out from the fall and woke up in the hospital with a broken leg. He was so scared that he didn't leave your side for a minute. But it's different now, you're not physically hurt, so he shouldn't look worried.

You let out a sorrowful breath and just nod your head, a deep weariness settling over your being. At least you're getting what you had wanted. A clean break.

"Y/n, can we talk?"

You hadn't noticed Jughead come back but now he stands a little behind Sweet Pea who is still in front of you. Sweet Pea instantly turns at the sound of his voice, the rage back and in full swing. You just lower your head, too tired to keep it up.

"Jones you're so lucky I'm not beating the crap out of you right now. I didn't think you were stupid enough to leave her here but I guess I was wrong! You're just lucky I happened to be here. And that she doesn't hate you." Sweet Pea spits his words at Jughead

"Look, man, can I just talk to my girlfriend?" Jughead's voice is monotone, both of you knowing he's just calling you his so that he can officially end it once and for all.

It's for the best and you both know it. His phrasing, however, doesn't go over well with Sweet Pea.

"Are you serious right now? Or is this a sick joke? You forfeit that title when you left her as free game for anyone in this place,” Sweet Pea steps towards him and you hold your breath, knowing quite well who would win the fight if one were to ensue. “You're dating the most beautiful girl in this shitty town and you treat her like she doesn't even matter! If it was me she wouldn't be crying on a damn table, she would know damn well just how much I love her!"

Your head snaps up at his words, your breath hitching in your throat. The commotion of the bar is drowned out around you and all you can see is Sweet Pea's back. He can't really love you, can he? He's just making a point, being the best friend he always has been. The logic makes sense to you but you can feel your heart breaking for the second time tonight because of it.

You place a hand on Sweet Pea's shoulder, drawing his attention back to you, "it's okay Pea, I should talk to him at least."

He doesn't look happy but he nods, helping you off the table and moving to the side to let you pass. You look at Jughead and toss him a melancholy smile. It's wrapped with bittersweet memories from all your late night's at Pop's and early mornings coming back from the drive-in. Jughead and you had some pretty good times despite your inevitable end. Maybe, just maybe, though, you can make it a peaceful end.

"Y/n I do love you," Jughead takes his beanie off and runs his hand through his already messy, raven locks, "but not like I did before. Somewhere between moving here and, well, taking on the role of my dad I let us fall apart. I'm sorry."

"It's okay Juggie. I probably wasn't putting as much effort in as I could have," he scoffs at that, a guilty smirk on his face.

You both know that you gave this relationship your all. But, standing here now with Sweet Pea's eyes searing into your back, it's pretty clear that your heart was forming attachments with another person. Which means that sooner or later you and Jughead would have fallen apart anyway. Sometimes these kinds of things are no one's fault. It's a mutual heartbreak and when it needs to happen, it needs to happen.

"You know, y/n, I don't feel too bad about losing you to him."

You furrow your brows at his comment, your voice cracking slightly when you speak, "what do you mean? He was just saying all that stuff. Pea doesn't love me."

Jughead rolls his eyes and glances quickly at Sweet Pea before walking closer to you. You can tell he doesn't want him to hear what he's about to say.

"Y/n that boy is in over his head. It's a feeling I can relate very much to but listen to me," his eyes capture yours in a serious stare, "he's going to treat you better than I ever could. He's not going to leave you in dangerous situations or bail on plans. Can't you see he'd take a bullet for you?"

Your heart races at his words and you spare a glance at Sweet Pea. He's already looking at you, the worry back in his mesmerizing eyes. He raises an eyebrow at you, pulling a smile to your lips. Maybe Jughead is right. Maybe you love Sweet Pea as more than a best friend.

Looking at him now, his tanned skin glowing under the dim lights and his dark brown hair pushed behind his ears, there's no doubt in your mind that you're attracted to him. Sweet Pea has always looked handsome in your eyes, even after a fight with purple bruises staining his face. You think back to all the times he's been there when you needed him most. That boy drops whatever he's doing when you call; no matter if you're just bored or looking for someone to nap next to he’s there next to you. You've always felt at home when you're with him. Hell, you have a drawer in his room devoted to your clothes.

Sweet Pea loves you and you're pretty damn sure that you love him too.

Turning back to Jughead, you nod your head, "I'd take one for him too."

"Good. I think I'll leave now. Thanks for everything, y/n," Jughead pulls you into one last hug before heading out the door.

You pull Sweet Pea's jacket tighter around you as you walk back towards him. He gathers you once more into his chest and you let the last of your tears fall. There will never be a time when parting isn't such sweet sorrow. It's the beginning of something new but also the end of something that you once thrived on. However, wrapped completely in Sweet Pea's scent, you've never felt like you belonged somewhere so much.

"Ready to go home baby?"

"Yeah Pea. Let's go home."

#Sweet Pea #sweet pea riverdale #sweet pea x reader #sweet pea x you #sweet pea x y/n #sweet pea imagine #riverdale #riverdale imagine #jughead jones #riverdale series #reader insert

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carnationcreation · 4 years

Note

can I request a sunset curve x reggies little sister? Like how they would treat her/help her and Reggie through everything going on with their parents? Do whatever you want with the plot just make it fluffy please!!

TITLE: The Walkman (Sunset curve x reader)

✌🏻Masterlist Taglist, Requests, and Works in progress!

Please check bio to see if requests are open before sending any in! Requests are sent to my ask box or DM’s!

Request: can I request a sunset curve x reggies little sister? Like how they would treat her/help her and Reggie through everything going on with their parents? Do whatever you want with the plot just make it fluffy please!!

Prompt/summary: Reggie and his sister had always been good at avoiding their feelings about their parents, until one day it all comes crashing down.

Word Count: 1,102

Authors note: takes place in 1995! And woahhhh a new imagine? Am I going insane????

WARNING: Mentions of domestic violence and panic attacks. Please read with caution!

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

Reggie and I both dealt with the stress of the catastrophe that is our parents differently.

For Reggie, coping with stress looked like blaring his headphones on a walkman while in his locked room. Hoping the bass line would carry his thoughts away from the house he so desperately wanted out of.

For me, it was grabbing my notebook and riding my bike away from the house to the garage the band always practiced in. As my mind got sucked into the lines and lines of lyrics, poetry, and other writing projects I was working on, the sound of yelling and things breaking flew away to my subconscious.

The boys normally left me alone when they knew things were bad, letting me write out all my feelings into the purple spiral-bound notebook I bought every week at the dollar store.

The papers would litter my folders in my room. I’d sort them into various folders based on what type of project it was. Pink for songs and lyric ideas. Blue for poetry. Green for story ideas. The words never seemed to stop and the notebooks kept piling up in the drawers on my desk. Along with my various books I cycled through during the week. A room without books is like a body without a soul in a way.

Being a year younger than Reggie left me in a weird position with his friends. On one side they tried not to treat me as a little kid, but on the other side it made me feel like I was their little sister too. I’ve never complained, it helped me gain a lot of friends in school. Well, if you could call people who just wanted to talk to you so they could get close to the band ‘friends’.

By the time I got to my junior year in high school I had become an important member of the band, even if I didn't play an instrument. Those lines and lines of lyrics would never get put into full songs if Luke didn't make me haul the giant folder down to the garage once a week (normally the day before I buy a new notebook) to search through the couple hundred pages to find his new inspiration.

Alex would read through some of the story ideas I had written during breaks at practice and give me new ideas to play around with during the next week at school.

Reggie would steal my notebooks and draw or doodle on the sides of the page or in the margins in between the lines. Sometimes they'd be so funny or good I would cut them out and tack them to the cork-board in my room. Bobby would read through my poetry and share some of his own with me. He could be really good if he wanted to, he did it more for the girls he dated though.

Writing was always something I was good at, music not so much.

When we were around people, it was an agreement between me and my brother that we pretend it doesn't bother us that much. That the fighting was just something that happens sometimes and we just shrugged it off if anyone mentioned it.

Until it did start affecting us.

I didn't mean to get in the middle of it. I was just trying to leave to get to band practice because I was already running late. The kitchen was the battle zone today and I ducked my head and tried to walk past the kitchen table without them noticing me. I heard the plate fly through the air before it even hit the wall right in front of my face.

The shards of ceramic seemed to go in slow motion. The impact it had on the ground caused on piece to fly back up and scrape my cheek.

I was out the door before they could even yell at me to stop.

My five minute walk to the garage was a two minute sprint as I ran with both tears and blood streaming down my face.

The cut was right under my cheekbone. With my hand pressed against my face I couldn't tell how big it was but the amount of blood gathering against my palm made me run faster to get to the garage.

The first few seconds after I entered the boys didn't notice my panicked state over the sound of their music. It wasn't until Alex shot up and ran over to me that they noticed the blood dripping down my arm.

Reggie yelled my name as Luke pulled the plug on the amp.

"What happened?" Reggie said as he pressed the flannel that was normally wrapped around his waste against my cheek to stop the blood.

"I- I can't-" I struggled to breathe as I continued to choke on sobs.

"Luke, go get paper towels from the bathroom," Alex yelled and Luke stumbled to the back.

Bobby grabbed a water bottle and wiped off my arms.

"(Y/n) I need you to calm down so you can tell us," Reggie said, I could still see the panicked look in his eyes.

The beating of my heart was almost loud enough to drown him out. So loud I almost didn't notice the sound of music start as Reggie slipped his walkman over my ears and slide my favorite cassette in.

He still held the flannel up to my cheek until Luke returned with the paper towels and a first aid kit.

Slowly my breathing steadied out as Alex ran his hands through my hair and Luke tended to my cheek. The music helped my sync up my breathing. Reggie grabbed my hand and slid the headphones off.

"Please tell me what happened."

"They were fighting again. One of them threw a plate and it hit the wall and flew up to cut me," As I described it my eyes started to well up with tears again. Reggie pulled me into his chest to comfort me as I cried into his shirt.

"You're okay, you're here. Nothings gonna happen to you," Reggie said. I felt Alex's hand on my back rubbing circles into it.

Bobby sighed, "Lets all stay here tonight."

We drug down blankets and pillows from the loft and laid them out all over the garage. Reggie and I took the couch.

He gave me the walkman to listen to as I laid my head in his lap. Finally, after a few hours of watching the boys roughhouse and mess around on Luke's guitar, I finally fell asleep to with the walkman still on.

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

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#julie and the phantoms #jatp #julie and the phantoms imagine #jatp imagine #jatp reggie #jatp reggie x sister!reader #reggie peters #reggie peters x reader #reggie peters x sister!readers #sunset curve #sunset curve x reader #luke patterson #luke patterson imagine #jatp luke x reader #jatp x reader #jatp luke imagine #jatp alex #jatp alex imagine

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foodieforthoughts · 4 years

Text

Sand and Stars - Chapter Seven

Series Summary: After the water pump being blown up, the insurgents in Baqubah are taking a hold of the food supply to the village. Camp Warhorse is in dire need of reinforcements. It has been eight months of submitting countless requests when the High Command commissions Sergeant Olivia Ross to take her group of men and women and help Captain Syverson and his team to restore a semblance of normalcy. But with the war raging, does it get two hearts closer too?

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC x OMC

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: 18+, character death, angst, blood, gore, mentions of war, military technicalities (thread with caution)

A/N: This chapter was very difficult to write as I hadn’t written about losing a loved one before. But the entire experience of delving into the psyche of someone who is troubled by such loss was heart-breaking. I also took some inspiration from the song Hold On by Chord Overstreet. Also, I know I include army warfare a little bit, the references is only limited to what I know from media, I’m sorry for any inaccuracies.

As always, @thelastsock was the helpful beta with her wonderful ideas. I love you for being with me while I write this series.

*gif credit to owner

<Chapter Six

Title: Chapter Seven

Darkness. Pain. Screaming. Olivia groaned as she tried to move. Her head throbbed along her temple, the helmet feeling like it weighed a hundred pounds. She opened her eyes, wincing at the light and heat that assaulted her. The shrill ringing in her ears making it difficult to concentrate on the next step. Wet sand and soil caking her skin as she tried to rub her face into some semblance of painless clarity. Her leg. The pain getting more intense as her leg swam into focus. No obvious injuries, maybe a fracture.

She blinked her eyes slowly, taking in her surroundings and finally registering what had happened. A straining wail sounded from the wreckage of their chopper. Gary. She pushed herself on her hands wincing as pain shot up her shoulder. She glanced at her arm; a piece of metal was sticking out from it. With a trembling hand, she took a deep breath and pulled the metal shard out, tears brimming in her eyes as blood oozed out from the gash running in rivulets and soaking her sleeve. She applied pressure on her wound, pressing her eyes shut as she tried to breathe through her pain.

Another painful wail sounded from the side of wreckage, making her grab onto the broken blades of the chopper sticking out from the sand to steady herself. She dragged her feet on the soil, stumbling to reach where her Sergeant was.

When she rounded the body of the Little Bird, she wasn't quite sure what she was seeing. Odd angles and red. So much red. Schmidt pinned under the tail. Blood spurting out his mouth with every breath. His leg was being crushed by the metal wreck and his arm was twisted in an inhuman angle with crimson liquid matting his entire body. Olivia fell to her knees next to her friend, sobs leaving her lips and tears streaming down her soiled cheeks.

“Gary, hey, hold on.” She unclasped the belt of his helmet, pulling it off and throwing it away.

Schmidt took a shuddering breath when Olivia took his hands in his. “I-I don’t…”

“You won’t,” She interjected, understanding exactly what he wanted to say. She lied. She knew he was going to bleed out and she wouldn’t be able to help. She blinked away the welling tears and looked around trying to spot anyone in their vicinity. The faint sound of gunshots came from a distance. “Someone will come looking for us.” She tried to speak with confidence, but her voice was faltering as Schmidt’s grip loosened in her hand.

“My wife…my kids…” He stuttered, blood beginning to flow out of his nostrils. “Tell them…I will always…love them.”

“You tell them that yourself, Gary. You hear me?” She grabbed at his fatigues, fisting them in her blood covered hand. “You are not dying.” She could hear his breath coming out short as he gasped for air.

Gary elicited a mixture of laugh and a cry, tears streaming down the side of his face, making a trail on his dusty skin. “C’mon Red…we know…I’m short of time.”

Liv held onto his hand again desperately trying to will him away from the clutches of death. She watched with hazy eyes as her friend held onto the last thread of life, gasping in air and spitting out blood. Her mind pictured the time she had met his wife and his children; how his life partner had made Olivia promise she’d keep her husband safe. Her heart ached as she watched her best friend, her family, slipping from her hands.

The unmistakable rumble of a Humvee’s engine soared Olivia’s hope to save her friend. Over a rocky sand dune, the beige metal vehicle rode up and made its way towards them. She laughed at the realization that they were her men, coming to save them.

“Gary…” She began, only to look down and be met with the vacant eyes of her Sergeant staring blankly up into the sky. There were no more shaky breaths leaving from his unmoving lips, his body laid limply, and his hand slipped from hers. “No, no, no.” She stuttered her words, trying to shake him awake.

“Sergeant!” Her men's voices mixed into one another as they called out. She offered no resistance as they hauled her up by her shoulders and hustled her into the back of the Humvee.

Everything was a clouded haze after that. She had watched as Gary’s lifeless body was slid in the tight space between them. Sloan called out to her from beside her, but Liv’s voice seemed to have gotten trapped in her throat. Someone had closed Gary’s eyes for which Olivia was thankful. At least now she didn’t have to look into his eyes and be met with the disappointment in failing to save his life.

***

Sy paced in front of the gate, glancing at his watch and back to the road. He had been informed at the camp about the situation. His heart was racing, he hated not knowing. He expected the worst, always, but not knowing who was coming back in a body bag had him on edge.

As the whirring blades of the Medevac came into view, so did the vehicles making their way towards the gate. He stepped to the side as the metal barriers were opened, letting the cars enter the compound. Everyone rushed to the injured team; bruised and battered soldiers climbed out of the cars. Sy spotted Sierra who was clutching her bleeding shoulder, two other men drenched in blood being helped to the helicopter. When he saw Olivia stumble out of the back of the Humvee, his heart dropped.

Liv looked like she was walking in a daze. Her arm was covered in blood, soil and sand matted on her face and she limped when she walked. Sy gently placed a hand on her shoulder, drawing her attention to him.

“Liv,” He said cautiously. When her eyes met his they looked lost, distant and far away.

“I’m okay.” Her brittle voice cut through Sy’s heart. She nudged his hand away from her shoulder and limped her way towards the building where the infirmary was housed, not even glancing behind as the Medevac team lifted off from the ground.

It took Sy hours before he could visit Liv alone. He couldn’t have abandoned his duties as a Captain while people under his wing had been injured and killed. But he kept a tab on her by asking Sloan about her whereabouts. Liv had gotten herself bandaged and had chosen to retire to their quarters. It was late in the evening when he was finally done with calls with his superiors and with briefing the team.

Sy stood outside the door to the ladies quarter unsure of what lay ahead. He knocked sharply on the wooden door. When he got no response he pushed the door open, hinges protesting the movement as he peered inside the dark room. He glanced at the two empty beds on the opposite side which possibly belonged to Sloan and Sierra. BJ had asked permission to let Sloan stay with him tonight and Sierra was at the base in Baghdad which left Liv alone in the room. He stepped inside tentatively and spotted her on the bed shoved right at the corner of the room.

Liv was hunched over with her wet hair falling over her shoulder, shielding her face from Sy. The sleeve of her t-shirt was rolled up with a white bandage covering her arm, a crimson patch in the middle of it. He closed the door behind him and slowly walked towards her. Droplets of water fell from the ends of her red locks, pooling on the floor next to her feet.

Sy debated whether he should sit next to her. He understood very well everything she was going through. He had lost buddies in combat; the first time was always the hardest. He wanted to comfort her and make her understand that this is the life they chose for themselves.

“It should have been me.” Her voice was barely audible, little over a whisper. Her hands covered her face with her elbows resting on her knees. “It should have been me, Sy.”

“Hey, don’t say that.” He brought his hand to place on her shoulder, but she flinched away. Sy felt dejected but he withdrew his hand away. “We all signed up for this. We know what there is to lose.”

“I should have been careful. I should have done something to save him.” Her voice trembled as she spoke.

“Liv,” he started, braving to put his hand on her shoulder yet again only for Olivia to abruptly stand up. Her eyes blazed red, puffy with the tears. Her lips quivered as she stared at him, clutching her arm as the bandage was painted with more blood seeping from the wound.

“Just say it, Sy, say it was my fault.”

Sy stood up as his hands balled into fists. He wanted to be Liv’s confidant, but she was pushing him away. “It wasn’t.” He replied sternly, his lips pressed into a thin line. “You stop berating yourself. You are a soldier, Liv.” He blamed it on tiredness for he did not mean to sound condescending. He quickly understood his mistake, his face softening as Olivia took a step away from him. “Liv,” he pleaded, extending his hand towards her.

“It should have been me! Gary’s death is on me!” She screamed with fresh tears running down her cheeks. “He has a family. He has…people waiting for him. And I…I-” her shoulder shook as ripples of sobs gripped her. She covered her face with her hands again, shielding herself away from Sy’s eyes.

This time Sy pulled her against his chest without hesitation. Liv tried prying herself away from him, but he held her strongly against his body. She gave in soon, burying her face in his chest and soaking his shirt with her tears. He ran his hand through her hair soothing her and shushing her.

“There’s no one waiting for me back home. No one to cry if I die.” She mumbled between her sobs, sniffling and gasping with the onslaught of grief. “Gary had a family, Sy. What will… what will I tell his wife?” She grasped at his t-shirt, desperately trying to cling to the last hope of sanity.

Sy held onto her like she was the most fragile being on this planet. He tightened his arms around her, wanting to shield her from the world and its sadness. He wanted to take away her pain. He would take it upon himself if he could. Sy rocked her lightly, whispering words of comfort as well as he could. He could not comprehend how bruised her soul was to think no one would cry for her if she died. A cold shiver ran down his spine even thinking about it.

After a long time Sy carefully turned her in his arms. She opened her puffy eyes, fluttering them slightly. “Let’s get you to bed, okay?” He ushered her towards the bed and gently sat her down. She laid down on her side, curling up in a ball with her hands wound around her chest. He pulled the thin blanket over her, tucking the ends beneath the mattress. Sy caressed her cheeks with his hand, wiping away the tear stains on her cheek.

He didn’t want to leave her alone. She was vulnerable and had dropped all her guards down. She was too stubborn to ask for comfort, but he could sense she hankered for his solace. Sy understood under the strong-willed demeanor, Liv wanted to be defenseless. She peered at him with half-lidded eyes without uttering a word.

Kicking his boots off, Sy climbed on the bed to lie beside Liv. He gathered her in his arms, letting her shelter in the bend of his elbow. He pulled the blanket over their bodies, draping an arm over her torso. He entwined his fingers in Liv’s hair, running his fingers along her scalp. Liv dozed off not a moment later, holding him close to her like she was afraid to let him go.

Sy kept drifting in and out of sleep with every stir of Liv’s body. She whimpered in her sleep in the middle of the night with the onslaught of nightmares entering her mind. Sy whispered words of comfort in her ears, running his hand soothingly over her back. Sloan had returned at the early hours of dawn looking like she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep either. But when she had spotted Sy cradling Liv against his body, she had excused herself and left them alone again.

***

It hadn’t been easy for her to cope with the loss of her friend. Olivia had watched with tear filled eyes as they had loaded up Gary’s trunk to be sent to base. She had grazed her fingertips over his name tag sending a silent prayer to where he now rested. It was only when the Humvee had rolled out, Liv had caught sight of Sy watching her from his post.

That night she had felt like her entire being had shattered into a thousand pieces. She had lost loved ones before, but watching someone die in your arms, her best friend, had terrified her. She blamed herself for it.

If only I could have been alert. If I hadn’t failed to save him. If…

There were so many ‘ifs’ circling in her mind, she laid awake every night thinking what she could have done otherwise.

Sy had decided to give her some space. He had been quiet and allowed her to heal in her own time. She was grateful for that. She just wasn’t ready to break down in his arms again. She was afraid if she let him get too close to her and if she were to lose him too, she wouldn’t survive.

It had been fifteen whole days since she had last stepped out into the field. Her leg had been healing, her stitches still fresh, for which Sy had ordered her to stay at camp. She had waddled around the compound, finished paperwork for the men and worked out to release the mixture of anger and sadness bunching up inside her.

She had thought she would be able to handle it but glancing at the hilltop where she had held her dying friend, had brought everything back to her. Sy had looked at her, his eyes covered with his shades, with his mouth pressed into a thin line. He had accompanied them for their mission to receive the food truck, something he hadn’t done before. She had maintained her distance from him, choosing to stay with her own people. It had felt odd being on the ground when she was used to soaring high above everyone else in her chopper.

Back at the camp, her leg throbbed from walking on the uneven terrain. She winced as her hand grazed over the bandage on her sore calf, still hurting from the gash she had taken from the debris. Olivia took in a sharp breath as waves of nauseating pain crashed against her sleep deprived mind. She sat down on the steps of the building, gently massaging her throbbing muscle to ease the pain.

“You okay?” Sy sat beside her on the steps. Involuntarily she felt herself scooting away from him. She wasn’t sure what she was trying to gain from keeping him at arm’s length. He was being gentle, understanding, sympathetic, everything she needed right now. But something stopped her.

“Yeah. Just a little sore.” She refused to make eye-contact with him.

Sy seemed to have gotten the message as he scooted a little to the side. From the corner of her eyes Liv noticed Sy let out a sigh, rubbing his beard with his hand. It was weeks ago when she had felt his arms around her, locking her in his embrace, making her feel safer than anyone ever could.

“Are you sleeping alright?” He asked, adjusting his gun beside him.

“Yeah.”

“Are you telling the truth?” His voice was stern, and he turned slightly to look at her. She knew her words betrayed the reality, the bags under her eyes were evidence of her tired, sleepless nights. But even so, she nodded her head.

Another sigh left his lips. “Liv, I know you want to be strong, but you don’t have to go through it alone. I’m worried about you. I want to be there for you.” Sy reached his hand out and placed it over hers. Giving a gentle squeeze he pleaded, “Just let me in.”

Liv allowed herself to glance at him. His eyes were soft, worry marked with wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. He held sincerity in them, a hope that formed a crack in the wall Liv had built around her.

“Sy,” They were interrupted by his Lieutenant. “We need you in the office.”

Sy nodded at them, bringing his gaze back to Liv. He gently smiled at her, bringing his hand to her face. “I’m here for you.” He whispered before standing up and walking inside the building. She watched as he strutted towards his office, talking to his Lieutenant and discussing their matter at hand.

That night, Liv stayed awake in her bed. The chatter outside their room was dying out as midnight approached. Sloan was passed out on her bed; gently snoring while being wrapped in her blanket. Liv glanced at the empty bed that had belonged to Sierra. She had gotten severely injured in the attack. In the days Liv had stayed at the camp, she had a SAT call with her comrade about her corporal. Sierra had been sent home after the surgery she had to endure from the bullet wounds. Liv had been relieved to know she was at least alive.

When the lights cut out at midnight, shrouding the camp in darkness, Liv sat up in her bed. Sy’s words kept ringing in her ears. She didn’t want to push him away. She wanted a safe place. She wanted to feel something other than pain.

And so, she stood, outside his door in the dead of the night. She stared at his door, debating whether she should just return to her bed. She wasn’t even sure if Sy was in his room. With a timid knock, Liv stood with her arms hanging by her side. Her heart picked up a pace as she counted the seconds in her head until the door cracked open.

Sy had a scowl on his face when he opened the door, which eased as soon as he noted Liv standing outside his door. He watched her with a softened gaze as she took a step forward.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” Her voice trembled as she spoke. She gulped, fearing he would drive her away.

But he did not push her away. He extended his arm open, tilting his head slightly and a gentle smile on his lips. “Of course.”

Liv buried her face in his chest wounding her arms around his frame. Sy closed the door, holding her firmly against his body, circling her with his arms. He rested his cheek against her head, letting silence fill in the space that didn’t require words.

Liv could feel it then. Her walls being broken brick by brick by Sy. She felt safe, warmth seeping into her heart as he held her close to him.

Chapter Eight>

🌟 Series Masterlist 🌟

#Captain syverson #Captain Syverson fanfic #captain syverson x ofc #captain syverson angst #tw:character death #tw: angst #henry cavill #Henry Cavill fics #henry cavill fanfic #sand and stars series

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voidcat · 4 years

Text

– a case of bad luck

1. spoke too soon

m.list ; prev ; next ; wc:1.7k

a/n: i’m trying to write one chapter ahead to have a little schedule in the near future so there’s that. there are no songs for this chapter. and i still hate writing dialogues + action based scenes. Oh and I don’t proof read so I may forget to type some verbs once in a while.

a/n 2: I know the title says “1” but this is actually the second chapter!!! ch1 is numbered “0”. This chapter probably doenst make much sense w/o its buildup

Crouching down to check on the boy, the one with bandages get up, his gaze directed at you. Like the boy, he seems young too, not any older than you most likely, but something about the way he holds himself contradicts what’s expected of someone in his age.

“Even Rashoumon is cast asleep before he got the chance to attack.” He leans in to touch his wrist and lets out a small hum at the lack of reaction on the boy’s part.

“Now let’s see how you got here.” And you take it as your cue, going back all the way you got through leaves a stale taste in your mouth, a feeble defeat, but your gut tells you to wait and talking like you did with the others will only make it worse with him.

Climbing all the way back, this time without being pushed by someone, feels like a walk of shame on itself. There really isn’t much to stop you from turning and running away. From the looks of it, the boy down by the door will be staying like that for another hour. And really, what can a possibly 18 year old boy do to you in the dead of the dark? A part of your brain screams at you. You didn’t spot any guns on him either nor any movement on his part, a hand at ready to draw out a weapon. And yet from the way he talks, looks around and talks, he is off. Everything about him is off and your brain keeps screaming ‘danger! Danger! Danger! Run for your life! Or die in the process.’

And he is awfully calm the whole way up, first coming behind you, probably a measure to make sure you won’t try to get away and by the time you reach the floor, he steps ahead, walk directly to the door you exited moments, maybe half an hour, ago as if he placed it there. Creaking it open and leaning in slightly, he examines for a second.

Then he pulls back and flashes a smile “Now go on, let’s see what you’ve created!” he says, tilting his head towards the door.

The sight of him is more unnerving with a smile.

Ambling to where he stands, you hear someone clearing their throat.

“Who were they?” you ask as you step inside, gaze locked onto him as he follows.

“Some small gang in the area, probably getting high schoolers involved with drugs.” He shrugs. Hah, it’s almost silly to have a somewhat victory in whatever you found yourself in but you want to smile at it anyway, look him in the eye and go ‘I knew it, I was right all along!’

The smile dies before it can make way to your face as you see his disfigured body cast aside, the other men laying around the room, all discarded as mere trash bags.

The smell of reaches you again, this time it’s worse, like a rock just fell right into your stomach.

The bandaged up boy squatting in the middle of the room, probably observing one of the men as you stare at the boy you saw several times before. When did they do this to him, what did they do, was the same going to happen to you-

The dizziness comes again and you take a step back to regain your composure. The bandages stand up then, you try to make something out of his expression but you can’t drag your eyes off what has become of that man.

If you were to ask another question, your words would die on the way out.

“Not sure.” He says, as if he hears the unspoken ‘what happened to him?’ in your eyes.

“It looks like his insides were carved out, not something that could be done without making a mess or cutting him out.” He sounds exactly as you first heard him. With nothing in his voice, not a part of identity or emotion. Like he’s just commenting on the quality of a food he has been served or a project he’s been presented.

“Which bears the question… aside from the obvious ‘what is your ability?’. What did you say to him exactly to create quite the work?”

Another step back.

You’re closer to the door, it’s unlocked and standart. The other boy still must be unconscious but can you make a run for it? Or does he have some inhuman power to get to you quick, maybe speed or teleportation, maybe something to grant control over you or objects around you.

Running away doesn’t seem to be a good option, when you’re unfamiliar with the area, not to mention it’s nighttime. But staying with whoever this is seems a lot worse.

The previous men were simple, easy to predict, open; but he is cautious, vary of his surroundings and it’s that smile that keeps popping up on him that creeps you out. You don’t want to imagine what might happen at the hands of him, especially if you try and get caught eventually.

The tapping brings you back, his foot this time, and he scrunches his nose. He asked a question after all.

“What do you mean ‘ability’?” you pronounce the last word as if it’s foreign. That only seems to annoy him apparently.

“Your ability! The thing you used to make-“ he turns sideways to show him with his hand “-this! And possibly to get out of here as well. This might be a low type gang but it’s not possible to make it out alive,-“ he takes a step toward you “-without a scratch,” another step in, you take one back, “-while everyone else is dead and a guy’s insides out like a carved pumpkin.” His voice drops with each word.

Another step in and he’s standing right in front of you, too close, his height over you makes the screaming inside your head worse, everything about him screams ‘red!’ now.

“So tell me again,” he nods with his head to where that guy was sitting hours ago, “was it the tragic death of your boyfriend that drove you to this?”

“he is not my boyfriend.” You whisper.

“was it witnessing his torture that did it?” his tone changes.

“I didn’t even know his name.” you look away.

“what was his last words? Maybe a declaration of love? Maybe a fight beforehand and his words were an apology for that? Maybe it was not proclaimed until now, wouldn’t that make things sad?” The more he adds on, the chirpier he sounds, almost enjoying this, ignoring each of your denials -maybe not even hearing them, too caught up in the story he fabricated.

“I didn’t know him!” You tell before he can continue his rambling. Eyelids halfway down, he looks down at you.

“No wonder you saved your own skin.” The coldness comes back.

Turning away, he walks toward the pile of red again “but it doesn’t explain how-“ he grabs something in the shape of a stick, “you managed to pull this off.” He punctuates as he raises what you assume is a part of the intestines with the stick.

“I told you, I don’t know. I fell asleep by the time they started questioning him and that was it.”

Throwing another glance at you, pitiful maybe?, he takes off to a table with stack of papers spread around.

“Here, they have information on your boyfriend. I’m assuming you attend the same school- someone has been studying.” Throwing the papers back, he strolls to you.

“It won’t take long to get information on you. You probably live on the opposite side of the city. With parents, I assume.” He leans in, “-a pet, maybe few? And a little poking around would provide enough on your parents and friends as well. But we wouldn’t want that.”

Raising his hand to your face, an arrogant smile takes place.

“And I’m sure you’d not want to see what my subordinate below would do, especially when he realizes he has been knocked out by a high schooler.-“ his hand, now standing right next to your face, you pull away before he can touch.

All the fear and the lights in your head have already made way to anger, “I don’t like being touched.”

“Who does?” He says with a tiny laugh, hand by his side again.

And just like that, he takes a step back as if the last five minutes never existed in the first place. “It’s late, let me escort you to your house.” He waits by the our, one arm stretched out to make way for you.

And learn where I live? Hard pass. The two of you start walking back, him a step behind you. The halls feel emptier now somehow. Not a single ray of light creaking in. “I don’t need the help of some douche from-“ you stop.

“Mafia executive, Dazai Osamu.” He keeps walking as he throws the title into the air, the word executive echoing in your ears. Isn’t he too young to be in a position like that, let alone the mafia?

Taking a step over the still body of the boy -his subordinate, as he called him, he stands right outside the door just like you first saw him.

How long ago was it? It feels longer than it should be.

“Stop loitering around, we got a long way back! You can tell me all about your ability as we go.”

He is younger than you, you’re sure. Appears to pale too, and what you can make of his outfit from all you see plays into the whole sick Victorian era child look. despite his age, he must be as dangerous as this man, Dazai, is, if he is a subordinate tailing along with no other back up. And yet, his form looks defenseless, vulnerable.

“Leave him behind, that’s what he gets for not being alert-“ “And for being defeated by a mere high schooler, yes we get it.” You cut in, jump over the boy and follow the man everything in your body tells you to run away from.

#bad luck #bungou stray dogs #dazai osamu #gender neutral reader #bsd fanfiction #bsd x reader #bsd x you #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu x you #dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai fanfic #dark era dazai #bungou stray dogs x reader #Bungou stray dogs x you #bungou stray dogs fanfic #bsd fanfic

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aslitheryprinx · 3 years

Note

These are from song titles, but I think these are poggers (I hope, at least)

* And there was life inside "it"

* Can it really be called "Cinderella" ?

* Love inside an empty box

* World is full of wonders (Or "Full of wonders!!!!")

* Near

* Angel's clover

Don't worry anon, they are most definitely poggers! (Both of my current ao3 published works have names based on song lyrics, so that really fits my vibe haha.)

There are so many good prompts here! I couldn't help but write like.... A lot lmao.

CW: dehumanization, themes of child abuse, themes of death. Be safe!

____

And there was life inside "it"

They called it RNB-00. It was the first in a generation of experimental life production using DNA from one of the most volatile creatures in the worlds: endermen. There were no endermen hybrids. The children could not survive, and the birth was volatile, tearing the parents and anyone near them apart with the violent magic.

They would perform the experiment anyways.

An unfinished human embryo, carefully extracted from someone who would be written in the paperwork as a volunteer. An enderpearl, freshly taken from a creature they didn't consider "human" enough to need even dubious content. DNA, taken directly from the brain of the enderman.

They spliced together the three ingredients, cheering when the chimera of enderman and embryo inside its tubes showed signs of life.

But some things are not meant to be done.

Nature is not meant to be tampered with.

The experiment turned south quickly. The specimen convulsed in its tube, growing at a rapid rate. Vibrant purple magic lashed out, dancing through the lab with a vengeance. There were the cries of a newborn mixed with the shrieks of an enderman- then, an explosion.

RNB-00 fell to the ground, the magic pulsing from it too bright to be looked at by the naked eye. A second explosion rocked the lab, this time all-encompassing and final. The building turned to ash and dust and settled around a new crater.

There would never be a RNB-01.

A shape rose from the center of the crater. It was a child from one angle, maybe two or three, with pure white hair, scarred cheeks, and a red eye.

From the other angle, it was a monster. Something not quite enderman or human. Jet black hair, and velvety black fur covered the left half of it. It's eye glowed an unnatural green, not the color of humans or endermen.

It toddled slowly away from the epicenter of the explosion, no memory of what had happened. As it walked, it noticed a mark, a brand, on it's right arm: RNB-00. The child stared, and blinked at the word.

And he named himself Ranboo.

Can it really be called "Cinderella"?

When Tubbo was young, he saw Cinderella, once. Even with how young he was, the story resonated with him. He wished all his stepfather did was give him chores, but he knew exactly how it felt to be unloved, unwanted, forced to stay on the sidelines. He just hoped his fairy godmother would come soon.

When he was a little older, he looked back on the story of Cinderella with nothing but bitterness. He was old enough now that he knew fairy tales didn't happen. There was no "fairy godmother" coming to save him; there never had been, there never would be. All he had was himself and his shitty situation. He wanted to forget the story that had given him such a bittersweet lie, but it was burned into his memory.

As he reached his teens, the anger turned into weariness. It wasn't Cinderella's fault his stepfather was a piece of shit. It wasn't the character's fault that she had help to break free while he didn't. And how miserable he was wasn't Tubbo's fault either, no matter how much his stepfather screamed it.

When he was 16, feeling ancient yet younger than he had ever been, he stopped comparing himself to Cinderella. Cinderella hadn't stood over her stepparent's body with a bat. Cinderella hadn't called the police on herself, showing them what she'd done and then the reason why, covering his skin beneath his clothes. Cinderella had been freed, but she hadn't paid such a heavy price for that freedom.

Tubbo had. Tubbo was far from a Cinderella story.

Love inside an empty box

Tommy's love was dangerous. He learned that at a very young age. Love for him wasn't just a feeling, it was a physical thing, at least to his eyes. He could feel every last drop of care, of love gathering around him like a storm. And just like a storm, when the feeling touched down, it was deadly. People, animals, anything that was touched by the love he couldn't stop feeling crumbled under the weight of something that shouldn't exist.

Tommy couldn't stop himself from caring. But he could stop himself from hurting. Hurting others, at least. Tommy commissioned a solution from a witch with a terrible reputation for cruelty, but a renowned skill with magical crafting. It cost him everything he owned, and some of who he was, but he walked away with an empty box made to hold what he couldn't afford to keep.

For years after that, every time he felt love building up in his chest- his care for friends, the people he considered family, even for strangers- he tore it off of himself and flung it into the box. Over time, the box grew full, bursting at the seams with his love. He learned to discard all but the most precious feelings, keeping those in his overstuffed box that weighed nothing and locking them inside.

But no lock lasts forever. Nothing lasts an eternity.

Tommy was alone with nothing but his thoughts, his box, and the ghost of a brother who was only really that in the privacy of his mind. He let his eyes shut, the box held loosely in one hand. The ghost, not knowing the consequences, touched the box.

And the seams of magic holding it together shattered and the love Tommy had stored away broke free, as powerful and terrible as a hurricane.

If it had been Wilbur, the man would've died as surely as he had when a blade was thrust through his heart. But this was Ghostbur, and you cannot kill what is already dead.

Still, such power has consequences. All the love in the box, far too powerful to be contained for long, spilled over, pouring over and around the ghost and the boy.

Yes, such power has consequences. The boy with too much love and his brother that never was would face those consequences together.

(world is) full of wonders

Wilbur is a simple musician. He travels alone, playing an ode to all of the world around him. He sings to the trees, the sky, the river, the sun, anything he pleases.

Though he knows it's silly, he can't help but imagine they sing back. He tries to match the harmony he hears in his mind, tries to play along with the symphony of nature. He can never keep up, but likes to imagine the world is fond of his efforts.

But even musicians can stumble into trouble. Too caught up in the ballad he played to the tune of the wind, he didn't hear the rattle of bones, the drawing of a bow. He heard only the twang as an arrow released before it pierced through his skull and everything went black.

But Wilbur wasn't gone. He didn't cease to exist, like he always assumed. He felt the cool caress of the void, the gentle brush of the universe against his mind and he gasped. Clearer than he'd ever heard it, he heard the song of the world, in perfect harmony and tune. This time, it sang along to him, to the pulsing of his soul.

Wilbur had no body, but if he did he would weep. He had no lungs, no mouth, no voice, but his soul took up the melody he longed to sing anyways. He sang with the universe until the song became more and more impossible to replicate and he could only listen in awe.

He woke up painlessly, laying on a gentle green field. His guitar was by his side, and his sweater was cleaner than it had ever been. He knew instinctually that he was not in the world he'd came from. This was a new world, a universe untouched, a new song to add his voice to.

Near

It hit him, one day, as he absently peeled a potato over the sink. That he didn't remember if he'd ever touched another person.

Techno had froze for a moment. It was quite the revelation to have out of nowhere. He dismissed it a moment later, memories of how he and Phil would bump shoulders as they walked and talked fresh in his mind.

But all too soon his thoughts turned back to the uncomfortable topic. Sure he'd touched Phil before, but that was through layers of armor and clothing. Had he ever had skin to skin contact with another person? Anything, as simple as a handshake? Hell, even something during battle would count.

He came up empty, and it was driving him crazy.

He didn't need to touch people. He didn't. Having someone he cared about liked close to him was good enough. He didn't need physical contact to reassure him. He never had, not even as a child.

Though that may have had something to do with the chorus of voices he'd had in his head that had kept him on the brink of insanity for most of his childhood. His voices were always there, always with him, so what need did he have for another person's company?

Except he did like company, Phil's especially. And he had it, plenty of it, more than he could ever possibly need. So why did he suddenly feel so off balance?

He asked Phil about it next time he saw his friend. He kept it casual. It wasn't a big deal, he didn't need to worry Phil by letting how much this had bothered him show.

"Hey, Phil, have we ever touched?" He asked. Phil gave him a weird look, then bumped his shoulder.

"Like that?" He asked, unimpressed. "Mate, maybe you should check your own memory before you call me old man again."

"Nah," Techno dismissed, "I meant like... skin to skin. Like a handshake or something."

This actually gave Phil pause. He thought for a moment, then laughed.

"I guess we haven't. Weird. Why?"

"I... Don't think I've ever touched anyone like that," Techno said. He tried to keep his voice steady, but his heart was pounding as he poured out his weakness in front of Phil.

The other man was silent for a long time. Techno could practically hear the shouts of ever??? running through his mind.

Suddenly Phil turned towards him, pulling off a glove.

"Handshake?" He offered with a smile, something sad beyond the amusement in his eyes. Techno rolled his eyes, but he hesitated taking his glove off. Slowly reaching out, as if Phil's hand was a snake that might strike at any sudden movements, he placed his hand in Phil's.

The sensation was like a fire roaring to life on his hand. It didn't hurt, not like a real fire, but it somehow burned. He froze, his brain having trouble processing the bizarre feeling. It was overwhelming, and the best thing he'd ever felt, and yet it was almost a relief when Phil gently pulled his hand away.

"We'll take it slow, alright mate?" He said, nudging Techno with an elbow. The piglin's brain began to work again and he snorted, pulling the glove on again and falling back into step.

"Of course. We can't overwork your old man brain," Techno said dryly, earning him a sharper nudge. He grinned, the amusement softening to fondness as Phil walked just a little closer, letting their arms stay pressed together as they went.

It was strange how you didn't notice you were missing something until you had it. Bare contact was a little too overwhelming right now. So he was right. For now, this was enough. Having his best friend near him was all he needed.

Angel's Clover

There is a special plant that only grows in the land of celestials. An ethereal clover that sprouts from the weary souls that come to rest on the soils of heaven. The souls and the clover flourish in time with one another, tended to by the celestials that walk the lands. It is only a rumor, in the eyes of mortals, but one who walks among them knows it to be true. He is the Angel of Death, and his presence can never touch the sacred halls of the celestial lands, lest they wither and die.

But souls do not always complete the journey, to find their final rest above. Some souls are too broken, too hurt to reach the peace of the celestial lands. It is the duty of the Angel of Death to guide the souls, and it is his duty to heal them so that they may be guided.

In the land of the mortals, there is one place where the clover grows. It is in the humble garden of a plain looking man, who wears a large hat to block his eyes from the sun, and keeps his unearthly wings folded beneath his cloak.

In his garden, the Angel of Death nurtures the precious remnants of life.

#dsmp #dsmp au #prinx fake title game #ranboo #tommy #techno #tubbo #wilbur #phil #aslitheryanswers

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tetsurobunni · 3 years

Text

Heather

☞ songfic based off the song heather by conan gray bc yea // 5k words

☼ pining, angst, slight nfsw (making out), happy ending; spoilers for haikyuu s1 ending

☼ pairing : daichi sawamura x sugawara koushi

☞ i love this ship with my entire being, that being said:

this text = song lyrics

italics = inner thoughts + flashbacks

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

Suga quietly opened the door of his home and stepped inside, taking off his shoes before he entered the kitchen. He saw a plate on the table, on it laid a little piece of paper that wrote 'Made some dinner, got called in for work. Love you sweetie.' He smiled slightly at the note, making a mental note to thank his mother in the morning. Suga looked at the food on the plate in disinterest; he had no appetite.

He was drained.

He lazily put the unopened plate of food in the fridge, hitching his bag up higher onto his shoulder as he padded up the stairs to his room. Upon entering, he tossed his gym bag to the floor. Sighing, he laid down onto the soft comforter of his bed, turning his head to look at the night sky through his window. Closing his eyes, a memory of a night just like this started to replay in his head.

**flashback**

I still remember, the third of December

Suga sat on his bed, staring at the stars as they glittered in the night sky. Soft footsteps were heard behind him, the bed dipping as the weight from another body came in contact with it.

"Whatchya lookin' at, Suga?" Daichi asked, shifting his weight so he was propped up next to him on the bed. Suga could feel the small flutters in his chest that had slowly started to reveal themselves more and more the past few weeks. They always arose whenever Daichi was near, causing him to knead his fingers together in nervousness- or was it excitement? He couldn't tell.

"The stars, Daichi," he said, eyes twinkling as he was mesmerized by the small lights in the sky, eyes scouring to find constellations he had read about. A light breeze blew through the open window, causing Suga to shiver slightly as the cold air brushed over his skin. The bed lifted up as Daichi walked over to his bag, unbeknownst to the gray-haired setter who was still entranced with the celestial display in front of him.

Suga slightly jumped as a jacket was placed over his shoulders, the familiar lingering scent of cologne and earthy smells invaded his senses.

"Don't even try and act like you're not cold," Daichi said, a slight chuckle in his words as he made his way back to the bed. The flutters had grown even more now; Suga had to stop himself from just bunching up the fabric towards his nose and breathing in Daichi's smell. Instead, he put his arms through the sleeves, tugging the warm material around his body.

Me in your sweater

Suga looked over to Daichi, blushing slightly as he noticed the brown-headed captain staring at him. His fingers twiddled with the fabric of the jacket, a sign of nervousness that he hoped Daichi hadn't caught onto yet. He gave his best friend a small smile, ignoring the painfully prominent flutters in his chest as he looked into his eyes.

"Y'know, that looks better on you than it does me," the captain said, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he eyed the setter in his volleyball jacket. Suga's cheeks flamed as he turned away from Daichi's gaze, hoping he hadn't seen the effect his comment had on him. Even so, a small smile made it's way onto his face.

You said it looked better on me than it did you

**end of flashback**

Suga closed his curtains, blocking his view of the stars he used to love so much. Everything lately had just seemed so much dimmer. That memory was painful and caused his heart to ache. He tried to forget. He tried, he really did-but those damn flutters would never go away.

"Only if you knew how much I liked you."

He whispered the words into the night as he pulled a pillow up to his face, squeezing it hard against his chest. Silent sobs racked through him and tears escaped his eyes one after the other, the only sounds in the room being his quiet sniffles and muffled cries. He couldn't help but think back to how simple everything was then; so much easier to handle. All he had to do was keep his feelings in check whenever he was around Daichi.

Now he had the watch the man he loved be swept away by Yuu Michimiya.

But I see your eyes as she walks by

Suga first noticed the connection between Daichi and Michimiya one day in the hallway. The two were putting their outside shoes into the small lockers that were provided for them at the school. They were talking about the training camp that was approaching, joking about how they were going to have to keep a close eye on Bokuto this time because he might steal Hinata if they weren't careful. Daichi laughed at a comment Suga had made, causing those damn flutters to erupt in his chest once again.

Turning his head to the side to crack another joke to Daichi, his words got caught in his throat. Daichi had completely zoned out of their conversation, eyes widened slightly as he stared at an approaching figure walking down the hallway. Suga slowly trailed his eyes to where he was staring, and when they reached the cause of that look in Daichi's eyes, he could feel his heart shatter into a million tiny little pieces.

What a sight for sore eyes

Suga had watched as the short-haired brunette walked by the two, the feeling of rage almost overpowering the poker face he held as he saw the black material that hung around the girl's shoulders. His hands had clenched into fists near his chest, the butterflies now replaced with wasps that stung at his stomach. When he turned back towards his friend, he crumbled.

Daichi's eyes held the same look towards her that Suga's did when he was looking at the stars.

Brighter than the blue sky

After the scene played out before him, he turned back to his locker and angrily shoved his shoes into the compartment. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes as he heard Michimiya say a small and polite 'Hi Daichi' in his direction. Suga hung his head in sorrow.

'Why can't you just look at ME that way?' He despaired, slamming his locker shut and walking quickly to his class, ignoring the confused shouts from his bestfriend.

She's got you mesmerized,

Suga had sat at his desk trying desperately to pay attention to whatever the teacher was lecturing about, but he couldn't. His brain was running at a quick pace, replaying the look Daichi had in his eyes over and over again. It was like his own personal broken record, one that made his gut clench every time it scratched and replayed.

'How could I have been so naive?' He thought, holding his shaking hands in his lap to keep from drawing attention to himself. He kept his eyes locked onto his paper in an attempt to calm himself down.

It hadn’t worked.

But just as Suga thought he was going to explode, a small piece of paper was slid onto his desk. He shakily lifted a hand up to grab the folded sliver of paper and opened it as quietly as he could. Suga let out a breath he didn't know he was holding as he re-read the words written on the paper.

'Breathe. I'm right here if you need me. Go to the bathroom and splash some water on your face. ~Asahi'

He had given a grateful smile to his long-haired friend and received a small one in return. Asahi was right, he needed a small break. Just a small break to clear his mind. Suga walked to the bathroom, making his way over to the sink where he cupped his hands under the cold rush of water from the tap. He splashed the water onto his face, relished in the contrast between it and his burning face.

He backed away from the sink after turning off the tap, resting his back against the wall of one of the stalls. As much as he wanted to stop thinking about him, that one night couldn't stop replaying in his head. He laced his fingers into his hair and slightly pulled, the pain barely being felt as he was pulled deeper into heartbreak.

While I die.

He dug his palms into his eyes, trying to stop the overflowing of tears as he replayed what happened that night again in his head.

**flashback**

Daichi and Suga made their way down the sidewalk. They always walked each other home, but tonight was different. Sorrow, despair and defeat hung in the air around the two. They had been defeated by Aoba Johsai today in the Inter High Prelims. As third years, and more importantly to Daichi as their captain, they felt as though they had let the team down.

Not a word was spoken between the two, the only sound coming from the footsteps on the pavement. Suga felt horrible-hell, he felt like the world was hitting him with bricks. There were no words that could console him, or Daichi for that matter. All he could do was try to be consoling with his presence. He felt useless.

Suga had his head hung low, eyes unfocused onto his steps. It was like he wasn't even there, just a body moving at an automated pace. He snapped back into reality as he walked straight into Daichi's slightly taller figure. He raised his head for the first time since they left the bus stop, eyes wandering up towards where his best friend stood in front of him.

"I don't deserve to be captain.”

Suga's heart broke hearing the sorrowed tone of Daichi's voice. He sounded like his heart had been ripped from his body. Placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, Suga turned Daichi around to where they stood face to face. What he saw made new fresh tears spring to his eyes.

Daichi's eyes were red and swollen, tears slipping down his face silently as he looked at Suga in despair. The shorter third year immediately flung his body into the brunette's chest, wrapping his arms tightly around him.

"You are the most humble, self-sacrificing and encouraging person I know, Daichi," Suga said, sniffling as tears spilled from his eyes onto the captain's shirt. "You have done so much for the team. You are the most deserving person of the title 'captain', so don't you ever let those words come out of your mouth again," he added on, tilting his head up to look Daichi straight in the eyes as he said the last sentence.

Suga bit his lip to keep from audibly sobbing as he looked into the older boy's eyes, meaning every word that he said. The flutters were there again in his chest, but he payed no mind.

Until Daichi pressed his lips onto his.

**end of flashback**

"Why would you ever kiss me? I'm not even half as pretty."

Suga had whispered the words into the air, finally saying out loud what he had been thinking. The words felt like they hung in the air, suffocating him as he tried shake them away. He took a couple of deep breaths, deciding that acting this way was no good. If Daichi had liked him back, then he wouldn't be looking that way towards Michimiya. Plain and simple. He had to come to terms with that.

But that didn't mean it didn't hurt him any less.

The bell rang outside, signaling that the previous period was over. Suga had exited the bathroom after checking his reflection on the mirror, wincing at his red, puffy eyes. 'Oh well,' he thought, trudging back to his class to get his bag and books.

"Hey Suga, I figured that you would be in there for a little while so I grabbed your things," Asahi said, giving him a small look of sympathy as he handed Suga his things. He gratefully took them from the ace's hands, muttering a small 'thank you' as he turned away from him.

"Are you okay, Suga?" Asahi questioned, the worry prominent in his tone. Suga winced at the question, not wanting to lie to his friend but also not wanting to make him worry more than he already was.

"Ah, um... I'm okay. Thank you for checking on me," He said, lifting his head up to give the taller boy an award-winning fake smile. If Asahi didn't believe his facade, he didn't comment on it. He just simply nodded and walked alongside Suga to the roof where they ate lunch together as a group.

When they had arrived, the one person Suga was planning on avoiding greeted them with a cheery smile. He felt his heart clench in his chest, looking downwards towards his feet as he grabbed the bento he made out of his bag. He sat down away from Daichi, making the older boy shoot him a questioning look that Suga ignored.

The door slammed open as the two rambunctious second years made their appearance. Noya immediately pounced on Daichi, yelling incoherent sentences as he grabbed his shoulders and slung him around.

"Can you please slow down so I can understand you?" Daichi said, struggling to pry Noya off of his shoulders.

"Okay, okay, okay, explain to me what is going on between you and Yuu Michimiya?" Noya said, a smirk prominent on his face as he questioned Daichi. Suga felt his heart sink. He didn't want to hear this, he really, really didn't. Just seeing her in the same jacket he wore that night made him want to puke.

"Nothing is 'going on' between us," the captain said, using air quotations with his fingers to signify the ridiculousness of Noya's question.

"You gave her your sweater,"

Tanaka butted in, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at the brunette, who now had a faint tint of red covering his cheeks. Suga put down the piece of food he was about to put into his mouth, suddenly losing his appetite completely. His gut was wrenching in pain from the conversation he was hearing, the urge to run away becoming stronger with every passing moment.

"It's just polyester,"

Daichi finally said, making Suga's eyes snap in his direction. He couldn't believe what he had just heard.

‘It’s just polyester.’ Suga had thought incredulously, tears springing to his eyes as that broken record played over and over again in his mind.

He had decided he couldn't handle Noya and Tanaka teasing Daichi about his crush. Shoving his partially eaten bento box back into his bag, Suga practically bolted towards the door of the roof. He ignored the confused calls of his friends, slamming the door behind him. His breathing quickened with each stair he clambered down, tears blurring his vision the farther he distanced himself from the roof.

When he reached the bottom floor, Suga collapsed onto the floor under the stairs, hiccuping into his sleeve as he cried for what felt like the 10th time that day. 'It's just polyester? What the hell does he mean by that-did he even mean what he said to me?'

The thoughts going through Suga's head made him dizzy, his chest felt like a hole had been punched through it. What if he really didn't mean what he had said to him? His fist grabbed at the material of his shirt above his heart. 'No, he kissed me. That couldn't have meant nothing to him...'

Squeezing his eyes shut, hands starting to violently shake as the realization of his situation hit him like a ton of bricks.

But you like her better

Why did this have to happen to him? Why? Why did his heart have to choose the one person he could never have? Why couldn't he be the one Daichi was mesmerized by?

I wish I were Heather.

Now as Suga laid on his bed, he was still was broken as he was that day. Everything had gotten progressively worse and worse, leaving him drained day after day. He was unmotivated. Practices were a pain because he couldn't avoid Daichi when he was basically at his side the whole time. He had yet to meet his best friend's eyes since that day on the roof, but the hollow feeling in his chest stayed.

Suddenly the loud ringtone of his phone filled the quiet room, startling him. He begrudgingly shuffled over to his gym bag, fiddling through the items to find the source of the noise. When he found it, he looked at the Caller ID, and his heart sank.

Incoming Call: Daichi Sawamura

He didn't want to talk to him. He had been avoiding him to the best of his ability, so why was he calling him? He took a deep breath, and clicked the accept button.

"Hey, get some clothes on. I'm headed over to your house, I'm taking you to a party. See ya in a few!" Suga tried to tell Daichi there was no way he was going to a party, especially with him, but he heard the 'click' of the call ending. He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. A party was the last thing he wanted to do, but he knew that when his best friend was set on something, there was nothing Suga could say or do to stop him.

He groaned, wiping his hands down his face. 'Let's just get this over with.'

Opening his closet to pick out some different clothes to change into, he decided to just put on some darker jeans, a plain lavender t-shirt, and a black zip-up hoodie. He had no desire to look good; After all, the only person he wanted to look at him was out of the picture.

As he tied the laces on his shoes, he heard the front door open. "Suga! Let's go! Kuroo called and told me the party already started!" Daichi yelled from downstairs, making Suga groan. He was definitely dreading this. He made his way down the stairs and passed Daichi who was standing right outside the door.

"You ready?" He questioned, not receiving an answer. Suga walked straight by him, rolling his eyes as he closed the door behind him. Daichi looked at him questioningly, not knowing why he was giving him the cold shoulder. They got into the car in silence, reminding Suga of the day after the Sejoh match. He shuddered, not wanting to play through that memory again. The pieces of his heart had yet to be mended, but despite that he felt the little flutters in his chest that he now hated.

He hated that he still felt the same way after all this time. He was still in love with Daichi, even after knowing that Michimiya was the one he longed after.

Suga sighed, putting his hands into his pockets as the house came into view. "You know what?" Suga started, still looking ahead at the road. "What?" Daichi questioned, happy that his best friend was finally talking to him after what had seemed like forever.

Suga faltered. He really didn't know where he thought he was going with this conversation.

'Did you really think that telling him now would be a good idea? Wow, you really are pathetic,'

He clenched his fists in his pockets. He wanted to tell Daichi how much pain he was in, how much he wanted him. But he couldn't.

"Nevermind," he finally muttered out, getting out of the car and walking up the steps to the house, opening the door. He heard Daichi sputter out a response, ultimately snapping his mouth shut when he realized Suga wasn't going to listen. The setter was greeted with loud music and the strong smell of alcohol and sweat. He spotted Kuroo and Bokuto in the living room playing beer pong against Terushima and Iwazumi.

"Hey hey hey!" Bokuto yelled as he saw the two walk in the door, Daichi giving him a bro hug and Suga giving him a small wave. "What's up guys? Here, have a drink," Terushima said, holding out two cups filled with god knows what to the two.

Suga politely declined his offer, while Daichi took one of the cups. In a moment Kuroo had taken the other cup out of Terushima's hand and chugged it, yelling afterwards.

'I already want to leave'

Suga walked over to a more secluded place in the house. He closed his eyes for a moment, the booming music reverberating through his ears. As he opened his eyes, he locked onto two figures sitting on the couch.

Watch as she stands with her holding your hand

Suga's world crashed down yet again. He watched as Micimiya sat down on the couch and reached over to hold Daichi's hand, giggling as he said something to her.

Put your arm round her shoulder, now I'm getting colder

Daichi placed his arm around her shoulder, making a small, giddy smile grace her features. Suga crossed his arms over his body, wishing he could just disappear. It was enough just knowing that they were together, but actually seeing them act like a couple right in front of his eyes caused the pain in his chest to grow tenfold. The room felt like it was closing in on him, making his breaths become shallower.

He glanced back up at the two, cringing again as he noticed the jacket she was wearing. He wanted to hate her. He wanted to so bad, but he just couldn't. Yuu Michimiya was no doubtedly perfect. Short, athletic, and beautiful. How could he beat that?

But how can I hate her? She's such an angel.

He grit his teeth together in anger, tightly gripping the material of his shirt in his fingers. Even if she was perfect in every way, he couldn't help himself from imagining what his life would be like if Yuu Michimiya just didn't exist.

But then again, kinda wish she were dead

Suga barely noticed a presence beside him as he was lost in his own thoughts. "Hey Mr. Refreshing," the figure said in a sing-song voice, and Suga didn't need to look to know who the voice belonged to. "Hello Oikawa,” he breathed out, resting his head onto the wall behind him. He couldn't help but let his eyes trail back to the two on the couch.

He noticed Oikawa settle back onto the wall beside him. The great king followed Suga's eyes until he understood what was making his fellow setter so upset. Suga watched as Michimiya said something to Daichi and rose from her sitting position on the couch.

As she walks by,

Suga couldn't help the sneer that overcame his face as she walked in front of the two, eyes staring at the jacket wrapped around her small body. Oikawa chuckled a little, watching as Suga practically killed the girl with his eyes.

"What are you laughing at?" Suga snapped out, looking annoyingly at the cocky setters face.

"What a sight for sore eyes,"

"Shut up Oikawa," he said, rolling his eyes. He started to walk away but a hand snatched out and grabbed his wrist.

"Here, drink this. It'll help you feel better," the brunette said, holding out a red solo cup just as Terushima previously had before. Suga contemplated it, mumbling a 'fuck it' and downing the bitter liquid in one go. He coughed a little and whiped his mouth, sighing as he felt the alcohol make it's way through his body.

Brighter than the blue sky

He deserved a drink. He deserved to be relieved of this hollow feeling in his chest. If getting drunk meant that he could forget Daichi, that his mind would stop playing that broken record over and over again, that those stupid flutters would go away, then getting drunk it was.

She's got you mesmerized,

"Come with me," Oikawa suddenly said, grabbing Suga's forearm and pulling him in the direction of a flight of stairs. The grey-haired boy sputtered out some words of confusion, but Oikawa still walked at a fast pace up the stairs, not faltering for a second to answer his questions.

Oikawa opened the door to what Suga decided was a bedroom, quickly shutting the door behind them when they entered. "Oikawa, what are we doing up h-"

He was cut off mid-sentence by Oikawa forcefully pressing his lips onto his.

While I die.

Suga placed his hands on Oikawa's chest, pushing him off of himself. "What are you doing?" He sputtered out, looking incredulously at the taller boy. Oikawa stepped closer to him, making Suga take a step back, his back hitting the door they just came in. The brunette placed his right leg between Suga's, bending down slightly to look him in the eyes.

"I know you're in pain. I can see it in your eyes," he said, reaching up to cup Suga's cheek in his palm, "let me help you forget, even if it's just for a little bit," he whispered, lips lightly grazing over Suga's.

He didn't have the chance to speak before Oikawa's lips were back on his, but this time, he didn't push him away. Instead he kept his hands on the taller boy's chest, slowly moving his lips along with his.

Why would you ever kiss me?

'Maybe he's right, I just need to let him help me,' Suga thought as his hands ran through Oikawa's hair, tugging at the strands lightly.

I'm not even half as pretty,

Oikawa licked Suga's bottom lip, asking for permission before letting his tongue slip into Suga's mouth. The shorter boy ignored the fact that he didn't once feel the flutters in his chest whenever Oikawa kissed him.

'This is the only way to get over him, you saw her down there! She was wearing his jacket, he's not yours,'

You gave her your sweater, it's just polyester,

Oikawa moved down from his lips to place sloppy kisses onto his neck, leaving Suga to take in deep rugged breaths. In his gut he knew this was wrong, so wrong, but the need to forget his sorrows overpowered that gut feeling. Daichi didn't like him, and here Oikawa was, offering to help him.

But you like her better,

Suga let out a slight moan as he felt Oikawa's hands slip under his shirt, hot fingertips running over his body left goosebumps in their wake. He closed his eyes, trying to relish in the feeling of the hot kisses the brunette was placing on his torso, but before he knew it, he imagined Daichi was the one kissing him.

“If you want me to stop I will.

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine. Keep going, please.”

Suga didn't realize his phone was buzzing over and over again with texts from his best friend, asking where he was.

I wish I were Heather.

Downstairs, Daichi sat on the couch with his phone is his hands. Suga wasn't responding to any of his texts, making him worried. One second he was standing against the wall talking to Oikawa, and the next they were both gone. Daichi glanced over as Tanaka sat next to him, muttering a simple 'hi'.

"Hey Daichi, where's Michimiya?" Tanaka questioned, but he wasn’t really paying attention. He was too worried about whether Suga was okay, contemplating going to look for him.

He shrugged his shoulders in response to Tanaka's question, not really concerned at all as to where the girl was.

Right as he was about to get up and search for the missing setter, he appeared in front of him. Suga had his eyes downcast, grey hair hanging in front of his eyes.

"Can we leave?" Suga questioned, his voice quiet.

"Sure."

~~~~~~~~~~~

The car ride was silent. Suga was looking out the window at the night sky, the stars still shining bright as they made their way down the road.

He felt numb.

He still hadn't processed what happened with Oikawa, feeling that it was better to just act like it never happened. But that hollow feeling was still ever-present.

"Alright, talk," Daichi suddenly said, making Suga jump slightly, "You've been acting weird, so what's up?"

Suga felt his heart drop. Daichi had noticed his behavior towards him. Inside his head he was panicking, breaths quickening as he kneaded his hands together. Taking a deep breath, he finally decided to say what was on his mind.

"Why would you ever kiss me? I'm not even half as pretty,"

The night after the Sejoh game flashed in his mind.

"You gave her your sweater,”

he scoffed a little, adding

“It’s just polyester,”

As Daichi listened to the words he immediately pulled over to the side of the road and parked the car.

He turned to look at Daichi, tears now silently spilling down his face.

"But you like her better,"

He looked down at his hands, feeling defeated.

"I wish I were-"

His sentence was cut off as Daichi placed a hand under his chin, kissing him deeply. His eyes widened for a moment, slowly closing as he melted into the kiss.

Daichi pulled away after a moment, wiping Suga's tears away from his cheeks, his own fresh ones sliding down his face.

"I'm so sorry Suga. I had convinced myself you would never feel for me the way I did for you. Michimiya was a distraction, a horrible one at that.”

Daichi paused to wipe his tears, thumb hovering lightly over Suga’s cheek.

“I should have told you about my feelings instead of being a complete douche,” he said, the two laughing lightly at the comment.

“Yea, you should have.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

“Can I be forgiven?”

“Only if I get that jacket back.”

Suga genuinely smiled for what felt like the first time in months. Daichi put his lips to his again softly. “Of course. It was always yours to begin with anyway.”

#daisuga #haikyuu #fanfic #songfic #angst with a happy ending #suga x daichi

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jadelotusflower · 3 years

Text

Robin Hood Rewatch: 1x13 A Clue: No

“Previously on” recaps can be annoying, but there is an art to it and I love a good one. This is a very, very good one, summarising the last episode with ramping tension as the music builds, then cuts to a different take of the last scene as the theme song starts, and we’re into the opening credits.

This is a long one, so it’s going under the cut:

Guy estimates that the “inner circle” of Robin’s gang is “a dozen at the most” and I find it very funny that neither he nor Vaisey have twigged that it’s always the same five people around him. What’s more annoying than funny is that they don’t know how many are in the “outer circle” because that really should have been A Thing in the show (Forrest and Hanton should have come back to guest star! I will never let this go!) After all, we see Little John with more men in the first episode, there are other outlaws in the forest/across the shire that are either working with Robin, or pose a risk to them, and I wish this had been explored.

Djaq manhandling and holding her sword to Pitts’s throat - I love Djaq.

The first arrow Robin shoots is intended for Vaisey, but one of the guards inconveniently walks in front and gets it in the chest. The second arrow is intended for Vaisey as well but he ducks (”my tooth!”) so we can’t fault the writing for a credible attempt at Why Doesn’t Robin Just Kill The Sheriff, because in this scene at least, he tries.

Bye Pitts. You certainly were.

I actually really love this scene (which probably seemed odd given the high body count), but Robin drawing his sword and charging, with Much, Djaq, and John backing him up to avenge Marian’s apparent death/make a final stand, as the music shifts from the jaunty Rescue Theme to Marian’s Theme, just gets me every time.

Although thanks to the cast commentary, I can’t unsee Djaq flipping that guy over her head twice, but hey, it’s a badass move. Clearly they didn’t shoot enough coverage of this fight, because we get the same action from several different angles.

Other than the flashback in episode 8, I think this is the only time we see Robin in Crusader mode, and just how lethal he (and the gang) can be when unleashed and with nothing to lose. Even when the enemy retreats Robin remains kind of wild-eyed with rage unsated, and it takes a beat for him to snap out of it. It’s symbolism time - he sticks his sword in the ground and leaves it there, and we don’t see it again this episode (or much in season 2).

There’s some nice acting going on from everyone in this scene - just utter exhaustion, Allan and Will oblivious to why the rest are so distraught, Much taking it upon himself to tell them but can’t say the words, and Robin with the finality of “she’s dead.” Their faces!

Djaq is still holding two swords as she enters the cave, which is a nice character beat - no doubt the fight also brought back unpleasant memories/triggers for her, and she remains on edge, for the moment unwilling to give up her defences even when the threat is gone.

I really love this scene too (the gang mourning Marian) and I think it’s quite deftly written - Djaq’s immediate reaction being the importance of a quick burial (as per Islamic tradition), Robin trying to keep it together, attempting to ask John/Will to build a coffin but unable to, so deflecting to ask Djaq to prepare Marian’s body, before trying twice again; John soothing him and taking charge. Will’s single tear and speaking of Marian’s goodness. Much responding with “Good? Oh, she was... She was...” looking to Robin because of course his thoughts are for Robin’s grief before his own, and also that his own relationship with Marian was complex. Allan: “She was alright...yeah” that says so much, and of course John’s “Her, we liked.” Again, some fine acting, kudos everyone.

“I loved her and I never told her” is ironic because Robin still won’t tell her until halfway through the next season, and if he had in the aftermath of her apparent death he could have spared himself a lot of the angst of the rest of the episode. But of course he doesn’t tell her, doesn’t learn from this moment, because emotions are hard, and sometimes we make the same mistakes over and over again.

I really love that it’s Allan that notices that Marian is alive, and his little “told ya” flourish.

Score note: while Marian is “dead” her Theme is strings, when she opens her eyes, it’s back to the guitar.

Guy’s guilt in finding out his impending marriage to Marian is based on false pretenses - would he still have forced the marriage if he’d known that from the start?

Djaq still has her two swords as they take Marian back to Knighton.

Guy, if your first instinct when told Marian is not at home is that she’s run away rather than marry you...maybe take a hint? “She cannot run from me” is a big yikes, and this confuses me as to Guy’s motivation in this scene. Did he intend to tell Marian the truth, but then convince himself otherwise (because “the excitement of the wedding” =/= “the wedding excites her”), but then why so angry when he thinks shes run? The difference between getting someone go/being left, I suppose.

Illness is a perfectly plausible explanation for delaying the wedding that no one seems to think of.

Edward is actually pretty bang on in this scene with Robin from a father’s perspective, telling him to let Marian go if he cannot stop it, and do the right thing. On the other hand...

“I am sick of doing the right thing” is why Robin is such a compelling character for me - because it is hard to always be good, to be held to that higher standard, and make the unselfish choice. I enjoy narratives that explore that, and this show is surprisingly unflinching about it, exemplified by:

The next scene, which is one of the most emotionally brutal/hard to watch of the entire show, in which Robin lashes out and does everything to drive Much away, including calling him “a pox” and a “small man” until Much’s heart visibly breaks.

Now I don’t want to excuse Robin here, because he is objectively awful to someone who doesn’t deserve it, who is trying to give him support but also telling him some much needed hard truths (even if it is slightly self-serving, which is what what seems to set Robin off). But at the end of the day, if he loves Marian he needs to accept that it is her choice to marry Guy, to “do the right thing” to (she thinks) protect her father - and later of he does just that. For now Edward and Much are both right, it is more important for him to try and protect the king from Vaisey, because if he is ousted and Richard back on the throne so many lives would be improved, including the people of Locksley. But Robin has been pushed to breaking point all season, and has now snapped and can’t see reason, but is stuck in his own grief/rage.

But unlike previously, when Robin said regrettable things in the heat of the moment and then immediately took them back, this is a calculated attack designed to hurt Much the most, because he loves Robin so much that it takes A Lot to push him away. It’s a bold move to make your hero so unlikable in such a moment, because Robin really is unforgivably cruel here, and trust the audience to understand why. I mean, I don’t want to bang on about the PTSD, but it’s (partly) the PTSD, based on a triggering, precipitating event causing a self-destructive spiral. Robin needs some Ye Olde Therapy.

For all the talk about Robin getting his title and lands back, nothing is said about what happens to Gisborne once he does, other than that they can’t prove he was the one who tried to assassinate Richard. Because really, Richard probably would believe Robin even though the tattoo was burned away, and Guy’s certainly committed other crimes that could be testified to just like they’re intending for Vaisey - and let’s be real, it’s not like a king needs evidence to order someone’s death (hello, season 2 finale). Boom - Guy executed, marriage to Marian annulled, problem solved!

So, the scene between Marian and Guy, in which Marian is more concerned with whether or not Guy tried to kill the king than the fact that he stabbed her. But its understandable, because Marian thinks there’s no way out that doesn’t risk her father’s life, and it’s easier to convince herself that maybe Guy didn’t do it to make the best of things. I think she does have some kind of feelings for him, or is at least moved by his feelings for her, and believes if nothing else she can influence him/continue working from the inside; giving up the mantle of the Nightwatchman but doing the same work (in a different way) as Lady Gisborne.

And then it’s Robin/Marian angst, round 3, and it’s a far cry from their interaction in the cave milliseconds away from “I love yous” - in both tone and body language they’re back in defensive positions talking past one another. The tension, it be thick.

Marian is making her best rationalisation with “deprived of love” and Robin not at all buying the Woobification 101. Once she tells him her decision to marry Guy, he accepts it, but it’s Marian’s reaction that’s telling, she’s surprised that he doesn’t argue, deep down she wants him to fight for her, to say that the real reason she shouldn’t marry Guy is because he loves her. It’s quite a contrast from the previous scene where Guy was very open about how he feels about her, while Robin deflects, but while she was conflicted about Guy trying to kiss her, she’s frustrated, disappointed, and angry when Robin leaves.

But really, this is rather unfair of Marian, because Robin did already declare himself in the cave (”we should be together”) without her reciprocation, so expecting him to take the first step again without any encouragement is a bit much.

Would a depressed person sit slumped against a tree all night?

“But by taking Marian in holy wedlock, I will wash away those crimes. Her pure heart will cleanse mine.” Yeah...not going to touch that one. I appreciate that there’s a lot going on with Guy and many, many people find it compelling, but I’m afraid it’s not really a narrative that interests me.

Speaking of pure hearts: Much. Faced with the same choice he was counseling Robin on, but with the additional wrinkle of knowing the king’s an imposter, he still decides to stop the wedding. “Her heart belongs to another” is A Moment and I don’t know exactly why but I find his very soft pleas following this and calling her “my lady” very affecting.

She’s beauty and she’s grace, she punched Guy in the face.

“A trap. I knew it.” I haaaaate this line. NO YOU DIDN’T KNOW IT ROBIN YOU KNEW NOTHING OF THE KIND IF YOU HAD KNOWN YOU WOULD BE EVEN MORE OF A DICK FOR LEAVING UGGGHHHH.

“We can’t be seen together” Right in front of my salad two guards on front gate duty, who get front row tickets to the kiss. Look at them! They’re right there! This show drives me absolutely bonkers sometimes.

I do love this dress though.

“An audience with the king has been suspended!” Going out on one last pun.

Regardless, I really love this episode. Despite the lack of fallout from the emotional wringer they all went through, I can’t help but smile when the gang does their silly little jump for joy at the end.

#robin hood bbc #robin hood rewatch #1x13 a clue: no #long post

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