#yes this is in fact horror au. no i will not elaborate (yes i will please ask about it pretty please i could talk about this for hours) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

maatryoshkaa · 4 years

Text

between the lines | lee minho

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒!𝐀𝐔

✑ Late fines, shared lockers, and a missing love letter:

In which a frantic search for an overdue library book leads to you finding other things that are...long overdue.

✑ PAIRING: student librarian!minho x bookworm!reader

✑ GENRE: retro!high school au, slow burn, slice-of-life romance, slight enemies-to-lovers shenanigans

✑ WORD COUNT: 9.7k

✖︎ TAGS/WARNINGS: fem!reader, mild language, bullying themes, skz are all around the same age. mc is insecure and a bit of a valentine's day grinch. minho is whipped but too hardheaded to admit it. also, an embarrassing amount of classic literature/pablo neruda references.

Ah, Valentine’s Day.

Call it the most romantic day of the year if you will, but in the treacherous hallways of Levanter High, it meant a minefield of hormonal couples, crushed chocolate boxes, and supermarket rose bouquets. Clutching your backpack with a grimace, you narrowly dodged a pigtailed cheerleader as she leapt into her jock boyfriend’s waiting arms. Turning into another hallway, you plugged your ears to block out a senior boy’s cold rejection of a freshman’s nervous love confession.

You finally caught sight of your locker and breathed a sigh of relief. Levanter High’s lockers were split in half lengthwise—one top row, and one bottom row. You dropped to a crouch to wrench yours open—you’d lost your lock a couple of weeks ago—trying to block out the early morning commotion as you rummaged for your English books.

“Hey, watch ou—”

The locker above yours opened with a screech, and you looked up just in time to see a pink avalanche of cards and chocolates raining down on your head in a painful, deafening crash. The student who had called out the warning was frozen with a comical look of shock on her face. You swore the entire hallway fell silent, blood rushing to your cheeks as you slowly raised your gaze at the person who had opened the locker.

Lee Hana—head cheerleader of Levanter’s pep squad, and in your humble opinion, the spawn of Satan herself.

“Ohmigosh,” she exclaimed, raising one hand to her mouth in mock horror, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there.”

The crowd around you was beginning to snicker and point, and you felt your face growing redder by the minute. “What are you doing here?” You asked tersely, motioning towards the locker above yours. “That’s not even your locker.”

Hana smiled and held up a small, glittery package. Oh. You didn’t have to look closer to know that the envelope was a love letter, elaborately tied to a box of expensive chocolates—the kind your parents would probably have to work overtime to afford. “My Valentine—for your locker buddy,” Hana replied matter-of-factly, then added, “Not that you would understand, hm? Since you’ve never received one yourself, and all.”

A smattering of laughs erupted from the crowd that was building around you. Biting back a retort, you looked down at all the other Valentine’s trinkets that had spilled around you. Of course—you should have gotten used to it by now. After all, your locker was right underneath the one that belonged to the student librarian, school heartthrob, and the absolute bane of your existence, Lee—

“Minho!” Hana exclaimed, and you looked up to see him shuffling through the crowd, his eyes briefly falling on yours. You immediately turned away as the pretty cheerleader skipped up to him, and shoved your books into your bag. Slamming your locker shut—twice, because Levanter’s damned lockers always jammed before shutting properly—you snatched up as many of Minho’s fallen Valentine’s Day trinkets as you could before shoving them back into the now-emptied top locker. The metal door was still swinging wide open. You’d overheard Minho complaining to the boy who always did the announcements—Han Jihyun? Han Jisung?—about how he kept losing his own lock. Both of you seemed to have a habit of misplacing things (not that you liked to admit to that similarity).

Out of the corner of your eye, Minho was still watching you over Hana’s shoulder, his lips tilted in a half-smile. Your gut twisted unpleasantly. Four years and counting—that was how long you’d ended up with a locker right under Minho’s.

“You’re so lucky!” Lia—your best friend—had gushed, while you had scoffed in utter disbelief.

“Oh, sure. Just my rotten luck.”

“Come on, y/n. Are you still hung up about that love letter from freshman year?”

Yes, you had thought sourly. “No way,” you had snapped, and Lia had giggled, unconvinced.

It wasn’t like you’d always had a personal vendetta against Minho. In fact, in ninth grade, you’d been head over heels for him, just like the rest of the student body—to the point where you’d even slipped a small love letter into his locker on Valentine’s Day, too. It had been one of those gaudy 99-cent corner-store cards, and you'd saved up your pocket money just to buy a matching pack of candy hearts. Then you’d spent the day with butterflies in your stomach, anxiously waiting nearby his locker to see his reaction.

But when he hadn’t shown up, you'd shrugged and begun heading home—and that was when you had caught sight of Minho, throwing all the love letters he’d received straight into the Dumpsters in the back parking lot.

Talk about a reality check.

As if that hadn't been traumatizing enough, you’d been forced to face him nearly every morning for the following three years. To make matters worse, being Minho’s involuntary locker mate also meant that all the girls—and guys, for that matter—saw you as little more than a stepping stone to him, always asking you to relay party invitations or trying to curry favour with you to get to him.

“We’re not close,” you’d insist to his persistent admirers every time, but it didn’t help. Minho, on the other hand, you thought bitterly, seemed to think he was too good for anyone—he didn’t even respond much to Hana’s advances, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. There was no way he’d even look twice at you—you’d been firsthand witness to that. You finally gave up trying to clean up the fallen Valentines, and stood up with a sigh. Throwing him a death glare, you pushed past the crowd just as the bell rang and students began scurrying away.

What did it matter if Lee Hana was trying to get with Minho? If anything, they were a match made in heaven. Or hell. With a decided huff, you plopped yourself down at your desk just as your English teacher began class.

“We’re starting the poetry unit today! Remember, you’ll be writing a love poem of your own for the final project—so I suggest you all get started on reading!” You teacher had winked and clapped her hands excitedly while a collective groan had swept through your class. A few couples had nudged each other meaningfully, already promising to write their poems about each other, and you’d thrown up a little in your mouth.

Romance was a bit of a touchy subject for you— now, you didn’t hate the notion of love, per se, you’d just always been somewhat...wary of it. After watching your friends fall in and out of disastrous relationships and fleeting feelings from the sidelines too many times to count, your own defense mechanisms had skyrocketed, and now you found yourself trying not to roll your eyes at every piece of romantic writing you read. Still, this inexperience only made you more determined to get a head start on the topic— and so, once the last bell had rung, you made a beeline for the school library. You would tackle love the only way you knew how to—by hitting the books. Pushing open the door, you overheard Hana and her friends muttering in disappointment and immediately recoiled.

“You said he’d be in here!”

“Well, I thought I saw him! Let’s wait for a bit.”

You peeked over the librarian’s desk, and sure enough, it was vacant— save for a tray of half-shelved books and stamping cards. Maybe Minho left early today, you thought, shrugging. That’s a relief. Then you shook your head quickly. What’s it to me whether he’s here or not? You tried to ignore Hana’s disdainful glance at you, heading straight towards your favourite nook at the back of the library instead: a cozy alcove tucked behind the last row of shelves. With a deep sigh, you pulled out the first book of poetry your teacher had assigned—Shakespeare’s Complete Sonnets—and sank into the bean bag chair.

‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May…’

A couple lines in, and the Englishman’s words were already making your head spin. You grimaced, massaging your temples. ‘A summer’s day?’ Seriously? You could swear you’d seen something less cheesy on a dollar store card. After a couple of pages, you could already feel your treacherous eyelids beginning to droop, fighting to stay awake as you tried to make sense of Shakespeare’s verses. But thy eternal summer...shall not fade...nor lose...possession…

“The library’s closing.”

You jolted awake, hands fumbling blindly before you could even force your eyes open. The library came into focus first—the lights had been dimmed, the flickering EXIT sign from the empty hallway casting a warm glow through the panelled window across the room. A dull headache still throbbed in your temples.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes groggily. You had to practically peel your cheek away from the Shakespeare book, fingers gingerly feeling the dent the cover had left in your cheek. “I-I’m so sorry, I must have—lost track of time studying.”

A familiar chuckle sent your heart plummeting to your stomach. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

When your eyes finally adjusted, your expression automatically soured into a glare.

“Now that’s more like it.” Smirking, Minho crossed his arms, leaning back on a bookshelf. He glanced down at the book in your lap—the book that you clearly hadn’t been studying. “Didn’t know you were one for Shakespeare.”

“I—” You threw your hands up in exasperation. “I’m not. His writing gives me a headache. It’s like it’s all in another language or something.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Old English. Why are you reading it, then?”

“We’re doing poetry in class—and our final project is to write an actual love poem, based on the poets we’ll study. Shakespeare was just first on the reading list, so…” you felt yourself trailing off, flustered. Why were you even bothering to explain this to Minho, who probably couldn’t care less? “Nevermind.”

You felt his piercing gaze on you as you shoved your books into your bag, glancing outside at the nearly emptied parking lot. If you squinted, you could spot a couple—Seo Changbin, judging by the male’s iconic leather jacket, and his lover—making out under the bleachers. You shook your head incredulously. Valentine’s Day. Love poems. Hormonal couples galore. It was like the universe was playing a long, cruel joke on you: Ha-ha, look who’s spending Valentine’s Day studying in the library alone.

Well, alone except for a student librarian with whom you had a mortifying history. Not much better. Eager to leave, you got to your feet, only to see Minho flipping through a smaller book he’d pulled off the shelf next to him. “If you want some real inspiration,” he began slowly, pushing up his glasses, “I’d suggest you start closer to our time period.”

You looked down at the book he was holding up, brow furrowing as you read the title out loud. “Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. Pablo Neruda.”

“The best Chilean poet of the 20th century,” he nodded. “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way, because I do not know any other way of loving but this.’”

It took you a second to realise Minho was quoting a poem, and you were suddenly grateful that the dimly lit library hid the flush of red that had betrayed your cheeks. Clearing your throat, you mumbled, “That actually sounds...kind of pretty.”

He didn’t look up, but you thought you saw the corners of his mouth shoot up ever so slightly. Maybe the shadows were playing tricks on you? Flipping through the book, Minho fished out a pad of sticky notes from his back pocket and marked a few pages. “Here. ‘The Song of Despair’...‘Tonight I Can Write’...‘Here I Love You.’ Those are good.” Clamping the book shut, he held it out towards you.

You almost thanked him, but the words faltered on your tongue as you took it from him suspiciously. “What’s with the sudden helpful attitude?”

He shrugged. “It’s my job.” You raised an incredulous eyebrow, and he smirked. “Consider it my apology for this morning, then.”

That left you at a real loss for words, and for the first time, you struggled to find a retort. “That’s...considerate of you, apologising on behalf of your girlfriend and all.”

“Hana’s not my girlfriend.”

You breathed a small laugh. “Soon-to-be, then. Don’t break her heart.”

Minho scoffed, bringing the book to the front desk and scrawling your name on the sign-out card. He stamped the dates, then held it out at you before glancing out the window. Dusk had fallen, the empty football field lit only by rows of flickering lampposts. “You can get home safe?”

“Screw off, Lee Minho.” You eyed him warily, shoving the book into your bag before practically running to the double doors. The strange atmosphere that had suddenly built up in the library felt terrifyingly foreign to you, and your first instinct was to be rid of it as soon as possible. In the hallway, you spotted a janitor dumping a bin into a trash bag. A familiar avalanche of pink envelopes and gifts caught your eye, and you felt a wave of humiliation. Just the memory of Minho throwing yours out—after reading it and having a good laugh, no doubt—made you want to ram your head into the lockers all over again. You’ve got no chance with him, y/n, you thought blearily. Right when you’d thought you’d finally come to terms with Minho’s brutal (albeit unintentional) rejection, here he was again: crashing back into your life like some...cat-eyed, pointy-nosed meteor.

“Oh, y/n! One more thing.”

You’d already had one foot out the front door when Minho called your name again, making you jerk your head back in surprise. Minho had his bag slung over one shoulder, a pile of books in his arms as he waved to get your attention. His smile looked almost...genuine in the warm shadows, his round glasses softening his usually sharp gaze. Despite yourself, you felt your heart skip a beat.

Then Minho made a wiping motion over his face and grinned. “You’ve got drool on your chin.”

Your face reddened, and you slammed the library door shut, earning a glare from the janitor down the hall. Smacking the heel of your palm against your forehead repeatedly, you stormed out of the school muttering curses under your breath. Typical Lee Minho.

To your surprise, you practically devoured the poems in less than a week, taken aback at how much you genuinely enjoyed them. It was the first time you didn’t find yourself cringing at romance—and sure enough, in a couple days’ time, you found yourself reluctantly standing back in front of the double doors of the school library once again.

Carefully, you craned your head to peep into the panelled window, scanning the room for Minho. As per usual, a gaggle of girls were huddled on the other side, blocking your view.

“Looking for someone?”

Flinching, you nearly tripped on Hana’s long legs as she came up beside you. Before you could respond, she fixed you with a withering look. “You’ve got some explaining to do, Little Miss Perfect.”

“I—sorry?”

The cheerleader rolled her eyes, sneering. “Don’t act all innocent with me, you sneaky b—”

Sighing, you pushed open the doors before she could finish. Hana followed you into the library, still sputtering angrily. Her hand snatched your arm, French manicure digging painfully into your cardigan.

“The Valentines,” she hissed, and it finally clicked.

She’s talking about the love letters, you realized. The ones Minho throws out every year.

Gut twisting, you looked up to see all the other girls crossing their arms and looking back at you expectantly. “None of you...got a response?” You asked incredulously, already knowing the answer. This happened every year: Expectant admirers showered Minho’s locker with gifts, Minho wouldn’t even glance at them— and then, for some reason, you were left to take the blame. A twinge of annoyance shot through your chest.

“You stole them from his locker, didn’t you?” Hana continued accusingly, pupils shaking. “You sneaky, jealous bitch— of course you did.”

He threw them all out, you wanted to scream back at her, but the words wouldn’t budge from your tongue. Somehow, saying them out loud felt like tearing off the stitches of an old wound; a painful reminder of your personal humiliating memory. And—though you hated to admit it—a small part of you still didn’t have the heart to throw Minho under the bus just yet, even after all that he’d done.

Feeling defeated, you sighed and turned towards her. “Why would I want to do that?”

Hana scoffed, tossing her chocolate curls over one shoulder. “Oh, please. We all know you’ve had a massive one-sided crush on him since ninth grade.”

A rush of heat flooded your cheeks, the other girls’ snickers at your reaction drowning out any of your protests. “That’s not—”

“Not true? Then—is it mutual?” Hana sneered mockingly. “Don’t make me laugh. He wouldn’t be caught dead with the likes of y—”

“Can I help you with anything?”

The small crowd fell silent as Minho appeared from one of the aisles, eyebrows raised slightly in his usual nonchalant manner. A chill of panic rushed down your spine, palms growing clammy with cold sweat. H-how much did he overhear? In your peripheral, Hana was practically batting her eyelashes at him, but Minho’s mild eyes were focused on yours expectantly.

“I—uh. Well,” you stammered eloquently, your entire body suddenly paralyzed. Hana’s cherry red lips were twisted in a smug smirk, clearly waiting for you to embarrass yourself. “The book,” you blurted, immediately rummaging for the poetry book in your bag and holding it out to him.

Minho took it from you, fingertips grazing yours slightly. They were surprisingly warm. “How’d you find it?”

“R-really good, actually.” Then, you hesitantly added, “I...like the way Neruda uses imagery—he’s precise without being plain, and artful without deviating too much into purple prose. I think I liked Tonight I Can Write the most— y’know, ‘Tonight I can write the saddest lines...’” You swallowed, then instantly began regretting having ever spoken. Great job, y/n, now you sound like a full-blown nerd.

But Minho nodded, his eyes gleaming. “‘I loved her, and sometimes, she loved me, too.’”

“That’s the second verse,” you muttered automatically, and his lips twitched.

“It’s one of my favourite lines.”

The other girls had begun to awkwardly shuffle out of the library, their absence easing your racing heart. With just a few mildly spoken words, you noted, Minho had managed to make you feel as though you had blocked out the rest of the world. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Hana glaring daggers at you, and the small smile dropped from your face.

“Do you need something?” Minho asked her blankly, his gaze trailing down to Hana’s hand, which was still painfully latched onto your arm. With a roll of her eyes, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the library.

As soon as she was gone, you breathed an audible sigh of relief. Minho was peeling the sticky notes off from the poetry book you’d returned, eyes still watching you intently. Giving him the side-eye, you deadpanned, “She’s pretty, you know. Maybe you should go talk to her sometime.”

There was a small smile on Minho’s lips. “Does she like Chilean poetry?”

You could only give a short—slightly too shaky for your liking—laugh in response, ruffling your own hair as you tried to calm your frazzled nerves. Don’t forget, y/n. One, that he’s out of your league. Two, how this was all his fault to begin with.

“Is that all you came here for?” Minho’s voice broke into your thoughts again, making you jump. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes. He finds this—me—amusing.

“Well…” you looked down at your feet, then grudgingly nodded at the poetry book you’d just returned. “Do you...have any other recommendations?”

Minho’s face broke into a shit-eating grin, and you bit back a groan. before your pride got the better of you and you changed your mind, he was already heading towards the back of the library, sliding books out as you struggled to keep with his pace. “First of all, Dickinson. Hit-or-miss, but you never know. Then there’s Sylvia Plath, some Emily Brontë…”

Before you knew it, you’d been whisked into a world of verse and metaphor, flying between numerous time periods and continents as you and Minho perused the shelves. Just like the time when you had accidentally fallen asleep in the library, the library seemed to grow cozier, quieter, more peaceful during moments like these, as if the entire world was holding still as you lost yourself in pages upon pages of books. Soon, you found yourself heading to the library nearly every day after school. Despite yourself, you found yourself looking forward to that sunset hour, the fleeting period where most students had left, and the entire library would glow warm as though it were blushing under the swathes of golden light. And in these same fleeting moments, you found your gaze lingering more and more on Minho—the way he would push his silver glasses on, furrowing his brow in concentration whenever he searched for a book, or run his long fingers over their worn spines whenever he was lost in thought—

“Like what you see?” With a flinch, you realised Minho had begun walking back towards you, a crooked smirk on his lips as he set a new pile of books down at the desk you were sat at.

“No!” You snapped, too quickly. “Just—spaced out for a bit. Too concentrated on the project.”

The smirk hadn’t budged from Minho’s face, and you resisted the urge to throw a copy of Emily Dickinson’s Selected Poems at his long, pointy nose. “Mm. You seem to be coming here a lot more often.”

“That’s because the due date is coming up.”

“No. I mean, you seem to be talking to me a lot more.”

You rolled your eyes, snatching a book from the top of his pile as you muttered, “Screw you, Lee Minho.”

His eyebrows shot up in wicked mischief. “You’re more than welcome to try.”

With a cry of exasperation—and surprise at having been heard—you hoisted your book bag onto the table, building a makeshift wall between the two of you.

You didn’t catch the way Minho’s laughter slowly faded as he rested his head on one hand thoughtfully, quietly watching you read. Your lips were pursed in concentration as you muttered your notes under your breath. Cute, he couldn’t help thinking.

Minho had always been good at memorizing things, but he couldn’t remember exactly when you’d begun disliking him so much. You had always intrigued him—what with the way your locker always seemed to be overflowing with books, or how you used to lend him your copy when he forgot his, back in ninth grade. That Valentine’s Day, four years ago, your name had been the only one he’d hoped to find as he rifled through the cards he’d received. But he’d come up empty, and so he’d thrown them all out. And for some reason, you’d been cold to him ever since.

Minho had assumed that you were probably annoyed with all the letters that would fall out of his locker and onto you, and so every year he tried his best to get rid of the Valentines as soon as possible. Nevertheless, you only seemed to be getting more and more annoyed with him.

And now here you were, right in front of him, four years later, and he still couldn’t bring himself to ask you why. Confrontation had never been his strong suit—his words always seemed to come out too blunt, too cold, too soon, and so he’d always avoided bringing it up with you again. Minho sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Written words—that is, books—had always been so much easier than people.

He did, however, remember when he’d started falling for you.

Tenth grade, literature studies. He’d begun arguing against your thesis during one of your presentations, and the two of you had ended up bickering the entire class—pulling out quotes from nearly every chapter of Pride and Prejudice before the class president had to intervene, and your teacher had sent you both to detention.

You had glared at him once, and he’d fallen head over heels.

These violent delights have violent ends, he’d mused in his head back then—Romeo and Juliet—and with the murderous stare Minho sometimes caught you fixing him with, he was willing to bet that you were wishing a violent end on him, too.

He couldn’t pen a love letter to save his life, either— and so, he resorted to pettily glaring at any admirer that approached your locker like Gandalf—you shall not pass—until they backed off. Minho didn’t think you would appreciate him revealing that, either. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous his actions seemed—and like a poorly written plot twist, you had ended up stumbling back into his life again. Never in his life, however, did Minho think that Pablo Neruda would become his wingman. Glancing down at his portrait on the back cover of the book, Minho could almost imagine the Chilean poet pointing his pen threateningly: “Don’t screw this up.”

“Hey, Minho?” He snapped out of his thoughts to see you waving your hand at him from the other side of your book bag. “You were right. I don’t get any of Dickinson’s poems.”

Your words took a moment to register, Minho caught off-guard by the soft golden hour light illuminating your pretty features. You waved your hand in his face again, and he blinked, breath caught in his throat. Almost tripping over his tongue, he finally quipped, “How on earth are you passing AP English?”

You glowered and smacked his shoulder, the near-silent library ringing with Minho’s laughter once again.

With a week left to the deadline, you were planted at your desk in your room, the wastebasket littered with crumpled up half-sheets of notebook paper. To your dismay, none of the words seemed to be coming out the way you wanted them to. Gnawing the back of your pencil in frustration, you dumped the contents of your book bag onto the desk, and spotted your latest library book—100 Love Sonnets, by Pablo Neruda. Inexplicably, out of all the poets Minho had introduced to you, you always found yourself coming back to him.

Flipping through the well-thumbed pages, your fingers stopped at one titled Sonnet XVII. “I love you without knowing how,” your eyes scanned the verse curiously, “or when, or from where. I love you simply…”

It was the poem Minho had quoted that evening in the library, you realized, heart skipping a beat. “...without problems or pride / I love you in this way, because I do not know any other way of loving / but this, in which there is no I or you / so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand / so intimate that when I fall asleep, your eyes close.”

With a sigh, you buried your head in your arms, lying face-down onto the desk. Maybe the reason why you instinctively disliked reading love poems so much was because of the sheer sincerity of them all. You envied their ability to put feelings into words—with unabashed, unapologetic ardour, and be celebrated for it, to boot. Eyes scanning the verses again, your mind wandered to the way Minho’s eyes had lit up as he’d explained the lines to you, his brow furrowed in focus.

At Levanter High, you had grown used to being pushed around and out of the spotlight. It was either the popular girls and their backhanded compliments, or the boys who spoke to you condescendingly just to a) get you to do their homework, or b) get in your pants. But Minho had always taken you seriously, albeit while driving you half-insane with his infuriating remarks. And as much as you hated to admit it, that same fiery look in his eyes whenever he got worked up—so different from his usual reserved facade in front of the teachers and swooning students—had always made your heart skip a beat. In tenth grade—back when he seemed to pick a fight with you nearly every English class until Bang Chan had to hold the two of you back from killing each other—you’d thought you’d successfully quashed your feelings for the mild-voiced, hazel-eyed librarian. Yet every time he spoke, he left you feeling vulnerable, disarmed, and you were back—though you refused to admit it—to square one.

“‘I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul,’” you whispered, fingers tracing the words on the paper. Feeling a sudden surge—of confidence, or simply exasperation, you weren’t sure—you seized the pen and began scribbling on a new piece of paper. For years, you’d been afraid to face your feelings, terrified of the humiliation if Hana—or anyone at school—found out. But if getting them all out in one cheesy, hot mess of a love letter could give you some closure, you thought tensely, you were more than happy to oblige. You would write it all out under the guise of a love poem, and then it would never have to see the light of day again.

Words began coming to your head like a floodgate had been thrown wide open, and you began scrawling onto the page. “‘I love you as the plant that never blooms, but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers,’” you quoted thoughtfully as you drafted your own poem. In a way, it felt cathartic—you could get all your feelings out, pass it off as an assignment, and never think about the forbidden fruit again. For all you knew, it was a win-win situation. The pen kept wobbling, ink spilling out haphazardly and skipping, but you relaxed slightly. Maybe this assignment wasn’t too bad, after all.

Head filled to the brim with poetry, you set the pen down and dozed off.

“You’re not coming to the football game?” Lia flashed puppy eyes at you, and you smacked her hand playfully, swiping a french fry from her plate.

“Lia, since when have I ever gone to one?” The two of you had dropped by the Sunshine Coffee Shoppe for a quick pick-me-up during lunch hour, but one smile from the cute waiter—Yang Jeongin, if you remembered his name correctly—had dazzled Lia into ordering an extra burger combo, complete with a plate of fries. “Sports and crowds—not my thing. And I have an English project due the next day.”

She pouted. “Oh, come on! Knowing you, you’ve probably already finished it by now.”

You grinned, thinking back to your love poem and fighting the urge to cringe. You’d read it the morning after, and it had taken every fibre in your being to hold yourself back from ripping it to shreds. Piercing, catlike eyes, you’d written in one line. Silver spectacles. Long fingers on dusty pages. Shuddering, you’d stuffed it into the Neruda book before banishing them both to your locker and going about your day. Love poems are supposed to be cheesy, y/n, suck it up. It’ll only be this one time. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone other than your teacher would ever read it.

When you dropped by the library after school, you spotted Hana’s familiar figure by one of the cubicles. As she tossed her hair over her shoulder with a laugh muted by the plexiglass windows, you saw that she was talking to a grinning Minho.

“Are you sure you’re not coming to the game on Thursday?” Hana was whining as you pushed open the doors to the library. She patted his arms playfully. “You could be on the football team if you wanted to, you know! Why don’t you try?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not that quick on my feet.”

“Well, tell you what. They’re having a party at Hyunjin’s place right after—his parents are out of town. If you don’t feel like coming to the game, at least join us at the afterparty to loosen up a little—have a little fun.” She blew him a kiss and stood, throwing her purse over her shoulder and spotting you. You instinctively froze, bracing yourself for whatever slew of insults she had for you today, but all Hana did was beam and wave at you.

As she passed you by the door, she threw you a knowing wink. “Have fun on your little study date!”

Her words made your ears grow hot again, but to your surprise, there was no trace of venom in her voice — only a lighthearted teasing, as if she had been your friend all along. Hana really did look sweet when she smiled genuinely, and you could see why she had so many people easily wrapped around her finger. Maybe people do change. Or she’s just in a good mood. Before you could shrug and turn away, you sensed Minho’s presence behind you and yelped.

He held his hands up in mock surrender, and you could swear he was suppressing a laugh. “Here to work on your project again?”

Hana’s strange exchange with you on her way out had left your mind reeling, and you scrambled to form coherent sentences. “No, I, um—I actually finished it last night. I just…” Thought I’d just drop by to say hi. But your pride turned the words to mush before they had even formed, and you ended up trailing off awkwardly.

“Really?” There was a flash of disappointment in his face, then Minho’s gaze landed on the book-borrowing register on the front desk. “Right—your book is due today. Did you want to return it?”

Your eyes widened, silently cursing at your own forgetfulness. “Um—yes,” you lied, pretending to search in your bag before giving an awkward laugh. “Yep. I think it’s in my locker—let me go get it.”

After jogging to the other side of the school, you flung open the bottom locker, making another mental note to replace your missing lock. Still catching your breath, your hand sifted through the notes and textbooks before coming up empty. Where is it? You could swear you remembered putting it there, unless—

Breath catching in your throat, you shut the locker with a mortified bang. The English classroom. You practically sprinted down the hallways, earning another dirty look from the janitor as you raced past. Bang Chan looked up in alarm when you nearly crashed into the English classroom door. The entire room was empty, save for the class president, who looked like he was helping to file the teacher’s papers.

“Where’s the fire?” He asked jokingly as your eyes frantically raked the room.

“Have you—seen a book, by any chance? 100 Love Sonnets. Pablo Neruda.”

Chan frowned. “We shelve all the books after class, and if it’s one we don’t recognize, we keep it until the students come back in the morning.” He shrugged. “I don’t remember seeing anything.”

Your heart sank, and you saw the corners of Chan’s mouth lift bemusedly.

“What’s the hurry, anyway? I thought you hated love po—”

With a groan of frustration, you left the baffled class president staring after you as you turned on your heel and back into the hallway. Your mind was racing, panic making your ears buzz. The love letter’s in there. Where the hell did I put it? You sprinted to the Sunshine Coffee Shoppe next, but only got an apologetic shrug from Jeongin even after you’d scoured every nook and cranny of the diner. The sun was already beginning to set as you trudged, defeated, back to the school. Spotting the library’s dim windows in the distance, you wrestled with your options — if it weren’t for that cursed love letter, you could’ve probably just told Minho you’d misplaced it. But now the book—along with everything you’d never dared to tell anyone, crammed onto a sheet of notebook paper—could be anywhere, and there was no way in hell you were going to stop looking until you found it. Heart heavy with dread, you did a full 180 and began walking home.

It was no use. You’d practically pulled an all-nighter tearing your room apart searching for the book— and then, the better part of the following day running around town. But no matter where you looked—the record shop, Blockbuster’s, or even the laundromat—you came up empty.

It’s like it’s disappeared entirely, you thought as the lunch ladies piled your tray with a few sad-looking burritos. The cafeteria was buzzing with teenagers jittery with caffeine and sugar, and you had to duck as a boy chucked an apple at another across the room. You passed the cheerleaders’ table, trying to avoid eye contact, but their giggly conversation carried over the chaotic commotion.

“Did you see how cute Hyunjin looked today on the field?”

“Are you sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend? Maybe Hana can talk to him for us—if he doesn’t fall for her first.” The blonde cheerleader that had spoken nudged the older girl insistently.

“Me?” There was a smile in Hana’s voice. You could feel her eyes on you as she mused, “Oh, I don’t know, Hyunjin’s not my type. I much prefer boys with—how should I put it—catlike eyes, silver spectacles, and long fingers perfect for turning dusty pages…” She clasped her hands together in mock adoration, and her friends erupted in giggles.

“What the hell was that? Sounds like a cheesy love poem.”

You had frozen stiff as soon as she had uttered the words, stunned eyes finding Hana’s only a couple feet away. She gave you a winning smile—the same one you’d deemed friendly just a couple days ago—and winked.

“Give me my book back.”

You pulled her aside after the last bell had rung, voice shaking. Hana only tilted her head innocently, eyes round as a puppy’s. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Before you could spit a biting retort back at her, the taller cheerleader tapped her chin thoughtfully with one bejewelled nail. “But I might think harder if...I got a little something in return.”

You grit your teeth. “What do you want?”

“Make your librarian boy come to Hwang Hyunjin’s party as my date,” Hana beamed, “and tell the office you want to change your locker.”

“You’re crazy,” you blurted, and her face immediately darkened. Dropping her voice, she leaned in closer, until her voice was right beside your ear.

“Oh, I can be even crazier. What would happen if I made copies of this little letter on Monday, hm? Or published it in the school paper for everyone to read? I’m sure Han Jisung would love that—”

Your eyes trailed down to the slip of paper she’d pulled out of her purse, the sight of your own familiar handwriting making panic surge through your veins like ice. Snatching it from her hand, you quickly began tearing it apart before noticing the calm smirk on Hana’s face.

“Photocopy, silly,” she giggled in a sing-song voice as you peered more closely at the shredded pieces, hands shaking. “Oh, all right, don’t cry. If you want the original so badly…” she leaned in again, cruel smile on her lips. “Then you might want to look in the library.”

Eyes widening, you immediately pushed her away and bolted for the stairs. “Don’t forget the deal! Thursday night,” Hana called after you, and you broke into a run.

Most of the classrooms were already empty, their dark windows reflecting your own face back at you as you hurtled past them. Your heart pounded in your chest as the library finally came into view at the end of the hallway, but you nearly came to a screeching halt when you saw that the lights had been turned off. Had Minho gone home early? Chewing your lip anxiously, you peered past the plexiglass. Aisles empty, books all shelved neatly, chairs stacked. The library was quiet as a tomb. Desperately, you tried the knob—and to your surprise, the door creaked open. Maybe he forgot to lock it. You had nothing to lose. Holding your breath, you slipped in.

Even the faint click of the door closing again sounded deafening. You rifled through the front desk first, dropping to a crouch as you inspected the carts and borrowing-bin. To your dismay, they were all empty—they must have all been re-shelved already. Heart sinking, you began tip-toeing through the shelves, fingers trembling as they ran over the laminated Dewey Decimal labels. Please, please, please…

You reached the poetry section at the back of the library, eyes squinting to try and read the spines of the books under shrouds of shadows. Poets— Nash. Naidu. Nemerov…

“Neruda,” you gasped, eyes falling on the book you had practically gone through hell searching for. 100 Love Sonnets. Almost sobbing in sheer relief, you reached out to grab it—just as another hand shot out from beside you. Your yelp of surprise broke the still, dim quiet, and you didn’t have to look up to know who the warm, pale fingers belonged to.

“Care to explain what you’re doing here?”

Spectacles glinting under the twilight, one hand in his pocket, nonchalant as ever, was the boy that had gotten you into this mess. Lee Minho.

As you stared back at him, mouth slightly agape, you felt as though your entire world was balancing precariously over a yawning abyss— as if one wrong move would send everything you’d spent the last two months—no, the last four years—repatching. You swallowed hard. His hand had landed a split-second later than yours, holding both you and the book in place, and you tried to ignore the feeling of his warm fingers on your chilled skin. Forcefully, you yanked the book from the shelves and out of his grasp. “The—book. I-I realised I still needed it for the project. It’s due this Friday, you know.”

He raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. “Today’s only Wednesday. Why not come back tomorrow morning?”

Shit. “I, um, promised Lia I’d go with her to the game tomorrow,” you fibbed, flipping through the book quickly, ready to grab any stray piece of paper that flew out. Nothing. “So I—need to finish the assignment today. Could you renew it for me?” Trying to plaster on an unbothered smile, you flipped through the book again. Still nothing. Had Hana lied to you?

In your peripheral, you saw Minho slowly shift his weight, crossing his arms as he mused, “Well, I’m not too sure about that. We’re getting...careful about letting students borrow books for too long. People tend to leave some...strange things in them.”

Your eyes snapped up, fingers freezing on the fluttering pages. “What—then did you—see anything? S-strange, I mean.”

A flicker of amusement passed through Minho’s eyes, and then it was gone. He cleared his throat, humming thoughtfully. “Why? Do you have something in mind?”

The strange intensity of his gaze seemed to corner you into the shadows, and you swore your heart was pounding so hard it seemed to echo through the room. “Nothing,” you stammered, throwing your hands up in exasperation, “I mean, I just—accidentally left—” Kill me now. You shook your head rapidly. “N-nevermind. I’m heading home.”

“Y/N—”

“Oh, one more thing.” You turned, remembering Hana’s sly words to you back in the stairwell. “You’re invited to Hwang Hyunjin’s party, after the game on Thursday.” Then, hoping you sounded more convincing than you felt, “Hana’s really counting on you to be her date.”

Minho chuckled. “You know I go to parties as often as you do.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no malice in his words, only that same, airy indifference Minho always carried himself with. “Please? Hana—I mean, it would make her really happy if you went.”

“Would you be happy?”

The strange question caught you off guard, making you look up again. Minho was no longer smiling. His hand was still resting lightly over the missing space the book had left on the shelf, and his expression looked strangely lost under the twilit sky.

“Would it make you happy if I went?” He repeated, and you felt your mouth go dry.

Make your librarian boy come to Hwang Hyunjin’s party, and I won’t publish your little love letter for everyone to see on Monday. You nodded firmly, laughing in an attempt to ease the strange atmosphere that had settled over the two of you once again. “Y-yeah. Ecstatic.”

You turned on your heel, breath leaving your lips in a shaky sigh. If the poem wasn’t in the book, where on earth could it be? Option one: It had fallen out somewhere along the way, and hadn’t fallen into anyone’s hands. The best case scenario. Option two: Hana had been playing with you again, and she had had the original all along. Option three…

“By the way, Hana told me not to give this to you.”

You whirled around in surprise, and your eyes landed on a horribly familiar piece of notebook paper dangling from Minho’s fingers. Option three, damn it all. Mortified, you snatched it from his hand, crumpling it into your fist as he laughed lightly.

“It’s a very good poem.”

“Shut up, Lee Minho,” you wailed, wishing the ground would just swallow you up and bury you six feet under for all of eternity. “It’s a cheesy, cliché wreck.”

He hummed in amusement. “What were you writing about?”

Paralyzed, your eyes flickered towards the window before sputtering, “The—sunset. Figurative approach, you know? Emily Dickinson-inspired—”

“Mm. Then what was that quote about—” He tilted his head in thought, fingers snapping. “Catlike eyes, silver spectacles, and long—” He stopped when you plugged your ears instinctively, eyes glowering at him in disbelief. If looks could kill, Minho was sure he’d now have died more times than the characters in a Shakespearean tragedy. “—was that about the sunset, too?”

“Of course,” you snapped, your voice a tad too pitchy for your liking. Damn Lee Minho and his knack for memorizing things. “Haven’t you ever heard of extended metaphors? Rest assured, Lee Minho—I will never, ever, ever—have feelings for you.” You crumpled the sheet of poetry into a ball as you spoke with a note of finality, jamming it into your back pocket for good riddance.

Minho looked unfazed, the light curve of a knowing smile playing on his lips. After a moment, he took a step towards you, making you stumble back in alarm. “‘You can cut all the flowers,” he mused, glancing down at the crumpled love letter, “‘but you cannot stop spring from coming.’”

“Wh-wha—”

“Neruda quote. Tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable, and I’ll stop,” he murmured, eyes growing serious for a moment before his lips twitched with mirth, “but something tells me I deserve to hear more about that sunset from your poem.”

Gulping, you felt hot tears brimming in your eyes, and suddenly wished you were anywhere but here. This confrontation had been your worst nightmare, what you had always wanted to avoid. Your pride’ll be the end of you, y/n, you remembered Lia remarking when you’d sworn up and down that your feelings for Lee Minho were a thing of the past. And it was true—your pride had always gotten the better of you. You were a hypocrite, and a terrible one at that—always telling yourself you had gotten over that stupid, ninth-grade heartbreak, before unravelling into a nervous mess whenever Minho so much as threw a glance at you. And now, you could feel everything you’d feebly repressed for the last four years caving in. Crashing down on you like an avalanche of cheap supermarket chocolates.

“It was about you. You, alright?” You hissed, voice coming out more wounded, rather than venomous like you’d intended. “There. Are you happy now?” You were glad the shadows hid the humiliated tears beginning to roll down your cheeks, and wiped at your eyes furiously. Damn it all. So much for not crying.

“Then why didn’t you—”

“Say anything?” You breathed a short laugh. “Because I didn’t want to see you just throw it out again, okay?”

The silence that met your words was deafening, and when you finally mustered the courage to lift your gaze you saw that Minho’s look of disbelief mirrored your own.

“'Again?'”

Damn Lee Minho and his two-faced ass. Had he already forgotten? “In ninth grade. I left you a—stupid love letter in your locker, with all your other Valentines. Then I s-saw you throwing them all out, behind the school.”

“But I read every name on the cards,” Minho insisted, running a hand through his tousled hair. I left you—a stupid love letter in your locker. Your words sent his head spinning, and he felt his flustered cheeks heat up as he mumbled, “I’ve never—seen yours on any of them.”

Now it was your turn to blink in confusion. Minho’s brow furrowed in vague recollection. “But I did see Hana pulling an envelope out from my locker that day. She said that—she’d heard someone had been sending chain mail on Valentine’s Day, so she was helping the principal clean them up from people’s lockers.”

Hana? Your mind flashed to the missing locks, and the cheerleader that always seemed to be hanging around your locker, and suddenly everything dawned on you. “What did the envelope look like?”

“A corner store card. With—”

“Candy hearts. Right.” You muttered, watching Minho nod slowly. Your anger faltered slightly, feeling a slight shame wash over you, but you weren’t willing to give up just yet. “That still doesn’t explain why you dump out all the gifts you get every year.”

He sighed. “Look. Why would I keep love letters from people I don’t like? That’s just...narcissistic. And I don’t...like chocolate, either,” he added as an afterthought, and you couldn’t help exhaling a short laugh at his ridiculously blunt sentence. Another silence fell between the two of you, the angry tension in the air replaced with an almost childish awkwardness.

“I really did like the poem,” Minho spoke tentatively after what felt like an eternity, and you buried your head in your hands.

“Shut up, Lee Minho, oh my g—”

“And I wouldn’t have thrown it out.” The soft edge to his voice made you stop, peeking out of your fingers to look at him questioningly.

“Why not?” You asked, swallowing hard. “You said keeping letters from someone you don’t like would be narcissistic.”

He was barely a foot away, and the sheer proximity of his face from yours made your stomach flop—with irritation or butterflies, you weren’t sure you wanted to find out. Nonetheless, a tiny voice at the back of your head told you that you were heading towards the latter.

“You know, for someone who reads so many books, you sure are dense,” Minho murmured, shaking his head.

“Wh—”

“I throw out all my Valentines every year because I never see your name on them, alright?” His expression was as careless as ever—that cool, calm facade he wore like a suit of armour—but you didn’t miss the slight tremor in his voice, the flicker of apprehension in his eyes. Lee Minho, you realized with a jolt, was nervous. “I...only ever wanted to receive one from you.”

Your eyes widened, hands lowering from your face in shock. The book tumbled from under your arm to the ground. “But—Hana always told me about how much you hated me.”

“Hmm.” He dropped down to pick it up before fixing his piercing eyes on yours. “Funny. She’s been telling me the same about you. How you’re a two-faced, back-stabbing...such-and-such,” he smiled at the indignant look on your face before his face grew serious. “You’ve always let people walk all over you, and you never retaliate. It’s both admirable and frustrating to watch.”

“I’m not good at confrontation,” you mumbled, still shifting your weight from one leg to the other nervously. “Every time I think I’ve finally got the guts to try and say something back, I...I get all terrified that the words’ll jumble up and I-I’ll start to cry like an idiot again—”

“You’re not an idiot,” he interrupted sternly, “You’re probably more clever—and genuine—than everyone in our grade combined. Your thesis was brilliant.”

You snorted incredulously. “Then why did you keep attacking it every class?”

“It was the only time I could get you to talk to me.”

“Weirdo,” you muttered, but you couldn’t find it in you to make the word sound insulting anymore. Minho chuckled, hand grazing yours as he handed the book back to you. You didn’t move your hand away, and neither did he.

“It is weird. I must be out of my mind. Whenever you look at me, it’s like the whole world stops, and suddenly every cheesy line of poetry I’ve ever read just seems to make sense.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you were more than certain Minho could hear it. The way he was looking at you was nearly overwhelming, stomach fluttering with a feeling so strange and foreign it terrified you. Never in your wildest dreams had you thought that you would be here, in this delicate, unreal moment, and you felt all your insecurities threatening to swallow you up again. Out of everyone in the school, he likes you? A voice snickered at the back of your mind. Don’t kid yourself.

Shrinking away, you mumbled, “Y-you—don’t have to say stuff like that, you know. I mean, i-if you feel bad because of the letter and everything, you don’t have to pretend you lik—”

There was a flash of an exasperated smile on Minho’s lips. Before you could finish, his hand reached to pull your chin towards him again, and suddenly his mouth was pressed flush to yours. You froze, lips parting in surprise, but the kiss was light—barely even a brush of soft skin, and bringing with it the faint scent of vanilla and old books. Minho pulled away almost as quickly as he’d pulled you in, stammering, “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

That seemed to send what was left of your hesitation crumbling into dust. You grabbed the collar of his dress shirt to pull him back in, and the library fell silent again.

Minho kissed the way he talked—soft but firm, and always leaving you struggling to catch your breath. Each touch had the growing intensity of something long overdue, starting out careful—as though you were treading over the newly shattered, four-year-old misunderstandings of one another—before your hands instinctively tangled in his hair and Minho pulled you in impossibly closer. You could feel his heartbeat pressed against yours, the crumpled poem and Neruda’s sonnets long forgotten on the carpeted ground.

The click of the library door opening sent the two of you flying apart, Minho hitting his head on the shelf with a comical thud. The kiss left you dazed and out of breath, and Minho’s face was flushed as both of you whipped around to see a livid Hana at the front of the library. Mouth opening and closing in silent fury, she shot you a death glare before storming out the door, leaving both you and Minho blinking after her.

Several moments passed, the whiplash of the unexpected interruption having sent both of your heads reeling. Then, the two of you broke into stunned laughter, slowly sliding down to the carpet as you doubled over in giggles.

When you finally stopped laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, Minho’s gaze was fixed fondly on your face. You poked his cheek. “You’re blushing, asshole.”

He didn’t respond, eyes falling to your lips again, and you felt your own face flush. “W-what?”

Minho grinned. “And you have drool on your chin again.”

“Hey, Minho! Minho, you won’t believe this!”

That enthusiastic voice belonged to none other than Han Jisung—voice of Levanter High’s morning announcements, and notorious school gossip. He hurtled down the bustling hall towards you and Minho, hunching over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“Shit, ‘sung—did you kill somebody?”

The dark-haired boy shook his head rapidly. “Did you see the school newspaper?”

Your mouth went dry, Hana’s lingering threats still ringing clear in your ears. Jisung continued excitedly, “Two people submitted anonymous love poems over the weekend—at the same time! Can you believe it? I’m supposed to cover it on the announcements in a bit!”

Two? You peered at Minho, who hadn’t looked at you, and glimpsed a knowing glint in his eyes. “W-who submitted them?”

“Well, Lee Hana was handing out copies of the first one to everyone first thing this morning. But when I showed her the other one, she refused to tell me who the first belonged to.” He pouted.

Minho looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. “Do you have a copy of the paper, ‘sung?”

The dark-haired boy grinned. “Yeah, ‘course! You guys can have mine. See ya!”

As Jisung disappeared into the crowd of students, you turned back to Minho. He had been in the middle of putting a new lock on your locker, and was now setting the combination on his own. “They’re matching,” he’d pointed out when you’d gone into town together to buy them, and you’d groaned.

“Gro-oss.” The old, PDA-hating you would have probably thrown them away on the spot, but now the sight made you smile like a dork. If you can’t beat em, join ‘em.

You looked down to read the papers Jisung had deposited into your hands. Sure enough, on the left column, you spotted a photocopy of your own love letter. But on the right, there was a completely new one—and you had a sneaking suspicion you knew who the anonymous writer was.

“You know, Minho,” you deadpanned, “I don’t think either of us are cut out to be poets.”

“I stayed up all night writing that love letter, you know!” Minho exclaimed indignantly, and you just shook your head laughing. “But you’re right. I could feel Neruda turning in his grave.”

“You’re going to be the end of me, Lee Minho.”

His face broke into a mischievous grin at that, pinning you playfully to the lockers and stealing another kiss as you yelped in surprise.

“Can it be a happy ending?”

3K notes · View notes

therenlover · 3 years

Text

Orestes Fasting and Pylades Drunk (A Young Revolutionary!Zemo x Non-Binary Reader Oneshot)

(a/n: so, in honor of barricade day, have this young revolutionary!Zemo fic, which is basically just canon Enjoltaire dynamics but with a Zemo/reader twist on it, because that dynamic is literally my whole heart. Consider this a weird twisted Les Mis au if you want to, but you don’t need to know the book or musical to enjoy this, if it can be enjoyed...)

Synopsis: Helmut recalls the story of how he came to be the ruthless man he is and, more specifically, how he came into possession of his strange purple mask.

Tags: Canon Compliant, Angst, Young!Zemo, Non-Binary!Reader, Death, Enemies to Friends With Benefits to Lovers????, Implied Sexual Content, Friendship, Pining, Revolution, Speedrunning A Slow Burn

Rating: M (+16)

Warnings: Major Character Death, Implied Sexual Content, Gun Violence, Drinking, Minor Homophobia/Transphobia (it’s one sentence near the end and it’s very vague coming from Heinrich), Swearing, Survivor’s Guilt, Really Just Death Everywhere

Word Count: 10,200~

“What’s with the mask?”

The question was innocent enough.

Sam posed it while lounging on the expensive couch of Zemo’s Riga apartment, head tilted back and eyes closed in silent contemplation.

Bucky remained silent as Zemo glanced over from his place at the counter. Outside, the sun was long gone, giving way to a stunning moonrise over the city that poured through the stained glass windows and lit up the night with its glow. It was quiet, much quieter than things usually were between the trio. Still, things being quiet didn’t mean they weren’t tense.

Clenching his teeth, he took in a long breath through his nose. “I am unsure what you mean by that, Sam,”

“The mask,” Sam pushed, “you know, the one you wore during the fight in Madripoor. What’s the deal with that?”

“Ah yes. That mask,” As if on cue, Zemo took a long swig from his glass. It burned all the way down. He didn’t speak again, though, instead choosing to let his gaze fall on the elaborate tilework above his countertops, tracing the patterns with his eyes. Anything to divert himself from the thoughts that rushed back into his mind at the thought of the knit piece of cloth that sat firmly in his inner coat pocket.

Unfortunately for him, Sam wasn’t satisfied with letting the topic fizzle out. “Come on man,” he griped, rubbing a hand over his face, “we got you out of prison, so you owe us one. In fact, you owe us a lot. So, spill. What the hell is the deal with it? Were you Sokovian batman or something?”

That urged a dry laugh from the baron’s lips as he set his crystal glass on the counter with a little more force than was necessary. “Are you always so interested in your captives’ personal lives?”

“Usually,” Bucky chimed in dryly.

“I suppose I’m outnumbered,” Zemo sighed. The bile rising in his throat was easy enough to force down as he turned himself out on his stool to face the room. It wasn’t the right time for true weakness, not yet, but he couldn’t deny that painting himself in a desirable light and offering the pair honesty might give him the upper hand. So, he folded.

Slowly he retrieved the purple mask from his coat and turned it over in his hands. It still fit after all the years it had sat gathering dust in his storage unit which was a blessing in its own right. It still served its original purpose too. That mask had seen horrors beyond imagination, had been washed clean of blood more times than could be counted. Did it hold the memories of the things it had seen within its fabrics as Zemo did in his mind? Or was it as naive as he had been at the time of its creation? He let out a bitter laugh. That was a question they would have asked him.

As he exchanged his literal mask for one entirely emotional, Zemo leaned back on his stool and managed a smile. “How educated are you on Sokovian politics?”

Sam shut his eyes again, letting his head lol back once more. “I went to public school, so I don’t think I even knew Sokovia existed until it didn’t,”

“I know enough,” Bucky added. From his place leaning against the way, ever vigilant and ready to jump into an imagined battle, he turned to face Zemo and crossed his arms. “Hydra had fingers in the government there, more so than other places. There was a big power struggle in the ’90s when the king died, right? Because people wanted democracy, and they didn’t want the little shithead prince to take over,”

“Yes,” Zemo nodded, “My cousin Emil. I’m glad you’re familiar,”

A spluttered laugh escaped Sam’s lips as he shot up. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised by this stuff anymore, but damn,”

“He and I weren’t close,” Zemo waved his hand dismissively, and yet there was a strange sadness in his eyes. It wasn’t for his cousin, though. Not in the least. “But James was correct, there were riots in the streets when the king died. They were shut down quickly by the National Guard, though, who had more than a little help from Hydra’s favorite supersoldiers once they realized just how much power the citizens held. What street were you assigned to, James?”

Bucky sucked in his cheeks, eyes falling to the floor, but before Sam could butt in and defend him he had muttered an answer. “I cleared the barricade at 18th Avenue, the second largest. Those kids fought valiantly,”

Zemo hummed lowly. “And so they did,”

“Okay, what does any of this have to do with your stupid purple mask?” Sam exclaimed.

He was sitting up fully now, face turned to where Zemo had stood from his stool and begun to round the bar. His mask still sat in a small ball on the marble. It seemed to be a member of the conversation all its own, silent and sure, drawing all three men together as it weaved a story from the past into the present with its very presence.

“That mask served me well and hid my identity when I stood against the very men that were serving my family,” Zemo muttered, letting his fingers brush the fabric gently. The names of the lost sat heavy on his very soul even if they would never pass from his lips.

Hans, Andrei, Ivan, Vladimir, Anton, Lazlo, Nicholas, little Sebastian…

Y/N.

“I was young then, too young for my own good,” he said softly, “naive and hopeful and convinced that the world was able to change for the better if I simply willed it to be… so when I discovered the connection between my family and Hydra I packed up my things, emptied my bank account, and moved into a tiny apartment with another like-minded friend, Hans Perlitch,” a soft laugh escaped him, genuine and youthful and all too honest, “We preached to the hungry masses of a world free from the thumb of the elite and all the while we would return home to a heated apartment and a stocked pantry. Still, we were well-liked and gathered a bit of a following. That was when everything changed, the early fall of 1997…”

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

“You know, for someone who claims to be as smart as you say you are, you’re quite a fool,”

The voice came from the back of the room, smoke still hanging thick in the air from the cigarettes shared by the masses of students that had packed the tiny repurposed stockroom of the bar while Helmut had given his speech for the week.

He didn’t give the interloper the dignity of his full attention as he gathered a few of his scattered notes from the table that served as his soapbox. Still, he was in a generally good mood. Almost double the usual students had shown up for the meeting and a few had even chimed in to ask questions, so he took a deep breath and resigned himself to the fact that rooting out one ignorant opposer now would mean less work in the long run. “I’ve never claimed to be smart, so I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to,”

A scoff came from the back of the room, but the person made no effort to come closer. “You can change your last name and present yourself as a member of the public all you want, but someday someone is gonna recognize that pretty face of yours, and your whole revolution is going to come crumbling to the ground,”

Now that was enough to make him pause.

“How did you-”

“How could I not?”

It was sardonic, biting and harsh in the worst of ways. Everything about the tone made Helmut’s blood boil beneath his skin. He was not one who enjoyed being threatened or outdone. Still, the play was out of his hands now, should this strange intruder choose to ruin him.

Biting his tongue, he finally turned to face them. “You have my attention, now what do you want?”

Across the room, the stranger remained unphased. They were relatively unremarkable, a bottle of cheap beer held firmly in their grip as they toasted to nothing and drank down the remaining dregs. With a smile and a chuckle, they propped their feet up on the small, round table before them. Something about that sight lit a fire in Helmut’s chest. He didn’t know who they were, or why he was there, but he was certain that he despised them already.

“I don’t want anything,” They replied, and with a certain grandness reserved for a gamin mocking the bourgeoisie, they flourished with their hands, letting their booted feet drop to the ground as they stood and bowed. “I’m just saying that if you’re trying to convince people that you’re not the missing baron while you’re pretending to be all impoverished and rallying us commoners, you might want to change more than your last name and your fashion sense,”

Helmut gritted his teeth. “So what? Did you come here just to rub my face in it, or are you going to help me make a change?”

That elicited a small snort from the stranger, but they did take the opportunity to traipse up to meet him at his table, leaning on the edge as they gazed up at him with a strange look in their eyes that he couldn’t quite identify. Their face was soft upon closer examination, alive and bright with a merriment that only came from intoxication. It made Helmut sneer involuntarily.

Licking their lips, they murmured, “Make a change? Is that what you think you’re doing?” and as they let a giggle escape their parted lips Helmut lost it.

He gasped them firmly by the front of their baggy sweater and dragged them in close. “At least I’m trying! What are you doing about it? Extorting the only person who might be able to actually make a change in this shithole of a country? That’s so much more helpful!”

Their faces were inches apart as Helmut spat his words like venom and yet the stranger never stopped smiling. It was almost dopey, the grin that made its way across their lips. Helmut couldn’t stand it.

“You know, baron,” they purred, setting down their empty bottle on the table beside them, “I like you. I might just stick around here for a little while, see what else about your little plan I can pick apart,”

Never in his life had Helmut been less thrilled for someone to join his cause.

“Why are you here anyway,” he groaned, releasing their shirt, “don’t you have something better to do with your Friday night than bother me?” and, as an extra jab, he added, “besides drinking yourself to death, of course,”

The jab didn’t land, though.

Taking it all in stride, the stranger simply grinned as if they too knew how badly they stank of cheap alcohol and was thrilled that someone had noticed. “Anton invited me. He said I should get out more, make some friends. It’s just a coincidence that I happened to recognize you while writing down an itemized list of all the things you got wrong while you grandstanded,” There was a pride in their words, a giddy energy burbling just beneath the surface of their skin, and suddenly it all made sense.

Anton was newer to their group, a poet and a free thinker, something hard to find in the slums of Novi Grad. Still, he lightened the impromptu meetings up with his smile and would often spend the hour scrawling away fervently in his notebook as he immortalized each and every word that was said “for posterity”. Helmut was sure that only someone as accepting as Anton would ever choose to spend their time with someone quite as insufferable as the person before him. Suddenly, and uncomfortably, he became aware that he didn’t even know their name.

Swallowing down a nasty barb, Helmut sighed and offered up his hand, which the stranger took after a moment of pause. “And you are?”

“Y/N,” They replied.

“Well, Y/N,” he spat their name from his mouth like a cherry pit, “I suppose I’ll have to get used to having a man like you-”

“Don’t call me that,”

Helmut cocked his head to the side. “Pardon?”

“Don’t call me a man,” Y/N replied, “and before you ask I don’t want to be called a woman either. I’m just… I’m just Y/N, at least for now I am, it’s not like I’d give a rich brat like you my legal name while we’re mixed up in all this illegal, halfway-treasonous nonsense you insist on spouting. Maybe next week I’ll be something completely different and new. Until I tell you otherwise, though, I’m just Y/N, your highness,”

“Do I dare dream that that means you might learn to respect my ideas?” Helmut sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face and choosing to ignore the sarcastic address in the hopes of letting such things fizzle and die without encouragement. Unfortunately, the goofy grin he got in return told him that was wishful thinking.

Suddenly, the door opened and Helmut jumped away from his newest tentative ally (if you could call them that) to find Hans standing in the doorway. At his side was Andrei, the third in command of their little posse and final member of the leading triumvirate. They seemed shocked at his lateness and he was quick to try to gather himself up lest they see him as undone as he had found himself while facing the smallest taste of Y/N’s antagonistic nature.

What had he even been doing when they interrupted him? It took him a moment to even gather himself together enough to remember. Scanning the room, his eyes fell on the papers

Oh yes, he had been gathering up his notes…

He was quick to finish the task as Y/N sauntered away towards the door, preparing to push past the two men who stood beyond it.

“You’re Anton’s friend, right?” Hans asked, back stiff. When Y/N nodded he did little more than give a noncommittal noise from the back of his throat. He had always been good with making things impersonal as he crunched the numbers and calculated probabilities. That was why Helmut liked him so much.

Andrei, on the other hand, provided a needed warmth to their leadership in his outreach.

He smiled warmly at Y/N and clapped a hand on their shoulder. “I hope we’ll be seeing more of you around,”

Y/N was quick to offer one of their signature grins before winking back at Helmut in a way that made his stomach turn. “Oh, you’ll be seeing plenty of me from now on,”

“We’re glad to have you,” Andrei replied as they passed.

Before they fully left, though, they turned one last time to shoot Helmut a final smile. “Till next Friday, fearless leader,”

Then, Y/N was gone, lost in the crowd of revelers beyond the small, smokey storeroom and, more importantly, beyond where Helmut’s eyes could follow. Somehow, despite everything, he missed having them there. He quickly chalked the feeling up to wanting to keep a close eye on people with the ability to thwart his best-laid plans and left it at that. Besides, he had no room in his heart for anything besides the betterment of Sokovia.

Attachments meant the possibility of other priorities, and other priorities got people killed. He couldn’t have that happening on his watch.

Thankfully, Hans snapped him out of his melancholy quickly. “Do you have everything sorted?”

Helmut gave a short nod before tapping the pile of papers against the table and setting out towards the door, abandoning his thoughts and feelings about his interaction with Y/N at the table as he exited the room and gathered himself once more into the man his friends needed him to be.

He could only hope that as long as he ignored Y/N’s jabs, they would soon grow tired and be gone within the month once they realized he was anything but afraid of their little games.

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

Much to Helmut’s abject disappointment, Y/N did not, in fact, stop showing up.

They did quite the opposite.

Instead of leaving him well enough alone, they showed up to Helmut’s meetings every single Wednesday and Friday for months, always piss drunk and happy to jeer at him from the corner, shouting their unwanted opinions and throwing off every meeting with their nonsense.

It was as if they did it just to get on his nerves, and get on his nerves they did.

As the seasons changed, from spring, to winter, to fall, and, finally, to the very beginnings of summer, so did the types of jabs Y/N decided to throw.

In the beginning it was all business, comments on the idiocy of his plans for a protest based on common police routes or mocking jokes about his unending optimism when it came to fighting the national guard on a large scale, but as things began to get more and more serious on the path towards a full-fledged revolt, they seemed to aim more and more of their vitriol towards Helmut personally.

Sometimes it was a comment on his face or voice. “Ease up pretty boy,” they’d jeer, “keep talking like that and a guardsman might just do more than knock out a few of your perfect teeth,” Other times, which Helmut found infinitely worse, they’d throw a jab at his ability to lead them to victory. “The only thing that waits for us at the end of this is a painful death, especially if you’re not joking about those fucking super soldiers they supposedly have on ice,”

The worst part was that half the time, Y/N was right.

Helmut hated to admit it but it was true. More than once he had to go back and edit his plans to take into account a valid point thrown in by Y/N that he had never even considered. Hell, if it had been anyone else picking him to nothing he would have been grateful, but it wasn’t a well-meaning contributor trying to make the world a better place, it was a drunk who seemed to have one solitary life goal: making his life as miserable as possible. Perhaps that’s why they had devolved to frantic angry fucks behind crates of wine and massive cans of chocolate spread after the worst of their arguments…

Not that Helmut cared for them.

No, he didn’t do attachments. Neither did Y/N. They hated each other, after all.

It was just a way to release their tensions at the end of stressful meetings and nothing more. They were dealing with matters of life and death after all. It was only normal to seek comfort in the warmth of a companion, if he could even call Y/N a companion.

Whether he liked it or not, though, they were they to stay, even if they rarely made themself useful to the cause.

By early June, the drunkard had become close friends with all of the remaining students that still gathered at Helmut’s location for meetings instead of ending up at the offshoots that began to form once the group got too big to pile into the storeroom. Helmut loathed thinking about it, but Y/N was probably invited to more birthdays and Saturday night get-togethers than he ever was. There was something about their smile that drew people in. It made them feel wanted, welcome. Helmut hated that he never got those smiles from Y/N, only ever the mocking, blithe kind that they handed out freely to friends and enemies alike.

He didn’t have time to think about that, though. Not with so much fast approaching as the first pears began to hang from branches down in the royal orchards, soft and ripe and ready to be harvested. Their growth marked King Hugo’s daily weakening. His death could come any day, and when it did, Helmut knew he would need to strike quickly if he truly hoped to overturn the system before the coronation of his cousin. That meant every meeting, now more frequently held throughout the week, was filled to the brim with preparations and planning.

Well, preparations and planning and a healthy dose of Y/N and Helmut yelling at each other about nonsense across the room until Anton or Laszlo stepped in to pull Y/N down into their chair once more so the meeting could resume and they could all go home before things got too late and they were questioned in the street on why they were possibly out and about at such an hour.

Things were no different on that Friday meeting on June 4th.

“Is there anyone here who isn’t already passing out pamphlets in the dorms at NVU tonight?” Helmut asked the room, scanning for a hand that didn’t belong to his least favorite member of the group. Unfortunately, none came up. “Come one now, at least one of you has to be free,”

Y/N groaned. “It’s like you don’t even see my hand waving up here, oh great one,” There they went again with the ridiculous terms of address that made Helmut’s blood sizzle in his veins. He remained composed, though. At least, as composed as he could be given the situation.

“I’m ignoring you because I remember the last time I asked your drunk ass to pass out pamphlets. What round of dominos were you on by the time I showed up to check on you, five or six?”

The scalding remark was enough to get Y/N to sheepishly lower their hand, eyes downcast. It was getting easier and easier for Helmut to manage to shut them up the more frantic meetings got, and he couldn’t say he was displeased by that fact no matter why it was the way that it was. A quiet Y/N meant less chance for mistakes which meant fewer future casualties. Fewer casualties were good, it was what he strived for.

Thankfully for Helmut, a new hand came up.

It belonged to Vladimir, the oldest of the group by a year rounding out at an even 26 years old. He was dependable, definitely the kind who could be trusted to run an errand as important as the one Helmut needed to have done. The thought that Vladimir would be the one to pick up the shipment of smuggled guns was a relief. He made as much evident while explaining their next moves.

Throughout the remainder of the meeting, though, Helmut couldn’t help but feel watched. It didn’t last long, half an hour at most. Still, there was the creeping itch on the back of his neck that told him there were eyes on him that he wasn’t aware of. Only when the group was dismissed and the feeling didn’t go away did he realize exactly who was staring at him so intently.

“I hope you know I really did intend to hand out those pamphlets,” Y/N said once they were the last one remaining, the rest of the group having trickled out to get food and drinks before heading home for the night. It wasn’t unusual for Helmut and Y/N to be the last two remaining at the end of a meeting. That didn’t mean he was happy about it though.

So, instead of offering up an acknowledgment, he busied himself with plotting out a few potential spots to barricade the roads and hunker down when things got messy in highlighter on the large, laminated map of Novi Grad that had found its home on the big front table.

Y/N didn’t let up, though. They never did. “I know you don’t believe me, why would you, but I did. I just wanted to loosen them up before I started talking about overthrowing the damn government, which is a terrible plan, by the way. Have I told you that lately?”

“Only every time you see me,” Helmut sighed.

Somehow, that made Y/N smile, soft and sarcastic and all too honest. Helmut didn’t know how they managed it. Secretly, he envied their neverending veracity. He’d never say that though. No, not while they crossed the floor and offered up a large bottle of whiskey.

“A drink, dear leader?”

“Absolutely not” He griped, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How many times do I need to remind you I don’t drink?”

“Too many,”

“For once, I agree with you,”

A laugh passed through Y/N’s plush lips and, regrettably, Helmut couldn’t help but look up at them and relish in the sight. Their hair was a bit longer than they usually grew it out, a particularly unruly piece tucked behind their ear. Helmut hated that he noticed little details like that, despised the way he had come to know the soft dip of their cupid’s bow and the warmth of their palm. It was still Y/N, after all, for better or worse. He couldn’t help but allow himself those small recognitions though. It made him feel human, or something close to it.

Still, all good things must come to an end, and they did when Y/N decided to speak again. “You know, the longer I show up for these stupid meetings, the more I think you’re actually gonna try to go up against those bastards,”

Helmut should have known the barb was coming, but perhaps his better nature, if it truly existed, prevented that. Nevertheless, he sighed into his hands as he dropped his highlighter. “If I didn’t intend to actually try to change things, why would I have spent the last year of my life living in a shitty apartment and putting up with you?”

“You’d be surprised the things people do and never finish. Not everyone is as driven as you are,” Y/N huffed. They were quick to seat themself on the table once Helmut wasn’t actively working over it, smearing the highlighter away on their corduroy pants. “Nobody would blame you if you did tap out, you know. There are plenty of ways to make a change that don’t involve trying to take down the entire local Sokovian military force until they decide to give you what you want,”

“The changes we could make without a revolt wouldn’t really be changes, they’d just be the illusion of changes. You know that as well as I do,” Helmut replied with a groan.

Two of the fingers from Y/N’s free hand, the one that wasn’t gripping their bottle like a lifeline, pointed towards the closed door behind them. “Is living under our current system and knowing they have fingers in a few less-than-savory organizations really worse than leading all of your friends to their deaths?”

That struck a nerve in Helmut’s chest.

“And who says that has to be true?”

“Come on, oh benevolent and giving baron,” Y/N’s voice was light yet pointed, like a million minuscule particles of glass flying through the air, “Do you really think we’re all gonna make it out of a fight with the big guys? And even if all of us do, can you say the same for the poor kids fighting where we aren’t?”

“I never said there would be no casualties-”

“What about Sebastian? The kid is barely 12 and I know you’re going to say that if he tries to show up, you’re gonna send him home, but I think you underestimate how many people will want even someone as young as him dead if they catch him in the street. Are you really going to let him risk his life for this? A half-assed plan for you to get revenge on your asshole relatives for making your childhood shitty?”

“You know that’s not what this is about,”

“Do I?” Y/N asked, and for just a second, no, a millisecond, Helmut wasn’t sure anymore. It was only a brief moment though, nothing more. The fact that they could make him doubt himself do deeply though… it was a problem. Calling it that was an understatement, but there was no other way to put it that truly worked.

Helmut growled lowly and nodded, pushing the doubt from his mind. He was right. He had to be right. What would he be if he was wrong? A spoiled rich boy who was leading his friends to their dooms for nothing?

No.

He had to be right, so he was. It was as simple as that.

“Is there anything else you need to critique, or can you leave me to work now?” Helmut asked. His patience had long since worn thin. That didn’t matter much to Y/N, though. They liked to wear him down thin, see just how far they could push without breaking his resolve. It was a game they were both intimately acquainted with.

They played their hand expertly. “In fact,” Y/N smiled while they spoke, another mocking little grin that made Helmut’s stomach turn in the best and worst of ways, “there is one last thing I needed to ask about,”

“I shudder to think what it might be,”

“How are you going to hide your face?”

The question caught Helmut off-guard as he leaned back on his heels, letting his forearms brace against the edge of the table, his face scrunching up in thought. “What?”

Y/N gestured absently towards his face before bringing their bottle to their lips. “I’m betting that your family will expect you to be out there whenever we actually stage our attack. If I’m right, that means the soldiers will be looking for you as their top priority, and if they find you, they’ll kill everybody around you just to get a chance to drag you back to mommy and daddy. Even if they don’t kill us on sight we’ll be charged for harboring you without turning you in to the proper authorities. So, how are you going to hide your face?”

Once again, Helmut found himself thinking that, despite their drunken stupor, Y/N might just be right, and he hated it. He hated that he hadn’t thought of it first, hated that it was a valid point, hated that he had no satisfying way to answer the question they had posed. He hated it all.

“I’ll just throw on a bandana,” He managed to grumble, and that was that.

Or, that should have been that, but Y/N scoffed at the idea, setting down their bottle and leaning in close to Helmut’s face. After a moment of contemplation, they brought their hand up to his face and let their thumb come to rest on one of his largest beauty marks, the mole that rested high on the left side of his nose. “I’m afraid that a bandana isn’t going to cover up your absolutely blinding radiance, fearless leader,” There was a softness to their voice, a gentility Helmut was unused to. It made his chest hurt. He hated that too.

“Are you going to offer a solution or are you just going to sit there telling me I’m stupid,” His words were a low groan.

Much to his surprise, though, Y/N reached into their back pocket only to pass him a crumpled purple ball. It was obviously fabric, though the outside seemed to be coated in some sort of weatherproofing, and upon closer inspection, once unraveled, two distinct eyeholes became visible.

“Is this-”

“A mask?” Y/N finished his sentence for him, “Yeah. I figured you wouldn’t think about it, so I whipped something up with some old polyester-based yarn and then I coated it so it wouldn’t be a problem if it got wet. It should still be breathable, though,”

For the first time since he’d known them, Helmut looked up at Y/N and thought that they were incredibly valuable. He still hated them, of course he did. Y/N was Y/N and he was himself and they hated each other because they were, at their basest, entirely incompatible.

At his silence, Y/N looked away, almost nervous. “I hope it’s alright,”

“It’s more than alright,” Helmut said as kindly as he could possibly manage, “I hate to say this, but owe you one,”

“Could I collect on that debt now?” Minutely, Y/N leaned closer, eyes falling to Helmut’s lips.

He swallowed thickly. “You’re drunk, Y/N,”

“I know I am. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Why would that be wonderful?”

“Because that means I won’t remember this,” And, with that, they closed the gap between the two of them and captured Helmut’s lips in his own.

Kissing Y/N wasn’t a new thing. They had kissed plenty of times during their frenzied hookups; soft kisses and hard kisses and long kisses and short kisses. Still, Helmut would never get used to the thrill of it. That was yet another thing he hated about Y/N. He could never quite get used to them. Every single interaction always felt as fresh and raw as their first.

With a fervor only he could muster, Helmut kissed back and pushed at Y/N’s hips, pressing them harder into the table below, and just as quickly as he had gained a physical mask, he had lost his emotional one.

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

In the end, that was the last time Helmut had slept with Y/N.

They had fallen together, two sweaty half-dressed bodies laid out over the laminated map of Novi Grad, and then Y/N had gathered themself up and left with little more than one last kiss pressed to Helmut’s temple. By the time he himself had gotten home to Hans, the news of King Hugo’s death was almost an hour old.

After a few phone calls to lay the final plans and keep every sect of their band of revolutionaries on the same schedules, things rolled into motion like a finely tuned machine.

On the morning of June 5th, the barricades rose and Helmut wore his mask proudly as his people fought for freedom in the streets he had walked since childhood. Y/N was beside him.

By the early hours of June 6th, they were the only barricade that remained.

Helmut should have known that once things got too challenging that the super soldiers would be released, he should have anticipated that they’d be waiting for the backlash once king Hugo passed, and yet he hadn’t. He had blindly walked into the disaster with his eyes wide open. There was no one to blame but himself.

Little Sebastian, just one month shy of 13 years old, was dead, shot at long distance when he had attempted to grab a fallen box of bullets that had toppled over the peak of the jumble of hoarded furniture and scrap metal. Anton was dead too, taken at gunpoint while he stood guard at a side street and executed with his eyes bound and a sonnet on his lips. Even Ivan, stoic and strong Ivan who bound his knuckles in boxer’s tape and sparred with Helmut when he needed to clear his head, had been caught in the initial fire and bled out over the course of the day, dying with a smile on his face as he leaned on a discarded chair.

I never said there’d be no casualties.

His own words rang in his ears, taunted him with every bullet he shot and every breath he dragged into his aching lungs. How had he ever been so naive to believe that even one life could be expendable?

The real lowest point came at almost midnight when Helmut picked up a call from a student on another barricade only to met with screaming. “Winter is coming!” They had wailed, “Winter is coming!” and then they had died, right there over speakerphone. Helmut had the good sense to hang up once it got to the worst of it, the strangled gurgled growing to be too much for the group.

As things truly settled, in those hours so early that the world still considered them night, Helmut still stood vigilant. That’s when Y/N finally approached.

They wore no smile, not like usual. Instead, their face was stoic as they came to stand beside Helmut and waited silently for a moment. He took the chance to beat them to the punch.

“You don’t have to tell me you were right. I know you were,” I hate you for it.

Y/N offered a gentle, humorless laugh. “I wouldn’t rub it in at a time like this, but yeah, I was,” I know you do. I hate myself for it too.

Slowly, Helmut brought a hand to his face, scrubbing the exhaustion away from his eyes. How had it all come to this?

“How much time do you think we have,” Y/N was speaking before he had a chance to say anything more, saving him from having to elaborate on his admission. He was grateful. Grateful to not be alone, grateful to be spared more shame, grateful to see Y/N’s gentle smile one more time. He’d never show it though. No, he was to be the fearless leader till the end.

So, he sucked in a deep breath and stared out into the starry sky. “A few hours at most. I’m surprised they haven’t made another advance after the last big push in the evening when we lost…” he swallowed thickly, “when we lost Anton,”

Licking their lips and pushing back their hair, Y/N sighed. “For what it’s worth, for a minute there I really believed you could do it,”

It was a bigger compliment than it seemed and they both knew it, but neither acknowledged it. Instead, Helmut gestured absently towards the half-full bottle of wine in Y/N’s hand. “You mind if I have a drink of that?”

A grin spread across their lips, but it was as far from mocking as was possible as they passed the bottle over.

“I never thought I’d see the day,”

Lifting the bottom of his mask to take a swig, Helmut groaned at the deep, bitter burn of it. “Don’t get used to it,” He replaced the fabric quickly before passing the bottle back.

“I’ll try not to,”

“Happy 20th, by the way,” Y/N added, “this is a hell of a way to celebrate, but it’s very you,”

Helmut froze as the realization sunk in that it was, in fact, the 6th of June, even if it had only been that way for a couple hours.

There had been a party planned. It was just an intimate thing, cake and a few card games in the afternoon with his closest friends, but that was long behind them now, forgotten in favor of the larger cause. To Y/N, though, there was never a larger cause than Helmut himself. He was realizing that slowly. In a bitter moment of realization, he laughed.

“What?”

“You weren’t invited,”

They quirked up an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“To the birthday party. I didn’t invite you,”

“Well, I’m here now, and this is a pretty good party if I do say so myself. You and me and the revolution all jam-packed together in the middle of a street. Wouldn’t it be cool if the new democracy was born on the same day you were?”

He smiled softly. “It was meant to be,”

“I got you something, you know, even though I knew I wasn’t invited to the party,” Y/N added breathlessly. “It was stupid, just some dumb sweater with a whole bunch of random ass quotes from Machiavelli all over the back, but Anton and I saw it when we visited the better side of town to hang up those fliers for the march a few weeks ago and we knew you had to have it. It’s sitting all wrapped up on my front table,”

“It’s a shame I won’t get to open it today,”

They nodded distantly. “Yeah, a real shame…”

Then, they were quiet again, staring up at the stars mere feet away from each other and yet miles apart, farther than they’d ever been.

Y/N cut through the soundless night first, but not before several silent minutes had passed, filled with only the distant chatter of their surviving friends and the gentle whistling of the breeze over the rooftops above. “When everything goes to shit… with the universe, I mean, not now. Everything’s already gone to shit now. But that notwithstanding, when the world goes kaput and the sun explodes, we’re all gonna be starstuff together, right? You and I and Sebastian and Andrei and Anton and… all of us. We’re gonna be nothing but matter and dust out there in space,”

“Is there a point to this or are you just having an existential crisis?” Helmut muttered, but there was no bite to it.

They just chuckled as their eyes scanned the sky.

“I was just thinking, if all of us are gonna be nothing more than matter and dust and star stuff, it only makes sense that someday, even if it’s a billion years from now, a little part of each of us will be together again as part of some supernova in the sky to be seen by somebody else, and, when that day comes, I think I’m gonna know, and everything is gonna be alright,”

He hummed thoughtfully, running a hand absently over the thick purple knit of his mask, relishing in the gummy softness of the coating on his bare fingertips in the cooling air. “That makes no sense,”

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

“Still, it’s a pretty thought. Anton would have liked it,”

“Yeah, he would have…”

Helmut let his eyes fall from the sky to his companion. They looked so fragile, so broken, that he could barely stand himself, because, if he hadn’t made the stupid choices to lead them here, they never would have felt that way. They’d be curled up in bed somewhere, asleep and safe, far from the cold darkness of the night at his side. It made him sick.

How could he possibly put that to words? How could he apologize for denying every nudge, every chance to turn around? He couldn’t, and it made him as bitter as the wine that Y/N sipped from absently before turning to face him once again.

“Hey, Helmut,” they whispered, and his breath caught in his throat because how dare his voice sound so sweet on their lips? How dare they keep that joy, the joy of hearing his name whispered with reverence on the early morning breeze, real and caring and perfect, away from him for so long? “Do you think I could take a chair from the barricade?”

Just as soon as it had come, the joy was gone. “Why would you need a chair?”

Y/N shrugged. “I want to go sleep,”

“Why can’t you sleep out here?”

“I don’t want to be woken up,”

“We wouldn’t wake you until the fighting was starting back up again-”

“Oh, my darling fearless leader,” their voice was empty, tinny and cold, “I don’t ever want to be woken up,”

Their words pierced Helmut straight through the heart he didn’t know he had. It made him feel so much, so many emotions he had simply not allowed himself out of a misplaced sense of self-preservation. “But we’ll need every able body ready to fight when they send in the super soldiers if we even want a chance at making it out of this,”

The smile that crossed Y/N’s lips didn’t come from a place of joy, nor did it mock Helmut for his blind and dying faith. It was simply there because they did not know how to do anything else. “There’s no making it out of this. Not for me, at least. For you, though… you still have a chance,”

Denial and anger went hand in hand as Helmut sucked his teeth, grinding his molars and letting his hand ghost over his pistol hanging at his hip.

“So you’d really rather die like a coward than take a stand against the evils in the world?” he spat, harsh and cold as the air around them. “Pathetic,”

“Don’t do this now, Helmut, not after we were finally getting somewhere. I don’t want to die with things like that,”

“I’m not the one who’s giving up,” he snapped.

He just needed… something. A reaction. A reason to keep fighting when the war was already lost. Anything. Why couldn’t Y/N light the same fire in him that they’d kindled for months? The fire that had driven him to spend sleepless nights poring over maps and plans and speeches and guns. If he just pushed a little harder, just hit the right button, they’d light it again, he just knew it.

“Please,” the word fell fragile from Y/N’s lips. Not a beg, just a soft plea.

It fell on deaf ears.

“You know what? You can take your chair!” Helmut was shouting then, loud enough that the remaining students on the barricade could hear every word. “Take your chair and leave us to fight while you die in your sleep. If we make it through the day I’ll put the bullet between your eyes myself. Now get out of here! I don’t want to see you again,” There was a cruelty to it, an edge that he thought might just push them off the edge. Still, it wasn’t cruel without reason. Helmut thought that maybe, if he was lucky enough, Y/N would simply leave.

They had no stakes in the results of the revolt, no serious lasting ties that would get them hunted down in the weeks to come if things came to a gruesome end. If he bid them to leave, to disappear from his sight, there was a chance, however small, that they would disappear into the shadows with a chance to live.

Against all odds, though, Y/N smiled one of those empty smiles again and drank down the very last of their wine.

“As your baronship commands,” they whispered, before departing to gather up a chair and disappearing into the restaurant where they had met so many times before.

Then, they were gone, and Helmut was free to sink to the ground as his heart broke and mended and broke again.

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

As expected, the super soldiers arrived only a couple of hours past Y/N’s departure.

Their arrival was silent, only marked by the slow thud of retreating national guardsmen in the distance. They weren’t needed there anymore, and the less they saw the better.

Helmut watched his friends fall one by one in the panic, the barricade falling to ruin as the soldiers- if they could even be considered that, soldier seemed a far too human term for the monstrous creatures before him- pulled it apart with their bare hands. From there it was just a game of who was caught first in the insanity that ensued.

Nicholas; caught a bullet through the neck.

Vladimir; thrown against a solid stone wall at a speed near impossible.

Lazlo; impaled on a bit of broken wood as the wood exploded.

Andrei; shot 3 times point-blank in the chest as he held the door closed to buy Hans and Helmut a little more time with a love confession for his closest companion falling from his mouth.

Hans…

Helmut didn’t know how Hans died.

He had never asked. All he knew that the shots had come as he wailed Andrei’s name, and then there was a deathly silence in the golden light of the morning sun as Helmut stood alone at the back of the storeroom, taking in the 4 walls that had held the best year of his life.

What remained now?

A failed dream? A pile of bodies? A single survivor waiting for his death?

Helmut didn’t know. He couldn’t fathom it.

The two soldiers sent to finish the job were nameless and nondescript as they slipped through the door, armed with long, silent rifles and hidden by masks not too dissimilar from Helmut’s own. They did not speak, not a word. Instead, they simply raised their guns and took aim at Helmut as he closed his eyes and thought of-

“Wait!”

The word rang out heavy and made the two executioners snap to the side.

“I’m with him! I’m with the revolution! Down with King Emil! Down with the monarchy!”

There, hidden among the crates and shelves of canned goods and glass bottles, was Y/N.

They looked objectively awful, eyes rimmed red and hair mussed up and coated with oil. Still, it was the most beautiful sight Helmut had ever seen.

It was only right that they go together.

Slowly, Y/N made their way across the room to take their place at Helmut’s side. “I know you said you never wanted to see me again, but I assume you’ll make an exception for the circumstances,”

“I never meant it,” he whispered back, and Y/N smiled, “You have to know, I never meant it,”

“Even if you did, I never would have listened-”

Suddenly, one of the soldiers spoke, taking aim straight for Helmut down the barrel of their gun.

“Quiet,”

Y/N only paused for a moment before pressing their hand into his. “Kiss me, Helmut?”

Who was he to deny them?

Pulling off his mask, he pressed his lips to theirs and clasped their hand like it was the last thing he would ever do. When he pulled away, they were smiling one of their old, mocking, joyous smiles.

“Oh, fearless leader… I win,”

The words were a whisper of air against his lips. Before he could fathom the true meaning of them the pair was peppered in a spray of gunfire as Helmut closed his eyes to the world for what should have been the final time.

When he opened them, Y/N was struck dead at his feet.

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

It was their final winning move, he later realized, the checkmate to a game of chess he never believed would end.

In the end, Y/N had been as correct as they always were.

All the same, he hated them for it.

Some nights, in the darkness of his room back at the summer estate where his father has imprisoned him until further notice, he wondered if Y/N had kissed him because they wanted to or if they had done it to get him to remove his mask long enough that the soldiers would recognize him and spare him. It wouldn’t surprise him. Y/N did have a tendency to be right about things like that.

Ghosts haunted him often.

Not full specters, he would wish for something so merciful. Instead, he saw flashes in the periphery of his vision. Outside his window, he’d hear a child’s laugher and be so sure it was Sebastian until he looked out to find that it was simply a group of the staff’s children playing ball. Or, when the assigned guardsman brought him his dinner, he would glance down the hall and be so sure that a man at the other end was Lazlo, preparing to face a board of proctors as he delivered a thesis he would never write. It never was, though. It never would be.

Worst of all, when he laid awake in his bed as the clock struck twelve, he would feel them beside him.

They had never slept together in the literal sense. Whatever they had shared (love, Helmut would come to realize after many, many years with Heike, painfully hollow without the same kind of flame. He had loved them and simply never known how to show it) was purely physical and contained within that bloody, bloody storeroom that he was sure would be torn down someday soon as they glossed over the casualties and stamped out the evidence. Still, he could feel Y/N beside him in the darkness despite the fact that they had never been there.

Their head on his chest, their body pressed flush to his side, their hot breath fanning over the fabric of his nightshirt, creating a patch of damp warmth in its wake…

It was maddening, an eternal punishment he was doomed to endure for his stupidity. Nevertheless, if he let his brain wander to a better place, a different lifetime, it was almost comforting to feel their ghost wrapped tightly to his side.

When he woke, though, the loss of the dream was more maddening than living through it.

Almost a month after the failed revolution, in the hot and heady days of early July when the wasps buzzed loud at the window and the skies were filled with thunderclouds most of the time, his father finally came to speak to him.

“I trust you spent your birthday how you wished to,” Heinrich said plainly. There was no question to it, just an empty sentiment.

Mockery wasn’t nearly as pleasant when delivered by his father and not his lover, Helmut thought distantly.

“On the contrary, I spent my birthday watching everyone I cared about die,” he snapped back.

Heinrich didn’t offer any sort of commiseration. He simply shrugged and continued on with what he was there to say, not that his son minded much. The less time he spent there the more time Helmut would have to himself, which was preferable to listening to his father’s droning.

“You’re lucky to be alive. The family is on thin ice thanks to that stunt you pulled, but with time we’re all sure that you’ll become an asset if you simply learn to use that fire for something more… productive,”

Who the ‘we’ was went unspoken. It didn’t need to be.

Helmut sighed and looked out the window at the rain falling on the garden. Nicholas would have loved the gardens at this home. He would have pressed every flower at least once in the little book he kept beside him filled with the pieces of the world that he collected as he passed through it. Where would he be kept and collected now that he was dead?

“I’ve called in a favor and enrolled you for military service. You’ll be tested to find your strengths, sent where you’re best suited, and trained from the ground up. Once we know you can be trusted, you might even lead your own squadron and make some friends more of your caliber,”

It took all Helmut’s strength to clench his teeth and hold back the rage he felt in his chest. “When do I leave?”

“As soon as you’re married,”

Married.

The word struck a bolt through the rage and dissolved it, giving way to pure shock. “What the hell do you mean?”

Crossing his arms, Heinrich took to pacing a 2-foot line back and forth in front of the door. “We’ve found a suitable match from a good standing Sokovian family, and they’re willing to look past your little misstep as long as their daughter becomes a baroness and is adequately involved in society. She’ll be here in three days time and you’ll have a week to get acquainted before the wedding,”

“I never said I was going to get married,” Helmut growled, “You can’t make me get married,”

His father stared down at him from above like he was a little boy again. “I can make you do whatever I want. Don’t think I didn’t hear about what happened with that freak they shot down at your side! No son of mine is ending up with someone like-”

In an instant, Helmut had rushed across the room and punched his father square in the jaw. As blood poured down the man’s face, a hiss escaped his son’s lips.

“Never talk about Y/N like that again,”

“So it had a name!”

That earned him another punch, but Heinrich escaped Helmut’s grip quickly, cupping a hand beneath his nose to catch the redness that poured from his face. As he retreated out the door, he turned to deliver his final verdict. “You have three days to get your act together, and maybe, just maybe, if you don’t fuck this up, I’ll let you know where they dumped all your little friends to rot,” And with that, he shut the door behind him and left Helmut to pick up the pieces of his soul.

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

The tale Zemo wove was a sad one (sans most of the details about Y/N. That was a story whose finer details he would take to his grave) and as he came to a close, the purple fabric between his fingers was a tether to reality. The coating was a bit old, thinner in places than it should have been, but it had remained steady and strong for over 20 years and he didn’t know the first place to start repairing it.

Y/N would have known, they’d been the one to do it in the first place after all, but they were long gone, not even a ghost anymore. Just a name and a face forgotten to time as all the other impoverished students were, buried in an unmarked grave in a place he never learned. It was all that remained of them. The only thing that proved they were ever there at all.

“You know the rest of the story,” he added firmly. “I married Heike, climbed the ranks of the military, had my son… and they were simply lost, an unwritten page in the history of a country that no longer exists,”

Suddenly, though, a deep voice cut in through the heavy air between them.

“Ciczheni,”

“Pardon?” Zemo asked softly, pouring himself a final tumbler of whiskey and stuffing the mask back in his pocket.

“We buried them in Ciczheni,”

He nearly dropped the bottle in his hand.

Bucky was quick to continue, voice low and eyes clouded with memory in a way that only the two of them would ever truly understand. “It’s a tiny town along the border to the Czech Republic. There’s a big open field there, or at least there was, marked with a flat grave marking it as a burial site. I don’t remember the name on it, some random pseudonym, but they’re all there, all 57 dead and buried in the ground under that rock,”

Helmut gave a stiff nod. “I see,” Then, in one long gulp, he downed the whole two fingers of whiskey straight and relished in the way it burned down his throat. When the glass was empty and set down safely on the counter again he was quick to school his expression as he turned away. “I’m afraid all that excitement has exhausted me for the day. Goodnight, gentlemen,”

He was gone down the hallway into his bedroom before the pair had a chance to say another word.

Ciczheni.

As he undressed, he smiled softly, letting a few errant tears drip down his cheeks.

They had been born and raised in that tiny farming town. Sometimes, when he had let himself listen in on their conversations with some of the other members of their small, tight group, they would talk about how much they wanted to return someday, once they’d made enough money to live on for a while if they supported themself by growing a small garden and maybe keeping some chickens. The thought, even then, had always made him smile. Just Y/N and a cottage and a chicken or two.

Sometimes, if he was especially indulgent, he would imagine himself there with them. Sharing a home.

Making a family.

His biological family, the one he had created with marriage and his own flesh and blood, was something different entirely. He had loved them. God, how he’d loved them. Still, it was never the same. He was never at peace. He was never home. There would always be a bitterness there, as bitter as the dark summer wine he’d drunk the night he’d turned 20, a resentment that came with the obligation of creating a place in his heart for them when there never should have been.

For Y/N, though...

He sighed, wrapping himself in his robe and slipping on a pair of fleece pajama pants before crawling between the sheets and laying flat on his back, eyes to the ceiling.

Things wouldn’t have been happy all the time. Hell, they probably wouldn’t have been happy even most of the time. Still, they would have been where they belonged, seated firmly at his side for the rest of their long, wonderful lives.

Ciczheni, he repeated in his mind, then the memorial for Novi Grad. It was a minor detour, adding barely 2 hours more to the whole trip when he had plenty more to spare.

Ciczheni, then Novi Grad, and then, finally, peace.

Beside him, he could feel the phantom limbs wrap around his body, resting their weight firmly on his chest where the guilt and shame and terror built by the day, and for the first time in almost a decade they were not Heike’s. Perhaps, if all went according to plan, they wouldn’t be phantom much longer.

Or, if not, he would wait. He would wait a billion years to disintegrate into stardust and spread across the cosmos in search of them.

Either way, when they were together again, he’d know.

They both would.

--------

a/n: I’m not crying, you’re crying.

TAGLIST: @tatestripedsweater , @elaineygrace , @multiyfandomgirl40 , @lovelymischief , @rami-malek-trash , @avgravy , @wh0re-4-techno , @forcebros , @sugarsweetkiss , @grandmuffinsharkbailiff , @killsandthrills , @novasstudy , @thnksfr-ptrkstmp , @inmate-marmalade , @alanathedeer , @your-pixels-are-showing , @shit-post-things , @bbarton , @sux-ubus , @halefirewarrior , @janelongxox , @rax-writes , @wondermia69 , @booklover2929 , @lol-im-done , @rorodendra , @spookycereal-s , @viviace , @wxrmh0le , @whatawildone , @mush-room-princess , @aliyahsfantasticlife , @gredvb , @chipster-21 , @whatawildone , @cloud-of-roses , @bry-97 , @mossybank , @simsiddy , @xxspqcebunsxx , @be-cautious-around-bri , @metaphorical-love-for-a-car , @frothonthedaydreams

#zemo #baron zemo #helmut zemo #baron helmut zemo #zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #baron zemo x reader #baron helmut zemo x reader #barricade day #zemo fanfic

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tomurasprincess · 4 years

Text

A Caged Dove Part 3 (Shouto Todoroki x Reader)

Summary: You are a princess from a smaller territory within the kingdom, summoned to the castle to meet with the heir of the throne in the absence of your parents. You think it will simply be a routine trip, until you realize that Prince Shouto has his own plans for you. Whether you agree with them or not.

Pairing: Prince Shouto Todoroki x Reader Rating: T+ for this chapter, but E+ for future ones. Chapter Warnings: Yandere themes, nonconsensual touching, obsession, suggestion of forced marriage, murder Series Warnings: Noncon, dubcon, breeding, forced marriage, forced pregnancy, stalking, yandere Word Count: 2.5k Note: Fairy Tale AU. (Still more Grimm than Disney). First part was my event entry into the @bnhabookclub. I have loved doing this series, and I am so glad to have such a positive response to it. Hope you guys like part 3 just as much! Thank You: To @thewheezingwyvern...woman, I continue to appreciate your help. @jojosmilktea, thank you again for making the gorgeous banner for me! I am but a humble peasant compared to your banner making, and must bow to the queen.

One || Two || Three || Four || Five (Finale)

You have run through every aspect of this escape plan so often that you feel like your head is spinning. As plans go, it is not the most detailed or the most elaborate. And the thought of escaping from the royal palace itself fills you with a terror you didn't think was possible. But there was no other option. You fear there is no help coming for you, and you have to get out before Prince Shouto forces you into a marriage that you do not want.

So you are left to do this on your own, unable to count on anyone but yourself. There has been no sign of your bodyguard or handmaiden that came with you from your estate, and nobody will tell you anything about their whereabouts, a fact that worries you greatly. You care about them both, having known them for years, but you can't let that stop you from escaping.

You go through the plan one last time as you check your bag of supplies. It contains extra clothes, food, water, and various other items that you may need to survive until you can make it to another town. You've never had to survive out in the woods before, but you'll have to make do.

Sliding open the door as quietly as you can, you look around the area. You see no one and hear nothing at all, so you step out and shut the door gently behind you. The cold air surprises you, and you find yourself shivering as you draw your cloak closer around yourself. You did not expect it to be this cold, and you hope the clothes you have packed will be enough to stay warm.

The entire area has already been examined and mapped out under the pretense of exploring what is to be your new home, so you have a general idea of which way to go even in the dark. You slowly creep down the hallway, sometimes pausing in dark alcoves here and there to listen for any incoming people. But the castle is deathly silent. This fact should make you feel relieved, but instead, you only feel deeply unsettled. There should at least be some activity going on, even if just the servants and groundskeepers. But there is not a single person anywhere to be found.

You briefly consider the possibility that your plan has been discovered. But you shake that idea from your head immediately. It would be impossible for anyone to know, and even if they did, it would only make you panic if you thought about it too hard. So you continued down the path that you had mapped over the past few days. But you stop entirely when you hear what sounds like footsteps approaching from the area you're walking towards.

Fear threatens to overtake you, but you manage to keep your calm and rush to a nearby door. You are grateful when the door opens without a sound, and you instantly shut the door as quietly behind you as you can and simply wait. The footsteps approaching get louder and louder, and you can barely stop the fear threatening to overtake you. The footsteps get closer and closer until they stop right in front of the door you went through.

You slam a hand over your mouth when you become afraid that you'll make a noise, almost too panicky to even breathe for fear that it'll be heard. Even indoors, you still find yourself struggling to keep warm while forcing yourself not to shiver and give yourself away.

The guard stands there for what feels like hours, but at best must have been a few minutes, before finally walking away down the hallway you were coming from. You slowly begin to breathe, trying to calm yourself down as best as you can before finally getting the courage to open the door.

You peek your head out as little as you possibly can to check both ways, but you hear no sounds anymore, so you step out and quietly close the door behind you again. You are almost to your destination, and so all there is for you is keep moving. So you begin to walk as fast as you possibly can without giving up on speed and quiet.

And that is when you finally saw it. It was the exit for the servants to come and go from the castle, and when you mapped out this plan, you figured that it would be so heavily guarded. And it seems like you were right. There is not a single person around, not even a single guard or servant.

Another part of the plan involves dressing down the best that you could, not wearing your noble finery. Although you could not pass for a servant, you hope that you can be mistaken as a noblewoman's handmaiden.

As you step out from the shadow of the castle, the deathly cold air hits you in the face and almost takes your breath away. There is something wrong, you think. It is even more frigid than it was when you left on what was supposed to be a balmy evening.

You realize that you can't stand here and keep worrying about it, you have to make a move for it. So you take one last look around, and seeing nothing, hurry quickly to the exit before anyone can notice you. You barely make it halfway across the courtyard to the exit when your limbs feel like they're going numb.

You glance down and see that ice has covered them, locking them into place and preventing them from moving. You let out a sharp gasp as you turn around and see your worst nightmare come true.

It is Prince Shouto himself standing there as ice runs from the ground right underneath him all the way to you. You glance down to see the ice spreading even further up your body, and you try to jerk your way out of the ice but manage to do nothing but cause a stinging pain to run up your leg. You let out a small hiss of pain as you reach down to try and yank your leg free.

"I wouldn't try to escape that ice, Princess."

You glance up at him and would recoil backward, if only you were able. The fury in his eyes is unmistakable, his body barely kept under control as you watch him physically shake from the rage that he is feeling. You notice he is dressed down in casual wear, something that they would wear to family functions and friends. But it is certainly not what a royal would wear to bed, indicating that even at this hour he was still awake. Another thought occurred to you instantly following that thought. "Did - did you know?"

He begins to saunter towards you, stalking you almost like prey. "Yes, I knew about your plan to escape almost as soon as you decided it. You are clever, Princess, but you are not up to my level. Not even close."

"Please, Prince Shouto, just let me go," you plead with him. "I won't tell anyone about this, I promise. But I don't want any of this. I just want to go home. With my parents."

At this, Prince Shouto begins to laugh, his smile turning into a twisted smirk. "Ah, but you are home already. This is even where your parents are."

"What is that supposed to mean," you snap at him, not even caring about your tone his official title anymore.

"Exactly what I said. I have your parents in the dungeon of this castle, right this minute."

You shake your head in disbelief. "You're lying. They're on a diplomatic mission."

He has made his way to you by this point, reaching up to run his cold fingertips down your jawline. "Is that what they told you? I can't imagine they would have told you the truth."

You have a sneaking suspicion of what he is about to say, and you close your eyes against the words. You try to move your legs again, but you can no longer even feel them through the numbness.

"The diplomatic meeting they went on," he leans in close to whisper in your ear, "was with me. You see, I intended to ask politely to marry you. But I also knew your parents would be stubborn. When they refused me, I had them thrown in the dungeons."

You shake your head as you try and refuse the truth of what he's saying. "I don't believe you. If you already had them, then why were they summoned?"

He grins, a sinister look crossing his face. "That's because they weren't summoned. You were."

"You mean to say that my parents were already imprisoned," your voice rises in alarm. "But you told me -- ." You think back to your first conversation with him. You remember talking about your parents, talking about them being called away due to important business. But you also remember a few other things that were said.

"You - you did mention that you summoned me," you whisper in horror, "but I didn't put any thought into it. But you also said that my parents agreed!"

"Ah, but they did agree."

"They would never agree to something like that."

His hand trails from your jawline down to your neck before putting light pressure as he squeezes. "I think you'll find most things can be agreed upon with certain - methods."

You let out a gasp at his words, the meaning painfully clear. He had your parents tortured. Your sweet, kind-hearted parents who never hurt a fly. Who only wanted to do what was best for their kingdom, their people, and their only daughter. You feel tears running down your face as it becomes harder to breathe. "Are they still alive," you whisper, needing to know the answer but afraid to ask.

"Oh, they're alive. And they'll continue to be." He takes a long pause as he runs his hand down your side. "As long as you give me what I want, princess."

You are openly sobbing now, unable to stop thinking about your poor parents. They would never wish this on you and would never have easily agreed. The things he must have done to them - your brain shuts down. You can't try to imagine details, or you will be unable to think about anything else. The thoughts will run through your mind endlessly until you go mad.

"How do I know they're still alive? And my bodyguard and handmaiden, what about them? I haven't seen them since I came to the castle."

"Oh, I can easily take you to see them with your own eyes. And as for the other two - they were executed for treason just several hours ago."

"No, no, oh god no," you feel your body begin to tremble. You can't seem to make yourself breathe at all as the walls seem to be closing in on you. The two may have been servants to your household, but they were also still friends. People who you had known for most of your life. And now they were dead? You didn't want to believe it, but you also knew Prince Shouto was not the type to lie about such a thing. If he said they were executed, then they were executed.

"WHY?" You intended to sound rational, but you instead find yourself screaming. "They had nothing to do with any of this or with my escape, they were innocent!"

"I'm aware," he simply shrugs his shoulders, as if the fact was irrelevant.

You stare at him in disbelief at the answer, unable to say anything.

"You need to know what happens when you try to go against me. You are mine, and the sooner you understand that, the less people will die because of you."

They - they died because of you? You did not want to imagine it, wanted to believe he was lying. You opened your mouth to speak, to try and deny it, but all that came out was a sob.

When you're able to speak a little, you try to ask the question running through your mind. "If I hadn't -" you pause to let out a sniffle as you try not to sob again, "would they be alive still?"

He ran his hands gently through your hair before reaching down to heat the ice holding your legs and feet in place on the ground. "Of course they'd still be alive," he whispered in your ear, "they died due to your actions."

Those words combined with your too numb legs cause you to collapse, unable to hold your weight up. He catches you easily, wrapping one arm tightly around your waist and cupping your head with the other.

He brings you up into a heated, passionate kiss and you simply allow him, too in shock to try and stop him. The kiss is rough and possessive, as if he seeks to dominate your mouth. He uses teeth to bite at your lip as one hand roams up and down your body. When he reaches down to cup your sex through your dress, you let out an involuntary gasp that allows him to deepen the kiss even further.

When he finally pulls away, you're gasping for air while he remains unphased. The only indication that the kiss has affected him at all is the hardness you feel pressed against you. But he makes no move to any further action, choosing to simply take in your red lips and flushed cheeks with a smirk.

"What is your answer, Princess?"

Your answer? In your dazed state, you almost don't remember what the question is. But then you remember, and it hits you all over again how well he has outplayed you. You have no other option but to go along with him. So that your parents are safe. There is no guarantee he won't kill them anyway, but there is a guarantee he will if you refuse him again. It is a chance you have to take.

You realize you're sobbing again as he gently shushes you, pulling you into his chest while whispering sweet nothings into your ear. As if he expects it to work. And unfortunately, it is working, as you find yourself relaxing slightly in his embrace.

"Yes," you say quietly into his chest.

"Yes, what?"

Of course he expects more, you think bitterly. How much will this man continue to take from you? He has what he wants already, and yet he seems to want more. Seems to want even your pride and dignity. Well, if that's what he wants, then he'll get it. For your parents, who have always loved you. For your bodyguard and childhood friend so that they won't have died in vain.

When you are finally able to speak, your voice comes out weightier than you expected, more confident than you truly feel. "Yes, I will marry you, Prince Shouto," you utter the dreaded words as you feel yourself being shoved further into the cage that you can't seem to escape.

~~~~

Tags: @thewheezingwyvern, @animewh0re, @shoutogepi, @dee-madwriter, @lildreamer93, @katsukisprincess, @gallickingun, @yaoyorozuwrites, @redbeanteax, @kittygonyan, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love, @daedaep69, @heyybrittannia, @mimikarasu, @groovydreamertrash, @hisoknen, @chou-maitresse, @k-atsukidayo, @togasknifes, @hoefortodo, @mhafanfics19, @oktamaki, @daringbanshee, @otaku-explosion, @hellomary16, @vanillaicebaby, @theravencawsatmidnight, @universaltys, @simixchan, @crackhead1-800, @acehyacinth, @ererokii, @la-lay

#shouto x reader #todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #yandere shouto #yandere shoto #shoto todoroki x reader #todoroki shoto x reader #yandere mha #yandere bnha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #eventual smut #shoto x reader #bnha bookclub #tw: yandere #a caged dove

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jimilter · 2 years

Note

hey, have you talked about heaven's a heartbreak away before lol? i wanna know about the hobi fic please!!

the wip challenge!

oof, i most probably have, anon! that wip's been sitting in my docs since july, last year. 😭 anyways, it looks like you only wanna know abt the hobi fic, so ima share abt that. (you can send another ask to correct me!)

this is also part of my youth series!

college!au friends to lover! au dance student hosoek | ice cream shop owner reader

The guy flashes them a proud smile and points at the backpack slinging from one of his shoulders and then at the headband on his forehead that’s barely doing its job of pushing his hair back. “We’re starting with painting the apartment today!”

Nevermind the fact that he’s wearing white. Hoseok gives the guy a double-thumbs-up. “That sounds exciting, hyung! Good luck!”

But Seokjin just swishes a hand in the air and leans an elbow on the counter next to Hoseok, leaning into the younger guy’s face with narrowed eyes. “No. You getting relationship advice from this idiot is what sounds exciting, Hobi.”

“Hey! I’m better now!” Taehyung whines in protest.

But Hoseok barely listens. Leaning away from Seokjin’s menacing smile with his own eyes wide in alarm and honest to God horror, he vigorously shakes his head. Seokjin is worse than a helicopter parent when it comes to relationships in their group. And Hoseok would kindly like to at least tell you he likes you before Seokjin goes about hounding him for details that Hoseok doesn’t even have yet, dear God!

“N–no, hyung! It was, ah… I was asking about a friend! A friend who’s mad at me! Ask him!”

He points at an unsuspecting Taehyung who freezes with chipmunk cheeks and wide eyes. “I…what? Oh! Yeah, she’s just a friend!”

Oh, no—

“She?” Seokjin cocks an eyebrow up, eyes now gleaming with evil intentions. Then he turns to Taehyung with a devious grin. “Do tell me more, Tae.”

And Taehyung, always the ultimate dongsaeng to his Jin hyung, ignores Hoseok’s non-stop shaking head and launches into an elaborately detailed account of what Hoseok just told him. That is, the entirety of the incident that went down in the ice cream shop, yesterday.

Dammit, he should’ve gone to Jimin instead! But he really recommended that Hoseok color his hair an ombre of platinum white and navy, so maybe he shouldn’t be going to Jimin for more advice.

“My, my. That is a lot you’ve been hiding from me, Hoseokie.” Seokjin’s lips pull up in a pout of disapproval.

But the way his eyes shine in pure happiness? That is what makes Hoseok and everyone else love the guy so much even though he’s a menace to tolerate.

“Well… there’s not much to tell, hyung, really…”

“It sounds like much to me,” Seokjin adds oftly, grinning at him. “If you’ve liked her for three years, what’s the hold up? Ask her out!”

“I… I don’t even know her all that much. Basically nothing besides her name and some dumb stuff…”

“Do you know her favorite ice-cream flavor? Favorite movie? Music genre? Artist? Dream vacation?”

Unable to hold back the fond smile that overtakes his face at the reminder of all the two-minutes conversations Hoseok has held with you every single day for the past three years, he ducks his head and nods. “Yes. To all of it.”

Seokjin loudly claps his hands together. “Well, then! That’s all you need to know, Hobi! What more do you wanna know? Her driving license number?”

Not that but a lot of other things, but Hoseok just rolls his eyes without protesting because Seokjin has made his point despite the exaggeration. He can always get to know whatever he wants to about you on dates, right? So why the heck isn’t he asking you out?

“Don’t think I need to tell you I’m gonna be needing every single detail at the end of every day, obviously.”

And there it is, what he was dreading. “Come on, hyung! I don’t wanna do that!”

Taehyung joins the conversation with an overzealous nod. “You did this to Jimin when he dated Jae and you broke them off!”

“What!” Seokjin gives an affronted gasp. “They broke up because Jae lied about liking guys! I didn’t break them off!”

“Wha—no! He lied about only liking guys when he also likes girls! He didn’t tell Jimin he was Bi and then Jimin saw him grabbing a girl’s ass!”

“He did what?”

“Right? Now you see why I and Hobi hyung don’t like the guy?”

“Yah! Why do you people never tell me anything!” Seokjin scowls at the two of them and Hoseok smacks a palm over his face.

“You really don’t see why, hyung?” he grumbles, finishing off the stolen smoothie and thanking God Seokjin didn’t notice.

“I can be a bit over-expressive, but I’m great at advice! Ask Tae!”

Hoseok thinks they talk way too casually about the traumatic almost-break-up Taehyung went through way too much. But Seokjin did end up being pivotal in setting things straight.

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But I will not report to you everyday, hyung!”

“We’ll see about that.” Seokjin gives him a narrow eyed glare and then finally steps away from the counter. “I’m off to the apartment, my woman’s waiting for me. You heed Tae’s advice, okay? See ya losers later!”

They both bid the older guy off with matching scowls.

lmfao, i can't wait to finish this one and get it out there!!! if you like the chaotic mess that tae and seokjin are, you can find their stories here and here, respectively, in chronological order. hope this piques your interest, anon! ❤❤❤

#c: ask #anon #hoseok #hobi #hoseok x reader #wip game; aug'22

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glowy-green-potions · 3 years

Text

So moth Griffin au thing! (I just copy and pasted what I put in the discord gdygsfhds)

So moth Griffin au time! In this au griffin becomes basically half moth, he gets moth wings moth antenna and then he acts moth-like sometimes (I will elaborate more on that later) first off I imagine griffins wings would be mainly white + a very light purple, same with his antenna. He also probably has a jacket with a poofy upper bit and a scarf to add to the fluffy moth vibe because I said so. He became like that due to a experiment with invisibility going wrong. Basically remember how the og book has blood bleaching in the process of going invisible? Well Griffin tried to do that to himself yet a moth or something fell in the formula causing him to become all mothy.

I imagine some more moth-like habits he picks up is one, loving lights and such, two he probably subconsciously chews on his clothes a lot, and three animals probably stress him out for a bit until he gets used to the moth instincts

Also I imagine his eyesight and sense of smell get worse after he becomes half moth so he has to rely on his antenna a lot.

It probably takes him a while to stop hiding in his room and actually tell anyone. I imagine maijabi is the first to find out when he sees griffin leaving his room in a panic because his cat jumped at him (in a friendly way don't worry) and his moth instincts went "oh shit predator! Run and hide" Maijabi manages to calm him down and Griffin explains what he did to himself.

Also since moths tend to like sweet things Griffin gains a love for sweet foods. Everything from more natural sweet things (fruits etc) to cakes and such, yes this does imply Doddle x Griffin.

Also I can see a scene where griffin is up on the roof of the society trying to learn how to fly and hyde sneaks up on him.

I imagine griffins sense of direction is kinda fucked when he's inside or just in a area with lots of artificial lights because moths base their sense of direction off the sun/moon

Griffin would probably get easily overwhelmed if someone touched his antennas

There is some Creature and Griffin bonding ofc because you know me, Creature gets all the friends in my aus/hj

Most of the angst I can see for this au would probably be around the fact that Griffin isn't fully human anymore and the fact that he fucked up so badly as a scientist that he became half-moth. I can also see an angsty route where maybe Moreau didn't attack the society and instead layed low eventually heard about Griffin and him being half-moth and kidnaps him.

Griffin ends up suffering at the hands of maijabi for days on end, maybe I can even have a route where he dies just as people come to save him. In the route where he doesn't die he's probably a lot more moth-like, maybe he's even mute for a while after due to Moreau punishing him for speaking? Ooooo and in this route it'll be cool for Griffin to eventually get full moth eyes.

Griffin walking into walls a lot after first becoming half moth Oh! And he also probably loves spending time in archers/birds lab because plants and flowers. Ooooo his tongue totally gains the ability to sip nectar.

Griffin getting unusually hard and dry skin after becoming half moth because moths have exoskeletons. Oooo that gives me an idea (tw for body horror? Just to be safe) so griffin after a while of being half moth starts to feel some itching around his wings and hands and such. Eventually during the night he wakes up to the itching increased a lot. He starts scratching at his hands and back and watches as his skin sheds off. It's a long and painful process but eventually it's over. This happens around every two months from that point on.

That's all!<3 please send any thoughts you have about this to me. (I'm desperate for asks-)

#sage speaks #sage's aus #the glass scientists

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feanorianethicsdepartment · 3 years

Text

the conclusion to the fëanorian tauriel saga! this one’s mostly about the state of affairs after she gets adopted into everyone’s favourite family of murderers, plus a couple of extra bits and bobs. there’s some more stuff i’d like to put down somewhere - a deleted scene, a minific - but this is mostly the end of my headcanons for this particular au. so far, anyway. part 1 part 2 part 3

mandos may have, in the past, given off the impression that fëanor would remain within the halls until dagor dagorath

that statement was always a bit of a conflation of terms. like everybody else in the halls, fëanor would get a clean pass for reinbodiment as and when he attended elf afterlife therapy and got a handle on his shit. it’s just nobody thought he would ever do that

but he has done that, and more besides. he’s honestly been clear to go for a while now, he just refused to leave until his sons were ready

and since then... mandos will admit to certain political pressures exerted towards keeping fëanor under lock and key

but over time, those pressures slowly yield to the fact that mandos absolutely cannot deal with this lunatic for the rest of arda

death has not put a damper on fëanor’s unstoppability. he was preoccupied for a long while with the damage done to his sons but with them all out he had a conspicious lack of things to Do

and a bored fëanor is a dangerous fëanor

so yeah. fëanor is less released from the halls of mandos as he is unceremoniously kicked out. mandos refuses to talk about it. the maiar of the halls throw a massive party

this all happens on extremely short notice. as in, manwë announces his release like half a day before it happens

this of course throws his extended family (and a decent proportion of the rest of the continent) into this massive frenzied whirlwind of panic. everybody thought they’d get more warning than this, and nobody knows what’s going to happen next

at the epicentre of this maelstrom is the elf himself. fëanor doesn’t know either, he’s still trying to catch up on everyone he left behind and everything that’s gone down since he died. so much has changed, and he’s still stumbling groggily in the darkness

at some point between his long-practiced apology to finarfin and the maglor encounter everyone’s been dreading, though, he makes an unexpected discovery

he has a daughter now. apparently

her name’s tauriel, she smells like woodsmoke. he first meets her when she wanders into the living room, blinks blearily for a couple of seconds, goes ‘hi dad!’ and immediately falls asleep on his lap

and it’s not like he’s not incredibly stoked to have another child, it’s just how???

the first time he asks this question, the motley collection of relatives and old friends he’s talking to all come to the same conclusion

they can either (a) walk him through the history of tauriel’s growing friendship with and eventual adoption into the least reputable branch of the house of finwë or (b) dump the latest copy of the grand unified tauriel conspiracy theory on him with absolutely no context

considering they’re the hellfamily and friends, they go for the chaos option

it takes fëanor, like, two days to read it. the thing was ridiculously elaborate even before people started competing to come up with the craziest possible theories

the people around him keep the ruse going as long as they can stretch it. eventually celebrimbor takes pity on him, and legolas fills in the details

(legolas currently occupies a position in the fëanorian internal hierarchy not dissimilar to fingon’s. he has no idea how to interpret that)

fëanor also just. talks to tauriel. about how she came, and why she stayed

the next day, fëanor loudly announces to the entirety of tirion that he has a new daughter, her name is tauriel and she’s amazing

she’s been a de facto part of the house for years but this is the first official confirmation of it. the news, and the gossip, spreads all over aman

not that this marks a massive turning point for tauriel. even without a big announcement, she made which side she was on pretty clear back when shit went down

and honestly her life hasn’t changed that much since then. she still spends most of her time exploring noldorin country or chilling in the forest with her silvan friends

this isn’t too uncommon a situation for a member of the house of fëanor. they usually do their own thing, whatever that may be. even nerdanel abandons her house every so often to spend a year or two in the mountains

even in tirion, it’s not that different. she still crashes in the same place, hangs with the same people

she just also occasionally does stuff for :mobster voice: the family

she’s part of the second generation’s extremely overprotective mutual defence web. she has a few responsibilities vis-a-vis the definitely-not-minions. she’s not quite as magnetic as her older brothers, but she’s charismatic enough people tend to both legitimately like and let their guard down around her

she goes to court events sometimes, if she’s in town and in the mood. she’s not virulently allergic to it like celegorm but she doesn’t thrive there the way elrond does. she prefers lower-city forge parties. way more booze, way less bling

(the greenwood elves have stopped needing to bring her along to every political meeting for quote-unquote moral support. everyone knows who she rides with now, and the court bureaucrats tend to give her people whatever they want without the need for extortion)

she’s not the rowdiest of fëanor and nerdanel’s brood, but that’s really not saying much. she’s kicked off the last vestiges of social respectably and indulges fully in her family’s ability to do whatever they want, whenever they want, because who’s seriously going to tell a kinslayer they can’t do something?

a decent proportion of the population of tirion, it turns out. eh, the arguments are always fun

that’s the state of tauriel’s life when fëanor comes back. afterwards - like i said, it doesn’t change terribly much, fëanor rocking valinor to its core notwithstanding

he is massively, intensely supportive of everything she does. she knows that it’s partially that this family is just Like That, but she also gets the vibe he’s overinvesting a little? she’s the only one of his children who doesn’t have a reason to hate him

but they get along fine. he’s had a lot of practice at being a dad, and is trying to improve on his personal faults. his relationship with her is blissfully uncomplicated compared to the mess most of his pre-death bonds are, and while she’ll protect her brothers from him if need be she’ll protect him too when the world is out to get him

there’s this moment at one of those fancy court galas. tauriel’s chatting with some sindarin visitors when something explodes a few rooms away

almost immediately, she locks gazes with curufin, who’s peoplewatching some distance away. they have a conversation conducted entirely in eyeflicks that could be summarised as ‘did he just...’ ‘alas he probably did’

they stride out of the hall together to rescue their idiot dad from the consequences of his terrible decisions

that’s another subtlety to the way the fëanorians work, tauriel is discovering. the siblings hellspawn may be a constant fight cloud of bickering nutbags (with the obvious exception of herself) but they all always out-sane their dad

she keeps learning things like this as the years roll on and her families get closer. she finds silvans having tea with nerdanel, tirion craftselves looking for her in the woods. across both of her worlds, she’s building a posse

(just like her brothers did, long long ago under the light of the trees. when next the host rides to war, there will be those who follow tauriel’s banner)

even legolas has mostly gotten over it. their initial friendship, after all, was founded on them both being chaos children. tauriel is one in a way they called silvan in greenwood and noldorin in aman, fully conscious that the powers that be disapprove of her shenanigans and deliberately and vindictively defying them

legolas’ style is more sindarin, vaguely aware that the rules exist but doesn’t really understand how they apply to him. he did sneak a dwarf up the straight road, after all. him and tauriel got up to so much nonsense when they were kids, and no matter who else she runs with, he’ll always be her best friend

he’ll never be fully comfortable with the literal childhood horror stories she’s taken up with, but for her sake he’s willing to try. they might be scary, but, he’s realising, they can be fun too

(even if he does spend most of their family gatherings hiding behind elrond)

and then, one day...

tauriel doesn’t exactly pine for kíli, but she does kind of regret how it all turned out. she wonders what being in a relationship with him would have been like, sometimes

but he’s a dwarf, and she’s an elf, and she can’t leave the undying lands, and dwarves aren’t supposed to come here. they are sundered until the breaking of the world

when she tells this to fëanor, this massive smug grin spreads across his face. ‘unless’

three hours later, they’ve turned fëanor’s front room into a base of operations. maedhros is on project management, caranthir is on logistics, amras is going down a list of maiar they can strongarm. celebrimbor stops by, looks at the plans on the walls, and, somewhat excitedly, goes ‘are we breaking into the dwarven afterlife???’

yes. yes they are

epilogue:

when the end comes and all elves return to cuivénen, certain people tauriel knew back in middle-earth discover what she’s been doing for the past few ages

they get the full skinny later, after they talk to her and stuff, but the first whisper they hear is ‘tauriel’s been taken in by the fëanorians’

reactions vary. tauriel’s mama, who doesn’t recognise the name, goes ‘the spirits of fire? that’s sounds so much like her, i’m so happy she’s made friends’

tauriel’s mummy, who does recognise the name, is laughing too hard to speak

and thranduil cradles his head in his hands. ‘of course’ he mutters ‘of course she fucking did’

#silmarillion #tauriel #house of feanor #the feanorian tauriel saga #my terrible fic #wow this ended up way longer than i expected #sorry if it's rambly i stayed up kinda late #and yeah! that's my headcanons for this au!#like i said there's a couple more things i wanna write #and once i'm done i'll probably put it all up on ao3 #with edits (read: capitalisation)

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deathwishy · 4 years

Text

×MARTIAN AU×

It was April 1st and, according to plan, every hero from the Young Justice was present. Perfect.

It was hard, but Marinette and Tim managed to bring everyone together for the biggest prank in Young Justice history. Of course, their team mates didn't know that. Except Miss Martian. She found out by accident and they had to take her in, but it turned out to be the best decision ever.

It all began with a ghost story two months prior. They were already planning and Miss Martian was just brought in. They decided that it was the perfect moment to plant the seed of fear and doubt in their hearts.

It started out as an innocent game night. Most of their team was present except for Kaldur, Artemis, Wally and Bart. With conspiratorial looks, M'gann suggested watching a horror movie, saying that she didn't see one yet. The team agreed, suggesting a modern one with good graphics, as a good introduction to the genre. After the movie came to an end, M'gann snorted loudly, instantly attracting the attention of the team, without looking like it was her intention.

"What's the matter?" Asked Dick, grabbing the remote and stopping the movie at the credits. M'gann blushed.

"It's nothing, it's just... We had nursery rhymes scarier than this."

"Oh?" Demanded Superboy. "Do tell."

Tim and Marinette locked gazes when no one was looking and grinned maniacally.

"Well, there is a legend, which my brother told me, that kept me awake for months. The story itself is not that scary but the concept and the fact that it turned out to be real did a number on me."

And so the story began. It was a genuine Martian story but it was not real, as M'gann was claiming. It was about a being called a Raggan'aaz. A shadow being that walked Mars long before the Martians and dwelled in the caverns deep below the surface. They lived for long and wouldn't die of natural causes, only if killed. When the White and Green Martians came around, they were hunt down, but a few still remained. After that,hey craved Martian blood but they were also very careful and patient. After all, they wouldn't die because of old age. As years passed, they became a myth but still very alive in Martian culture. They even had a rhyme to remind the children to stay out of their supposed caverns, where people would still disappear. 'Stay, my child, away from dark/ Or The Martian will claim his mark/ Stay away from places long forbidden/ And beware the red eyes in darkness hidden.'

"Wait, you called him The Martian?" Asked Superboy, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, they were supposed to be the first Martians. And so the title of The Martians came to the beasts. This is a translation from my language, Raggan'aaz is the original term. Now let me finish."

Raggan'aaz were predators. It was said that they would stalk their prey for weeks, months, some said even years, before engaging. The prey would even go insane by the time they were killed, drove into madness by the beasts whispers and taunts. They wanted to imbue the flesh of their victim with the taste of fear. Of terror. Once they had a target in mind, they would not let go until it was dead.

"It's not that scary." Dick said, grinning and crossing his arms.

"Maybe not for you, but our people tend to beware when they see red in the darkness, shadows with the corners of their eyes or hear whispers without anybody nearby."

"Maybe people were just going insane."

"Maybe." M'gann shrugged and stood up. "I'll go to sleep now, good night."

The team felt just a tad bit uneasy but they blamed that on the movie. They didn't know that it was Miss Martian, suggesting a little fear on the psychic link. Nothing serious. The three weren't planning on permanently scaring their team.

Since then, Marinette told Trixx, who was extatic, to create illusions around the base. They kept them out of missions, they didn't want to create real problems. The tamer were nothing much, a shadow, a pair of glowing red eyes that were visible just for a second here and there, the more unsettling ones were a few babbling but ominous sounding whispers in the halls at night. M'gann made sure to get each member alone when Trixx made the illusions, guiding the kwami while invisible. When Kaldur, Artemis, Bart and Wally mentioned these things, the tension in the team only grew tighter. By the time April 1st came around, the Young Justice believed that they were hunt down by a Raggan'aaz.

...

"I think it's bullshit. Everything began after M'gann told you that goddamn story." Started Bart a month later, looking around.

"Look, it's nothing, maybe the story was a bit more unsettling than we thought it was. Now we are just seeing things that are not there." Dick countered, waving around a cookie.

"Maybe she's pranking us." Pointed Artemis, plopping on the sofa. Wally followed her, snuggling next to her.

"Yeah, no, she's cool and all but she's not a prankster." Said Wally dismissively.

Tim and Marinette were watching from the side, trying not to laugh. It was a stupid prank but that's why it would work. But they would need a fourth player. Someone that would be trusted about Martian information and that was usually serious enough to be believed about serious stuff. They needed J'onn J'onzz.

The three cornered him when he visited the base a few days later, away from the rest.

"We need your help." M'gann began, flashing a smile. After a few seconds J'onn frowned slightly. M'gann only smiled wider.

"It's one of the most ridiculous plans I've ever heard. How did three of the smartest heroes in here come up with it? And why?" Now M'gann was listening too. She got on board but didn't know why they wanted this.

"We need to get back at them from what they did six months ago."

"When they threw us in a panic room and didn't let us out until we confessed our feelings for each other." Tim smiled at Marinette, taking her in a side hug and kissing her on the head. She blushed a little and just snugged closer.

"It worked out for us, in the end, but we can't let that slide. This is war."

"And yes, it is a stupid plan and a very stupid prank but that's why it will work."

"They will expect something elaborate from us, so this is the way to go. They will not know what hit them."

J'onn considered for a few seconds. That may work. He wouldn't usually partake in such a childish endeavor but he was curious about the outcome. The Raggan'aaz were mere folklore but they were terrifying, especially for Martian children. Human children may be just the same.

"Very well. I am curious about the outcome. What do you need me to do?"

The fearsome trio smirked. This would be epic.

After they briefed J'onn and set the date, a week from then, and dispersed. Tim couldn't believe that they convinced J'onn to do it, Marinette was thrilled about it and M'gann was giggling like an idiot.

A week later, J'onn J'onzz stumbled from the zeta tube, disheveled and clearly unsettled but otherwise not obviously harmed. He was clutching his side and he was limping but that was it.

"What the hell happened?" Dick was the first one to get to J'onn, helping him on a chair.

"I... Am not quite sure myself." He turned his eyes to M'gann, who was checking him for injures, playing her role flawlessly. "If I didn't know better I would have said it was a Raggan'aaz."

Bart dropped his phone, Kaldur and Artemis flinched, Superboy whipped his head around, until then being in a conversation with Dick, who looked queasy. The rest of the team had varying reactions.

"Bullshit." Blurted Artemis.

"It's real?!" Screamed Marinette, looking at M'gann, who was now becoming more pale by the second. With a little help from her powers.

"I told you it was real!"

"We thought it was just a crazy legend! What the hell?" Screamed Wally pulling at his hair.

The team was now full in full hysterics.

"I think you summoned it." Said Garfield in a matter of factly tone.

"What is that?" Asked J'onn with a neutral tone, but with a hint of concern. He was good.

"The Martian, Raggan'aaz, he's been prowling around this place for weeks. I didn't actually think it was one of the beasts, I told the team the story just because I saw some things that reminded me of them and thought it would be funny. It didn't pass my mind that an actual Raggan'aaz would be on earth. I think he was looking for you. How did you even escape him?" Asked M'gann, now breathing hard.

That was something that they came up with a few days ago, when they were brainstorming ideas to make the story more believable. J'onn approved when they talked after, seemingly stoic as ever, but M'gann told them that he will be definitely laughing after the call ended.

"I don't think I was his actual prey, otherwise I wouldn't have had a chance. I think is someone else, but I wouldn't be surprised if he tried a second time."

"We have to tell the Justice League, this is bad." Now Nightwing looked alarmed.

"Calm down. We are not 100% sure this is a Raggan'aaz. Maybe M'gann's story is getting to your heads. My encounter may have been a misunderstanding, it would not be the first time another Martian impersonated a Raggan'aaz. I will investigate the situation but I advise you to be vigilant."

That seemed to calm the team down, if only for a bit. Tim was hugging Marinette, his face hidden in her hair to hide his smile. He could feel her smile too in his chest. M'gann was keeping it together very well, talking with J'onn in hushed tones as she led him to the zeta tubes. Tim was now looking at Superboy, who looked uneasy. He was listening. Good. Let him fan the flames. The asshole was the one to throw them in the panic room.

April 1st, The Young Justice Base of Operation

The team was tense and paranoid but not very much above the normal level. All the heroes were tense and paranoid most of the time.

There have been no sightings of the Raggan'aaz since J'onn has been 'attacked' but no one feels out of the hook yet. They have been questioning M'gann relentlessly but she quite enjoyed sharing bits of her culture, all real facts that could be woven easily into the lie but would stand on their own when the prank was done. She liked her small victories.

As they planned, the team was afraid but not so afraid that it would start affecting them or that they would feel the need to further consult with the League about it. Martian Manhunter knew so the others must know too, or so the youngsters assumed.

In the morning something could be felt in the air, besides the smell of pancakes. It was a bit of Trixx's and Plagg's magic, a bit of mischief sprinkled in the air.

Tim, M'gann and Marinette were in the kitchen that morning, nothing unusual. Marinette and M'gann were making pancakes and Tim was drinking his much needed coffee. He had to be wide awake. They already bugged the whole base but nothing can beat the real thing.

As the team was lured into the kitchen, the Raggan'aaz made his appearance.

"I'm smelling Dupain-Cheng pancakes. This is the best 'Welcome back after 6 months in space' gift I could have hoped for." Adrien was practically skipping in the kitchen, stealing one of the plates. He then drowned them in syrup and whipping cream.

"Jesus Christ Adrien, stop, you'll get sick."

"Worth it."

"You came back a week ago. I've made pancakes then."

"Did you hear what I said? 6 months. I'm planning on making up for the lost time."

"I'm heading for the gym. Feel free to join me." Tim said, kissing Marinette. She giggled and winked.

The others either cooed or made gagging sounds. Adrien was grinning. He was the main Timari shipper. A few seconds after Tim left, there was screaming in the hall. Perfect timing.

When they saw the scene in the hall, the team freezed. There, before Tim, was something resembling a White Martian, but only in form. His skin was a dark red riddled with black veins, long white claws, a mouth full of gleaming yellow teeth and red eyes that looked like they could set you on fire. The beast almost reached 10 feet, but hen it went on all fours. Trixx had really outdone herself. Tim had his Bo staff out but kept his distance. After all, the illusion would fall as soon as they touched him so they had to make the most of it.

"What the hell is that?!" Screamed Adrien calling for his transformation. Nobody saw Plagg's grin.

"Raggan'aaz." Said Nightwing, pulling out his escrima sticks. They cracked with electricity. He looked ready to puke.

Artemis was swearing along with Wally, Kaldur looked like he might run, Garfield turned into a rhyno, looking terrified but ready to punce.

The beast groweled something that made M'gann gasp.

"He said that his mark is on all of us. We are his prey."

It was all they needed to attack. The speedsters tried to get to him first but the thing was just as fast, if not faster. After all, it didn't obey any laws of physics, it was just an illusion. Marinette was already transformed but she, M'gann and Tim were sitting on the sides looking like they were waiting for an opening. When it almost got cornered the Raggan'aaz jumped on the ceiling and then out of the room. With a battle cry, the team followed it. The three stayed behind, not trusting themselves to not laugh. There were a lot of screams and thuds but after a few minutes it went quiet.

When the young heroes strolled in, with the most betrayed faces they have ever seen, the three burst out laughing. They couldn't even speak for a few minutes.

"Was any of it true?" Asked Nightwing with his 'dissapointed big brother' face™.

"Only the story." Said M'gann gasping for air.

"How did you get J'onn on it?"

"Pretty easy actually, he didn't have that much to do so he agreed. It helps to be among his favorites." Replied Tim grinning. He was still clinging to a giggling Marinette.

"Why?" Asked Adrien with a pained look on his face.

" Panic room." The couple said at the same time.

"But that worked out!" Adrien shouted indignated.

"It did, but this was war. We needed to retaliate."

The Justice League heard about the war from J'onn after it was done and they thoroughly enjoyed the clips Tim sent them. They unanimously decided to not cross Tim and Marinette. The two could conquer the world if they weren't so sleep deprived.

Ok, so this was written at 3 AM and there might be some inconsistencies but please enjoy my best shot at this prompt.

This is set after season 2 of Young Justice and before season 3 but Wally is still alive because he never died in my heart.

This came later than I would've liked but civilian lives are a pain.

@timari-month-event

#maribat #mlb x dc #timari january #timari #maribat january

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ghosthunthq · 3 years

Text

BFU: “The Mysterious Death of Dr. Eugene Davis”

Buzzfeed Unsolved True Crime

“The Mysterious Death of Dr. Eugene Davis”

Aeternus.Flamma

000

Prompt: ghost hunt but make it buzzfeed unsolved!AU (it can be with or without Gene being alive) i think that would be entertaining Submitted by Anonymous

000

[Intro music plays]

RYAN: [Narration] Today on Buzzfeed Unsolved, we discuss the mysterious death of Dr. Eugene Davis.

SHANE: Eugene?

RYAN: Yeah, Eugene.

SHANE: I only know, like, one other Eugene. When was this?

RYAN: Like, recent. If you’d let me get through the intro…

SHANE: Fine, fine. Go on.

RYAN: As I was saying, today we discuss the mysterious death of Dr. Eugene Davis, one of the most renowned mediums of our time.

SHANE: Medium. Right.

RYAN: Yes, medium. Dr. Davis, known as Gene to his family, has been called the perfect medium–no other person has thus far been able to so accurately communicate with other spirits. Not only could he channel on near demand, but he also showed, on numerous occasions, speaking fluently in languages he did not know.

SHANE: Oh, sure. Like that can’t be faked. This bullshit has been literally faked for hundreds of years. Picking up a few lines in French isn’t exactly convincing. I’ve said it before. All psychics are bullshit.

RYAN: Yeah, fine, maybe not. But how about entire conversations with loved ones in Russian? Or Arabic? Can–can you do that?

SHANE: Just cause–okay, well, you can learn languages. There are people out there who have learned dozens of languages over their life–

RYAN: Did I mention he was sixteen?

SHANE: …

RYAN: Yeah, think about that a bit more. He’s seventeen and apparently he fluently speaks, uh, Japanese, Mandarin, Korean… English, French, Spanish, Italian, Portugese, Russian, Arabic… Like, people have tried to disprove this kid and–

SHANE: Wait you, said Dr. Eugene Davis.

RYAN: Yeah–

SHANE: Doctor?

RYAN: We’ll get to that.

SHANE: Yeah. Okay. I call bullshit now. This is already ridiculous.

RYAN: It gets weirder.

SHANE: Of course it does.

RYAN: [Narration] Dr. Davis’s sad story starts when he was a child, found in an American orphanage by famous parapsychologists, Martin and Luella Davis. The Davises adopted Gene and his brother, despite them showing know signs of speaking English.

SHANE: Martin and Luella didn’t speak English??

RYAN: No, Gene and his brother. They only spoke Japanese to one another.

SHANE: … They only spoke Japanese?

RYAN: Well, yeah, they’re Japanese, or, their parents were.

SHANE: You–uh–so he’s a psychic, Japanese child found in an American orphanage?

RYAN: Yeah. And he’s adopted by a British couple.

SHANE: Oh, they’re British?

RYAN: Yeah, they’re, like, the British version of the Warren’s–don’t roll your eyes.

SHANE: I thought this wasn’t the ghost season.

RYAN: It’s not–well, yeah, it’s not.

SHANE: There are ghosts involved, aren’t there?

RYAN: …

SHANE: This is great.

RYAN: [Narration] Gene and his brother Oliver, and no, those weren’t their birth names, but I couldn’t find those, were adopted by the parapsychologists and moved to the UK. From a young age, the brothers showed signs of having unique abilities.

SHANE: Both of them? The brother too?

RYAN: Uh, yeah. Oliver Davis, also a doctor by the way, has given demonstrations using psychokinesis, or PK. Telekinesis basically. Move shit with his mind.

SHANE: Interesting… And how old is he?

RYAN: They’re twins.

SHANE: Tw–twins! You’re kidding me!

RYAN: No, no that’s for real.

SHANE: So, you have two creepy children, freaking twins, in an orphanage, and they’re apparently psychic? This isn’t real life. This is a plot to a B movie.

RYAN: I don’t know what to tell you. I can show you the videos.

SHANE: Shopped.

RYAN: There’s–there’s a death certificate–

SHANE: I’m not saying this kid didn’t die, I’m saying that this is a hot, steaming pile of–

RYAN: Alright, alright, I get it. Let me get to his death.

SHANE: Fine.

RYAN: After jointly publishing a dissertation and receiving their honorary doctorates, Gene and his brother were accepted to Cambridge University. Before starting his study, Gene decided to travel to Japan, though accounts as to why he did so vary. What may have been a pilgrimage to visit distant relatives unfortunately turned disastrous as Gene disappeared.

SHANE: Was he traveling alone?

RYAN: Yes.

SHANE: Who lets a sixteen year old travel alone, especially overseas?

RYAN: Okay, well, one, if you’re going to do it, Japan’s the one place to do it, it’s pretty safe. Two, he had contacts he was visiting. It wasn’t like he was just wandering around completely alone, he just didn’t have the same person traveling with him the whole time. They have records of him, you know, like visiting schools, meeting with colleagues and stuff. He was apparently very personable and made friends easily.

SHANE: Yeah, well, that’s how people get killed. And based on how this is going–well there you go.

RYAN: [Narration] Gene Davis was last seen leaving the home of a friend one night. He left on foot, intending to walk back to the ryokan that he was staying at in the area. However, he never made it to his destination. Despite police being called very quickly, it would take months before his body was recovered.

SHANE: Okay, I guess I take it back. He at least had friends who called the cops, when, what, he didn’t text them back?

RYAN: Actually…

SHANE: Oh they didn’t? Okay, nevermind. Suspicious.

RYAN: So, his brother was the one who called the cops.

SHANE: His brother? But he didn’t go to Japan.

RYAN: No, he didn’t.

SHANE: ….

RYAN: [Narration] Though he couldn’t say how he knew to call the cops, Gene’s brother, Oliver, called anyhow and insisted that they do a check on his brother at the ryokan. When they arrived, the proprietors confirmed that they hadn’t seen the teen. It took a few days before Gene’s friends came forward, having no idea he was missing in the first place.

SHANE: More psychic shit?

RYAN: Uh, yeah, psychic… stuff. It was never publicly declared, but like, yeah, apparently Oliver had like, I dunno, psychic visions and knew something happened to his brother.

SHANE: Well–okay.

RYAN: You don’t actually sound that angry at that.

SHANE: No, I guess… Twins right? I mean, I may not believe in the oogie boogie crap, but there has been, you know, weird things between children. Weren’t there, like, those sisters? And they only talked to each other, but then decided one had to die…?

RYAN: Yeah, the Gibbons. The Silent Twins.

SHANE: There you go. Another weird twin story.

RYAN: Actually–okay, well, we’ll get into that. After nearly six months of searching, Oliver Davis ultimately recovered the body of his brother, who was found at the bottom of a lake in the countryside. He traveled to Japan and worked under a pseudonym, using family money to pay divers to search bodies of water.

SHANE: A lake? How did he–why did he–you know what, nevermind. Psychic. Right.

RYAN: Right. He, uh, saw his brother, I guess, drown.

SHANE: But psychic-ly.

RYAN: Yeah.

SHANE: Okay.

RYAN: Autopsy notes say that Gene was likely hit, uh, twice, by a car, and then tossed into the water while he was still alive.

SHANE: Jesus. Twice? What, did someone back up and hit him again?

RYAN: Actually, it seemed like he was hit and then someone reversed and backed over him. Based on breaks or something, I don’t know. I’m not an expert. But yeah, seems like at least the second one was intentional. He still wasn’t dead, though, and maybe could have survived.

SHANE: Until he was thrown into the water? That’s horrible. That seems intentional, or like, the worst person in the world getting into an accident. What kind of person could do that? It’s like stupid teenagers at the start of a horror movie–actually I’m pretty sure that is the start to a horror movie.

RYAN: Yeah, it’s terrible.

SHANE: And sixteen. Awful. Psychic shit or not, awful.

RYAN: It’s time to dive into theories on what happened to the young Dr. Eugene Davis.

RYAN: [Narration] Our first theory, and the most believable, is simply that Gene was hit on a dark road while walking back to his ryokan. The driver, finding themselves in a predicament, either backed up to see what they hit or intentionally did so in a state of panic. Regardless, it’s quite possible they believed that the teen was dead, and instead of calling the police, dumped the body in one of the numerous lakes in the area. The idea that it was simply an accident seems to have gained the most traction as there are no other serious suspects at this time.

SHANE: It’s unfortunate, but I guess I can see how it could have happened. It’s crazy that someone with such an insane background could meet such a munade end. Like, I thought for sure you would say it was ghosts or aliens.

RYAN: We still have two more theories.

SHANE: Of course we do.

RYAN: [Narration] The second theory has started circulating since the recovery of Gene’s body. Many people found the fact that Gene’s brother simply knew about the death to be suspicious. Some speculations, especially from skeptics of the psychics, believe that Oliver orchestrated the death of his brother. Both brothers proved to be highly intelligent, to the point where they’ve been called prodigies, and it wouldn’t be impossible for someone so cunning to plan such an elaborate ruse.

SHANE: Hm… Okay. I guess that’s possible… Do we–do we know anything about this Oliver? Why would he murder his brother? Like, is there any substance to this theory?

RYAN: Yeah, so, first, apparently, despite being twins, their personalities were night and day. Whereas Gene was pretty popular and, like, charismatic, his brother was–is, he’s still alive–not. So, it could have been jealousy. But, also, you’ve also mentioned the Silent Sisters–who agreed that one of them needed to die for the other to live.

SHANE: So, what, they were in on it together? If so, kinda seems like they picked the wrong brother.

RYAN: Yeah, kinda. Another popular theory for the whole, Oliver killed his brother concept, is that, much like the Fox sisters–who, if you don’t know, are some of the most famous ‘spiritualists’ in history–Gene wanted to confess that their psychic powers were fake. When one of the Fox sisters did that in the 1800’s, it ruined them. Maybe Oliver wasn’t willing to give up the clout that they had built off of their supposed abilities.

SHANE: That’s it. That’s the one.

RYAN: You like that one?

SHANE: Yeah. That makes a hell of a lotta sense. Sure, hit and run, maybe. But yeah, this Oliver seems suspicious. I’m on team: their powers were fake, Gene had a conscience, and as he was growing out of his teenage years, he wanted to leave it behind. Seems about right.

RYAN: Yeah–yeah, okay. Seeing the history of other psychic siblings… yeah, I can see how this makes sense.

SHANE: What happened to Oliver?

RYAN: Uh, well he’s still teaching at–

SHANE: He’s teaching?

RYAN: Yeah, like I said, prodigy. He’s been back to Japan a few times–recently he made the paper because he was involved in a fire on the island of Poveglia in Italy.

SHANE: So he’s an arsonist now?

RYAN: No, no, apparently there was a ghost hunt that went wrong and–

SHANE: He’s a ghost hunter?

RYAN: Okay, this is–this is a story for another time–the Ciao Poveglia mystery is–you know what, I’m just going to stop now. It’s a whole thing. Look into it.

SHANE: Okay. Fine. Last theory?

RYAN: [Narration] Our final theory is that Gene’s dealings with the afterlife came back to haunt him. Though no one can be certain exactly what Gene was doing, some true crime enthusiasts have put together a trail of his last known whereabouts in Japan. Supposedly, the trail can be traced back to a well known politician. Some believe that the spirits of individuals wronged by the politician spoke to Gene and he was working on gathering evidence to provide to the authorities.

SHANE: The spirits spoke to him. Right. Of course. Are there any scandals behind this politician?

RYAN: Uh–no. None. Well, there are rumors, but the, like, Redditors can’t even really settle on who the person is. So, it’s probably a bust.

SHANE: Could you imagine if that was true? Or like, you know, he thought it was true? And this kid just walked into the police station and said, I–I know that the, uh, prime minister killed and, uh, ate someone. How do I know? The ghosts told me! Dude would have been locked up so fast…

RYAN: Yeah, probably. It… doesn’t have a lot of credit behind it.

RYAN: [Narration] In the end, what actually happened to Dr. Eugene Davis, one of the most accomplished spiritualists of our time, will remain unsolved.

SHANE: Look, whatever happened, and whatever… skills… he might have had… it’s still unfortunate that someone died so young. It’s a shame.

RYAN: I’m guessing that I could show you all of his public research, and you would still never believe me.

SHANE: Uh… yeah that–that’s probably accurate.

RYAN: Wouldn’t it be pretty cool if we like, ran into Oliver on one of our investigations? Like, we just ended up at the same location?

SHANE: I mean, you did just offer up a theory that he’s a killer and I did agree with you. So. You know, no? Not because of any psychic stuff, but because we just trashed him online on a channel with a few million subscribers.

RYAN: Good point. Well. I’m sure that will never happen. [Outro Music Plays.]

000

Notes: please don’t ask me how far I have driven to see one of the few, live BFU shows. I’m a Watcher patreon and own MOST of their BFU/Watcher merch. It’s like this prompt was made for me. I’m working on a BFU Supernatural/GH fic now. Ciao Poveglia is referenced. Please check out the cleaned up, slightly updated version on AO3.

Ever your servant,

Aeternus.Flamma

#GHW2021 #Ghost Hunt #GHHQ #aeternus0flamma #BFU AU #submission

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blindingdutchy · 3 years

Text

lamentation | FIVE

{peter parker x fem!reader AU}

based on All the Bright Places by Jennifer Niven

SERIES MASTERLIST

word count: 4,111

warnings: mostly fluff, some angst toward the end, mentions of injury

18+!!! minors stay away!

You didn't get much work done with Peter during the weekend. Following your emotional outburst over the argument between the pair of you, Peter stayed at your house surprisingly late into the night. You both seemed to agree the project could wait for a different day, and instead of working you spent the evening talking. While you didn't have much to talk about, Peter had a seemingly endless supply of subject matter to keep you both entertained.

Already you could tell that you were growing attached to him, probably far too much and far too soon, but there was no stopping it any longer. He made you feel good things and gave you a sense of normalcy you'd been craving for so long; there was no way you were giving that up any time soon. If he hurt you in the end, you'd deal with the pain because at least you got a bit of relief in the present.

That Friday evening had been one of the best nights of your life, regardless of how mundane or even boring it probably would have seemed to your younger self. You learned a lot about Peter, more than he'd already forced you to know in the weeks leading up to that night, and you answered all his random and silly questions about yourself. You learned that his favorite colors were red and blue, totally un-ironically, and that he'd gotten his abilities the summer between the eighth and ninth grades.

You also learned that Peter was just as stubborn and competitive as you used to be, and something about that knowledge sparked some of the old flame back into you. So, chasing after the fire that used to warm you, you made a deal with him. If he could prove to you that the Avengers were not as bad as you thought they were, then you would willingly do your speech in favor of the superheroes.

"You--you what?" Peter sputtered, laughing so hard he had to clutch his stomach with both hands and gasp for air, "You really cut the hair off of all of your sister's dolls because she beat you at checkers?"

You snorted, a harsh sound that made your nose ache as you laughed along with him, "Yes! She knew how competitive I was, and she took that risk by challenging me. I never lost a game of checkers again after that."

He slipped into another torrent of giggles much to your amusement, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a beautiful smile that made your own chuckling soften as you found yourself mesmerized by the sight of it. Peter Parker was certainly a very breathtaking spectacle to behold, and you had to wonder why he wasn't so much more popular in school. You knew why, everyone could see the relentless torment that Flash Thompson unleashed on him, but it still made no sense to you.

What was there to dislike about Peter? Just days ago you'd been beyond annoyed by him, and weeks before that you'd been entirely uncaring of his existence, but already that all seemed completely nonsensical to you. Now that you'd let him in, given him a chance, it seemed impossible to ever not like him again.

Wheezing breathlessly, Peter chortled, "I can't even judge you. One time, when Ned and I were thirteen, he bet that he could finish a LEGO set before me. He was going to beat me, and I may have accidentally knocked it off the table so he had to start over."

"So," you finally gasped as you stopped laughing, "so, what you're saying is, you're just as stubborn as I am and we're definitely never going to agree on this project?"

His chuckles slowly died out as he nodded, "I guess so."

You knew what he meant to say, and that was the fact that he didn't feel he was being needlessly stubborn in this situation. This wasn't about competition to him. No, this was about him not seeing himself or his colleagues in a negative light; he couldn't fathom the distaste you had for them.

As much as you disagreed, you could understand that. You could understand how he would see the people he worked alongside as good people. It made sense that he would have a different perspective when he was the one out saving civilians from big and small horrors alike, rather than being the one to suffer the consequences of the destruction that happened as a result.

Along with your understanding, you also didn't think that Peter was a bad person. You couldn't possibly imagine him causing harm, intentionally or not, and maybe that was why you said what you did next. Maybe that was why you proposed, "I'll make you a deal. If you can prove to me that the Avengers are not who I think they are, then I'll take your stance for the speech. Give me a reason to speak positively of them, and I will."

Even now, as you made your way toward your locker at school on Monday, you weren't entirely sure what had made you decide to propose such a thing. You were pretty certain that you were setting Peter up for failure. In your eyes, there wasn't much of anything that Peter could say, do, or show you that would change your mind. Nothing would make what had happened to your sister okay or forgivable.

Yet, he clearly did not feel the same way. Peter looked as if he was walking on sunshine that morning as he pranced along beside you, a triumphant grin on his face as he whispered, "I have a plan."

"A plan?"

He grinned wider as you looked at him curiously, "Yes, a plan. To change your mind."

Quirking an eyebrow expectantly, you waited for him to elaborate as you gathered your things from your locker for class. He never did, only continuing to practically vibrate with excitement beside you in silence. "Are you going to tell me what this plan of yours is?" you prodded.

"No." When you looked at him in confusion he continued, "If I tell you what it is, you're not going to have an open mind. You're going to think of all the reasons it won't change your mind, and then it won't."

Suddenly, you were the one chasing after Peter instead of the other way around. All day you found yourself glancing to him suspiciously and following him around much like he had you in all the weeks leading up to your budding friendship, and it was a big change of pace for you. You felt a little pathetic following him like a lost puppy, but you were nosy and wanted to know what his plan was.

No matter how much you pried, though, he didn't budge. In Calculus he ignored your staring and whispers with a far too smug smirk on his face, though you secretly liked the way it looked on him. Who would have guessed that Peter Parker could be arrogant?

In Gym class he teasingly ran faster than you could keep up the moment you asked again, only slowing down once you begrudgingly promised to leave the subject alone. Though he did tell you he wouldn't run faster than you anyways because people would probably get suspicious if he suddenly turned into a track star. He had to play the roll of the un-athletic nerd regardless.

At lunch he didn't sit with you for the first time since he'd started joining you. He'd waved at you from where he sat with his friends, Ned and MJ, but you found yourself leaving the cafeteria rather than joining him. You weren't ready to take that next step yet; being open with Peter was hard enough, and you weren't ready to have to talk to two more people. Still, you tried to pretend it didn't bother you despite the little sinking feeling you felt in your stomach.

He still sat with you in Speech class, which you were relieved by. Ms. Lovell left everyone to work with their partners on their project, warning the class sternly, "You may have until the end of the semester, but don't slack off now. I'm only giving you two other class periods after now to work on this."

Peter quietly joked, "I bet she just forgot to grade our homework from last week."

When the woman sat down at her desk and pulled over a stack of papers, uncapping her favorite red-glitter pen that she always graded with, you both fell into a fit of giggles that you had to work very hard to keep quiet. It only took one glare from the teacher to have you ducking behind your book to hide how red your face turned, both from embarrassment and repressed laughter. You did, however, notice to fleeting expression of shock on her face to see it was you giggling in her class.

Not much work was done during that class, though for you and Peter the work couldn't be started yet. You still hadn't decided on a stance, and until Peter either succeeded with his plan or failed as you expected, a decision wouldn't be made. Instead, you both whispered to each other about whatever random thoughts seemed to pop into your heads in the moment.

"People are staring at me," you acknowledged, glancing around the class timidly at the sight of many students giving you curious stares, "is there something on my face?"

Peter laughed, though he quickly disguised it as a cough, and responded, "No, they're just confused."

Confused, you furrowed your eyebrows and looked at the boy with the warm brown eyes who was grinning at you proudly. "Why?" you asked, shifting uncomfortably. You were used to people giving you strange looks, but these were different. They weren't looking at you as if they were pitying you, or as if they were waiting for you to finally break down and go crazy. No, now they were looking to you with wonder and interest.

He bit the inside of his cheek, a pensive expression blossoming over his face as he thought of how to say whatever he planned to tell you. For a moment you admired the way his ruffled eyebrows furrowed, his lips pouting slightly as he pursed them in concentration. Only when the strange, old fluttering in your heart and your stomach started to erupt did you look away and wrinkle your nose.

You didn't want to admit it, but you knew exactly what that feeling was. It was a feeling you hadn't encountered since before the incident, and it was a feeling you didn't want to experience now. So, you told yourself it was just nerves over having a friend again, and squashed the stupid butterflies down as hard and as fast as you could.

"Well," Peter finally started, eyes wide and a little nervous as if he expected you to potentially be offended by his words, "you haven't exactly... talked to anyone in awhile."

Suddenly, it clicked. People were staring because you weren't the reclusive, closed-off, depressed girl you had been for the past thirteen months. They were staring because you seemed... happy. "Oh." you nodded, the sound feeble and slightly broken, "I guess that makes sense."

People were staring at you because you were the girl with the dead sister who they'd been waiting to witness implode, and suddenly you were talking, and laughing, and smiling. You were talking, laughing, and smiling with Peter Parker, no less. They were looking at you because you seemed fine.

Were you fine? Peter shot you a few concerned glances as you seemed to slip back into the repression you'd been living in for so long, but you gave him a small smile as if to say, "I'm okay." You were okay.

For the first time since she died, now that you really thought about it, you truly felt okay. You felt good. You felt happy. Sure, you were terrified of the little flutters you felt whenever you stared a little too long at Peter's face, and you still felt all the bad things you'd been feeling, but now you had good things to balance them out.

It would have been so easy to slip back into that cycle of beating yourself up again. That little voice in the back of your head was still there, the one that sounded like your sister but so different at the same time, that told you that you didn't deserve to have friends. You didn't deserve to make new friends, or feel those butterflies that meant something more, not when she couldn't do those things ever again.

It would have been easy, but you didn't want that for yourself anymore. If you did that, if you pushed Peter away because of her, then you would be left with all the bad feelings and more of them. You didn't deserve that. So, you took a deep breath, and gave a more genuine smile, and met the stares head on. She would have wanted you to be happy, and you deserved to be happy.

After school, Peter left you with a swimming mind and a million thoughts of what his plan could be. He didn't mention anything, and you wondered how long you would have to wait for whatever it was to come to fruition. What could it be?

You spent the afternoon in the family room, an action that seemed to startle and befuddle your parents who watched you like hawks. Though they didn't say anything, only greeting you casually as if everything were totally normal, you could practically hear the gears turning in their heads. You could imagine their thoughts of, "Who is this alien that looks like our child?"

As confused as they were, eventually the decided to just go with it. Your mom curled up on the sofa with you, and your father fell into his recliner just like old times, and the three of you watched a movie in a comfortable silence. Well, mostly comfortable. Nobody dared to look at or acknowledge the empty middle cushion on the sofa where she'd always sat, or your mother's empty lap that she mindlessly kept brushing her hands over as if waiting for your sister's head to be laying there waiting for her hair to be played with.

Nobody dared, until you did. You weren't entirely sure what compelled you to do it. It seemed as if you were urged to do lots of things you thought you never would these days. But, after half an hour of watching your mother's twitching hands, you laid your head on her lap and closed your eyes to avoid seeing her face.

After a moment, her fingers brushed through your wind-tangled hair and you felt peace. She had always been the one to do this. She had always been the one to burrow her way into your mother's lap, begging to have her scalp massaged or her back traced delicately, and now you understood why. It was comforting for more than one reason.

On one hand, it was just physically relaxing. But, on a more complex level, it gave you a sense of closeness you hadn't realized you'd been longing for. You felt closer with your mother who worked through the tangles in your hair with her fingers, gently scratching your scalp with her manicured fingernails. You felt closer with your sister, too. It felt as if you had a small piece of her to hold onto in that moment, and it was comforting.

By the time the movie ended, you were nearly asleep and the sun had set some time ago. Your mother was the first to break the silence, softly rousing you, "(Y/N), honey, do you want dinner?"

You did, but before you could answer, your phone rang loudly. Glancing at the screen and seeing it was Peter, you nibbled your lip to hide a smile and stated, "Yeah, I'll be down in a minute." They didn't protest as you raced up to your bedroom to answer the call.

"Hello?"

"(Y/N)! Hey!" Peter practically shouted, though his voice cut out with what sounded like a windstorm. "Can you hear me?"

For a moment the audio cut out and you wondered if the call dropped, but then the crackling wind returned and you questioned, "What are you doing?"

Abruptly the sound ended, and he was breathing a little heavily as he responded, "Sorry, I was swinging--"

"Peter! Are you really on your phone while doing that?"

He laughed, "Calm down! My suit, well, Karen, the AI in my suit, is connected to my phone. Completely hands free--I promise."

Your mind flashed back to that night on the roof, the night he'd stopped you, and you remembered how he'd asked a woman named Karen what he was supposed to do. Now it all made sense. You'd been a little curious about who Karen was ever since that night, and now that you knew it was some sort of artificial intelligence that Peter had given such a human name to, you had to laugh.

"Why are you calling me, Spiderman?" you joked.

There was some quiet rustling, as if he were moving around, and he spoke quieter, "I'm on patrol. I just--maybe this is stupid, but I just thought if maybe I could show you the good things I do you'd see that we don't just destroy stuff."

It went silent for a moment before he continued, "I can't exactly take you with me, because that would be stupid, but you could listen."

You hesitated in responding. A part of you wanted to tell him that it was a stupid idea, for multiple reasons, but you decided against it. How would he ever prove anything to you if you didn't give him the chance?

So, you swallowed your protests, and said, "Okay."

"I'll warn you now it's usually pretty boring. A lot of nights I just swing around for awhile and go home without seeing anyone or anything."

That was strangely relieving. You hoped that tonight would be one of those nights; not because you didn't want him to have the chance to really enact his plan, but because you worried for him. What if having you metaphorically there with him distracted him? What if you distracted him and caused him to get hurt?

For awhile, it was a boring night. You and Peter went back and forth, taking turns telling stupid jokes to see who would crack and laugh first, and inevitably he won. He had an endless supply of disgustingly cheesy science puns that left you in stitches every time, even if you'd already seen the joke before on one of his many t-shirts.

You got him to laugh too, though, with all of the dead-pan anti-jokes you may have been secretly googling as you told them. Sometimes the wind would return, alerting you that he was swinging around the city, and every now and then he'd almost forget you were listening as he gave little exclamations of exhilaration in the moment. It was cute, even if the shouts nearly blew out your ear drum every time.

It was a boring night, until it wasn't. One moment the wind was making your phone speaker cut out, and the next it was eerily quiet and you had to pull your phone away to see if the call had dropped. Putting the device on speaker phone, you questioned quietly, "Peter?"

"I'm still here," he whispered, "I see something. Be quiet for a minute."

You listened and waited with baited breathe, probably panicking more than enough for the both of you, as Peter started speaking to Karen. He asked her to start something he called enhanced reconnaissance mode, and you were bursting with suspense and curiosity. What did he see? What was happening?

It felt like an eternity before he acknowledged you again, "Okay, I see a woman cornered by some guys. I think they're trying to... to attack her."

He didn't have to say the word for you to know what he meant, and you felt your stomach explode with anxiety and fear for a woman you couldn't even see. "What are you going to do?" you asked.

"I'm gonna web 'em up, and wait for the police with her." he stated, "I won't be able to talk for a bit, okay?"

And then, everything changed. One moment the wind was back as he swung down to the scene, and suddenly Peter was in full Spiderman mode and almost unrecognizable to you. He was sassier, playful even, despite how serious you knew he really was as he antagonized the bad guys.

The banter didn't last long. You heard the woman scream in terror as a loud ruckus rang through your phone, and Peter groaned. Was he hurt? Did he get hit? There were more thuds and dull smacking sounds, Peter and the men alike grunting and shouting out loudly as she continued to break the atmosphere with her screaming.

You wanted to call out for him, to make sure he was okay, but you were paralyzed in fear. What if you called his name and it distracted him, causing him to really get hurt? But, what if he already was hurt and forgot you were there to potentially call for help?

The fight lasted awhile, before finally the woman's screaming ceased as Peter told her, "Hey, hey! I got them, I got you. It's okay. Everything's okay."

"Peter?" you whispered.

"Everything's okay. It's going to be alright."

He was speaking to you, though he had to phrase it in a way that it sounded as if he were just speaking to her. You didn't believe him that everything was fine, though. It was easy to hear just how winded he was in the way his voice was strained, weaker than before.

Peter was hurt, and you were terrified. His plan was just as stupid as you'd thought it to be. Not because he didn't prove anything to you, because you were happy he'd saved the woman and he had shown you a good thing he did, but because he'd forced you to witness his pain and suffering yet again. You'd had to witness him actually get hurt this time, and the woman's screams still echoed in your ears.

It brought you back to that day. Her screams reminded you of the chaos following the building's collapse, reminded you of how hoarse and sore your throat had been from screaming just like that. Screams of pure horror and panic.

Only after the police finally left, thanking Spiderman for his help, did Peter drop the faux strength and softly whimper, "Shit, that really hurt."

"My window is open."

With that, you hung up and left him to decide what to do by himself.

Your mother quietly knocked at your door, opening it slowly as she poked her head into your room, "Dinner is done if you still want to eat."

Forcing the best smile you could manage, you muttered, "I'm actually not feeling very good. I think I'll just go to bed." You wished you could say you hadn't seen the disappointment written all over her face, clearly let down by you pulling away again, but she nodded nonetheless and shut the door as she trudged away again.

You laid in bed for hours unable to fall asleep, listening to every noise outside with hitched breathe. Was that little knock Peter? Was he at your window? By the time your phone told you it was nearing sunrise, you gave up. He wasn't coming, and you tried to ignore all the horrible thoughts that consumed you.

What if he was so injured he couldn't make it to you? What if he was out on the street somewhere, hurt badly and in need of help? You cursed yourself for hanging up, but you couldn't bring yourself to call him back. It was a strange battle of worry and anger, with anger winning out in the end and stopping you from reaching out.

You were angry at Peter for his stupid plan, causing you to think of all the awful things he seemed to keep at bay during the daytime. You were angry at those men for hurting him. Mostly, you were angry at yourself for being so stubborn. Why were you being prideful and letting the anger stop you from making sure he was alright?

You: are you alive

Peter Parker: yes

Peter Parker: go to sleep

Peter Parker: see you tomorrow?

You: yes. good night.

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