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shadowworks · 4 years

Text

Compulsion

Pairing: Mafia!Dabi X Reader

Warnings: dubconish themes, flirting with Hawks, blood, murder, blackmail, fingering. NSFW, quirkless AU!

Word Count: 4.4k

A/N: Alright! This piece is for The Smut Pile Mafia Collab

I have to give my wholehearted thanks to @hisoknen @some-kindofgnome , @pleasantanathema, and @ever-enthralled for reading this over the last couple weeks, and making sure it reads well! I am so happy to have you beautiful souls! Also a special shoutout to Raph for brainstorming with me when I was stuck at the very end. 💕

Edit: This has fanart! Beautiful @maewoahoah created a Mafia!Hawks piece right here and a Mafia!Dabi piece here! She’s very talented! ;)

On this ominous winter evening it begins snowing.

You readjust your peacoat and step through the frosty glow of the street lamp to your front door. Your muscles ache a little more than usual, your steps a little heavier. It’s been a long and tedious day at work; far less stimulating compared to Toga’s position working for a bootlegger named Tomura. But both jobs pay the rent. You push papers and withhold your scowls towards clients. Now, you want a bath.

The sound of a muffled radio plays on the other side, and it floods your ears as you walk in with warmth and an iron smell wafting your chilled nose.

“Folks, I'm goin' down to St. James Infirmary...

Seeeee, my baby there;

She's stretched out on a long, white table

She looks so sweet, so cold, so fair.”

Toga’s playing blues again. It’s a routine she has before the graveyard shift across town. At this time, she’s in the kitchen making something before she goes, but you’re having trouble figuring out what food smells like copper.

“He-e-e-y,” you call lazily, a sing-songy tone in your voice.

She doesn’t answer, though you hear the clacking of stiletto heels on wood, which makes you amble down the hall to see what she’s doing.

“Think you can smuggle some whiskey tonight? I thought we had some, but Keigo probably polished it off last—“

You stop in the doorway.

There’s a poor bastard lying flat on his back, head twisting too far towards the sink. Ribbons of blood streak down his colorless skin, pouring out from a dark and glossy hole just beneath his jaw. You see it puddle and stain the edges of his hair a sticky red, the only sound besides your heart thudding is the soft thrums from the parlor.

“ When I die please bury me in my high top Stetson hat

Put a twenty dollar gold piece on my watch chain

So the gang'll know I died standing pat.”

You’re in a daze, one where you’re not sure how long you’ve been staring. It doesn’t seem real. Is it real? But it’s not until you hear the sound of heels clicking against the wood floors that you drag your gaze to the noise.

Toga’s standing near the stove, her features vacant, shoulders slouched, and she’s holding a knife that’s still wet.

What the fuck?

You want to scream, berate her, seethe what the fuck was she thinking, or if she was thinking for that matter. But the blonde speaks up before you do, with a voice above a whisper.

“He was going to leave me. Said he was too dangerous.” Toga doesn’t look in your direction, moving to the rim of pooled blood which has stopped spreading out, “I told him I wouldn’t let anyone come between us, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Your jaw goes taut, staring incredulously at her steely face. The lack of emotion gives you a sinking feeling in your stomach.

The man wasn’t a random suit who bled out on your floor, this moron was seeing Toga on and off for months and had been trying to be more present.

Nights spent arriving at your door with flowers and sweets, and driving her to work was becoming a staple in his routine. He preferred staying in Toga’s room if they had the day off, and he always slipped out when the morning frost dusted the grass, a soft bluish hue painting the streets before sunlight.

But that’s not the problem. See, he was a core member inside the Mafia running the northern side of the city, ‘The League’ they like to call themselves. The only men above this guy was his boss Tomura, and the underboss Dabi. You don’t know the former, but you’ve spent time with the latter.

You’re aware of his sadistic nature that flashes behind those teal eyes, and he doesn’t try to hide it, either. The sideway glances during a poker match before he fucked someone over , the smile he wore when you asked about the purple bruises on his knuckles.

So fan-fucking-tastic, the broad has some nerve.

You curl your lip, already shrugging your shoulders from your coat. You toss it over the table and start rolling up your sleeves to the elbows.

Toga finally turns towards you after catching movement by her side, brows raising confused, “What are you doing?”

“You’re gonna grab his feet and we’re gonna move him onto the rug in the hall.”

You step in the blood, grabbing him by the rusty black colored jacket and dragging him from the puddle. Of course it leaves drag marks, your heels making tracks alongside, but you can deal with the clean up later.

Toga hurries over to help, carrying him by the legs and letting you guide the body to the floral rug.

“You don’t want to know what happened?”

You stop. Immediately dropping the dead weight, his blond head lolls off to the side. Your palms sheen with red, but you straighten up and push a beach curl from your cheekbone with the back of your hand.

“Not really. All I want is this fucker out of my house.”

It’s her turn to stare at you incredulously. This is completely out of nowhere for you to be assisting in hiding a dead boyfriend, even if you two are roommates. You’ve only been living together for four months now.

“Toga, I need you to listen, okay?” you say, a bit mockingly, “I can look past the murdering business by pretending you acted in self defense, but if you don’t have the goddamn brains to realize this idiot has friends, then I suggest you don’t stab people!”

Toga flinches slightly at the lilted pitch in your voice, already suggesting panicky, “We can take him to the woods and hide him there?”

“That’ll work.” You don’t think Twice about it.

Working together, you both hoist him a couple feet onto the rug, refusing to look at his face. You didn’t need to be feeling a pang of guilt. It doesn’t take long for you to roll him towards the front door, as the material wraps around his figure.

The hardest part is retreating to the car. The moment you push through the door, you see the distance from where you stand and the car parked a little down the sloping street. You both give a hard look to the powdery snow dusting the ground, quiet and enchanting. It would be beautiful...had you not been carrying a corpse.

“Stop being a little bitch and heave!”

“I can’t! You’re making me hold all the weight!”

“He’s off the ground! How the fuck are you holding all the weight?”

“But my arms hurt!”

“Fucking hell, Toga. What if I had stayed at my sister’s tonight? What then?”

“Stop yelling at me! I get it, alright? I shouldn’t have done it in the house!”

Your bickering toils through the winds, muffled by the falling snow. The burst of cold air is running through your buttoned blouse while crossing to the 1929 Chevrolet causing a shiver to roll down your back. When you reach the car Toga plops the rug down onto the snow first, then you. Your wet fingers feel numb against the metal handle.

There’s one entrance on each side, which likely will make shimming the body to the backseat much harder. You pause, looking at the front in thought.

“I’ll go first,” you say, “when he’s in, you go and grab our coats.”

“Are we burying him?”

“Think the lake’s faster.”

“What if it’s icy? They’ll see the hole if we throw him in.”

You both ponder your options for a little while, this isn’t exactly something you’ve done before...You can’t say the same for Toga, but she seems just as puzzled, almost clueless on how to get rid of her ex.

Meanwhile, the rolled corpse behind you starts to slip downhill, little by little. The slanting street gives speed and the rug starts to roll.. Red droplets trail behind in its wake.

You just happen to see it first.

“Toga—Toga, the body! The body!”

Toga cries out, taking off after the rug as best she can on a frozen sheet. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

The graceful snowfall flutters with pain and chaos.

Toga skids against the fresh ice, feet stumbling under her navy blue dress. She falls to the ground with a hard thud, and you see she isn’t stopping. She keeps going alongside the body, sliding until the two disappear under another parked car.

You don’t have time to think, a chill strikes up your spine in your panic.

“Toga!” you call out, taking off after her. Unfortunately you find yourself abruptly on your back, pounding hard on the stones and stealing the breath from your lungs.

If you could sigh right now you would. Or rather, if you could punch Toga right now you would, as rage twists with a throbbing pain in your chest. Was all this worth having a mobster roommate? The odds were piling against her. You have a mind to push her in the lake when you get there.

Several silent minutes go by with you staring up at the cloudy sky. It’s brighter from the illuminating white snow, and despite the icy powder prickling your flesh, you have no choice but to wait for the ache in your chest to fade.

“Enjoying the view?”

You hear a new voice, male, and the suave tone tells you who it is before he treads near. He looks over you with half lidded eyes of honey gold.

He’s very pretty. The drifting snow flakes above his wheat coloured head manage to enhance this, though the uplifted eyes lined in black, and nicely sharp features are the last thing you want to see. You’re nowhere near ready to start lying out of Toga’s mess.

“That can’t be too comfy down there,” Keigo says, bending forward with an outstretched hand,“C’mon, upsy-daisy.”

You take his hand, feeling another leather glove hold your waist and lift you onto your feet. When you settle, he starts brushing the caked snow off your back. Mobster or not, he’s at least a gentleman.

“You alright?” he asks, giving you a once over for any fresh scratches.

You give a slow nod, crossing your arms over your chest. Fear’s got the better of you, and you look anywhere but him., “What are you doing here? I thought you were working tonight.”

“Oh I am! You could say I’m on patrol, need to pick up a few things.”

Your gaze stills to your left, heart skipping. Keigo’s not alone. Standing nearby, a slim figure dressed in black from head to toe is watching you two lazily. A thread of smoke seeps from his parted lips, clouding a handsome face and spikes of black hair. Keigo keeps talking, but you can’t take your eyes off the ghostly presence you know to be Dabi.

“Unfortunately that includes loverboy. He was supposed to be back hours ago, but we figured he’s still fooling around,” a little smirk tugs at his mouth, suggestively “He’s still inside, right?”

You blink, turning back to face Keigo, “I wouldn’t know, I just got home,” you lie.

“Look at you! You look like you’re about to freeze to death.” He starts suddenly, swiftly slipping his arms out from his heavy coat, revealing a black three piece with pinstripes, and a brighter crimson tie. In one smooth motion he twirls the long, beige coat over your shoulders, letting it rest over your figure.

“Thank you,” you say, before your eyes catch something.

Dabi moves towards the clumsy skid marks, head tilting down to the red dots in the snow near his polished shoe. You stiffen.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Your gaze flashes from Dabi’s retreating back to a politely smiling Keigo, “Yeah, I’m fine! I’m really cold is all.”

“Well, we should get you inside. You know you left your door wide open?” Shit, the door. You forgot about the stupid door—

(Dabi looms across the indents in the snow and follows down the hill like a dark shadow against crystals illuminating bright.)

“Ah yeah, I thought I left my purse in the car. It was just for a second, and then I slipped,” You force a smile. Relax. You need to relax. Keigo doesn’t seem convinced, reading something off in your features.

“Is that right?”

(He gets the edge of the old Ford, and notes the specks of red soak wider here. The spots lead underneath.)

“I know, it’s pretty foolish. It’s um...It’s a good thing you showed up when you did, or...”

Your eyes drift over Keigo’s shoulder. The underboss starts to crouch low. Your pupils shrink, a new wave of panic tingles the back of your neck. Damn him, why was he so clever?

“Dabi, wait!” you shout, pushing past Keigo’s shoulder. In your hurry you kick up the snowy crystals, rushing to the taller mobster in his long obsidian coat. Dabi quickly turns, standing up.tall before you hook onto his upper arm like a lover. “I saw an animal go under there that looked hurt. You shouldn’t mess with it.”

A smirk that breaks into a grin spreads on his face, a look of amusement blooming from your look of fright. You want to glare at him, though that could be dangerous. Why does he like seeing you scared?

“An animal, you say?” he parrots back, adopting the same mocking pitch you gave Toga earlier. He’s not in the least bit on edge, and you really don’t like that. He flicks his teal eyes up to look behind you just then, “Good thing I have the city’s best exterminator right here.”

As if on cue, you hear the crunching boots of Keigo walking to the car. “Give me a break with the dirty work, will ya?”

“What, scared of a little pest?” Dabi taunts back coolly.

“I’m not too fond of getting my knees wet, actually,” Keigo returns quite dryly, sharp eyes studying the long pattern marks. He places his gloved hands on his thighs and drops himself to a crouch in front of the vehicle.

You desperately hope Toga proves you wrong. Maybe she had the common sense to bail while no one was looking. It’s all you can do at this point, while Keigo dips his head underneath. You don’t realize, but your grip on Dabi’s arm presses tighter into the wool.

Keigo inspects below for a moment. There’s a long pause like a winter evening should be. Silent. Calming. You can almost believe in the soothing little lie. Then Keigo coughs a laugh that echoes through the street. Bursts of manic giggles grow louder from the mobster, leaving you tilting your head at his pushed back hair, confused.

“There’s a pest, alright! I think I caught something—“

Keigo reaches under, and with an impressively strong yank, Toga’s head pops out in a doe eyed stare. Her arms are wrapped around a bundled rug with a fairly familiar head sticking out.

“Hey there, Toga!” Keigo exclaims, “When did you become a rat?”

Dabi tips his head down, drawing the lit cigarette back to his lazy smile. He’s shockingly calm which does nothing to ease your shivering panic. Toga however, seems fine. In fact, she’s moved on to livelier feelings.

“Hey! Does it look like a rat could’ve done this?!” she snaps, shaking the body in her arms. It bangs against the bottom of the car sending loud echoes through the nearly empty street. Specks of blood dribble on the white ground, and a couple more drops spray her cheeks.

You stare up at the clouds, rolling your eyes. Goddamnit Toga.

“Yeah, I guess a rat can’t hold a knife, huh? Ya got me there.” Keigo turns and beams you a smug look, eyes half lidded in an expression that reads, nice try, but you failed.

You scrunch your nose, quietly shooting him back a glare. Asshole might’ve caught you both red handed, but he didn’t have to be so fucking cocky about it. It’s only charming when he has a winning hand at cards. Beside you, Dabi’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, though you don’t have the guts to flash him the same glower. He is second in command after all.

“Yeah, see? That’s what I thought!” Toga says in victory.

You blink very, very slowly at Toga when she finally meets your vastly unamused gaze,“...Nice work, Toga.”

It comes suddenly. A fiery warmth ghosts the dip in your waist as Dabi leans in. It’s not unwelcomed, raw and soothing even, but it hardly lasts. His hand curls around Keigo’s coat collar and pulls it off your shoulders. The crisp wind rushes to your exposed arms.

“You got any rat poison on you, Hawks?” Dabi tosses the coat to Keigo.

He catches it mid air as he rises to stand. “Nah, fresh out. But we have some back at the house.”

“You want to take care of our rat problem then?”

“Can do, boss man.”

Before you can figure out what they mean–what they have planned for Toga–Dabi’s pristine leather glove presses at the small of your back and directs you toward the pouring light of the open door. “Don’t wait up.”

It’s barely there, but as you shift your eyes to Keigo, his features take on a darkened look toward Dabi.

“Play nice, now,” you hear Keigo say. This time though, the joyous tone is gone.

A new song hums on the radio when you’re pushed through the threshold, you listen to the richly solemn blues as Dabi closes the door. He turns the lock with a click and pockets the key.

“I forgive you

'Cause I can't forget you.

You've got me in between the devil and the deep blue sea”

He doesn’t give you a passing glance, instead he turns and strolls down the freshly bare hall. He hasn’t removed his coat, and each room he passes he tilts his head in to search for something, stopping by the parlor. With a twist of a knob, he shuts off the radio.

“Where’d she ice him?” he asks, still not looking at you by the stairwell.

“In the kitchen.” You return. No point in hiding it now.

His steps creak the wood as he ambles further down, knowing full well where to go. He’s been here a handful of times; of course, those were happier evenings filled with drunken laughs.

You watch him stand by the doorway, staring at the vibrant mess of a crime scene. He pops the tip of his cigarette in his mouth before slipping from your line of sight. Dabi’s got the key to the door, so it’s not like you can run away—especially with Keigo just outside. It’s too risky to try and you know it, but it does cross your mind.

Summing up the courage, you decide to follow Dabi with measured steps, “What are you going to do with Toga?”

When you face the kitchen, Dabi’s near the table where you threw your coat. He has a hand in one of your pockets, and he’s fishing for something inside. It jingles in his grip as he stuffs it into his own pocket. Your car keys.

“Are you going to kill her?” you try again, a little irked he’s swiping your things left and right. He doesn’t release your coat either, laying it over the crook of his elbow.

He draws a final inhale from the dying bud, and crosses to the sink to snuff it out. An exhale of smoke blows out from his lips, “Killing her seems like a favor, don’t you think?”

“I thought it was the other way around.”

He turns, flicking teal eyes sheening with energy at you, “That lunatic’s no longer your concern. Right now, you ought to be more worried about yourself.”

Your features go taut, which in turn makes Dabi’s sadistic smirk return.

“I didn’t help her kill him.”

“No,” he agrees, taking a few strides around the blood to approach you,“but you were willing to stash the stiff.”

“Yeah, for this very reason. I didn’t want you coming after me!”

Dabi draws dangerously close, mere inches apart as he glances down with lidded eyes, the smell of tobacco perfumes from his shirt collar nestled under a violet tie. He crooks his index finger, embellished with a silver ring, ghosting it under your chin. “How’d that turn out for you, babydoll?”

With a ruthless smile, he breaks the fixed stare and rounds you to the hallway. He seems to be making his way towards the parlor again, but the swish of your peacoat in his arm, set you off.

How dare he? You don’t like how he’s walked inside, claiming what’s yours. You might have your life screwed over, but at the very least you want your coat back as some semblance of control.

You stalk after him, picking up pace to aim for his arm. The clacks of your heels are loud, but you currently couldn’t care less about being sneaky, “Give it fucking back. You’re not keeping that!”

You lunge for the black wool, but as your fingers brush the material on his left elbow, Dabi whips the coat, rotating arms. You’re not fast enough, but you try a second reach for his right arm, huffing out a growl at his stealthy reflexes.

“Dabi, I’m serious! You’re such a—”

In a twirling motion his newly free palm shoves at your shoulder, pinning you against the stairwell’s wall. He’s close, so close, the blue flames in his eyes are absurdly intense.

“That makes two of us. You’ll get this back when I say so.”

His voice is low, soft lips almost connecting to yours. You tilt your chin up, glaring at him with fearful, tentative eyes. His gaze flashes with mirth, and he huffs a small laugh at you.

“I’ve always liked this about you. That spark inside you.” He muses. The peacoat spills to the floor. Dabi lifts his slender fingers, pushing back a loose curl from your cheek.

Your stomach flips, as shocks tickle your skin. There’s been subtle flirting between you two before. You just wrote it off as overthinking the moment. Even though he only called you, babydoll, and he sat next to you at gatherings. How he filled your glass with water instead of booze as the nights waned. Now, you feel foolish for denying the little signs.

“You have a horrible way of showing girls you like ‘em,” you counter back, your voice’s quiet but leveled.

“Yeah?” he asks. The arm holding your shoulder tightens, while the other lowers to collect your long skirt. He traces his knuckles on the soft flesh of your thigh. As his hand trails up, his eyes remain fixed on your facial features. “Maybe this will help.”

His slim fingers reach the cotton slip, and it’s easy to pull off to the side, exposing the lips of your warmth. He tests the waters, sweeping the tips of his fingers across your folds. Your mouth parts in a breathless hitch in your throat. Dabi parts his own lips drawing near, ‘til his lips touch yours but not quite pressing together yet. His pierced nose bumps yours.

“Now here’s what’s going to happen,” he starts, just before sinking two fingers between your folds, pumping deep and slow inside. “You’ll go upstairs and pack what you need. When you come down—”

He thrusts particularly hard into you, sending a gasping moan to fall from your open mouth. His voice remains calm, a hint of glee can be detected. Fucking bastard.

“—You’ll be leaving with me. You’ll work for me...Live with me…And you’ll do everything I say. You got it, babydoll?”

He adds a third finger, soaking his knuckles deep with your slick. He’s hitting the right spots, the perfectly deep pressure. Your attention turns hazy as wakes of pleasure tighten just below your stomach. Your hips buck against his thrusting hand, yet still, you manage to nod your head.

Moans flutter from your lips and vibrate onto his smiling one. To heighten the pleasure he begins swirling your wet clit. “Ah, Dabi...Oh god, Dabi—”

He slows his fingers suddenly, which makes you cry out. He pretends to ignore it. “If you try to escape me...I will hunt you down and hurt you in ways that will marr that pretty skin of yours. I’ll make you scream so loud, and no one will be there to save you. Tell me you understand.”

He curls his knuckles, pressing into a rough spot at the top, pumping fiercely against your slippery, muscular walls. You cry out, squeezing at his shirt collar and coat. “Fuck—I understand, I understand! Baby, right there, ah!”

Dabi gives you no mercy. He tugs and twirls the bud of sensitive nerves, swirling with driven circles that clench your walls in wonderous pressure. You’re close, he’s so close to sending you in high bliss. Your moans get heavier, and your clenching more and more and—

He removes his fingers. Another cry of protest sobs from your mouth only to be swallowed by Dabi’s lips on yours. His tongue massages the moans from your breath, his scent of cigarettes and smoke immerse your senses as you drown in the kiss.

He slowly breaks apart with a wet sound, looking deeply in your lust-glossed eyes. His voice is low and arousingly husky. “Now get your things.”

Before you know it, Dabi pulls away from your shoulders, and turns for the parlor. You try catching your breath, watching his slim, muscular back...Did that happen? Did he rob you of everything? Your home, your life, your orgasm?

Eventually, with light steps you do as you’re told, and turn to climb up the stairs. What choice do you have? He has your life in the palm of his hand. And right before you make it to the top, your hand drawn on the railing, the spinning clicks of your house phone perk your ear.

A long pause. Then finally, Dabi’s rich voice speaks up from the parlor,

“Hey, I’ll be needing a few guys at Togas...Yeah, we found him….Toga did him in pretty good...No, we’ll need the good bleach for cleanup.”

***

P.S, this might be a mini series 👀

#dabi x reader #touya todoroki x reader #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #dabi #touya todoroki #my hero academia fanfiction #boku no hero academia fanfics #mafia!dabi #tw blackmail #tw blood #keigo takami #bnha x reader #the smut pile #tw dubcon #shadow tales

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mrwinterr · 4 years

Text

Who Do You Love?

Pairing: David Budd x Female Reader

Summary: After some months that David’s been working for the Home Secretary, you notice he’s been acting differently. Not wanting to overanalyze the situation, the signs are just too hard to ignore, so when it’s time to confront him there’s only one real question to ask.

Warnings: Bodyguard (2018) TV series spoilers! Adult themes. Explicit language. Light smut. Infidelity/cheating. Mentions of war, PTSD, political assassination, death, pregnancy/miscarriage, paranoia, and attempted suicide. Sad vibes, probably. We’re not gonna have a good time.

Disclaimer: This piece goes hand-in-hand with All For You. It’s not required to read beforehand, but it would be nice. As far as the TV series, yeah, don’t even read these if you’re still planning to watch the show. If you don’t care, you may proceed.

Title Inspiration: “Who Do You Love?” by The Chainsmokers ft. 5 Seconds of Summer

A/N: I want a happy David, I really do, but I’m a heartless writer. I took a break from the smut, so it’s not a huge bulk of the fic this time. I hope y’all still like it! Happy New Year!

Another night alone was not unusual for you as of late, having grown accustomed to it ever since David had taken up the job of protecting Home Secretary, Julia Montague. Neither you nor David could’ve foreseen his courageous efforts in neutralizing the terrorist attack on the train back home would thrust him into his new position, furthermore the extent of its outcome in his personal life.

It wasn’t a hidden secret that David resented most politicians, and you knew of Julia from the news and her political ambitions in pushing a bill to increase security surveillance. David’s job put a big emphasis on confidentiality, so for his superiors to throw him into a public political warzone was a bit suspicious to you. There was something that didn’t add up, and you couldn’t just outright ask David whose side he was on in all this.

After neglecting the mountain of dirty laundry, tonight was dedicated to the domestic chore. It was nothing out of the ordinary mixing your batch with David’s, but he had a habit of leaving things in his clothes pockets, so it was routine for you to check everyone. You’d moved onto one of the costly tailored button-ups he wore to work and feel something protruding from the shirt pocket. You dig your hand in and fish out a tube of lipstick. Strange. You didn’t use this brand of cosmetics, and even more so the garment smelt different.

Under normal circumstances, this type of discovery would raise a red flag, but you recall one of David’s first days on the job as her bodyguard, the intern had clumsily spilt Julia’s coffee all over her outfit just before she was about to do a live interview, and David had offered her the shirt off his back, essentially saving the day. The man was just too dedicated to his job sometimes, so you shrug it off, but this wouldn’t be the first time you would notice something out of place.

It really started after the first assassination attempt that was made on Julia’s life. With the rate she was going at, her political status had made her a prime target to those opposed to RIPA-18. It was very frightening, you figured that much for her, David had seen worse in war. You just about had a heart attack when you reunited with him that night, the blood still stained on his clothes and missed splotches on his skin.

The both of you clung onto each other all night, lost within the throes of passion. It might as well have been one of the most intense nights yet, even then you could tell something changed by his movements. You didn’t think much about it at first because there’s already so much wrong with him, you’ve yet to learn all his mood swings.

Then one day you’d gotten sick, and discovered it was because you were pregnant with David’s child. One of the few things that made you forget about all the aches and pains that David unintentionally caused, was remembering the beautiful smile on his face when you revealed the news to him. You knew how much happiness Ella and Charlie brought him, you could only imagine what that would feel like, your own family with David.

He was so overjoyed in the beginning. He had quickly phoned his mother, who’d visited and even stayed a few days with you when David’s new position became more demanding of him, claiming she was worried about you being alone. You didn’t deserve to experience this alone, but it was sure heading that way.

Lately, you’ve found yourself occupying the Budd household quite more than often when David’s mom went back home. With David being on duty almost 24/7, you were completely alone, so the little family welcomed you.

Legally, on paper, David was still married to Vicky. It was something you weren't going to verbally admit bothered you, but oddly enough it did. What with the mood you’ve been in as of late, it ate at a part of you. They were separated and the divorce papers were well on track until David’s “promotion” paused the process.

There’s still not a hostile fiber in you towards Vicky. She’d moved on well, been on several dates with someone else, and things were looking great for her. It was lowkey, not even David knew about it, not that he even stuck around or bothered to care. It had to come out eventually because it would affect Ella and Charlie’s lives.

You watch as Vicky rounds the table after placing a cup of tea in front of you then sitting in the seat across and asking how you’re holding up.

You contemplate for a split second if you should be honest or not, but who else could you confine to at the moment? No one else could possibly understand. Vicky herself may not even, but she knew David more than most people did, so surely, she could see where you’re coming from to some degree, right?

Letting out a big sigh, you answer her truthfully, “I’m...not well, Vicky,” your eyes drop down to the cup in front of you, finger tracing the rim, the hot cloud of smoke of the concoction almost burns your skin.

“Oh, poor thing,” she says, extending her hand over to place it on top of your other one on the table, “it’s the pregnancy. It has to be. It’s taking a toll on you. I can tell.” You look up at her and almost want to cry. No one noticed it was more than symptoms of pregnancy. You were bottling up so much.

“Let me tell you, while I love Ella and Charlie, pregnancy was not a breeze…” she started to ramble, but you quickly cut her off, exhausted of people telling you the same thing over and over, unintentionally, blaming the innocent baby.

“No. I don’t think it’s that. I don’t want to blame anything on the pregnancy,” you say straight up. You got yourself into this mess, you went headfirst knowing the baggage David came with and you knew full well that protection wasn’t at the forefront in the affairs. Ready or not, you both went in this together and brought a baby into the picture.

Vicky stares, confused, but still genuinely concerned, “then what else could be wrong?” When you didn't immediately respond, she knew it had to be one other thing, or person, and you just didn’t want to admit, well out loud, “David?”

You only nod; you knew you were going to have to face the music sooner or later. So, you start listing things you’ve observed that have caused you to grow suspicious over the course of the last few months. You just hoped you didn’t sound like a mad woman in front of her.

The one time your phone had died, and he let you use his to place a food delivery. You couldn’t unlock his phone, trying every possible combined set of numbers close to David, only to come to a conclusion that the access code had changed. Visibly distressed, he realizes you were attempting to unlock his work phone. You knew that was his though. What work phone?

You didn’t even know he had one of those, let alone why did it have the same crack on the screen in the exact same spot as his personal one? You feigned stupidity and blamed it on exhaustion. Deep down David knew you were suspecting something was up, and he ended up placing the order for dinner that night himself.

The other time you confronted David about coming home smelling heavily of another woman. Whatever, whoever, her perfume was strong, and it made you nauseous. The pregnancy didn’t even do you any favors on this one with your senses heightened and overly sensitive.

Of course, he smelled of another woman, the person he was assigned to protect. You could see all the holes in his alibi. He was lying, and it hurt most when he indirectly admitted your mood swings were irritating him and then flipped it all on you, saying you were overthinking the situation and getting all paranoid for no reason. Accused you of not trusting him, when truth was you had the utmost faith in him, but not when the evidence was piling up.

There’s a solemn look that washed over Vicky’s face. She had expected more tales of David’s PTSD, but none of what you spilled alluded to it. This time David couldn’t blame the effects of war on your suspicions. However, Vicky knew that this was you and David, and if there was a pair that could survive love’s tumultuous doings then it was you two.

“There’s a lot of coincidences, yes, but this is you and David,” she says, grasping your hand for support because she could see the moisture in your eyes building up, “is it silly of me to admit I was always jealous of you,” she confesses, trying to steer the conversation a different route.

She didn’t want you to think she was brushing off your worries, but to remind you that everything you and David had been through to get to this point to be together, whatever you both were dealing now wasn’t anything you two couldn’t overcome. There were high hopes for you and David in Vicky’s mind.

A small smile cracks your face, and you bring your vacant hand up to dab at the inner corner of your eyes, just before the tears start to race down, “jealous? Of what?” It was almost shocking to think you had something she was jealous of.

“Every time you visited us,” she starts, “I could tell David held so much admiration for you,” and you know she’s not trying to hurt your feelings, but it’s taking a bit to figure out where she’s going with this.

“That’s silly,” you scoff lightly, “you both got married and had two kids, surely there was no doubt,” then bring the cup up to your lips for a small sip.

“But there was and look where we ended up?” she says. Your lips cave in to form a tight line in response, and carefully place the cup back down on the dish, before she follows up, “you two are finally together.”

“Vicky,” you pipe up, not knowing where to begin. It was never your intention to steal David’s heart away from another.

“I’m not saying any of this because I’m mad at you. No. I’ve never truly hated you. You’re a good person and you’re finally getting your happily ever after. Don’t ever stop fighting for it,” she comes out wholeheartedly, and this time you make no attempt to keep the tears at bay. It stung to hold them back anyways.

Vicky gets up from her seat, walking the short steps to yours, to wrap her arounds around you. You immediately cling onto her arms and just cry, finally letting everything out.

“Seriously, don’t think of the worst,” she starts advising, while rubbing your back, “David will always come back to you,” she pulls you away from her before reminding you, “you knew going into this wasn’t going to be easy.”

You feel so pathetic. What she said was completely true, you just didn’t think it’d be this bad. There’s no doubt you love David and want to be with him through the good, the bad, and the ugly, so you nod and try to keep your chin up. It wasn’t to appease her, you were going to get back up, because if not for David, then for the baby.

Suddenly, the front door busts open and Ella and Charlie are bustling into the kitchen, where you and Vicky were. Quickly wiping away the tears, you both noted that school had just let out.

They were ecstatic to see you, especially Charlie as he had currently been experiencing issues of his own adjusting to school. They lifted your spirits greatly; they were more fascinated by the baby growing in you and couldn’t wait to meet him or her. You absolutely adored them. They looked like David and the whole time they were talking your ear off; you wonder to yourself if your own kid will look more like you or David.

David’s thrusts were deep and good; you made no attempt to hold it in, letting him know exactly how he was making you feel. Nails digging into his firm buttocks, pulling him closer to you, wanting him to just keep going and going; the chase proving to be almost just as good as the climax. You feel one of his hands run up your side and his large hand starts groping your breast, adding onto the pleasure he was plaguing your body with, while the other held onto the small of you back, bringing your hips up to his.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, you could feel his hot breath fanning against your skin and hear his murmured swears and praises. The air in the room was thick, and for the majority of the intimate activity, the only sounds that travelled around the apartment consisted of heavy breathing, moans, gasps, whines and skin slapping, until the annoying distinct ringtone started screeching from a few feet away.

You’d learned to distinguish his work alarm since the supposed mix-up, and it pinged constantly, agitating you. David’s pace notably falters, and the rhythm you’d both built started dwindling, the needy side of you started to panic because he was going to stop and you desperately wanted to come, even more so come with him, but it looked like neither of you would be as you feel one of David’s hands leave your body and make an attempt to reach out to the device.

You grab a hold of his wandering hand and lace your fingers together, hoping to keep him close and forget about the alert. You buck your hips forward, urging him to continue. His grip tightens and cock twitches inside of you in response. Your strategy almost deems successful when he picks up momentum, each swivel of his cock gradually bringing out the starved woman in you. Not to mention, your sex drive had heightened too, you’d longed and craved any affection he could give you.

“David, baby…” you whine, holding a hand to his face, forcing him to keep his gaze on you and only you, the ringtone almost drowning out, “...don’t. Don’t. Fucking. Stop...please,” you resort to begging and hook a leg over his body, the new angle allowing him to thrust deeper.

And just when you’re about to tip over the edge, the incessant ringing persists, and David’s halt unintentionally pulls you back down. He unwinds your sweaty clasped hands, no doubt in search of the phone once more, however, you had more leverage than he did, and your hand beats his hand to it. He wasn’t that far behind as his hand covers yours, and he tries to grab the phone to answer the call, but instead you swat it off the nightstand.

“What the fuck?” David says aggravatedly, while attempting to reach his phone on the ground, all while he’s still inside of you, pressing your body deeper into the mattress, but careful to not crush you.

“No, fuck you, David,” you spit back, and shove his body off of yours. You scoot over to one side of the bed and try to level your breathing. You were both so close!

“What is wrong with you?” He asks, forgetting the phone on the ground.

“Do you really have to answer that?” You ask, attitude on full display.

“It could be an emergency at work,” he tries reasoning.

“You’re not on the clock, David!” You dispute, sitting up, clutching the sheets to your body to conceal yourself.

“That’s not the point! It could’ve been serious. Julia could be hurt,” he says, the words just coming out of his mouth, giving each excuse little thought. His mind was in a frenzy and you didn’t miss a single syllable.

“You called her Julia,” you say just above a whisper, and suddenly you have an urge to vomit, but you do your best to control it.

“What?” he asks, not understanding what that meant at all to you.

It hurt more that he didn’t realize there was anything wrong and if he did, he was doing a good job at hiding something and making you look like the bad guy. You lightly shake your head, feeling defeated, and lie back down, settling on your side facing the opposite direction of him.

What was going on in David’s head? You tried so hard to understand him. It was like walking on eggshells, and even you had a breaking point. It was just sometimes too much because it felt like you were the only one putting in the effort to keep this relationship afloat.

The bed shifts significantly, letting you know that he’s gotten out of it. What felt like an hour, but were only a few seconds, the room was silent, tension still heavy in the room, and neither of you were willing to be the first to crack. You lie still, unmoving and making no attempt to stop him. It’s only when you hear the swing of the bedroom door creak, you allow yourself to blink the tears in your eyes away.

He didn’t leave the apartment that much you could rest assured of. Rest? That was what you were having trouble with. Things weren’t getting any easier with David and you even though you vowed to yourself that you’d go through Hell for him, the pressure was getting too heavy on your heart and in return, you knew the distress wouldn’t be good for the baby.

Maybe it was all just paranoia, the stress of pregnancy, and you were taking things too personal. You could be understanding about a lot of things in David’s life, his terms and PTSD, his kids, and his job, but was it too much to ask of him to be understanding of you? You suppose you were being selfish, and you were really tired. The only way to help you sleep was to swallow your pride and admit you were wrong.

The rush of the cold air instantly surrounds your bare legs the second you throw the covers off your body to get out of the bed. You throw on the discarded oversized shirt to be decent. Your steps are light, and you’re kind of nervous and, dare you admit, ashamed of how you overreacted that it drove David to the point of sleeping on the couch. After all, you made him feel unwanted in his own bed, and he certainly had enough respect to not steal yours.

Just when you’re ready to apologize and ask him to go back to bed with you, he’s already sound asleep, his legs sticking out from the mere blanket covering his upper body. You didn’t have the heart to wake him up for that. Sleep didn’t find him easy and he seemed just as stressed as you were, so you don’t disturb him. It can wait, right? You turn around and head to your room, shut the door and pray sleep finds you soon.

It didn’t and neither did the conversation.

News of the blast at St. Matthews College, where Julia was presenting a speech, rocked not only the political world, but it was the forefront of every news channel and medium. Tons left injured or dead, and as if that wasn’t bad, David was being told Julia had not survived the bombing.

He’s clearly distraught, believing he’s failed her, and on top of that, the weight of his lies started to suffocate him. He was going to have to come clean to you about everything he’s done behind closed doors with Julia. You wouldn’t forgive him, he was sure of that, and if by some chance you did, it would take a hell of a long time for him to regain your trust.

How many more lives does he have to ruin or lose under his watch? It was becoming too much, and it was sad, as he stared at the gun in his hands, that he’d contemplated his next actions more than once, but he really didn’t know what he had left to do anymore. There was a lot actually, he had his kids, a baby on the way, and a new life to build with you, but he was far too gone at that moment.

It’s Vicky that finds him back at the apartment, cleaning the brass fragments from the wound on the side of his head. She quickly puts the pieces together, the notes on the table addressed separately to her, the children and you, and the admission from David that these were brass fragments of a bullet casing.

“Dave, what the fuck? What about Ella and Charlie? What about-” she starts going on but stops when he visibly cracks because he knows your name is next to come out of her mouth, “I’m taking you to the hospital,” she decides and is quick to put away her tools.

“No. No one can know about this,” David says adamantly. They start to argue about his injuries and how David hadn’t been aware that he fired a blank round before he asks her to go back home to the kids.

“I’m not leaving you like this,” she says grabbing a jacket and tries to reason that he shouldn’t be alone right now and maybe being around the kids and seeing you will open his eyes and realize what he was leaving behind had he successfully ended his life.

He couldn’t pretend living like he was okay. What had happened to Julia was not his fault. All David ever did was do his best to protect, protect his country, his family and her.

“You need to tell her,” Vicky says while she hands David a cap for him to cover the wound on his head.

“I don’t even know where she’s been the last few days,” he admits pathetically. His own girlfriend, the mother of his unborn child, he can’t even keep tabs on where she’s been this whole time. It made him feel even terrible that he’d neglected you.

“She’s been staying with the kids and I,” she reveals.

“What? Why is she there?” He asks, and quickly puts the cap on and gets up from his seat.

She didn’t tell David of your whereabouts earlier because you’d asked her not to and she politely respected that, but she knew now was not the time to take sides anymore. You two had to deal with your issues now.

“She shouldn’t be alone, Dave. She’s pregnant with your child and yet she’s going through it all by herself,” Vicky tells him.

“I never meant to bring her into any of this mess,” he says heavily, full of grief. He brought you into the madness that was his world and now you’re trapped in it, bringing a new life along for the ride.

“She loves you, David, don’t sell yourself short. She just feels like she’s been left in the dark. You need to talk to her,” Vicky advises him, “it may not be pretty, but you have to hear her out.”

She knew you couldn’t stand being alone in the apartment without being reminded of David constantly. You weren’t in a good place either and she wanted to help you both before it was too late.

You’d been left behind at the house with Ella and Charlie in the other room watching TV, while Vicky was out looking for David. He wasn’t answering any of the phone calls she’s made, even ones made on your cell phone, there was no form of contact or communication from him. You knew he was there at the college; he was Julia’s bodyguard after all.

When you heard more than two voices return, you knew she’d brought David back and had told him you’d be here. You weren’t mad at her for ratting you out, it was going to come out eventually. Nothing ever stays hidden.

“You don’t normally wear a hat indoors,” Ella points out the cap on David’s head that stuck out like a sore thumb.

“You said it’s silly,” Charlie reminds his father.

“Then I’m being silly,” David responds as he watches his children chomp away at the slices of pizza in their hands.

While Vicky was on the phone cancelling her date tonight, you faintly hear the end of the conversation he was having with Ella and Charlie over their dinner. He still hadn’t even seen you. Then you hear his quiet, controlled sobs, but he couldn’t detain them enough and be strong around his kids.

“I just did something silly today,” he tells them.

“Wearing a hat?” Charlie asks innocently.

“That, too,” he replies as he clings onto them both in a group hug.

Vicky had just revealed to you of David’s suicide attempt moments ago. You’re numb. Clearly, Julia’s death had affected him rather deeply, so much that he thought killing himself was a solution.

He didn’t care about you or the baby. You both weren’t enough to save him or have anything to look forward to. You can’t even cry anymore. You wanted to lash out and get mad. She advises you to keep calm and think rationally, but you’re tired of thinking about all of this.

Without warning, David enters the room you’d been staying in. You’re like stone on the couch, arms crossed and starting straight ahead of you, mindlessly at whatever TV program the kids left it on before retreating to the dining area. Your eyes cast themselves on David’s demure stance. He cautiously steps forward and hesitantly takes a seat next to you.

“Is it true?” You ask, breaking the silence and finally turn to look at him. He only nods in response, his head hangs low, ashamed. You felt like your heart didn’t have any parts to break anymore. The confirmation alone just felt like him stomping on it for added measure.

“Ok,” is all you say, biting down on your lip to prevent you from saying anything else. It was petty, but you’d refused to show him any remorse or sorrow of any kind.

“Is this where you’ve been the past few nights?” He questions, rather awkwardly too.

“Oh, so you’ve noticed I haven’t been home?” You ask bitterly.

He was really going to push your buttons. You’re not sure if Vicky was right about you and David having to talk. This wasn’t going to go well at all. You were not in an ideal mental and physical state to be talking about your problems with him, but if not now then when?

“Of course, I have. Why wouldn’t I?” He asks, almost appalled by the accusation, and watching as you get up from the couch to stand in front of him.

“I hardly see you and when I do I find out that you just tried to kill yourself, so forgive me for not assuming I even ran as a mere thought in your messed-up head,” it was harsh, poking at his mental state, but you were so fed up, your mind was just as clouded, “...you didn’t think about me when you held the gun to your head,” you said ripping off his hat.

Your heart tightens in your chest as you stare at the wound and tears threaten to fall, but you don’t let them, “...and you certainly didn’t think about our baby when you pulled the trigger,” then chuck the cap at him, he makes no attempt to catch it as it lightly bounces off his chest and fall onto his lap.

“I’m so sorry,” he says sincerely and making no attempt to hide his tears as they raced down, “I’m so fucking stupid,” and he gets up on his feet, ”...I need help.”

He’s not even going to use the excuse of work and you’re not expecting him to rat himself out and come clean about Julia just yet. David didn’t work like that and you were absolutely done with it. No, everything had to come out now.

“I know,” is all you say at first. He thinks it’s some form of forgiveness, him acknowledging his problem, until you follow up, “just admit it,” your voice changes in tone from anger and hurt to an icy one, “who do you love now, David?”

All while asking him that question, you’re trying to get his eyes to focus on you, but you simply cannot. He’s looking everywhere but, and it hurts.

“It’s Julia, isn’t it? Tell me!” You shout at his face. When he doesn’t answer immediately, your lips press down together and you don’t hold back the tears any longer, “I can’t believe you,” you say in disbelief, almost struggle to breathe right, “this shit has been keeping me up at night!”

You back away from him and cover your mouth, just to conceal your sobs so the rest of the family doesn’t hear you cry. They most definitely heard you yell, but you didn’t want to further trouble them anymore or cause a big enough scene for them to burst right through.

There hadn’t been a doubt in your mind that David loved you before, but just seeing how he couldn’t open up enough to tell you there was someone else during, filled you with more heartache. Maybe it would hurt less, you wouldn’t know unless it came straight from his mouth.

David starts crying as well and you honestly want to slap him, but instead you start saying nasty things, cutting him way worse than anything you could ever do physically, and you certainly don’t hold back. Claiming you two were never meant to be together, and the baby doesn’t mean anything especially in uniting you both.

“I’ll be surprised if this baby even survives,” you scoff thinking about a past experience, and how cruel life was gifting you this baby.

“What are you talking about? You’re not thinking about-“ David starts getting all frantic suddenly, and not thinking, he grabs both your arms in his hands, holding you in place.

“God no! I would never!” You say in disgust and pull away from him, “I can’t believe you’d think I would…”

“Then what did you mean?” He asks curiously.

“I never told you why I broke up with him,” you don’t really mention your ex’s name these days. While you’d both moved on as civil as the both of you could, it still pangs you to reminisce about the relationship and how it ended.

“He couldn’t handle the long distance,” he said thinking he knew.

“He only couldn’t after...” you pause, trying to decide if now was the time to reveal this secret. David had the right to know, after all, an incident like such could happen again.

“After what? He was seeing someone else?” He grew increasingly anxious and almost ill towards the thought of another being unfaithful to you.

“No! It was my fault,” you don’t want to slander your ex at all. He couldn’t have prevented what happened to you across the other side of the world even if he tried. “I miscarried. I don’t know what I did wrong, but I woke up one day in my blood and the sharpest pain I’ve ever felt.”

You started reliving that day, how you were alone and the way your neighbors had to come to your aid. Your poor ex felt so helpless, he wanted nothing more than to drop everything for you, but the wave of depression afterwards had strained the relationship. It formally ended when you’d returned from studying abroad.

“I didn’t even know you were pregnant,” David says in shock. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, and if it was stupid to think all this time you could’ve easily had a life without him long before you two finally became a thing.

“It didn’t matter, David,” your voice finally regained strength, and wiped at the tears on your face of the memory, ”you and Vicky were so in love. There’s nothing you could’ve done for me.”

“That’s not true,” David persists.

“I would’ve turned you away, just like him,” you say so sure. David was your friend then, yes, but you didn’t need or owed him this before now.

“You’re not going to lose this baby,” he promises.

“You don’t know that,” and you’re not trying to be a pessimist about this, you wanted this baby, but you were more than aware of the possibility it could happen again. Bad things just always seemed to be happening lately anyways.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I’d protect you both with my last breath,” he vows, grabbing your hands, desperate to feel any part of you.

“I don’t need your protection, David,” your words continue to crush him, that was your subtle way of leaving him and he knew it, “I love you, David. I love you so much!” you say with plenty of emotion, and lightly squeeze his hands in yours, “...but you can’t even tell me who you love right now,” you point out, reluctantly removing your hands from his.

“You need to get help, David. If not for your family, me or the baby, please do it for yourself,” you say last, before placing a small kiss on his cheek.

“I’m going to get help...for you,” you hear David say determinedly just before you walk out of the room. It wasn’t all you wanted to hear, you wanted him to tell you he loved you back, but you wanted him to live easy once again even if that meant him not loving you.

You could manage on your own, and work something out when the baby arrives, but for now it was time for you to go home.

A/N: Nope. Sorry! Whenever Season 2 decides to come out, maybe we’ll get a happier David, so for now I don’t think I can let these two ride off into the sunset…but I can if you send 2020 off with giving this a like, reblog, comment or all of the above!

#mrwinterr writes #david budd imagine #david budd x reader #david budd smut #david budd x y/n #david budd x female reader #richard madden imagine #richard madden smut #bodyguard imagine

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thesightstoshowyou · 4 years

Text

Dessert Before Dinner

Otherworldly Anthology

Pennywise

Summary: Christmas shopping is hell.

Warnings: Female reader, sexual innuendo, horror elements, blood, gore, threats, violence, predator/prey.

This is my piece of the writing collaboration I did with @stay-outta-my-blood-circle, @sp00kworm, @thedeathdoctor, @carpenter-synth, @trashy-slashy, @august-bleeds-red, & @bisexual-horror-fan

Thank you for including me in this little exercise. I had a blast!

Overly cheerful Christmas music echoes overhead, jingling bells and piano notes barely audible above clamor and chatter of last-minute holiday shoppers. Inwardly, you groan as the escalator ascends, carrying you to the upper level of the department store.

Why? Why had you waited until the last minute once again? Why do you do this to yourself every year?

Pushing past a gaggle of grandmothers, you make your way into the labyrinth of stores. You double check the list on your phone; just few gifts left to buy. You can do this.

Quickly, you navigate the line of screeching, crying children in line to see Santa. Exhausted mothers and fathers bounce angry babies and placate impatient toddlers, all while checking their watches and glancing ahead to see how much longer they must wait. You do not envy them.

Making it through the throng unscathed, you begin a brisk pace down the endless stretch of shops. You make it about ten steps when a shrill giggle stops you in your tracks. You’d heard it, clear as a bell, as though someone had laughed directly into your ear.

Every hair on your arms standing on end, you slowly look around you until your eyes lock on piercing, sky blue. You blink, not quite understanding what you’re seeing. It…he is perched on a bench, gangly arms spread wide across the back, foot resting on the opposite knee; the epitome of relaxation. He’s dressed head to toe in a tattered, blood red Santa suit, the fluffy white frill of the hat resting atop a wild mane of vivid, orange hair. His face is…painted white, like a clown, crimson lines drawn from his eyes to his scarlet lips, the tip of his nose stained with the same red.

He crooks a white, gloved finger and makes a come-hither motion. You glance around, wondering if he’s looking at someone else, but when you look back, he shakes his head and points right at you, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his generous lips. You should ignore him, should keep walking, but your feet seem to have a mind of their own as you take one, two, three steps toward the clown.

You stop an inch from his bent knee, quickly glancing around you to see if anyone else is watching this strange exchange. No one even looks your direction, too flustered with their eleventh-hour purchases. How can they not notice the clown dressed like Saint Nick?

“And what do you want for Christmas, little girl?” he sings in a strangely grating, yet lilting voice. You scrunch your nose in discomfort.

“They run out of dirty old men to play Santa? What’s with the, uh, clown…getup?” you ask, motioning to the make-up. This close, you see the white paint cracking and peeling along his huge forehead. He snickers, uncrossing his legs and patting his thigh.

“Why don’t you come sit in ol’ Penny’s lap,” he taps his ear, “Whisper what you want from Santy, hmm?”

“Nah, I think I’m goo—

You don’t finish your sentence. Spidery fingers sneak around your wrist and jerk, the other hand wrapping around your waist and tugging you into his lap. You squeak in shock, but this is the only noise you emit before he’s gripping your jaw with bruising force, commanding silence.

“Be a good girl,” he chides playfully, “You wouldn’t want to end up on my naughty list!” he adds with a maniacal laugh. Wildly, you look around, pleading wordlessly for help, but it’s like you’re invisible. No one even glances in your direction.

Suddenly, the fluorescents overhead begin to flicker. Each light down the long hall flicks off and on at different intervals. Your heart races, fluttering against your ribs like a frightened bird. The clown titters gleefully, nuzzling his nose against your ear as your eyes dart from light to malfunctioning light, trepidation roiling nauseatingly in your gut.

Then, every light in the building goes off at once. You’re plunged into complete darkness. All sound ceases simultaneously until the only noise you can hear is your shallow, panicked breathing. The clown inhales deeply and something wet brushes against your cheek, making you flinch away.

“Ah, there it is,” he groans, snuffling into the crook of your neck as you writhe in the darkness, “Perfect fear. You’re a sweet, sugary little thing, aren’t you? You can be dessert. Yes. You. Will.”

You clamp your eyes shut when the light returns all at once, blinding you. It is still so quiet you can hear a pin drop. Tentatively, you peel your eyelids apart.

Your heart leaps into your throat. Everyone has stopped dead in their tracks and they are all looking straight at you, staring at you as you sit, trapped in the clown’s vice-like grip. No one moves, no one speaks, they don’t even breath, all standing as still as statues and staring, unblinkingly. Your chest heaves, your terrified brain struggling to grasp the situation.

Slowly, you turn your gaze to the clown. He’s grinning wide, too wide, blood red lips stretched completely across his face, his mouth filled to the brim with pointed shark teeth. Golden, glowing eyes—eyes that were once blue—burn with inhuman hunger as they search your horrified face. You can’t stop the scream that crawls up and out of your throat.

He laughs, long and loud until the sound is bouncing around in your brain and you’re recoiling, desperate to be free of the way your skin crawls. He releases you, something you’re not expecting. You crash to the cold floor, wincing when your wrist breaks your fall.

Scrambling to your feet, you back away. The clown unfurls from the bench and stands. He’s tall, enormously so, well over six feet. Your breath comes in little gasps, your lungs seizing up and refusing to draw in air.

You accidentally bump into one of the frozen shoppers. You jump away, expecting them to react or move, but they remain motionless, staring at nothing. Quickly, you look back at the clown but he’s gone, vanished into thin air.

Frantically, you look around, but all you see are still bodies. Straining, you hear nothing but your own blood rushing in your ears. Get out, get away.

You turn on your heel and flee, weaving in between frozen figures. You bump into a shopping bag which sends you stumbling into another statue-person. They only sway slightly on the spot before resuming their previous pose.

A wild giggle echoes somewhere nearby and you whip around, searching for the source. You see nothing but vacant eyes. Gasping, you spin and sprint away once more. The entrance to the department store is just around the corner….

Movement to your left has you skidding to a stop, your shoes squeaking noisily against tile. A shadow passes across the opposite wall, inhumanly tall, with claws and…horns? You duck into a menswear store, crouching behind one of the mannequins and clapping a hand over your mouth to stifle your haggard breaths.

“Run, run as fast as you can!” You flinch as the clown’s shout reverberates off the walls. Carefully, you peer around the legs of the mannequin, attempting to pinpoint the creature’s location.

You spot the hair first, wild orange bobbing along as the clown stalks like a predator down the line of frozen parents and children waiting for Santa. He pauses and squats down next to a young boy who is poised with his arm raised as though he is waving. When the clown reaches out to grab hold of the child’s face, your heart stutters. What is he doing?

“Ready to float?” he nods the child’s head and speaks in a high pitched, “Yes, Pennywise!” Drool spills past the clown’s bottom lip, dripping onto the child’s shoes as he leans forward. His mouth opens, pointed teeth inches from the little face—

“NO!” you scream, jumping to your feet. You freeze when the clown grins up at you. You haven’t given any thought to your next move.

“Oh, is it time for dessert already?” He mimes looking at a watch. You take off again, hurtling around the corner, but you don’t make it far. Long, clawed fingers close in your hair, wrenching your head back and tearing a pained squeal from your throat.

The clown—Pennywise—bends low to growl in your ear, toothy maw dripping onto your shoulder. The scent of his breath hits you; rotten meat, carrion, coppery death, so strong it brings tears to your eyes and bile up your throat. Claws dig under your ribs and you’re lifted clean off your feet and hurled through a glass storefront window.

The deafening crash rattles your skull as you tumble in a flurry of glass shards. You land with a hard thud and sharp pain stabs up your entire right side, glass embedding itself in your flesh, a hundred different points of agony. You sob, gingerly pushing yourself upright, but every movement jars the shards in your skin.

Your hand trembles as you lift it to your face. A sliver is embedded in your palm, blood welling up around the glass and dripping down your wrist to splatter onto the floor. Gritting your teeth, you peel the glass from your flesh, hissing and swearing when it pulls free.

You jerk when Pennywise laughs from the window. He lifts a long leg and steps into the shop, boots crunching on glass as he advances on you, eyes glowing with feral hunger, shark mouth dripping. You whimper and scoot back, wincing when the movement shocks your injuries. The clown mocks you with a whiny cry, face contorting in false anguish.

Suddenly, he pounces, gripping you around the throat and pinning you to the ground. You shriek and arch when more glass sticks you in the back. Pennywise straddles your waist, free hand darting out to grasp your bloody wrist. Leisurely he brings your palm to his face, giggling and turning it this way and that, watching the way your blood flows.

You can only watch in horror as he opens his mouth too far, like a snake, bones popping and cracking as his jaw spreads unnaturally. A warm glow emanates from his throat, one that makes your eyes go out of focus the longer you stare. You don’t get long to look because the clown shoves your bleeding hand in his cavernous maw and closes his scarlet lips around your wrist. You shriek and squirm when you feel something thick and slimy lap at your wound. He groans and his eyes roll back, revealing bloodshot white as he slurps the gore from your palm.

Suddenly, his mouth snaps open and you rip your hand from the glowing depths, catching your skin on sharp teeth and tearing another laceration into your flesh. You cradle your injured arm to your chest as tears spill down your cheeks, the clown cackling all the while.

“First course, what will it be? A thigh?” he pinches your leg, “A wing?” he scratches at your arm, “A cheek?” he prods at your wet face.

“P-Please, please,” you beg, twisting away from his sharp digits. It’s stupid, begging for a being this incomprehensible to spare your life, but what more can you do?

“Pwetty pwease!” he mocks, grasping your jaw and wiggling your head back and forth. He gasps, eyes going wide, one black, clawed hand covering his mouth as though he’s ashamed.

“But that’s awfully naughty of Pennywise, isn’t it, having dessert before dinner?” A coy smirk curls at his dripping lips and his claws fall to the waistband of your pants. He chortles, tapping the tip of your nose and fisting a hand in your shirt.

“You won’t tell on me, will you?”

The sound of ripping fabric is almost louder than your scream.

#pennywise #pennywise the dancing clown #pennywise the clown #it #it movie #it 2017 #it 2019 #it chapter 2 #pennywise x reader #pennywise the clown x reader #slashers #slasher fandom #otherworldly anthology #collaboration #my writing #reader insert

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thebiscuiteternal · 3 years

Text

This was originally a twitter thread and I told myself I wasn’t gonna clean it up and post it until after I finished the next chapter of Cage, but we all know I have the impulse control of a hamster, SO.

“All Your Sins On Show” Murder Plots, Violent Death, Grief, Talking to the Dead, Literally, Creating Your Own Personification of Guilt, Open Ending, Mixed Adaptations, Second-Person POV

Ao3 Link if you prefer.

__________

It comes down to this: Your father wants the Nie out of his hair by any means necessary.

No, no, that's not right. He specifically wants the Nie heir dead.

"Anyone can see the useless little bitch is their only weak spot. Kill him and they all crumble, especially that oaf Chifeng-zun," he says, then gives you the knife-edge smile he reserves for when he knows you'll give him anything for a more authentic one. "Can you get it done, or do I need to find someone more reliable?"

And you ignore the discomfort worming through your insides, smile back, and bow.

It comes down to this: The plan doesn’t take very many parts to set into motion. The smaller sects are still struggling after the decimation the Wens dealt to the cultivation world. It's easy enough to find a disciple desperate for more than his leader is paying.

It's even easier to goad Nie Mingjue into pushing his brother to join a ‘simple’ training-level night hunt, since Nie Huaisang has been avoiding using his saber yet again.

It goes like this: At your signal, the bribed disciple 'panics' and shoves Nie Huaisang into the path of a rampaging cursed beast that he has no chance of winning against, and then you make sure your turncoat doesn't escape either.

In the chaos, no one notices how seriously Nie Huaisang has been injured until the monster falls and someone realizes he never got back to his feet.

Horrified Nie disciples crowd around, flooding his body with spiritual energy to try and save his life, but between his cracked open ribcage and bitten throat, anyone with eyes can see it's a lost cause.

Nie Huaisang dies choking on his own blood, and all anyone can hope is that the shock of the first blow left him too numb to suffer.

It goes like this: The inhuman howl of anguish Nie Mingjue makes when heartbroken disciples hand him his brother’s ruined body is everything your father has likely been hoping for.

Only then, watching him fall to his knees, do you remember that their father came home in similar condition after being set up by a friend, and your stomach knots so tightly you nearly throw up right there in the courtyard.

Only then, looking at the small figure cradled in the sobbing man's arms, death white save for where he is covered in rust red, does it hit you that for the first time, you have killed someone who never did anything to harm you.

Who never did anything to deserve it.

Who was only in the way of what your father wanted.

You'd been prepared to fake tears.

You don't have to.

~"Da-ge?"~

It goes like this: The voice, confused and nervous and as wispy as if being carried by wind, makes ice form around your spine.

Because it belongs to the body lying before the three of you.

Your hands clench on your knees as you brace yourself and glance to your right, but neither of your sworn brothers seem to have heard the plaintive call. Lan Xichen has been in meditation since he arrived to join you, the furrow between his eyebrows and the unnatural pallor of his skin the only signs of his sorrow, and Nie Mingjue has long exhausted himself into silence, staring with empty eyes at the coffin.

~"Da-ge! Come on, this isn't funny!"~

The ice spreads into your blood when you see him.

Nie Huaisang pulls and shoves at his older brother, every bit the child upset by an adult ignoring them when they’re used to getting a reaction.

Except Nie Huaisang is also in the coffin, and unlike that one, this one still bears all the ruinous injuries that ended his life at all of twenty-three.

~"I'm sorry about the argument,"~ he pleads, his demeanor growing more desperate and despondent with every moment Nie Mingjue doesn't respond. ~"I'll go on the hunt, just talk to me! Da-ge!"~

Your breath locks in your chest, surrounded by frost.

He doesn't know.

You swallow hard, forcing down the mixture of bile and hysterical laughter that threatens to bubble out of your throat.

Because you are kneeling in a tomb with the body of someone whose death you set up, and he is also right there next to you, begging his mourning brother to acknowledge him because he can’t see that he’s dead.

Who wouldn’t laugh, faced with that kind of absurdity?

"A-Sang."

The name falls from your mouth so quietly that your sworn brothers don't even twitch, but Nie Huaisang straightens like a startled deer.

There are bloody tears steadily trickling down his cheeks, but it's the hope that floods eyes clouded over by death that makes you feel lightheaded. ~"San-ge? San-ge! Tell him I'm sorry, he’ll listen to you!"~

And it's because Nie Mingjue listened to you, despite you having given him so many reasons not to do so anymore, that Nie Huaisang's ghost is begging for your help now, rather than his whole self.

Hands covered in still dripping blood reach for you beseechingly, and that's the last thing you remember before the world goes black.

It goes like this: You wake up in the healers' ward, Lan Xichen hovering worriedly by your bed. "Liu Feng says your qi is disturbed," he says, gentle as always.

You involuntarily glance at the figure by his side, miserably pulling at his sleeve in an attempt to be noticed.

"Too many late nights," you say. "Nothing more."

For once you want him not to believe you, to push for a better explanation than that, but he simply nods. "I'll let the healers know you're up," he says.

And then it's just you and... him .

~"San-ge, why is everyone else acting like I'm not here?"~ he asks, small and broken and unaware of the blood ceaselessly dripping from his mouth and throat and chest to pool around his feet. ~"Even Er-ge won’t speak to me! I know Da-ge and I haven't been getting along, but have I really been that much of a brat?"~

"No..." you say, barely managing to get enough air in your lungs to expel the word. "That's not it. A-Sang-"

'I killed you. You loved me and I killed you because you weren't the one I wanted to be loved by.'

"A-Sang... you went on the hunt you and your brother argued about. There... there was an accident."

The slow dawn of understanding in his expression is horrible to watch.

Worse is watching him break down sobbing.

It goes like this: A lost and dazed Nie Huaisang lingers next to you during the funeral, icy fingers clutching your sleeve, and you can't help but wonder if he can see or experience it at all when Nie Mingjue burns the joss for him, or if he sees only a vacant courtyard.

He only leaves you twice when it's over, and each time he returns to you a little more heartbroken by his continued failure to make contact with his brother.

~"San-ge... San-ge, what will I do?"~ he asks quietly, head bowed and kneeling in the ever-present pool of blood that forms wherever he stops long enough. ~"If I can't make him see me, what will I do? What will happen to me?"~

"I don't know," you say, though you have an inkling.

Clearly the circumstances have bound him to you. When you leave, would he follow? Would he linger? Would he disappear? Would he have a choice in the matter either way?

How the hell did this happen? Surely he hadn't done anything to warrant such a cruel punishment from the heavens, so is it a punishment for you? Or is there a simpler answer, something to do with the specific monster that killed him?

But that... you will look into the matter later, when you have built back up the necessary mental fortitude for what you might find.

For now, it ends like this: Seeking the only comfort available to him, he curls at your side to rest his head against your knee.

It’s a familiar seating position for the two of you, old and comfortable from the days where he would insist on sleeping next to you while you finished late reports.

Except now he is dead and instead of gentle warmth, there is a cold that shocks through you at the point of contact between you and it’s sharp and bitter and spears all the way into your bones.

You bite back a gasp of pain, then collect yourself and reach down to run your fingers through blood-slick hair. You force yourself to ignore the sensation of frostbite in your fingertips and how each stroke stains your hand a darker red.

Because you deserve it.

Because he needs you.

Because no one else will see.

#mdzs #nie huaisang #jin guangyao #cameos by nie mingjue and lan xichen #sangyao #Bad End #fanfic

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excitedlysuffering · 4 years

Text

Perception- Itachi X Reader Part 2

Couldn’t resist Old Man Madara😂🥰 hope you like it @youcanreadit it felt kinda rushed I’m sorry ;-; (part 1 can be found in my profile masterlist!!)

“(Y/N)! It’s been so long, I’m so glad you joined us!” You yelped as Mikoto crushed you to her chest with a strength you didn’t know the petite woman possessed. “I’m glad I’m here too, I really missed you all!” It wasn’t a lie either, the Uchiha’s were very much a second family to you, one that you hadn’t seen in far too long.

“Don’t suffocate the poor girl before she can even get in the door, dear.” The gruff voice of Fugaku filled your ears, a tinge of amusement coloring his tone. Mikoto let you go with a sheepish smile, leaving room for Shisui to step towards you, a grin on his face.

“Hey, squirt, how’s college treating ya?” You grinned chatting with the older male, feeling the familiar ease slip over you. In no time, you were talking with everyone, and your worries slipped away.

“Itachi! Where have you been?! You’re late!” You winced as the door opened and closed, revealing the raven-haired man himself. Mikoto came out to greet him, her hands on her hips and a frown on her face.

“Sorry, mother. I stopped to grab some flowers and dango,” He replies, sheepishly banding the frowning woman the lilies. Mikoto’s frown was instantly replaced with a huge smile.

“Oh, my little gentleman, come here!” She practically tackled him into a bone-crushing hug and he grunted at the surprising force behind it. “You’re just in time for dinner, son, come join us,” Fugaku beckoned, a half-smile on his face.

“Hi, everyone, sorry for the interruption,” He apologized. You kept your focus on the conversation you were having with Shisui and Sasuke, figuring if you pretended he wasn’t there it’d be fine.

“So, you going to talk to Itachi~” Shisui teased. Or not, you sighed. “Hush, you idiot. Besides-“ you saw movement in the corner of your eyes and nearly jumped out of the seat when Itachi took the vacant seat next to you. The universe was out for blood today, huh…

“Long time no see, (Y/N), how are you?” You forced a polite smile onto your face. “I’ve been alright, and you?” He flashed you one of his signature closed eye grins. “Same with me, although I’ve missed seeing everyone like this… I’m glad you came, (Y/N/N).”

You cleared your throat, reminding yourself how to breathe. How dare he- “I am too, it’s been far too long.” Your eye twitched when you saw Sasuke and Shisui smirk as if they were planning something.

“So, (Y/N), found that… special someone yet?” Shisui wiggles his eyebrows and you envisioned yourself wiping them off his face. You saw Itachi tense up and a small, secretive smile spread across your lips. Maybe you wouldn’t kill Shisui just yet…

“Yes, actually… I wasn’t planning on telling anyone but yeah… we’ve been together for about two months.” You were disturbed by the way the lie effortlessly flowed through your lips and at how genuinely surprised everyone looked at the news. Wow.

“Is he, um, is he a good guy?” Itachi choked out. You furrowed your eyebrows at his reaction. “He’d better be since I haven’t heard anything about him,” Sasuke scowled.

“Yeah, yeah, he is…” All three boys opened their mouths to shoot off more questions, but a stern voice cut them off. “Oi, leave her alone, you idiots, I’m hungry and I’d like to eat before the food goes cold!” Well, at least Old Man Madara hadn’t changed.

We all sweatdropped at his ‘grown-up’ pout. “R-right,” I agreed awkwardly. “Itadakimasu!” Everyone echoed.

O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O

Dinner, although it had started off awkwardly, proceeded to go off without a hitch. Mikoto and Fugako filled up a lot of your and Sasuke’s focus with questions and the like, while Shisui kept Itachi busy with conversation.

Madara, for the most part, silently watched and listened as he ate, but you could see a few smiles spread across his face throughout the meal.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’m just going to go take my plate,” You hopped up before Mikoto could insist that someone else do it. Truthfully, you could use the break, although you were having fun, being so close to Itachi after all this time was doing strange things to your heart.

You placed your silverware into the sink and times off your plate. With a calming exhale, you turned to exit the kitchen. You let out an embarrassing screech when you ran straight into a chest.

“I-Itachi! Sorry, I didn’t see you there!” He waves your apology off. “It’s fine. Did you mean what you said… about you having a boyfriend?”

You crossed your arms at the intrusive question. “What of it? Is it that hard to believe that I found someone that genuinely likes me?” He reeled back at the loaded accusation in your tone.

“No! That’s not what I meant,” He cleared his throat, trying to gather his words. “I just… did you really move on from me? Just like that…?”

Your eyes narrowed dangerously as rage spread through your entire being. “‘Just like that’?! You think I moved on ‘just like that?!’” You barely managed to keep your voice down, in order to prevent the others from hearing.

“I‘ve loved you for years and you never once acknowledged it! Not even to reject me! At first, I thought it was because you didn’t care, but now that I realized you only cared now that I’ve found someone I know it’s because you were too much of a coward to do it!”

His eyes widened at your outburst, hurt clouding his eyes. “No, that’s not it-!” You cut off his excuses with a wave of your hand. “I’ll do it for you then. I’m over you, and I want you to leave. Me. Be.” You couldn’t help but be slightly impressed with yourself at how even your voice was.

“Please, (Y/N), don’t say that… I’ve always loved you, I swear… I was just scared to say anything, I thought a relationship would distract us from our goals…” He revealed, borderline tearfully.

You scoffed in pure disbelief. “You expect me to believe that? You know what, I’m still single, but I still won’t believe such a half-assed lie like that.” His expression screamed heartbreak, but he refused to give up.

“I know I was wrong, Kami, I do, but please give me another chance… I was so scared that I had pushed you away for so long that’d I’d lost you for good.” You turned away, biting your lip.

“You really hurt me, Itachi.” His arms hesitantly encircled you, drawing you into him. “I’m so sorry, please, can you ever forgive me?” You clutched his shirt, tears now staining it. “Maybe.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to your hair. “I’m going to make it up to you, I swear it.” You held him tighter. “Don’t hurt me again, okay?” He relaxed just slightly and he pulled you away to look you in the eye.

“I swear on everything holy I will never hurt you,” He promised solemnly. You pressed your lips to his in a fleeting kiss. Even though there was still some more explaining to do, it felt as if a crucial piece of your life had finally joined the puzzle.

“Hn. Finally. I thought the two of you were going to be mutually pining your entire lives.” Sasuke huffed. You hid your face into his brother’s chest, feeling embarrassment cloud your thoughts.

“I know right, but thanks to me you can start planning their wedding Mikoto,” Shisui bragged. Mikoto’s exclamation of pure joy rang out, further tinting your cheeks red. “Oi, brats! Stop canoodling in the kitchen and bring out the dessert!”

I groaned. “M-Madara!” Was it really too much to ask for one moment uninterrupted?! “C’mon, once we finish up here, we can go off on our own, okay?” Oh, Itachi, annoyingly perceptive as always.

Taglist~ Masterlist

@alysplxnet @shinobicas @weaponsofmasspercussion @kunoichihatake @robin-boywonder @islandbbbhere @purequeenoftheimpure @dylvaz @sugarhorizons @usuratonkachiuchiha @softieitachi

#naruto scenarios #itachi x reader #part 2 #angst to fluff #requested

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brkndark · 4 years

Text

Somewhere To Hide

It is also on ao3

He found that with deviancy, came more of a need for relaxation, and there were very few things that relaxed Connor like a good game of fetch did.

He liked the repetitive sensation of it. Reel back, look to Sumo, aim precisely, toss and then follow through. It was like the most enjoyable maintenance check ever. Hank hated that he called it that. Just throw the damn ball.

Through fault of his excitement, there were times when Sumo missed the ball. After all, he was a living creature with imperfections. After a few previous successful rounds, Connor watched this time as Sumo overcalculated, snapping his jaws shut as the ball bounced off of his face, onto the ground, back up into the air and then sailed into the bushes. The St. Bernard looked like he wanted to pounce for it but likely due to past experiences, he jumped around the bush, ultimately not being able to fit through. Connor smiled and wandered over to the bush.

“It’s okay, Sumo,” he said. He would not have done that before, knowing that the dog couldn't possibly understand him. Just something he picked up while being here. “I will retrieve it for you, and then we can get on with our game.”

Sumo seemed satisfied, panting happily away. He'd have to take that as some confirmation he understood. Connor smiled again and crouched on the ground, seeking the lost ball.

He reached out a hand, feeling over the soil. That was another thing he would have done differently before the humans came into his life. Usually he would have gone straight for the scan, but lately he had found delight in stalling his tasks to just enjoy being in the moment. He liked feeling the earth beneath him. Just being alive.

Still, there wasn't any use in wasting your talents. Connor found the brush to be thick and mostly opaque and his fingers grasped nothing. He resigned to using his environmental scan. Hank was always jealous whenever he lost something.

Connor got on his knees as the world turned gray and he looked around. As expected, a yellow notification popped up and Connor double scanned it, confirming that it was indeed the tennis ball.

“Bingo.”

Reaching for it, he pulled his arm back, projecting it onto the grass. A chipper bark from Sumo confirmed that it was free and Connor heard snuffling about. He was likely ready to continue.

“I’m coming, boy.” Connor called, starting to retreat back. “Just one...second.”

His arm moved back and another notification popped up in his vision. Something else in the bush, foreign like the tennis ball. It didn't belong there so it had to come out. Connor would be the one to do that.

He tilted his head and reached for it, hand curling around a slab of concrete. He picked it up carefully and when he brought it closer, he noticed some writing scrawled onto it under a layer of dirt. He wiped away so he could comfortably scan it. He didn't anticipate feeling the blue blood freeze in his veins.

Markus Manfred

2038-2039

May he rise again

All systems were operational, yet Connor found that he could suddenly not move. An icy fist gripped his thirium pump as he stared at the stone, seemingly hypnotized. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't. Events started to play out in his mind. Markus was dead. That didn't make sense. But he absolutely should be. Connor had almost made sure of it. He saw the gun. Fire. blue blood. Tears. Explosions. The sound of someone shrieking. A disapproving look. From who? Connor couldn't tell. The images fled too fast for him to keep track, yet he still felt their presence. Markus’ mangled body was on the ground; something he couldn't remember. But he could see it, clear as day. A wave of darkness washed over him, dragging him under.

He had to get out of here.

He launched himself backwards. Or he would have had his jacket not gotten snagged on a prickly branch. He yanked it around, finding himself trapped in its puncture. It shook stubbornly as he struggled. He tried to reach behind him but he slipped, hands planting themselves in the dirt and leaves cascaded below. He stretched his legs out, grounding his knees and pulled with his shoulders.

The nature he had recently found so comforting was now suffocating him as he became uncomfortably aware of every leaf, stick and pebble touching him. This wasn't the sweet sanctuary he worked so hard to build. Instead, it morphed into something hauntingly familiar. Water flowed from somewhere in the distance. The sun beat down on him like a searchlight and the sickly sweet aroma of flowers filled his senses. Someone who wasn't there felt like they were closing in. Connor’s eyes darted frantically as he began to panic.

Finally, the branch let go with a riiip! and Connor fell onto his side, scrambling away from the bush. For a moment he just lied there, frozen in time. It was silent, save for the wind rustling the leaves and the thirium roaring in his ears. His thirium pump pounded in his vacant chest intrudingly so. An uncomfortable heat was building inside of him and he wanted it out.

Instead of breathing, androids had a program in them that ventilated by pushing air through them in a circular motion. The air comes in, it goes through, and then comes out in a calming pattern. The next “breath” was guaranteed to replenish you, but Connor found that now the air was only going up and down, like he was pumping up a balloon with no progress. The heat was trapped. He was trapped and he would never escape.

Suddenly, there was a new sound. He heard footsteps pounding against the ground in a hurry. There must have been something amis. If there was an emergency then he should be able to help. Get up, Connor.

“Connor? Connor! What the fuck happened?”

He was jostled into a sitting position and being supported upwards. Connor tried running a diagnostic test but to no avail; his vision began to cloud with static. On the edges of it he found Hank’s gaze, firm and concerned. The feeling of comfort left just as quickly as it arrived.

After several more failed diagnostic attempts, Connor reached out in the only way he could remember how. Grabbing Hank’s arms at his elbows, he trained his eyes on Hank’s face.

“That’s it, son,” Hank breathed, somewhat relieved at the joined eye contact. “I think you're...hyperventilating. Think we can slow that down?”

What? Connor sucked in a greedy breath and held it to snuff out the panting he had been replicating involuntarily. He followed Hank’s example; in and out. In and out.

Throughout this, Hank watched him closely, careful to take it one step at a time. He had never seen such a sight with Connor before. The yard was dug up and he was a mess, his jacket ripped open from the back and dirt and mud all over him. He had to slow down just to take it all in. Connor looked absolutely frightened. Once he was quieter, Hank commented again.

“Let's get you cleaned up. You’re bleeding all over my arm here, c’mon.”

Connor looked down at himself and sure enough, there was a nasty gash on his palm. It had stained both his hand and Hank’s arm blue. That was the second thing he had failed to detect.

Much like his legs wobbling as they made their way to the house, Connor’s lip quivered as he threatened to succumb to the fear bubbling over inside of him. He tried to focus on the man beside him. Hank was here right now. Cyberlife was...elsewhere. Always watching with their hand on the button. Out of sight.

Once they stepped inside, Connor lost all of his composure and crumpled to the ground, holding himself tightly and squeezing his eyes shut, but it was no use. Tears leaked out of his eyes as he began to sob brokenly. Hank was gone for only a second before he returned, pressing something soft into Connor’s hand.

“Jesus, Connor. What’s going on?” worried Hank.

Connor squeezed the cotton with a shaking fist as it absorbed the thirium leaking out of him.

“We were playing,” Connor started, his voice shaking. “Sumo and I were playing in the yard and the ball rolled into the Garden…” his breath hitched with a hiccup. Hank quirked an eyebrow, beginning to rub his hands up and down Connor’s arms with comfort.

“I wouldn't exactly call it a garden, kid. One sad looking bush, maybe. I’ve never even touched it.”

They were quiet for a minute, Connor struggling to find some speaking room while Hank mulled over his words.

“Sorry, that...wasn’t right.”

“The Garden,” Connor continued. “There was something else, a-a gravestone. Markus’ name was on it i-i…”

Sumo took this opportune moment to come back inside with said stone in his mouth. He dropped it before them on the ground and Connor jumped slightly.

“There!” he gasped, covering his face with his hands. “It’s his name on it, he's dead I…”

Hank picked it up with one hand, shifting it around under the light. He studied it high and low but ultimately came up inconclusive.

“Con, this thing’s blank. Are you messing with me?”

Connor slowly lowered his hands, ready to counter that statement. But sure enough, Hank was right. He scanned it but came up with nothing. It was ordinary. Connor shook his head.

“No...no, Sumo must have retrieved the wrong one-”

“Connor,” Hank soothed, pushing his hair back. “It’s okay. You're just a little freaked out.”

He paused. “I think you confused this crap for...something else. Markus is fine. Remember? The whole revolution thing? We won. We just saw him a couple of days ago.”

Connor looked broken, tilting his head back as tears streamed down his cheeks. He searched his memory again and saw himself conversing with Markus. Their first casual conversation. Standing on the steps of Carl’s house. He was laughing. He was alive.

“Yes” he whispered. “I remember now. I…” he looked at the stone. It was blank now. It should have made him feel better, but he gripped it with fury.

“This never happened. It could have, but...it didn't.”

“Right,” Hank confirmed. “You’re just remembering shit from the past.” This was all so bizarre and new to the both of them. “It’s a part of being human, kid. Stuff creeps up on you.”

Connor sniffled, gritting his teeth. “I find that inapplicable. Sumo and I were just playing. Why would I resift through irrelevant information? Events that never even occurred?” Hank sighed and shook his head.

“You’ve had a lot to process. Trauma is...well, it’s shit kid. It sure as hell ain’t convenient. That’s how it goes.”

Connor couldn’t wrap his head around it. He grimaced at this confusing information.

“I hate it!” he wailed. “I don't want to feel like this.”

He went silent for a while, but Hank was patient. A flash of something grim crossed his eyes before he took a shuddering breath.

“I am going to purge my memory.”

Hank’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “Hey hey hey hold on. You're not going to purge anything.” He held Connor’s face in his hands, watching as the tears poured over. “You do that and youre just gonna fuck yourself up. I wish I could do that, kid. I really do,” his voice cracked. “But you can’t when you're human. That's a part of the experience.”

Connor sniffled again, looking at him with wide, questioning eyes.

“Life?”

Hank sighed and then nodded.

“Yeah. That’s life. Sucks I know. But I think it’s probably better than…”

A glance at poor Connor told him that whatever he was about to say was better left unsaid.

“Forget it. Uh…” he seemed at a loss for words. He looked down at Connor’s hand. “Let’s take a look at this, okay?”

Connor nodded and let Hank take away the cotton. It was still bleeding slowly but that was not what unnerved Hank. Connor was shaking profusely and when Hank dabbed at the wound, he found the area to be surprisingly hot. He frowned.

“Tell me this temperature is normal.”

Connor let out a shaky sigh, looking defeated. “It is not. I am in distress and trying to keep self destruction at bay. This is the best my body can do.”

Hank nodded, wiping the horrified expression off of his face quickly. “Yeah okay. It would be great if you could keep that up.”

Hank felt silly thinking this all would be easy. In his opinion, androids were designed to be the perfect human, never out of line and rarely an inconvenience. Of course it did not seem like that way for him from the start, but he now found that the positives outweighed the negatives. The gap between android and human was there, but Hank felt that Connor was more human than most of the people he knew. He learned something new about him everyday. Usually pleasant. And even though this was definitely an unpleasant situation, it presented him with an opportunity.

Coming back to the present, Hank realized that Connor had started to cry again. The poor kid was totally overwhelmed. As if finally sensing the tension, Sumo padded up and sniffed at the android’s face. Connor sagged into the dog’s touch, reveling in the feeling of the soft fur against his skin while Hank mulled over his dilemma. He felt useless, not knowing what being an android was like. On the other hand, he had tons of experience being a human.

He reached a tentative hand for Connor going unnoticed and settled on his shoulder, rubbing calming sensations that hopefully conveyed what he wanted to say. Connor jumped a little, but it was apparently the right thing to do, because he switched from the dog’s embrace to the man’s and clung to him desperately. Hank closed his eyes, swallowing a lump in his throat as he did his best to comfort Connor.

“That’s it, kid. You’ll be okay. I’ll be right here when you are.”

It wasn't much, but it seemed to do the trick and Hank felt Connor relax ever so slightly in his hold. If it weren't for their proximity, Hank would have missed Connor’s small sweet voice.

“It may take many trials and we are likely to experience more difficulties like this. Deviancy has proven to be a lot less predictable than I hoped.”

Hank smiled and pulled away so he could look at Connor’s face. “Shit’s always difficult. You're taking it like a champ. Don't beat yourself up.” he ruffled Connors' hair playfully. “Let me know if there's anything i can do.”

Connor looked grateful, finally giving him a small smile. He looked at him through soft, weary eyes. “Do you think we could give Markus a call?”

Hank nodded almost immediately. “Sure, kid. I think you both could use one of those. First, you should get out of these rags; there's clothes in the laundry. Go crazy.”

Connor selected an oversized sweatshirt, warm and dry from the dryer. Once his old clothes were taken care of, he slipped the sweatshirt over his head and sighed under the toasty weight. It smelled of whiskey and sweets, immediately replacing the stench of the garden.

Not another word about it was uttered that night, but when later that week Connor had noticed the shrub missing from its roots, he made sure to not let his gratitude go unsaid.

#DBHSecretSanta2020 #DetroitBecomeHuman #DBH #brkndark #its pretty angsty but i hope you find it kind of sweet

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impossible-rat-babies · 4 years

Text

quarter past (two am)

word count ~4891 | angst pre-hb | chargestep | mostly under the cut!

read on a03

The streets in Los Diablos are rarely deserted at two am, the headlights dazzling as they pass by, bubblegum pink and electric green neon lights in store windows scattering hues across puddles on the concrete. Gasoline and spilled oil refract in electric rainbows, fine leather dress shoes scuffling and stuttering, disturbing the kaleidoscope.

“Y-You are....my bestest friend...! You are my bestest, best friend!”

Pollux rolls his eyes behind the mask, adjusting Ortega’s arm draped over his shoulders, keeping a hold on his wrist. He keeps blabbering on his ear, trying to rock them side to side across the sidewalk, kicking up water with god knows what in it. Pollux struggles to keep them from falling into a heap, cursing under his breath. Ortega would find it down right hilarious if they took a tumble into one of the heaps of trash, or perhaps smacked right into a telephone pole, the drunk bastard. He’d be finding their current struggles hilarious too if he didn’t have his pea sized drunk brain occupied singing to the heavens of his adoration.

“Hey....hey there, Lux?” He cajoles with a poke at his cheek and Pollux jerks away, giving him a grimace even though the mask. “Y-You know you’re my best friend, right?”

“Yes, you’ve been singing about it for the past hour, ass.” Pollux shoots back, sighing out of his nose.

They’re still a couple blocks away and all he wants to do is dump Ortega on his couch, make sure he won’t throw up all over himself and drag his own ass back to his bed. He blinks quickly to dispel the creeping heaviness across his eyelids, adjusting Ortega once more as he goes into another verse of the same made up jabbering nonsense.

Pollux glances up at Ortega as he keeps going, his brown eyes staring above and all around, glassy and vacant from the eight or so beers he’s had. Maybe a few other drinks bought for him in between; he’s not paid to watch how much Ortega imbibes.

But there’s honesty in his eyes, in how despite the awkward looks and snickering laughs from the few people still out as they clumsily pass by, he means every word of his stupid ballad. Drunk Ortega isn’t suave, isn’t the actor, wearing his heart on his sleeve instead of a mask on his face, looking picture perfect, taking it all in stride. It’s honestly slipping out of his mouth unbidden, the facade peeled back, the lies stripped away. The pretense and the formalities all gone and he’s just some drunk guy draped over a friend taking him home.

Pollux likes the pretense, when they don’t say the things they want to say--when he won’t drape himself all over him. Makes it easier to pretend he doesn’t feel like he does--makes it easier to lie to himself.

“I-It’s...it’s true, ya know? You are my, uh, my best friend.” Ortega waves his hand around theatrically, tripping over his own misplaced feet with a giggle. A giggle. God so help him. “An-And I don’t think you hear it enough. From anyone. You’re special, Lux.”

Oh he’s heard plenty of how he’s special--her words purred in his ear, fingernails digging into his shoulders, urging him on--more and more and more. Pollux swallows hard, smothering that voice in the back of his head.

“Oh I hear plenty from you about how special I am, lover boy.” Pollux huffs because as much as he is an honest drunk, he’s also stupid as shit and mushy as fuck. He doesn’t have the space in his head to think about how differently it sounds when Ortega says he’s special, how his ears are burning and the strange roll of his stomach.

“It’s-It’s because it’s true, Pebbles.” Ortega objects, rather loudly and pointedly. “You really are my best friend an-and I care about you. A lot.”

“You’ll be caring a lot more about the toilet than me in a bit.”

Ortega blows a large raspberry and waves his hand, Pollux dragging him away from yet another hapless pole he’s aiming to smack into.

Going to Hoots on Friday nights is both equal parts exciting and the worst thing he gets talked into doing; the music leaves him with a pounding headache and the flurry of so many minds leaves him damp with cold sweat and shaky hands. Still its Ortega’s favorite place to go on a Friday night, plus Anathema had volunteered to come along and Pollux was feeling indulgent. Fat lot that did when he drew the short straw.

Should’ve told Anathema to do, damn them when they winked and smirked, ducking out the door in a flash, leaving Pollux to wrangle Ortega.

Pollux sighs and he swallows down the lump, Ortega still mumbling away at his song as his building comes into view. Thank god--it’ll be easy to dump him at home and leave behind the weird feeling that refuses to go away. Going out with Ortega is always dangerous. It’s far too easy for Pollux to convince himself to give up some of his boundaries and self imposed restrictions—the things that keep him from saying things he shouldn’t. Doing things he shouldn’t. Like walking Ortega home.

He gives an inch and Ortega takes it for a mile, drawing him out bit by bit like thread unraveling from a spool and he uses it to tie them in closer. Convinces him to stay for a little while longer, one more longing look.

One more chaste kiss...or maybe not so chaste kiss.

Ortega nearly falls and Pollux curses, half dragging him up the stairs to his building and he wrangles him through the door to his building. He’s half slumped over him now along with most of his weight on Pollux’s shoulders and he might as well be dragging his feet.

“Can you please stand on your own fucking legs?” Pollux huffs, knees groaning and he’s only twenty two--his body shouldn’t groan like that.

“Gravity is too much, Pebbles.” He mumbles against his shirt near his neck and that is most certainly not helping the situation, his face flushing the under mask.

“I’ll dump your drunk ass on the floor.”

“Please Lux don’t do that.”

Thankfully there’s an elevator or he might have sooner just dumped Ortega in the lobby and left rather than drag his ass up the stairs. The doorman knows Pollux well enough by now that he just waves them on and shakes his head, grinning to himself. Oh the indignity of the Marshal of the Rangers being dragged drunk through his apartment lobby, but the doorman has tight lips. Plus there’s undoubtable amusement in watching Ortega getting wrangled into an elevator when his feet aren’t working correctly.

The door closes before Ortega can spill his guts about how much he likes him to the doorman, or spills his guts all over the tile floor. That would be a mess and Pollux wouldn’t be the one to clean it up. He’s had enough of cleaning up vomit, acid dripping down his chin from his nose, the corners of his mouth..

“Please tell me you have your keys.” Pollux nudges him off and leans Ortega against the elevator wall, patting around his pockets. He finds his wallet—thankfully tucked in his back pocket still—but no keys.

“I got em Lux don’t worry.” Ortega oh so helpfully pats his butt and Pollux rolls his eyes.

“That’s your wallet, you ass.”

Ortega snorts. “You touched my ass.”

Pollux groans loudly, face flushing under his mask and Ortega laughs in self satisfaction. A sharp pinch of his side and he yelps, grumbling under his breath as he rubs the tender spot. His coat pockets next and Pollux finds the jingling ring of keys--thank god.

“At least you have some sense of hindsight...” Pollux grumbles to himself and the elevator dings. He helps him out of the elevator and they drift side to side down the hallway, Ortega mumbling something or another in his ear the whole time, oh so helpfully close like earlier. Pollux tries not to care--his cheeks are most certainly not warm--fumbling with the lock until it clicks open and he pushes Ortega inside. He kicks the door shut and miraculously Ortega is standing on his own two legs and even more miraculous is that he’s looking at him.

“Can’t believe it took this long t’get you to come to my house after Hoots...” Ortega mumbles with a lopsided grin, subtly lost when he’s still got that drunk look to him--the smell of beer and stale french fries still on him. Pollux’s face flushes and his ears burn, quickly squashing down *those* sprinting thoughts.

“Save the drunk flirting for someone else, lover boy.” He helpfully turns him around to push him towards the living room, putting the keys down. Ortega somehow manages to not bump into too many walls along the hallway, hands outstretched to guide him. Pollux sighs and quickly squashes the little soap bubble thoughts of his goofy sashay down the hall--he was not staring. Not at all, no wandering eyes.

Ortega is reasonably safe in the living room. Not like he can go many places--he could fall down and break his head open on the coffee table his head helpfully tells him--and Pollux heaves a deep, long sigh.

There are pain killers and other meds he’ll need in the cabinet above the bathroom sink; Pollux picks out the ones he’ll need for tomorrow among the menagerie of orange bottles, sifting through what it means to keep a modded body running--thousands of dollars tucked away in that cabinet. They’re the ones he’s watched him take when he won’t stop complaining about the pain in his back and elbows. Others he’s listened to Ortega lament at how bad they taste.

Pollux pulls the throw blanket from off the bed where he’s held frozen peas to the side of Ortega’s head, listening to him talk about how the fight went--the good parts and the bad parts. He’s stitched bleeding wounds there and gathered up stained blankets to clean later, wrapped gauze over washed abrasions, keeping chiding words tucked behind his teeth.

A cup for water in kitchen and he’s sat on the counter top and watched Ortega cook him all the foods he’s never tasted before. Pies that tia Elena makes, a beautiful cake that his cousin’s aunt makes which reminds him of this tiny hole in the wall place in downtown Los Diablos. He could rant for ages of all Pollux has missed like a fool, how he hasn’t lived until he’s tried this, or tried that. It’s sad just how close is accidentally gets to the truth.

Laughter calls from the living room and Pollux peeks his head out of the kitchen, finding Ortega sprawled out on the couch, one shoe on and the other off, holding a decorative pillow under his chin. Who knows what he’s laughing about now, something stupid inevitably.

“You need to take off both shoes, Ortega.”

Pollux reminds him, picking around for the biggest bowl and settling on a rather large sauce pan instead. By the time he comes back he’s figured that out along with getting his jacket off, leaving it in a heap on the ground. Pollux knows he’s watching him, setting both the painkillers and the water on the coffee table for when he gets the sense to need them.

“Hey, hey Pollux?” He pauses putting the pan down. “Why do you always got your mask on?” Ortega asks, brows furrowed like a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Pollux mirrors the expression behind his mask, lips slipping into a familiar frown.

“My face is a secret.” Pollux retorts and Ortega grumbles.

“Friends don’t keep secrets...!”

“Oh yeah? I’m sure you’ve got plenty of secrets you don’t tell me.” Pollux gives him a pointed look and Ortega waves his hand dismissively.

“Nothing like my entire face, Pollux.

“You’ve seen the lower half of my face.”

He’s kissed him too, cupped his face and the back of his head and held him like he was all that mattered in that moment. But Pollux isn’t telling him that at all. He certainly does not want to think about that right now and he scoops up Ortega’s jacket, balling it up in his arms.

“That doesn’t count!” Ortega laments and oh this is just a piss poor attempt to cajole him into showing his face that’s for certain.

“Well tough luck lover boy.” Pollux heaves a sigh and sits down on the floor near Ortega’s head, face resting against couch cushion, jacket still balled up in his hands. He has half the mind to take it with him, as payback for making him drag his ass through the street at 2am. He’d be looking for it up and down his apartment tomorrow and the thought of the frantic text he’d get makes him bite his lip to suppress a smile.

Plus it is a nice jacket--a pretty leather bomber style, well loved and well taken care of.

“You’re so mean to me.” Ortega grumbles, playing with his lip between his teeth, and Pollux ugly snorts, dramatically rolling his eyes.

“Oh, I’m just the worst best friend huh?”

“Yes, the absolute worst best friend. You’re so awful and mean to me in the worst ways imaginable, Pollux.” He can’t help but snort and that sets Ortega off with a loud groan.

“I *cannot* believe that you are finding this funny, getting all this amusement out of you being so mean to...”

Pollux zones out watching Ortega rant, the clumsy way he’s speaking and the way he moves his hands like he needs them to speak, snapping for the words he’s struggling with. It’s...interesting watch the facade crumble, how he’s so perfect with words and oozing charm for crowd and cameras, but just the two of them in his apartment and he’s stumbling, stuttering.

He’s not the Marshal when he’s sprawled across the couch, one foot dangling off the edge, slurring and tripping over his words, little unabashed laughs slipping out. It’s more real seeing him like this, less questions to ask, more straightforward. There’s no guessing here, no games of chess to play where he needs to be five steps ahead, no guessing his thoughts by the tilt of his brow or the quirk of his lips.

It’s just the calm even breaths between them, enough space to breath the same air and yet it’s still like an ocean dividing them.

Pollux swallows against the lump in his throat and he pushes the thoughts out to sea, staying on the shore where he keeps watching Ortega talk, the turn of his lips and the slope of his neck, down to the hint of collarbone. Places where Pollux has put his lips and felt Ortega’s breath hitch--his pulse race. Put his hands and felt him breathe in his chest, the rise and fall of rushing breathing, the scratch of five’o clock shadow on his cheek, under his nose, the gasp of air in the space between wet lips.

If he was the betting kind of person, he’d put money on Ortega not remembering anything tomorrow and it would so easy...could pull the mask off and let him see for a bit. His hands sweat at the thought, giving an inch and losing a mile to a silly drunk man’s smile and how comforting it is--how is so completely and utterly easy to lose himself.

H’s betting on him not remembering and Pollux is running low on chips. Either and neither way he’s screwed and he takes a long breath. Steadying his hands and he reaches under his mask, pulling it up and over his head.

He blinks, adjusting to the soft hazy light of a nearby lamp, the flush of alcohol and cologne in his nose. Cool air on his sweaty face and he resists the urge to sneeze. Ortega keeps talking, eyes even fluttering over to him once, twice, three times and...there he gets it, brown eyes growing big.

He blinks once, twice, three times and a wide smile breaks across his face, eyes focused on him. With difficulty, Pollux shoves down the urge to yank the mask back on, cover himself back up and hide; he worries the jacket between his thumb and index finger instead, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Happy?”

Pollux chokes out past the lump, face flushing. Ortega keeps staring, keeps his eyes focused on him and it’s because he’s drunk, Pollux tells himself, and he’s never seen his face before, and he’s staring at him like he’s something far too precious--a twinkle in his eyes, the curl of crows feet. Pollux’s skin itches and he resists the urge to scratch and pick, tear and yank yank yank--

“You have red hair...” Ortega mumbles and instinct makes him take a deep breath to quiet his nerves. Neither here nor there and Ortega’s hand twitches like he wants to reach out, but he can’t quite get there

“Nice observation there captain obvious.” Ortega snorts at his reply and Pollux runs his fingers across the fuzzy curls starting to grow back in.

“Do you know how many freckles you have?” He still has that half stupid grin on his face, eyes darting about his face, taking it all in like he’s piecing together the person he’s always wondered about under the mask. Fitting him into the image he’s made of him, constructed in his head.

Pollux is too used to that and he fights the roll of his stomach.

“A million.” Pollux grumbles and Ortega whistles dramatically. “You’ve seen them on my hands before, don’t act so surprised.” Tacking that on and he rolls his eyes too.

Ortega found his hands fascinating back then too, his fingers long and slender compared to his palms, compared the whole of him. Piano fingers Ortega had called them as they measured palm to sweaty palm one lonely day in the break room. Ortega’s fingers daring to slip a fraction, to slip his fingers into his, to hold his hand palm to palm, five fingers interlocking. It was enough to set a fire in his gut then, like pressing his hand to a stove and he’d yanked his hand back and shoved his gloves back on too. Too much of a touch--far too real and new with skin pressed to skin.

“You’re very handsome, Pollux.”

He blinks, tossed from his thoughts by the sudden admission, scrambling, eyes shooting up to look at Ortega.

That wasn’t what he was expecting--not the words like that, for Ortega to blurt that out and there’s that damn honesty again.

Ortega is staring at him, eyes more focused than he should for how drunk he supposedly is...or was, for that matter. Damn it. There’s the truth wrapped around his tongue, coating his words and fuck Pollux doesn’t like how it makes him feel, not one single bit.

He blushes deep red and his ears burn, tucking his chin against his chest like that will do any good. If pulling the strings on his hoodie tight to hide his face would do any good he would.

“Shut the fuck up, Ortega.” He manages and fuck his voice shakes more than it should—more than he wants it to.

“I’m not lying.” Ortega’s got that stubborn look in his eyes and there’s a frown of his own on Pollux’s face, lip twitching in an almost sneer.

“I...” Pollux snaps his mouth shut and bites his lip hard. “I don’t care if you’re lying or not, just shut up.”

That’s a lie of his own and he pinches hard between his thumb and index finger, worrying his lip.

“Just because you say that doesn’t mean I’m lying. I am being honest, Pebbles.” He presses further and Pollux looks up at him and he shouldn’t have because Ortega is leaning in far too close.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t get to call you a bastard.” Pollux replies, breathing harder than he should, less butterflies and more like a beehive in his stomach, waiting to be shaken.

“You would call me a bastard no matter what.”

“That’s because it’s the truth, Ortega.” Pollux doesn’t lean away even though the rational part of his brain is screaming otherwise. Ortega’s breath still smells like booze, but he smells more like cologne this close, the subtle musk that tickles his nose, stale french fries a thing of the past.

“Do you want the truth?” Ortega asks and that is the question.

It’s always been the question, the one he can’t find answers to no matter where he goes looking—what is the truth? What does he need to know the truth about? What happens when the truth is laid before him--or if it’s set in front of too many people, naked and exposed. Far too many questions for the skinny space between them right now, breathing in sync.

“Could I stop you from saying it?” Pollux asks in return, eyes sliding down the slope of Ortega’s neck, fingers itching. He can’t remember if he wore a necktie or not, but the top buttons are undone regardless. Pale pink cotton sharp against deep brown skin and Pollux swallows against the lump in his throat.

“No...” Ortega grins, a soft flush on his cheeks that isn’t from the alcohol. “But I would very much like to kiss you.”

Pollux bites his lip and he’s still, holding himself just so he won’t bolt from the floor, knuckles tense in the jacket. He steals a glance at Ortega’s face and fuck that isn’t any better than staring at other parts of him, his stomach twisting itself in knots of indecision.

“You smell like beer.” Pollux skirts the question, Ortega’s lips just inches from his--breathing in time, breathing in the same air and if it were anywhere but here, anywhere but this moment. If he was anyone--anything--but what he is.

“Is that better than blood?” He asks and Pollux quietly snorts. Bastard.

“I’m used to blood.”

Pollux unknits his hand from the jacket, reaching and pulling back and he knows he’s touching what he shouldn’t be--feeling what he isn’t mean to feel--but he’s doing it regardless. Reaching again, his fingertips ghost up the side of Ortega’s neck. He smooths his fingers up bronzed skin to the curve of his jaw, jagged thumbnail slipping along the rough line of stubble there, thumb finding his chin. He swears there’s a sharp intake of breath, but Ortega is still, staring, eyes searching his.

He knows it’s almost three am and he doesn’t know how he’ll drag himself back to his bed with how tired he is now, tired enough to think that kissing Ortega is a good idea, tired enough to loose his inhibitions. He’s seen his whole face and he hasn’t run, trembling fingers still holding his face in a gesture far more intimate than palms pressing together, fingers almost linked.

Pollux supposes he’ll wake up the next morning and if his phone isn’t dead he’ll have a slew of text messages waiting for him; supposes Ortega will remember and ask a dozen questions, or he won’t and still ask a dozen questions like he’s used to. Either way Pollux supposes he’ll lie to him, tell him that nothing happened, that he just dumped him on his couch and got him settled in. He supposes they’ll both know better than that, but neither will say anything. Supposes Ortega won’t even remember his face in the morning, or remembering kissing him.

His thumb is still stroking his chin, eyes staring at his lips.

“But I can make an exception. Just this once.”

Pollux lies to himself, to both of them. Another one to add to the dozens, a pile like he’s digging his own grave.

He crosses the gap between them and he pauses just enough to know how bad of idea this is--how screwed he’s going to be. Ortega doesn’t give him time to back out, cradling the back of his neck and he yanks him close, lips pressing against lips.

He tastes of stale beer--better than fresh blood, the taste of metal and electricity on his tongue. Here he feels the shape of his chapped lips against his, the curve of his jaw, hand curling sharp into the nape of Ortega’s neck, fingers slowly bunching in his hair. Ortega’s hand cupping his cheek and jaw, hand warm against his already flushed skin. Nose bumping nose to try and fit lips together and it’s soft, tender, worming into the dark places he’s hidden away, pulling lengths of thread to bind them together. Pollux pulls away, forehead to forehead, biting wet lips.

Oh he’s certainly going to be cursing himself later, Ortega pulling him back in for kisses upon kisses that keep bleeding into each other, one after another, tongue and teeth and he wonders how much Ortega is trying to memorize the shape of him, the flush of his lips against his, fitting puzzle pieces together. Ironic considering he wasn’t meant to be remembered and here Ortega is, slowly, achingly, trying his best to do just that and fuck it *hurts*.

It isn’t fair, kissing Ortega when he’s drunk on his couch, Pollux’s fingers knitted tight in his hair, hand finding it’s way under his collared shirt to press against his chest, needs these needy kisses. Hands holding his own face, the back of his own neck, hands daring--wanting to explore more. Fuck he wants to hold him tight, let him keeping touching him, drink in every single kiss and then maybe he won’t feel so empty.

Maybe he’ll feel like an actual person, like he’s more than what’s on his skin, what’s buried deep down--the terrible, gut wrenching truth.

And that is one of the scariest thoughts he’s ever had.

He pulls away from the kiss, peels his hands from Ortega and Ortega’s hands away from him, hiccuping with each time he tries to breathe, trying to hold the panic steady in his gut.

“Stop.” His hand is firm on Ortega’s chest, keeping him at bay as he tries to lean back in, to try and kiss him again. “You’re far too drunk, Ricardo.” Pollux whispers, sense crawling back up his spine, a cold weight filling his gut.

“Just drunk on you.” He’s trying for smug and the way he’s looking at him through his eyelashes would almost be charming, but it’s just not fair, not fair at all.

(It’s always the almost, isn’t it?)

“Stop, please...” Pollux presses his hand firm against his chest, enough to push him back a bit and Ortega’s brow scrunches together, confusion slipping into worry and further into scarier emotions.

“Pollux? Are you okay”

“You’re drunk and I’m going home.”

Pollux says again, trying to be firm, to hold his ground, despite knowing what he wants to be feeling, his chest tight. He needs to go, needs to leave before those feelings get the better of him, before he decides to do dangerous things--things that come attached with regrets. Things he can’t even fathom, ones that leave his skin like pins and needles.

(Needles under the skin, needles in veins, wrists chafing)

“Pollux, please, I’m sorry...what did I do?” Ortega tries again and Pollux gets to his feet to stay out of reach of scrambling hands, jacket knitted in his hands once more, knuckles squeezed of their blood.

(blood on white tiles, muffled screeching and sobbing)

“You didn’t do anything, I’m sorry.” Pollux chokes out, pursing his lips into a thin white line, looking everywhere but at Ortega.

“No, I-I did something...I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kissed you--” He tries to get up, but Pollux puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back down, quickly pulling his hand back out of reach.

“No, I’m...I’m going back home. You’re drunk and didn’t do anything wrong.”

That’s right, it’s always him making the bad choices, going against the boundaries he’s set for himself and they’re there for a good reason--to keep him safe. Keep his secrets safe, locked away behind his teeth and his lips still taste like Ortega.

“Pebbles, come on...pl-please...”

“No, I am going home, Ricardo. I’m sorry.”

He takes his mask out and slips it back over his face, adjusting the fabric and he can hide again, pretend like he’s calm and not that his stomach is still twisting itself into knots upon knots, that he doesn’t want to bolt down the stairs and out the door.

“Don’t throw up all over yourself, please. Take your meds. Call Steel in the morning so you don’t cause a panic when you don’t show up at eight am.”

Pollux speaks quick, sliding the pan closer towards Ortega with his foot and he skirts around the couch, jacket still locked in his hands. He hears Ortega scrambling to extract himself from the couch, still whining for Pollux.

Pollux reaches the door and disregards his pleas, opening the door to the cold hallway bathed in green florescence from the flickering lights overhead.

“Bye Ortega.”

He slams the door closed behind him, the sound ringing in his ears over and over again, a rhythm as he takes the stairs in sets of threes and he’s out into the night, disappearing into the dark.

#fallen hero #fhr #chargestep #owen writes #oc tag #oc: pollux #okay to rebloog go wild #this is the mostly done wip i was lamenting about #i've been meaning to finish this for days #but yeah. pollux hurts even back before hb can you imagine that #pollux voice i will apologize i will apologize i will apologize

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sweetlangdon · 5 years

Text

And Baby Makes Four (Michael Langdon x Reader)

Notes: Roommates ‘verse domestic fluff! There’s also a hint about a future Roommates fic in this one (future as in it’s yet to be written, but in the ‘verse timeline, it already happened).

Word Count: 3.2k+

Warnings: Brief mention of vomiting.

A cloud of dust blossoms in the sunbeams on the floor when Michael drops another cardboard box at his feet. It immediately triggers a sneezing fit. You look up from where you’re unpacking a box of bathroom towels and laugh as Michael loses his composure. He’s indignant when it’s over, a little red-faced, a deep frown forming creases between his eyebrows. It makes you laugh harder, bent-double over your folded legs, your stomach aching. You can’t help it—the move has you running on a sleep schedule that isn’t worth mentioning, and it’s so rare to see Michael like this. He’s gotten as much sleep as you have and yet, frustratingly, it doesn’t affect him in the same way. You think it’s got to be the damn Antichrist thing.

He grumbles something you can’t quite make out, but you’re sure it’s full of swearing and mild grievances.

You sneeze when the dust drifts over to you. “You’re human,” you tell him. “I know you only hate it when it’s an inconvenience.”

Like when his appendix almost burst. Or when he sliced his hand open on a broken glass. (Though that one didn’t require a trip to the ER, just some Antichrist magic.) You’ve been with Michael long enough to know he doesn’t get sick. And although it’s easier to forget he’s not completely human these days, there’s always something inane to remind you.

“We can clean this place up once I find the broom and dust pan,” you say, rising to your feet. It’s precarious, maneuvering around the piles of boxes that have taken over your new living room. But you aren’t used to all the space. “You know, this would go a lot faster if I helped carry in the boxes.”

Michael holds up a hand. “No.”

You notice the dust and lint that’s speckled his usual all-black attire. It’s more casual than what he normally wears—jeans and a dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up—but you’re baffled by how it still makes him the most ethereal person you’ve ever met.

You’ve been married for a couple years and he still has that effect.

“We have…a lot of shit, Langdon,” you answer. Married and you can’t help the affectionate use of his last name. Even though it’s yours now. It’s a habit you’re not looking to break. “Who knew? All this shit crammed into that tiny ass apartment. I mean, half of it is your wardrobe, but…”

A smirk, barely there, finds its way through Michael’s fading annoyance. “I’ve got it,” he insists.

“I’m perfectly capable,” you reply. You kick lightly at a box labeled Kitchen. “I did pack them and load them into the truck.”

“Well, then, you can unpack them,” he says. And you know it’s because he’s shoving the chore on you, because you both really hate the whole packing and unpacking part of this whole exhausting deal.

“Sure.” You exhale and cross your arms. “Give me the fun job.”

“You say that like you think I’m having fun.”

“Aren’t you?” You arch an eyebrow.

You know you both really, really hate the actual moving. You just want to mess with him.

Michael brandishes his arms at his sides, all sarcasm and mischief. It’s hilarious, you think, because Michael looks practically regal since he’s grown his hair out. Like he belongs anywhere but here, standing in the middle of your spacious, albeit dusty living room, beads of sweat trickling down his temples from the exertion. Unloading boxes off the U-Haul truck while looking like a fucking GQ model. It’s really fucking unfair. The hair that now brushes his shoulders, like gold silk, makes him even more attractive and otherworldly. It’s distracting. And you think the neighbors have already started eyeballing him.

But he’s the one who chose this. Who chose you and this life. He chose it.

There isn’t a day that goes by that you’re not a little stunned by it all.

Michael closes the distance separating the two of you and leans in to press a kiss on your forehead. You turn up your face to catch him before he tries to move away, a soft press of your lips to his, a grin shared between you.

“I hate it,” he says, slightly breathless as the words are whispered against your lips, mischief still flashing in the bright blue of his eyes. You don’t believe him, not completely; you know he’s playing the same game you are. He nudges your nose with his. “But I can handle it. You should rest.”

“I’m fine.” You roll your eyes when Michael pulls away. “I’m feeling better already. This move is just stressing me out.”

But he stares at you a little too long, and you think that he doesn’t exactly buy it. “Take a break and find the cat,” he suggests, voice drifting in before he shuts the front door behind him.

“He doesn’t want to be found,” you shout back. “He’s mad at us.”

And it was true. You set the little hell beast free in the house—probably against your better judgment, in hindsight—so he could settle into his new home. The two of you are sure he isn’t pissed off enough to run away, and you’ve been keeping close watch on the only door that’s been opened and shut all afternoon. But you haven’t seen him for hours, not even when you shook the pouch of cat treats and the rattle of them echoed through the empty rooms. He’s hidden himself somewhere good in a show of protest. For uprooting him from the comfortable, quaint city apartment he’s known all this life to this massive old Victorian in the suburbs.

He’ll come around. Eventually.

You were the first to fall in love with the house. Right before you realized it bore a passing resemblance to the house Michael was born in, the house that had caused him so many night terrors. And you let go of it because you didn’t want to do that to him. You couldn’t. It didn’t seem right, to have him try and make a place like this home. But then he surprised you, assured you that the past was firmly behind him and this house was nothing like that wretched Hellmouth. That there was nothing evil to be found here except a few repairs that the realtor warned you about. No bones buried in the backyard. No vengeful ghosts roaming its halls. Not even a death on the property. It was all sunlight streaming through windowpanes and dusty hardwood floors and stained glass and vintage charm. It was, in a word, perfect.

The cat would think otherwise.

Standing in the middle of your living room, hands planted on your hips, you consider the overwhelming task ahead of you. There’s brief moments where you miss the cramped apartment, if only because you’re sick of unpacking. New furniture sits in the boxes they were shipped in. The few pieces you took with you from the apartment have been draped in old sheets. Michael refused to part with the couch—his couch, but he claimed the cat wanted it more—so you’ve agreed to put it in the den at the back of the house. There’s boxes on top of more boxes and you’ve been sorting them for a fucking eternity.

Maybe it is time for a break. You’ve been assuring Michael that you’re fine since yesterday morning when you started moving things into the house. He worries about you endlessly (and, given your shared history, you think he has every right to) but you don’t want him to be anxious over nothing. Moving house is stressful enough. It’s worn you down, made you anxious and restless and tired. A little fatigue and a queasy stomach isn’t something that’s worth obsessing over.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you’re uselessly shaking the cat treats throughout the house and calling your cat every terrible nickname you’ve collected for him over the years. You wind through the kitchen to the den, then backtrack upstairs, down a hallway lined with vacant bedrooms. You don’t get a response, not even a half-assed, angry meow from a closet. The nausea you’ve been fighting off for the past few days rears its ugly head again. It’s happened in waves, at random, disrupting your busy schedule. You know stress makes your stomach unsettled, makes you feel like absolute shit, so you haven’t thought much of it except irritation.

This time, it hits you like a goddamn truck, sends you running for the upstairs bathroom. You make it—barely—and you’re left feeling more like shit once you’ve lost the contents of your stomach in the toilet. The antique tiles under your knees are cold. You lean over the toilet bowl until you’re sure it’s passed, until you don’t have anything left in your stomach. Catching your breath, listening to the loud flush of water, you sit on the chilled floor with your back against the wall.

You tilt your head back to lean on cold, outdated tile. And you’re left with a few scattered thoughts. You haven’t thrown up like that, aside from the occasional hangover, since you caught the flu a few years ago. But this doesn’t feel like the flu. Panic rising, you start going over dates in your head. Counting. The move has thrown everything off; you haven’t even realized that your period is late. Absurdly late. Uncharacteristically late.

“Shit,” you mutter to the empty room. Your voice echoes. “Am I that oblivious?”

You dumbass, you think to yourself. How could you not notice?

Things have been so hectic lately. You try not to blame yourself too much. But you can’t help the rush of anxiety that seizes you on your way back downstairs. You forget the cat treats in the hallway and decide to leave it, hoping it will lure him out. Michael passes you in the doorway, arms laden with a couple of boxes labeled Clothes. You’ve already grabbed your purse, and you kind of hate how you dash past him without meeting his eyes, your cheeks flushed.

“Did you find the cat?”

“Nope,” you answer. Quick, short, and completely suspicious.

Michael stops in the threshold. “Going somewhere? What did we forget?”

You turn around, halfway down the path that winds up to the front porch. “Nothing,” you tell him. “I’m grabbing lunch. Any requests?”

You try so hard to appear calm and nonchalant about the shitty excuse you’re giving your husband, who definitely knows when you aren’t being honest. It’s that preternatural intuition he has, sniffing out lies. You realize before you say it that he’s not going to believe you, but you’re surprised when he doesn’t question it.

“Whatever you want.” He shrugs one shoulder and disappears inside the house.

You’re shaking the whole way, hoping that you don’t have to throw up again. It’s not that you dread the news, exactly; the two of you have talked about it. You want kids. It just seems like it would be horrible timing—two huge life changes within a span of months.

The trip to the nearest convenience store is an adventure. No one knows you here, yet you look over your shoulder as you’re contemplating pregnancy test brands like you’re a teenager being caught by their nosy parents. It’s ridiculous. But the paranoia’s already set in and there’s not much you can do to stop it. Michael still has enemies lurking. There’s a reason beyond the myriad of other reasons why you carry around pepper spray and took some self-defense classes.

Even though they’re miles away in New Orleans, the witches still freak you out. Actually, after the last encounter you had with them, you fucking hate them. What if they wanted to take all of this away from you before you even had it? They’ve tried before. What’s stopping them now?

It’s not fucking easy being the wife of the ex-Antichrist.

You sigh and push four different tests into the plastic basket. You’re jittery the whole time you’re waiting in line, steal glances around you as the cashier rings them up. You’re so damn preoccupied with your own frantic thoughts that you almost forget about lunch entirely. And by the time you get back to the house with takeout and the bag from the store shoved into your purse, you’re not even hungry. Michael notices you wandering into the kitchen in a daze and pokes his head around the corner before he leans against the doorframe.

His eyebrows pull together. “Are you all right?”

“Uh, yeah,” you answer. “Just tired. I’m…not really hungry. Think I’ll take a nap before I start unpacking the kitchen stuff.”

Michael takes your hand when you meet him in the threshold of the kitchen. His long fingers lace between yours for a moment, then his fingertips brush across your knuckles, skipping over the sapphire on your wedding band. His gaze flickers from your hands to your eyes, and you try to avoid his look of concern.

“Are you sure?” His voice is deep and quiet. At your nod, Michael is reluctant to let go. “I’ll unpack them—get some sleep. Take care of yourself.”

He kisses the top of your head and you lean into him for a few seconds longer; he’s all warmth and rich cologne and soap, a balm for your unsteady nerves.

Whatever happens, you know you’ll be fine.

***

The wait is unbearable. You pace around the upstairs bathroom—which is about twice the size of the one in your old apartment—with enough nervous energy to power the whole house for at least a year. It’s so quiet up here, even with the door cracked open slightly, that you can hear your own pulse rushing in your ears.

Still no sign of the cat, though.

The timer you set on your phone makes you jump out of your skin. Once you’ve eased yourself down on the edge of the bathtub—one of those vintage claw foot ones, peak luxury in your opinion—you have to remind yourself to exhale. It takes a minute to calm your racing heart and another two or three to summon the courage to actually look at the results.

And when you do, the test is positive.

It’s all right there, clear as day, spelled out for you in bold, black letters. Positive.

“Okay,” you whisper to the empty bathroom. Your stomach lurches and you’re surprised it’s not nausea. It’s excitement and joy and fear and love all at once, so overwhelming that your hands start to shake. Blinking away a few tears, your palm settles on your stomach. A reflex. Maybe some instinct. “So, there’s that. Let’s just make sure…”

Three tests later, you line them up on the counter and study the four positives staring back at you. You’re sure, at this point, that they’re right. There’s no mistake. You can feel it, even—you know it’s true, now, once you’ve had time to process everything you’ve overlooked. You’re pregnant. Everything is still and quiet, except for distant chirping of birds somewhere outside, as you stand there gawking at your future. It terrifies you, but the fierce, protective love that’s suddenly surging through you is so much more powerful.

Fuck it, you’re going to be okay.

A soft knock on the door interrupts your scattered thoughts, the immense quiet. You feel Michael step into the bathroom before you turn around to face him; everything is always so much warmer with him nearby. And when you look at him, you’ve got silent, overwhelming tears spilling down your cheeks.

“I came up to check on you.” He moves closer, fingertips grazing your elbows lightly. You uncross your arms to trail a hand down his arm until your fingers stop at his wrist, your fingers finding their way between his. You don’t even have to look. “What is it?” His words are a low, rumbling whisper and you’re so close that you feel it in your ribs.

“I’m…sorry for getting all weird on you earlier,” you reply. “I guess now I have an explanation for that.”

He reaches out, eyes narrowed a little, and brushes your cheek. There’s a grin somewhere on his lips but he’s holding back. “And that would be…?”

“Well, four tests later, and,” you’re crying still but there’s a smile on your lips, “I’m pregnant.”

You watch the slow, radiant grin that illuminates Michael’s face, the tears that make his eyes shine in the dim overhead lights. And it takes you all of twenty seconds to understand that it was there all along, he was just waiting for you to finally break the news. For you to catch up.

You laugh. “You knew.”

Michael’s head tilts to one side, golden hair spilling over one shoulder. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you to him. “For about a week and a half.”

“Fucking hell, Langdon.” You brace your hands against his chest. Not so much an accusation as it is a surprise. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he says. “I wanted you to find out yourself, tell me when you were ready.”

“How in the…how did you know?”

He stares at you. Pointedly. But that grin is there. “You should know by now not to ask.” He holds you, forehead resting against yours, and his gaze wanders down to your stomach. “I felt it—sensed something that was barely there. But I knew it then. It was sudden, one day while we were still packing up the apartment.”

“I can’t believe you kept it a secret,” you tell him. “That must’ve killed you.”

Michael presses his lips to your temple, leaves a soft kiss. “Every day.”

“And that’s why you insisted on moving the boxes yourself,” you realize. “Which is ridiculous.”

“Can’t be too careful.”

This time you kiss him, untangling your fingers to loop your arms around his neck. He’s gentle with you, maybe too much, but you can’t fault him for it. You notice how light his touch his, how he holds you against him like he doesn’t want to hurt you, like he won’t let anyone else harm you or the baby. But the kiss isn’t exactly gentle—it’s fierce and simmering and then blazing hot, just like his skin. You can feel every single fucking thing in it; Michael’s intense love for you, the love he has for your child, the fear and excitement thrumming through his veins, all of it fighting against whatever this world told him he was supposed to be. Whatever he was born for, whatever fucked up purpose he was going to serve, that’s all in the past now.

It’s only you and him and your baby.

And the cat.

The kiss is only broken, the heat tempered when something soft and furry winds in between your legs. Michael groans, all dramatic, as you’re left to catch your breath. He glares down at the pitch black lump rubbing against his pant leg, electric green eyes upturned to you both.

“Well, there’s the fucking cat.”

You snort a laugh. “Figures.” Sighing, you comb your fingers through Michael’s slightly disheveled hair. “Hey there, you little shit. Guess what? You’re going to have to share us in about nine months, and you’re probably going to hate it.”

The little hell beast blinks at you slowly and offers an indignant meow.

Michael’s laugh reverberates in your chest. You feel warm and loved when his hands settle on your stomach, when his nose bumps yours. “He hates us.”

You put a hand on top of his. “Oh, yeah. He’s pissed.”

***

@lastregasolitaria @mylippo @zeciex @lvngdvns @langdonsdemon @wvntersldr @sojournmichael @gabnelson98 @antichristlangdxn @keavysmithxoxo @batgirlbride @dead-witch-boy @boofy1998 @gentianea @cryptid-coalition @kinlovecody @yuriohoe04 @electricurie @marvel-rpdr-and-ahs @gallxntdean @jcshadowkiss-blog @frozenhuntress67 @sebastianshoe @dixmond-taurus @bookobssesed99 @sassylangdon @queenie435 @holylangdon @angsty-otters-blog @denaexr @mr-langdonn @micheallangdons @lostin-fern @crazedcatcuddler @michaelsapostle @wroteclassicaly @monsucre @ritualmichael @queencocoakimmie @bluelancesredswords @theharvestgirloffire @punkysouls @sevenwondr @prettykitten123 @zoebensvn @kylosbabe @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @readsalot73 @americanhorrorstudies @tiny-ruby-seeds @confettucini @xavierplympton @kaetastic

#michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x fem!reader #michael langdon x you #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon fanfiction #ahs apocalypse fanfiction #ahs apocalypse imagine #fic: roommate series

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ladyemberswrites · 4 years

Text

[Oh boy, OH BOY! Like some people are going to hate me for this, but here it goes!]

Author's Notes: Okay, so like I've had this in my drafts for awhile now. So, this is like a very, very rough draft of a Gargoyles Human Au I was working on, but then I ended up changing a whole bunch of things as I went along, so this is pretty much a scraped draft, drabble sort of thing, though I will probably end up keeping many of the main elements in the final product. So, yeah-

!Warnings! [ Adultery/Cheating/References to Toxic and Unhealthy relationships/Age Difference/Age Gaps]

● If any of this isn't your cup of tea this isn't for you!]

Summary: "Elisa?" She hated the way he said her name. He said it so delicately, so soft as if he feared it might break on his tongue. She hated that she loved how he spoke it "Elisa". It made her feel wanted, feel desired, feel protected with just an utterance of her name. And that's where the problem lay.

Why she can't look him in the eyes, but she does so anyways to catch his tired, obsidian eyes.

"We need to talk." She blurts and she can see him physically wince the moment the sentence leaves her lips.

"I know"

It was long after midnight, but of course, New York isn’t called the city that doesn’t sleep for anything.

But, the point was moot.

For the first time, she hated the noise of the city that she called home. The lights too bright, the sounds, the smells of greasy street vendor food made her want to vomit. She just wanted everything to shut up and give her some peace. She wanted to wallow but she had work in the morning so getting drunk like any sane person would have was out of the question.

And the thought of sitting around any longer in the silence of her dark, cramped, shitty apartment made her want to rip her own hair out and scream.

So, where does that leave her?

Not much of choice, no, not really she has a choice, a choice that needed to be made no matter how much she didn’t want to do it. She can be a coward and run, but her mama didn’t raise cowards. She’s no coward even though at this point and time she wanted to be.

To go run and hide away from the big scary world.

The 23rd precinct came into view and her dread only intensified. No one was there which only worsen the feelings even though the building being entirely vacant is a blessing. No one to hear, no prying eyes nor ears. Yet, that didn’t lessen the fear; her heart felt like a rock sitting inside her chest and every exhale and inhale of her breath burned as if her lungs were drawing smoke and brimstone.

The scent of roasted Ethiopian coffee wafts under her nose and it warms her, almost comforting her as she turns the corner and finds the only light in the dark beckoning her. Her feet kept going, they wanted to stop and turn around and run until her feet bleed.

But, she can't. She had to do this, she had to, not just for herself, but for them and too selfishly appease her own guilt that's been gnawing away at her consciousness every waking moment.

The rap of her knuckles across the worn wood sounded like a death toll in her ears. In a way it was.

"Captain Wyvern." Her voice wavered, she sounded so damn mousey and timid, but the door and rumble of his deep baritone made her feel so small and tiny.

"Come in." She didn't notice the tremble of her fingers until she struggled to turn the knob of his office door, she stopped and swallowed, her throat feeling raw and scratchy. Inhaling, she finally finds the courage to open it and meet Goliath's boring stare.

The dark circles of his eyes were hard to ignore nor the fading blemish that stained his dark skin a nasty shade of blue and black. She recoiled at the sight, darting her eyes away to peer at the floor.

"Elisa?" She hated the way he said her name. He said it so delicately, so soft as if he feared it might break on his tongue. She hated that she loved how he spoke it "Elisa". It made her feel wanted, feel desired, feel protected with just an utterance of her name. And that's where the problem lay.

Why she can't look him in the eyes, but she does so anyway to catch his tired, obsidian eyes.

"We need to talk." She blurts and she can see him physically wince the moment the sentence leaves her lips.

"I know" she steps closer, her eyes briefly scanning the mess of his desk scattered files and unfinished documents laid about, a whole pack of cigarettes burnt to their very buds sizzles in the mini ashtray she bought him as a last-minute birthday present. Her eyes lifted to meet his scrutinizing gaze and hated that too, that inhuman inquisitiveness his eyes give off, watching her every movement like that of an apex predator.

"I want to transfer" the words tasted bitter on her tongue, heavy as they were she had managed without tripping over her them in haste. Goliath looked at her like she had just punched a hole through his gut and suddenly that bruise on his face didn't sting so much.

"What?"

"I-want to transfer"

"Why-" as if he didn’t know.

"I overheard you arguing with your wife about me the other night." His face fell blank "Captain-Goliath you know why I can't stay here. You know that I can't." Dammit, she hissed she fumbles with her oversized police bomber and rubs her watering eyes. She hears a creak of his mobile chair and the soft pad of shoes hitting the floor and suddenly he's towering over her.

"Elisa, you belong here" of course she did, didn't she? But, the matter isn't about her sense of belonging, it's about what is right and what is wrong. And she can't stay no matter how much she didn't want to leave, she can't because she knows she won't be able to control herself.

"You're making this harder than it has to be" she mumbles exhausted and emotionally worn "I have to go"

"The problems between me and my wife have nothing to do with you" he's trying to placate her, to affirm what she has so unsuccessfully tried to do for months on end.

"It has everything to do with it me!" She snapped pulling away from his warmth "how can you say that!? I kissed you! And before that, I confessed to you drunk off my ass!" She shouted as she had to hammer those facts into his thick skull because he wanted to ignore the blatantly obvious. To put behind them and pretend that night didn’t exist at all.

You're a married man dammit!" God, she can only imagine what it would've sounded like if the 23 precinct was packed airing her dirty laundry for all to hear without a care in the world. Even in the quiet of the empty halls, she felt beyond mortified.

Goliath watched her almost apathetically mingled with what she had come to know as his " unable to process anything" look.

Whatever torrent of emotions were stirring through him she hadn't the faintest idea. Her captain was known for having a rather volcanic temper, but she had never, ever had him lash out at her, raise his voice yes, but never unadulterated anger. Right now, she wished he would get angry, lash out at her, throw something, flip the desk and let all its contents crash upon the floor. It'd make things easier for her, easier to pack her things and leave and never look back. And not cling to him like a lovesick puppy.

But he doesn't.

He runs a hand through his long mane smoothing it back for a lack of anything better to do or say.

"I need coffee." he mutters. For Goliath its code for "I need a minute to think".

He wanders out his office lost and leaves her behind struggling to keep her dwindling mental state from going straight to utter hell.

The silent tears do the opposite of what she's supposed to do, to keep a level head, but they come anyway, pouring down her cheeks in pathetic, wet globs. By the time he returns with two mugs of piping hot coffee her eyes are red and scratchy and he looks worse than when he left. Still stolid, still uncomfortably rigid as if he's standing trial.

She takes it and sips at it, just the right amount of sweetness she liked because of course, he knew exactly how she wanted it. Because he's attentive and she comes to hate him for that.

"Goliath?"

"Yes."

"Was she right? About what Demona said about you being infatuated me? About having a thing for me?" His chair squeaked, deafening in the silence.

"I-" her brows scrunch "you kissed me back that night. It was brief, but I noticed"

"...Yes…" he confesses and her fingers squeeze her mug so tight she feared it might break.

Brooklyn came in like a whirlwind, slamming the glass door of his office behind him it resounded like a thunderclap. Goliath glanced up from his documents, his prescription glasses sliding off the bridge of his nose.

"What the hell did you do!?"

"Pardon?"

"You're transferring Elisa!?"

He looks away from Brooklyn's accusatory gaze "Yes…"

"Why!?" He slams both hands on his desk "Elisa's a damn good cop and you know it! Just what the everloving hell did she do to make you want to transfer her!" Goliath hardly faltered under his younger brother's fury, he remained passive and unnerved.

"I thought you liked her"

"I do." He murmured, but Brooklyn took note of something, the perks of living with each other so closely for so long.

"But, I'm betting a little much, huh?" His tone was far from sarcastic his voice instead dripped with condescension, if not disgust.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Is that what you're doing!? Huh, covering your own ass because you couldn't keep your dick in your pants!? Never thought you'd stoop so low-"

"Enough!" He barked detesting the very insinuation that he'd kick Elisa to curb, that he'd use her to only abandon her for mere lust made him sick. As understanding he is of his brother's upset; he refuses to be accused of such a low, foul deed. Like a scolded puppy Brooklyn reels away with wide eyes.

"I know you're upset but I will not stand here and let you accuse me of something I did not do."

His gaze sharpened "This is not a decision I make lightly, but it has to be done."

"But, why!?"

"Enough, Brooklyn. You do not need to know the specifics only that I'm transferring Elisa to the 22nd precinct. My decision stands and you will accept it all the same."

"Just like that." He snapped his fingers.

"Yes." He says with finality.

"You're not getting away with this…" he hissed before he tapered away, slamming the door the way he had opened it earlier with a thunderous clatter.

As Brooklyn's loud, angry footsteps recede, Goliath resisted the sudden urge to hurl his mug across the room, to watch it crash and hit the floor, to shatter into a thousand little pieces upon the polished wood.

An appropriate metaphor for his current state of mind.

He heard his office door swing open again this time without a deafening noise.

"Always a lively lad" Hudson jeers. Goliath cracks his knuckles scowling at his desk.

"It is not always a good thing" his mentor hummed "Brooklyn lets his emotions run wild without thought or consequences too often."

"Aye, but the sentiment rings familiar" Goliath grimaced "lettin' one's emotions run rampant"

"I wasn't that bad"

Hudson laughed but shook his head "perhaps, but I'm not speakin of that" his mirth falters "it's about you and the lass"

There's no accusation in his voice.

"There is nothing between me and Elisa" as if it needed to be stated.

"If you're going to be carrying on an illicit affair, ye should be sure the walls don't be having eyes and ears" Goliath stiffened.

"I was in my office gettin some shut eye until the yelling woke me up. Nice thing to wake to seeing the two of you gettin' to know each other" Shame curled at the pit of his stomach his eyes left his mentor's questioning gaze.

"I had a serious lapse of judgment"

"I'll bet!" Goliath swallowed. Hudson crossed the room and took a seat.

"I do not know what's coming over me." He rubbed the bridge of his nose ", this isn't like me, Hudson."

"It'd be love I suppose"

"I don't-"

"Don't love the lass?" Hudson lifted a bushy brow "ye sure?" Goliath didn't answer, he didn't want to answer.

"I'm married, Hudson. A married man with a child! How can you say that!? In fact, you of all people should be furious with me!"

"And say 'I thought I taught you better'?"

"Yes!" he slammed the desk “What I did was wrong! I shouldn’t-I shouldn’t-” he ran both hands over his face in utter frustration “I should never have kissed her the way that I did. I shouldn’t be infatuated with her in the first place! Dammit….”

Goliath did not know what lunch with his wife might entail. He considered canceling out of guilt, but his conscience won in the end. He needed to face her, Demona, his angel, and to confess to her how he betrayed her in the worst possible way. He wasn't looking forward to it as he traps through the tables and chairs of her favorite french restaurant.

"Love." She was eerily at ease "you came."

"Of course."

"You are troubled"

"You stormed away last night. I was worried." Demona only let her lips downturn only a millimeter as she dusted her pencil skirt of invisible dust.

"I suppose I let my emotions get the better of me"

"I-before we eat. I must confess something to you"

"Is it about the Maza woman?" her tone dropped. To be fair her momentary jealousy wasn't as intense as it was before. She felt more aggravated by the fact she hadn't noticed earlier, she hates rude surprises. And what did she have to scorn the Maza woman over anyway? She's rich, she's powerful all gained and created by her very own hands. What exactly did she have to prove to her? It's an embarrassing sentiment, but a sentiment all the same.

Goliath nods mutely and Demona speculates that something serious between must have happened and as he spoke-not as nearly serious as she had thought. However, she found it both shocking and utterly amusing that Goliath of all people-it was almost laughable. He was cute; being completely racked with guilt. This Maza woman had certainly worked a number on him without actually intending to do anything at all. Quite impressive.

"I will not excuse my behavior"

"Why didn't you?"

"What?"

"What caused you to stop?"

"You of course!"

"A bit too late for that."

"I-" he swallowed "Y-yes."

"Seems my assumption was correct then?"

"I'm not going to leave you for another woman"

"But, Maza isn't just another woman." She cuts him off "Is she?"

Goliath froze.

"You feel a strong attraction to her more than anything I can garner "

"That isn't-"

"Isn't what? Why are you trying so hard to deny the obvious truth? You want Maza."

"So what!?" Elisa snaps "Do we just bang each others brains out? Then what?! Be consumed by a lifetime of guilt? Or do we just play pretend and spend the rest of our lives shacking up at some moldy, shitty motel acting like we did nothing wrong once the lights come on?"

Her shoulders sag, her voice cracks "Is that the kind of life you want, Goliath? Living out some lie that we know damn well isn't true?" She wiped her eyes with the back of her palm, she was crying again. Dammit!

Before she knew it, she's enveloped in warmth, his large arms and body wrap around her and she's pressed into his chest. Him and the oversized blue police bomber that he had given her to replace the once she lost on her first-night compasses her.

She inhales his scent; the heady smell of burnt oak.

And before she knows it she crumbles, her vision is blurred, everything outside is nothing more than white static in her ears as she wails against his chest.

A childish part of herself wanted to scream and say it wasn't fair, but she knew she can't-couldn't say it out loud.

"No." He finally says "that isn't the life I want for you." He squeezes her tighter, his fingers brushing through her short hair "you're young, so much younger than I am, you have your whole life ahead of you. I cannot keep you here, no matter how much I want you to stay."

It wasn't fair for him either. Forced to stay within a bitter, toxic marriage. But, that wasn't her issue to meddle in.

She sniffed "you're not that old" her tone is watery, heavy with grief, but she tries to lighten her mood.

"I'm old enough to be your father, Elisa." He says dryly with no ounce of humor.

"Yeah," she sniffs "but you're not my dad." She sniffs again "he's been gone for a long time…now.." as if this wasn't depressing enough, she shudders. Goliath holds her closer, letting his head fall upon her head.

#goliath and elisa #golisa #goliath #gargoyles #brooklyn gargoyles #gargoyles hudson #disney's gargoyles #gargoyles tv show

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sad-af1121 · 5 years

Text

It’s You: Part 2

Summary: In which your date doesn’t go well and you meet a stranger who makes you forget all about it with his witty charm. But no numbers or names are exchanged between you two, leaving you both hopeless yet love crazed, never to find one another. Or so you think. | Modern AU | Requested by Anon | Pairings: Bucky Barnes x CurlyHaired! Reader Word Count: 2.7k Warnings: Full-on fluff & comedyyyy, bickering between sam and bucky, language

A/N: I’m trying to get this story done before August ends and I’m just so happy I’m not experiencing writers' block *crosses fingers* And thank you so much for the incredible feedback from the first part you guys, it’s truly amazing! | Thanking @isaxhorror for giving this a look through! Feedback is welcomed 💜

PART 1

Focused on work, Bucky gnawed the end of his pen, trying to see where he may have messed up his calculations for a new design of technology that Stark Industries hired him to work on. Being an engineer wasn’t Bucky’s golden choice when it came to a career but he was pretty damn good at it. However, as much as he was a hard, talented worker, he always got too buried in once he devoted all his attention to it.

“Buck, it’s almost 5. You can’t wear your work clothes to that date,” Steve breathed, sitting on his desk as the brunette continued to look down at his paper.

“'N why not? I always look good when I come to work,” he stated, leaning back in his chair and twiddling the pen between his fingers now.

Deeply sighing with annoyance, Steve crossed his arms over his chest, giving Bucky a stern look, “For the love of God, please go home and change into something decent. You’ve got grape jelly stains on your shirt. AND you smell of coffee and sweat.”

Bucky pursed his lips and shook his head. Steve did have a point but Bucky couldn’t care less. He opened his drawer and pulled out a Tide pen and Axe spray, two solutions to two problems Steve brought forth. After being stood up, Bucky didn’t want to continue the dating scene until after he felt the need to. As of right now, he wants to get his design done and manufactured before the year ended and having fewer distractions seemed necessary.

“You’re fucking kiddin’ me right?” Steve gritted through his teeth, rolling his head back, “So what you got stood up! Big. Fucking. Whoop. Stop acting like a child. Clint told me his roommate is a really nice girl and with a great personality! Just give it a chance, please? Put yourself in her shoes; would you want a half-ass date?”

The more Bucky thought about it, the more he realized Steve was right. It wasn’t fair and there was no way in hell he was going to ditch the date because being on the receiving end wasn’t fun. If Bucky was being honest, his retaliation and cold demeanor were all because he couldn’t get you out of his mind since last night. To think about someone else when you’re in the presence of another seemed cruel and it toyed with Bucky to the point that he just wished you’d get out from his thoughts. It pained him for wishing that but in a world this big, how was he going to find you; a needle in a haystack.

Looking up at his friend, Bucky slowly sat up, clearing his throat, “Fine, I’ll be the best version of myself I can be.”

A victory smile graced Steve’s face as he placed his hand in front of Bucky, the two high-fiving each other, “Atta boy! And before I forget, her name is Y/N.”

Bucky nodded in acknowledgment.

“What I miss?” Sam walked into Bucky's cubicle with a smile, chewing on his food that he held in a Tupperware.

“Is that my fucking food, Wilson?” Bucky growled, clenching his left fist that sat perfectly on his desk, his brows deepened with anger as he saw the ‘Property of Barnes’ written in Sharpie.

“Mhmm, sure is. I figured since you’re going out for dinner, you wouldn’t mind.” He smiled smugly, taking another bite of the chicken linguine pasta with alfredo sauce; one of Bucky’s favorite meals.

The pen in Bucky's hand snapped in two as his anger progressed. “I hope you choke on it.”

***

The soft panic that resided deep inside your chest kept coming and going, like a wave crashing on the shore. It wasn’t unusual, you were used to having this feeling whenever you were embarking on something new, something that you’ve never come across before. Online dating apps made things easier because you had a face to put with their descriptions and it allowed you to talk to them before setting anything up. But one thing you were good at was keeping your cool when things didn’t seem as bad as your mind had pictured it.

Adjusting the sleeves to your off the shoulder striped blouse, you admired the way your outfit sculpted your body as you gazed into the full-length mirror. You wore black mid-rise jeans with your blouse tucked inside, extenuating your figure a bit more. Loose curls that you were accustomed to wearing down were now stuffed tightly into a bun that rested on the crown of your head, a few loose strands shaping your face. You kept your make-up light and soft which balanced off nicely with a bold berry pink lip and highlight.

While you were lost in thought, Nat entered your room, softly knocking on the door frame in hopes to pull you out from wherever it was you seemed to go when you zoned out. “Damn, you look good.”

Your eyes shifted from your reflection in the mirror to Natasha’s, a smile blossoming upon your lips. “Thanks, I know I do,” you playfully stated, flipping your imaginative hair then turned to face her.

“Is Clint here yet?” She asked.

“He said he'd be here in 5 minutes but that was 10 minutes ago.” You breathed out with a smirk, walking to your closet. “I’ve got an hour before I have to meet up with the guy anyway. I hope he isn’t shitty like the one I had last night.”

“Hmm, that’s right,” she paused with a lop-sided grin. “You’d prefer that so your ‘knight and shining armor’ can save you like he did last night, huh?”

You dropped your shoulders and glared at Natasha, frustration creeping up your throat. “It’s like you want me to kick your ass.”

Natasha snorted with a laugh, “I’d like to see you try.” Her amusement didn’t deflate after you gave her a scowled look, only prompting her to laugh some more.

“Fine, fine! Suppose you’re not interested in the date, do you want me to call and pretend our apartment is flooding or something?”

Thinking, you bit your lip, trying to decipher if that was necessary or not. Then again, you didn’t want your time wasted if you really weren’t all that interested and didn’t see the date progressing to another. “That doesn’t sound like a bad plan. Kinda like an SOS?”

“Exactly!” The red-head beamed, shifting on your bed. “Just shoot me a text and I’ll call. But if you can’t pick up after my second call, I’m coming down there then. Deal?”

“Deal!” You laughed, excited that you had a backup plan just in case. You weren’t sure if you were looking more forward to Nat’s mission to save you or the date in itself, hoping you weren’t being overdramatic.

As your waves of laughter died down, the notification to your phone goes off with Clint’s text appearing across your screen. “I think Clint’s outside,” you wiggled your phone in the air and grabbed your bag before blowing Natasha a kiss goodbye. “See you soon!”

***

A whistle withdrew from Bucky's mouth as he observed the restaurant before him. It was a two-story turn-of-the-century townhouse with a lavish old-wealth charm. The night sky was vacant of any clouds, painting the perfect atmosphere for the event. He was glad Steve sent him home to change out from his basic work clothes to something more compatible with where he’d meet his date.

His hair was brushed back into a neat bun that sat at the base of his neck. The brown blazer he wore fit nicely upon his broad shoulders, the contrast between the warm brown and black t-shirt he wore underneath was a nice combination. His black pants were pressed and sharp without a wrinkle in sight and his black shoes were shined to perfection, enough for him to see his own reflection. The musky scent of his cologne followed as Bucky walked into the establishment, smiling at the man by the front desk who then guided him through the wave of diners.

Seated by the long bay windows, Bucky looked around the room, gazing at the pendant lights that were scattered across. He basked in the architectural beauty, the white walls and furniture creating an illusion of a space so large, that you could fit more than a crowd. The view of the city streets through the windows was the cherry on top. It brought a sort of relaxation to Bucky that he couldn’t quite explain but could get lost in the sea of life.

Sighing with anxiety in his seat, Bucky peered at his watch, reading 5:35 p.m. on the dot. Just another 25 minutes before his date would show up and god knows what was going to happen. He could hope for the best and pray this date doesn’t stand him up or else Bucky was making a date with the bar and its' drinks.

Bzzzt Bzzzt! Bzzzt Bzzzt!

Bucky reacted quickly to the sound of his phone going off in his pocket before grabbing the device out and accepting the call, groaning in silence. “What do you want, Wilson?”

“Did you make it to your destination?”

“Yes! Now leave me alone. She could be here any minute now and I don’t want to be on the phone with you when she does. It doesn’t look good.” Bucky whispered harshly, scanning the room to see if anyone was making their way to the table.

Sam furrowed his brows, “Boy, shut up. I just called to check up on you. Had to make sure you weren’t fucking things up. Now, remember to be nice and smile, okay? She doesn’t wanna see a grumpy cat.” He teased, practically hearing the anger on Bucky’s face.

“At least I can smile without having my teeth look like a picket fence,” Bucky snickered, covering his mouth with his hand from releasing a heartfelt chuckle as Sam let out a chain of curses. Looking around the room once again, Bucky locked eyes with a woman whose face was painted with an expression of disgust and concern. But Bucky doesn’t let that get to him, flashing the couple a sweet smile before looking away.

“Alright alright, I’ve gotta go. Bye.”

A few more minutes passed by and Bucky glanced at his wristwatch again, absentmindedly bouncing his leg with anticipation. As the minutes click away, Bucky's chest weighed heavy, making it harder to breathe properly. He was so nervous that he had to pee really bad but didn’t want to get up from the table. There was a chance you could be coming at any second and he refused to miss that.

But when the waiter comes by to refill his glass of water, the pressure in his abdomen worsened and Bucky had enough. Rising from his seat, he decided to make his way to the gentlemen’s room, knowing he had a few minutes to spare. He didn’t want to stay in discomfort the entirety of the date nor pee himself, the pain a constant reminder of how awkward it was. But before he went, Bucky stopped by the host at the front desk.

“Hey, so I’m stepping into the restroom and if my date arrives, could you possibly notify her and seat her too? I won’t be too long.” He swallowed, earning a nod of approval then rushing towards the men's room.

~ 5 minutes later ~

With a smile painted across your features, you stepped through the doors of the restaurant, looking around the place to capture the sense of atmosphere and energy. You were glad to spot the bar, your tongue craving for something bitter yet sweet to relax your muscles and nerves. Just a little bit of alcohol in your system brought you down from anxiety and it would help in a situation like this. You were jittery and anxious, to say the least, a million thoughts running across your mind. All of what and how the date would turn out; for the best or possibly the worst.

As you’re about to be helped by the host, Bucky treads out from the restroom, peeking over towards his table to see if his date had arrived or not and she hadn’t. Something inside him was relieved but also sad because he wanted to get this night over and done with.

Unable to break his gaze from his table, Bucky hadn’t noticed you were walking in the same direction as he was. Without breaking his stride, he ran into your chest, causing both of you to lose your balance. However, if it wasn’t for Bucky’s swift like movements, he wouldn’t have saved you from falling onto your ass as he firmly gripped your arms and helped you ground your feet onto the surface.

People watched and did nothing, going about their business.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Bucky spluttered, helping you stand up properly as a wave of utter embarrassment and mortification washed over him.

“No no, I'm sorry. I should've paid close attention,” you said, letting go of Bucky and adjusting the strap of your purse over your shoulder. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, I’m fine. What ab-” Bucky paused, his eyes studying your face once he saw who he had collided into. They widened in shock. A happy shock. His stomach felt heavy with familiarity, lips twitching into a cheeky grin. Words didn’t fall out from his mouth, he just stood there like a love-struck puppy, drenched in bewilderment.

When you don’t hear the man finish his sentence, your brows knit together in confusion, prompting you to look up and see his reasoning. And as you do, you stiffen momentarily before your mind registers what was going on.

“Oh my god,” you breathed with a smile slowly building across your face, heart fluttering with every beat.

It was your knight and shining armor.

“It’s you!” you both marveled in unison, laughing that you said the same thing. It was unbelievable, the realization hitting both of you hard and fast.

“What are you doing here? I mean,” you chuckled breathlessly, scrunching your face at your question, “How is it possible to see you here? It’s not like the city is that small.”

“Trust me, I’m as surprised as you are,” Bucky grinned, his jaw dropping with amusement, but it immediately faints away, remembering his reason for being here tonight.

“I, uh, have a date,” he half-heartedly smiled and ducked his head, shoving his hands in his pockets, the twinkle in his blue orbs losing its shine.

“Oh,” you pouted but forced a smile to hide the disappointment, “Me too. I’m supposed to meet him now but… ,” you chuckled, trailing your words as your gaze traveled across various tables.

Bucky remained quiet, scanning the room himself because the tension between you two increased. Becoming awkward and frustrating.

“I got worried for a sec.” He admitted, breaking the silence.

You turned your attention back on him, eyes raking over his facial features. “And why is that?”

He cocked his head, “I thought it was the same guy from last night.” Bucky smirked, recalling the incident.

“Oh god no! Why would I after his behavior,” you laughed, placing your hands on your chest. Lips urged to smile hard but you bit it from doing so, feeling your cheeks warm up in the presence of Bucky. You both stared at each other with soft eyes, silence casting its blanket over you two again but a good kind.

The host cleared his throat, pursing his lips with a grin as his eyes darted between you and Bucky. Realizing what time it was, you snapped back to the depressing depths of reality. “Well, I don’t want to keep your date waiting.”

“Neither do I,” Bucky swallowed, turning his attention to the host.

“Please, would you both come with me and I’ll escort you to your table,” he informed, earning confused looks from you and Bucky.

Assuming the host would guide both of you to your appropriate tables, you quietly follow the gentleman before sensing something was way off. Hesitantly, you peered over at Bucky who had the same look as you did, a mixture of fear and uncertainty.

As the distance to the table grew closer and closer, it clicked in your brains.

“James?”

“Y/N?”

PART 3

___________

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devilrising · 5 years

Text

Fallen Draco, Pt. 12

This story is following a prompt set by @mymindsmadness

Summary: AU where Draco is a fallen angel, and the way he gets his wings back is by guiding Harry in defeating Voldemort, but it all goes wrong when Draco starts falling in love with Harry.

Word Count (Part 12): 3,382

Word Count (Total): 38,650

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Mentions of abuse/torture (non-graphic)

***

24th April, 1998

An entire week passes in a blur. Rapid movement would be the two best words to sum it all up. Hermione had indeed Apparated to Weasley that time in Rivington Woods, but not because she was annoyed or disgusted. No, instead she left because of a coin in her pocket? The details are a little bit fuzzy, but she said something about ‘the DA’ and ‘encrypted’. It’s probably a form of communication, and I will have to find out in more detail. Regardless, Weasley had called her out to the Forest of Dean. When Harry and I had finally arrived close to an hour later — after talking things through and deciding that we are both in for the long haul — the clearing was bustling with activity. There were even more plans in place that I had no idea about, including something to help rescue Mother.

Thoughts of my mum pull me from my mind, and I glance over to the still vacant room across the hallway. Grimmauld seems to know that something is wrong, trying desperately to cheer all of its occupants up with random bursts of new colour on the walls, or random vases on cabinets that appeared from thin air. Harry and I are still in our separate rooms, but Hermione and Weasley (who is very annoyed that I can’t quite call him Ron yet) share a room on another floor. The house is also filled with other people that Harry seems to have collected somehow. He assures me that each of them serves a specific purpose, but I haven’t been told what those purposes are. I haven’t been told much of anything.

“Draco, here you are!” My attention snaps to Harry at the sound of his voice, and I watch as he walks into the drawing room. Flopping down onto the sofa next to me, he runs his eyes over my wings. I’ve stopped trying to spell them away or cover them, and now they are permanently out in the air. Harry seems absolutely fascinated by them.

“Here I am,” I concede. “You after something?”

“A man can’t stop and talk to his boyfriend occasionally?”

A blush creeps up the back of my neck. The word ‘boyfriend’ still feels exceedingly odd. “Oh please,” I say. “You never see me during the day, you’re working,” I chide. “And it’s very important work, so if you aren’t asking me something then you should probably head back.”

Harry scowls half heartedly. “What if I was using you as an excuse to leave?” He laughs, unable to keep the serious expression on his face for long.

I roll my eyes. “That’s what I am to you? An excuse?!”

“Of course not Dray!” I glare at the horrid nickname that Harry has shifted into using. “I merely needed a distraction.”

I cock my head at him, and his eyes widen. I scowl, knowing exactly what he is staring at. “Yes Harry,” I sigh. “There are feathers. There have been feathers for just over a week by now.”

“I know,” Harry winges. “But they’re gorgeous.”

I shake my head and twist around on the sofa so that my back is to Harry. I can feel his grin from behind me as I lay back into his chest. My wings fold slightly, uncomfortable. They don’t stay like that for long though, not with Harry running a reverent hand across them. He smooths them out and caresses the dull-looking feathers. I had assumed that by now they would be back to lush white, but no. Still the ugly brown. Sometimes I wonder if they’ll ever change back. Maybe my life is too far tainted for the consequences to ever truly leave.

“What are you thinking of?” Harry asks slowly.

“Nothing,” I shake my head. “Just wondering if my feathers will become white again or not.”

“That’s not it,” Harry says. “The thoughts looked much darker than that.”

Sighing, I reply, “What if my life is too dark, and they are permanently stained…”

Harry rubs soothingly across my feathers, calming me down just as I was about to spiral out of control. There is nothing positive in my past to look back on, it’s just not worth it.

“Harry! Draco!” A head of bushy hair rushes into the drawing room. “I thought I’d find you in here,” Hermione says as she hurries towards us. Her eyes roam over our position on the sofa, and a blush reappears on my cheeks. I can’t find it in myself to move though, so she’ll have to get over it.

“We have word on your mother,” she reveals, not sparing a second glance to the way we’re sitting.

I leap up, sprinting off of Harry as I grab for her. Gripping her shoulders tightly, I stare at her,wordless. Until I’m not. “How is she?!” Is the first thing to leave my mouth. “Where is she?!” That’s a much more sensible question than the first, but both are equally important.

“She’s doing good considering where she is,” Hermione says. I don’t like the sound of that. Reading the look in my eyes, she sighs. “Lucius has her in th-”

“My father has her! She’ll die!” I yell.

Hermione winces at the loud noise at such close proximity. “If you’d let me finish…” I nod.

“She is in the Ministry of Magic, being held and awaiting trial for crimes against the Ministry.”

How Hermione manages to stay as calm as she is is beyond me. My body starts shaking in rage, and Harry leaps up to stand behind me. His hand rubs comfortingly along what he can reach of my back, but upon deciding that’s too hard, he instead walks to my side and places his head on my shoulder. My eyes start burning, and I feel my dissolve start to crumble.

“Crimes against the Ministry?” Harry asks for me. “Like treason?”

Hermione nods solemnly. “Lucius is still considered a reliable source to the Wizengamot,” she explains. “His word as Head of Malfoy House overrides her’s, especially as a woman in a court full of old-fashion men.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Harry exclaims. I go rigid under his touch, and he presses a kiss to my shoulder.

“It’s preposterous, but it’s the way of the world,” I say, defeated.

“You can’t think like that Dray!” Harry says, reaching a hand up to caress the back of my neck. “Everything will be okay.”

“You can’t promise me that, Harry.” I turn my head to look at him. “This is war, bad things happen. Mother being trialed is just another strike Lucius is using against me.” Lucius, not my father. I’m done relating the two, I can’t consider him my flesh and blood any longer. Not with how everything is turning out.

“I have more,” Hermione announces. I’d forgotten she was in the room. Harry and I focus our attention back on her, and she clears her throat. “We have people arriving there as we speak. Their goal is to persuade the Wizengamot to vote her innocent.”

“And by persuade you really mean…?” Harry asks. As I said, this is war. We need to go to any length possible to ensure we win. Voldemort can’t be allowed to rule over the world.

“Manipulate,” Hermione says with a shrug. “If that doesn’t work, then maybe a couple of Unforgivables.” It sounds so matter-of-fact, coming from a girl who never would have imagined using those spells two years ago.

Harry nods and wraps her into a hug. “Thank you,” he whispers. I smile to myself, watching their casual affection and how well they know each other after years of friendship.

“Draco?” Hermione addresses me.

“Hermione,” comes my response.

“Do you want to come with us? To retrieve Narcissa?”

I don’t even have to think about my answer. “Yes!”

***

Despite originally being ecstatic about helping rescue Mother, I have since realised just how much work goes into these missions. Harry has placed our usual Glamours back on, but that’s just skin level and is very easy to remove. Hermione takes over once my skin is freckled, altering traces of my magic. I can feel it pulse within me, crashing around wildly. She assures me it will calm down after a little while, but with the way it’s acting I worry it might explode out of me. Hermione then works to change my scent, my weight and height, and some more intricate details that Harry skimmed over. When presented with a mirror, it’s like I’m inside someone else’s body. Harry might have done a good job when I was just him, but Hermione’s spell work truly takes the disguise to another level. A pang of loss rings in my chest though, my wings hidden away for the first time in a week. Oh well, it needs to be done. For Mother.

Harry gets transformed too, and then we are rushed out of the drawing room and into the kitchen. There is basically an army sitting around on the tiles, the table having been taken hours ago by the first people to have arrived.

Who are these ones, Granger?” A man wearing maroon robes asks Hermione as she steps in behind us.

“Daniel Gresham and Thomas Anstey.” Those are the names she picked out for us, further away from our real names than the ones we usually go by.

The man walks over to us and shakes Harry and I’s hands firmly. “Pleased to have you, Gresham and Anstey.”

I don’t respond, too busy taking everything in.

There are witches and wizards everywhere, dressed in high end robes and carrying wands that are poised; ready to be used in a moments notice. Harry and I are pushed into the crowd with instructions to stretch our muscles and then find a Portkey. Having both been on the Quidditch teams back at Hogwarts, stretching doesn’t take very long. Mine are a little bit stiff, less flexible than usual due to being in hiding for a month and a half. Harry doesn’t seem to have the same problem, racing through his own stretches and warm ups before watching me go through my own more slowly.

“You look beautiful,” he says. I blush. He makes me blush so easily, it’s actually pathetic. Cursing my pale skin, I shake my head at him in exasperation.

“That’s all you can think about right now? The way I look and not what we are about to do?”

“Well, I’m thinking about that too. But I couldn’t remember the last time I told you how good you look, so I figured I might as well now.” To Harry’s credit, he looks at least a little bit sheepish.

“Two days ago, Ha- Daniel.” Nearly messed up. No one can know our real identities, even though we are on the same side. Lucius and his lord can’t know we are involved in this, otherwise the consequences could be grave.

“Two days!” Harry exclaims. “I missed yesterday!”

I scoff. “You don’t need to say it every day,” I tell him. “It might lose its effect,” I whisper.

Standing up and shaking my legs out, I pull Harry to his feet. He presses a cheeky kiss to my nose, earning himself a whack to the side of his head. Rubbing the spot and wincing, he glares at me. I shrug, pecking his mouth as an apology.

“When you two are done being sickly, grab a portkey!” The man from earlier shouts from across the room to us. Harry and I nod hurriedly and find the closest portkey; a muggle notebook like the one Hermione uses. I gaze at Harry, taking in his serious face, before my stomach turns and the world twists around.

***

The world comes back into focus in the Ministry of Magic’s main thoroughfare. Floos whoosh around us, workers walking hurriedly through the passages and corridors to get to wherever they’re going. Our group of five takes a bit of time to check out where we need to go, and then a witch whose declared herself leader of the four wizards confidently makes her way through a corridor and into an elevator. Despite having spent the last two hours preparing for this, I’m not really sure what we’re doing. Apart from rescuing Mother, I don't have the faintest idea. When I turn to ask Harry if he knows, I become stuck in my place. The dark blue, glowing brick walls flicker in and out for a second while my eyes catch on swirling robes. I’d recognise the, anywhere. Lucius wears ones just like them. Shaking my head in my paranoia, I force myself to keep walking. There’s no way it’s Lucius.

Except when I look closer, it most definitely is. His platinum hair has been cut short, and is now worn similarly to the way I wear mine. The style of an unmarried pureblood. If anything, that knowledge makes me glad. Mother and I will no longer have to live in the Manor with Lucius and his lord, the evil we were forced to serve for years. Apart from that, the man who I used to consider my father looks exactly the same from the back. I tear my eyes away and catch Harry’s, trying to communicate with him though my eyes. His widen as I flick my gaze to Lucius, and he seemingly understands. What if the magic woven through Harry and I doesn’t hold? What would Lucius do? As we walk past him and enter an elevator I allow myself to exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding. I need to tell the others.

“Guys-” I stop speaking before I’ve even begun. Lucius has turned around and is making his way towards the lift. The wizard with dark brown hair next to me recognises him, and whispers into the witch’s ear. Panic crosses her face for less than a second, but then she shakes her head. Lucius has to enter, otherwise it would be suspicious. Swallowing hard and placing my features into the mask I’ve spent years perfecting; the one he taught me, I force myself to calm down. I’m under numerous enchantments and I couldn’t recognise myself, there’s no way the man who pretended to be my father would be able to. Right?

While he’s walking into the lift, I allow myself to scan his face. It’s just as pointy and pale as usual, only now there’s a jagged scar cutting him from his forehead to his chin. That’s joined by a few new wrinkles he’s never allowed himself to have before. Probably the only reason he’s kept the marks is to gain other people’s sympathy. Forcing myself not to scowl and lash out, I reach for Harry’s hand. Except Harry doesn’t take it. Instead he pulls away slowly. When I look at him, he smiles softly but makes no move to do anything more than that. I understand, we’re on mission. I’ll have to get through this by myself. When the elevator finally jolts into action, my hands fly up to the ceiling to grab one of the hand holds. More than a couple of the people in the lift look at me, smirking. Huffing, I spread my legs and bend into my knees slightly to keep my balance.

The group of rescuers is meant to depart on the fifth floor, and I can only hope that Lucius gets off before that. The lift pings and a woman’s voice announces the floor.

“Level Two,” she says. “Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Improper Use of Magic Office; Auror Headquarters; and Wizengamot Administrative Services.” I wince at the loud volume of the announcement.

My wish seems to come true though as he gets off on the second floor, leaping out of the elevator and all but running down one of the corridors. Either he is late for something, or terrified of the five of us. Then my brain seems to catch up.

“Do they know where Narcissa is exactly?” I ask the witch.

She shakes her head at me, at the person she thinks is just another wizard. Not Narcissa’s only son. “Not exactly, no,” she confesses. “All we know is that she is being held on the fifth floor near the International Magical Office of Law.” She rattles off the name as if it’s committed to memory. It probably is.

“What if she has been moved? To the second floor near Wizengamot Administrative Services?” Lucius rushing down there can not be coincidental. He never does anything without a very strong motive.

“It’s possible,” she confirms, running a hand through her short hair. Only then does it seem to click in her mind. “Oh!” She exclaims. “Let me handle this, I’ll get word back to base.” I merely nod.

“Level Three,” the recorded voice calls out. “Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes; Obliviator Headquarters; and Muggle-Worthy Excuses Committee.” Two elderly women step into the elevator, cutting any possible conversations short. They look nice enough, but in this moment they are incredibly frustrating and they don't even know it. The whole group seems to heave a sigh as the annoying voice announces the fourth floor and the women get off.

“Great idea Anstey,” the leader of the group says to me. For a second I’m really confused, until remembering the name Hermione picked out for me. “Base will most likely send a different team down to investigate, and we will continue to progress as required.”

I nod, pursing my lips. As much as I’d like to be able to be part of that team, no one on this one can know my identity. If something goes drastically wrong, them knowing could be the death of me. And by extension, Harry. I can’t let that happen. I haven’t survived as much as I have just to die at the hands of someone less than my father. Not by any means less than what I endured at the Manor. Harry catches my gaze and I look at him, taking in his new body for the hundredth time. The angles are all wrong, not at all the soft yet sharp ones he’s had since Fifth Year. Shaking my head to clear it, I focus my attention straight ahead again. This time when the elevator dings and the doors open, everyone files out. Fresh air has never felt so lovely. Four floors above the level we arrived on, and the walls are still flickering. Someone must not be paying enough attention to their job.

The witch whose named herself leader stares at the two corridors for a second, before walking down the one on the left. One of the wizards, a man with dark blond hair, asks if she’s sure it’s the right one, and she nods after a moment's hesitation. Not as sure as I’d like, really. Regardless, our group makes its way down the hallway before turning into one of the rooms. It’s spacious, plainly coloured, and very practical. The sign above the door reads ‘International Magical Office of Law’ and my pulse slows slightly. I don’t know what had me so paranoid, but I’m glad when my breathing evens back out to normal. The witch enters the office first, followed by the other two wizards, leaving Harry and I to take up the back. We exchange quick glances before stepping into the room. As we cross the threshold, the lights flicker and the door slams behind us. I whirl around and try the handle, just to find it locked in place. Panic takes over me, my palms sweating slightly.

The wizard with short, dark brown hair pushes me aside and tries the handle himself, while the witch lights her wand. Harry joins her in looking around the room, leaving me with the wizard with dark blond hair. The man catches my gaze and nods to me, gesturing to his wand held low in his hand beside him. Confused, my eyes flick down to it. He slowly waves it through the air, creates a string of floating letters. By the time I take in the almost blood-like colour of the script, the lights are totally out. The words glow in the dark now, and I finally see them spelling out the terrifying sentence ‘got you now’.

***

A/N: Here is the next part, right on time! first time in months but who cares. I hope you enjoyed this part, and feel free to leave me a comment (or a few xD). Love you all Xx

Masterlist — Previous Part — Next Part

@draconianhorntail @p3trovass @edgy-things @queeneyart @ohheavenlylord @h0pehauntedmyw0rld @unsolicted-chick-picks @itsclayclay @harrybpoetry @slash-slut @jianing2603 @magical-fairy-princess-stuff @give-me-the-queer @youmakeprettybeautiful @hello-i-am-moi @slytherclaw134689 @sinnysin-sin @lafilleetlechatnoir @rebelwolf91017 @irrelevantdrarry @glo-up-goddess @birdy1032 @d-addict @pizzasandwich72 @madison-is-a-small-baby @joshoriande @sugarhoneyice-t @imaginemymemories @shipperofalltheships @uniiicornen @thewanderingnomadsworld @randominternetloser @levi7755 @localxmermaid @biyaaaaaaaaaa @just-some-bibliophile @pizzabitch @champagnemonarch

#devilrising #fallen draco #drarry #hpdm #drarry fanfic #drarry ficlet #drarry fanwork #drarry fanfiction #harry potter #draco malfoy #fanfic #my writing

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irelise · 5 years

Text

(high fantasy au ficlet)

i’m feeling a bit rusty with writing so i just whipped up something short and sweet...! part 1 of probably 2

based on this prompt

dnd campaign pitch: the king sends you to kill a dragon that’s been ravaging the lands but when you get there it turns out the dragon only has a price on it’s head because it has sensitive information about the king’s political scandals and it needs your help leaking them to the press

After the servants clear away the dishes, after Lord Shaw explains his reasons for summoning him in the first place, Charles only says: “The Grey King? A rather odd name for a dragon, that.” “But a fitting one.” Charles’ liege lord motions for a servant to refill their winecups. “Grey for the colour of its scales, grey for the ashes it leaves in his wake – or so the smallfolk report. It must be stopped.”

"You must know that I'm a poor choice for this, I've always believed that man and dragon-"

"Can live in harmony, yes." Shaw interrupts, looking bored. "I heard you the first twenty times. But you've heard what this beast has done. You still believe you can make peace?"

"Always," Charles says firmly, and Shaw laughs.

"Oh, dear Charles, that's why you're my favourite." The glint of greed in Shaw's eyes is nothing new, but as always, Charles elects to ignore it, taking a calm sip of his wine.

Shaw drinks as well. "Oh, fine then." He waves a careless hand. "I'll send someone else to deal with it."

"No, no, I'll be glad to handle the matter. I just think resorting to killing right away is not the answer."

"What, you planning to talk it into submission?"

"There must be a reason for what it's doing. I'm going to find out what it is."

"It'll kill you." Shaw's eyes bore into him. "No, not physically, that would be a kindness. It'll turn your mind against itself. It'll turn you against us, you, my best knight. It'll make you its slave, is that what you want?"

***

On his second week of hard riding, Charles catches a glimpse of the dragon.

The sun hangs low in the sky, bathing the world in the orange-red glow of fire when, without warning, a swift shadow passes over Charles. Charles snaps his head up, eyes scanning the skies - there! Sunlight reflects off the dragon's wings, outstretched in flight. They gleam like sheets of burnished metal, darkly iridescent, a thousand different subdued colours of the rainbow shimmering across the iron-like span.

The dragon doesn't seem to be hostile. It's not burning and destroying, it's not even hunting; it simply is. It soars in long, lazy patterns, and Charles' breath catches at the sight of its beautiful, deadly splendor.

He watches it for a long time, an unnameable ache in his chest, until it disappears into the horizon.

***

"A big grey dragon? I've seen it a few times in the distance, but if it's been causing trouble, it's not hereabouts."

"Only problem we've had lately is from drakes, I've not heard anything about this Grey King of yours."

"I heard it lairs a few days west of here, but I've never seen the thing myself."

It's the same story no matter where he goes: nobody has ever seen the dragon up close, and nobody has ever had their land and animals and family razed to the ground. The dragon doesn't even take livestock, preferring to do its hunting elsewhere. Charles' own eyes confirm the story: the villages he passes are industrious but peaceful, their fields ripe and golden, ready for the harvest. The people are welcoming and their children play out in the open, in meadows dotted with wildflowers, not a single hint of fear to be seen. It is not the look of a region devastated by a dragon. Just what is Shaw playing at?

Then Charles comes upon the garrison.

It's the smell of burning that first attracts his notice. Then he sees the smoke, rising in grey clouds above the treetops. Instantly alert, Charles urges his horse into a faster trot.

When he comes to the end of the road, he's greeted with a scene of devastation. The stone walls of the garrison are scorched and blackened, the heavy gate of reinforced wood an unrecognizable heap of charred ashes.

Worst of all are the bodies piled up at the gate, soldiers cut down by fang and claw and flame as they fled for their lives. Useless, against a dragon. Charles scans the skies - there are still fires burning, the attack can't have been very long ago - but there's nothing, nothing except smoke.

Charles dismounts quickly, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other moving in quick, precise gestures as he mutters the words of a shield spell. Not many have the mixture of innate talent and ironclad discipline necessary for the study of magic; he's one of the few battlemages serving under Shaw, and the strongest.

Perhaps too strong. Charles grimaces as his magic flares, fire-sparks whiting out his vision, but he's adept by now at wrestling his magic back under his control. Once his vision returns to normal, he starts forward cautiously, only stopping when he reaches the grisly pile of bodies. The garrison is a small one; it wouldn't be manned by any more than twenty soldiers, and almost half that number are here.

All those lives, snuffed out in an instant. Charles pushes back his sorrow and drops to one knee, critically examining the injuries: gashes, mainly, but not so large and deep that they would have come from one of those ancient, massive wyrms capable of slicing a man in half with a glancing blow. The dragon he's dealing with can't be much larger than a young adult, although of course dragon morphology can vary greatly...

Charles climbs back to both feet, heading deeper into the garrison. There are more bodies strewn on the ground, many of them clutching bloodied weapons; they must have landed a few good hits on the dragon. It wasn't enough to save them. Charles' heart sinks the longer he searches, not a single living soul to be found

Then he rounds a corner and he sees a wild-eyed soldier with his sword drawn, poised to thrust it through the chest of an unconscious figure lying on the ground.

Charles doesn't stop to think. "Fus!" A blast of concussive force leaps from his outstretched hand, slamming the soldier to the ground. Charles draws his own sword as he steps forward. "What's going on here?"

"Back off!" The soldier snarls, scrabbling for his sword. Charles kicks it further away. "He's working with the dragon! I've seen him skulking around these past few days, he-"

"He is an unarmed, unconscious man!" Charles crouches down next to him. To his surprise, the man's eyes are open, but glassy and unfocused. Blood stains the wooden floor under him, and Charles can see cruel lacerations across his chest.

But his clothing is strange; nothing like what the men of the garrison wear. And that face... There's something familiar about the sharp cheekbones, the glint of copper in his hair. Charles frowns, trying to place it, but his concentration is broken by a snarl from the soldier. He had pulled himself back to his feet and is now making another lunge for his sword, but Charles intercepts him easily, snatching the sword away from his fumbling grip.

"Enough of this," he says sternly. "My name is Charles Xavier, I'm one of the knights sworn to the service of Lord Sebastian Shaw. Just what is going on here?"

"I came back from patrol to find - this. I looked-" The soldier's voice cracks. "Everyone was dead. Except him. I told you, I've seen him! He's been spying on us! And now..."

It's a story full of gaping holes and tenuous connections - certainly not enough for Charles to order the execution of a defenseless man. "I know you're grieving and angry, but killing him now will be a mistake. There's too much we don't know. He may be an innocent man, as much of a victim of this attack as you are."

"You don't know what you're talking about," the man snarls, helpless fury contorting across his face. "All you high and mighty knights, you don't know-"

"I will take him back to the city," Charles interjects firmly. "We'll question him thoroughly, I promise you. Come with us. Your testimony will be invaluable."

"Fuck you." All at once, the fury leaves the soldier. He slumps against the wall. "Do what you want. You'll wake up to a knife in your back tonight, and I'll bury your body along with the rest."

***

The injured man goes quietly with Charles, docile as a lamb, his eyes still vacant and dazed. As much as his heart aches for him, Charles takes no chance: he binds the man's arms and searches him for weapons before he brings him away from the garrison.

"I have medical supplies in my saddlebag, but we'll ride back to the closest village to get you proper treatment. I'm afraid you'll have to stay with me for awhile, until we get all of this sorted out."

Charles is sure that the man hears him, but he gives no response, and the vacant look in his eyes doesn't fade. Shock? But no, there's something buzzing at the edges of Charles' magic-sense, a whisper that something isn't quite right... He directs the man to sit on the grass, carefully arranging him to rest against the trunk of a tree as he removes his shirt to clean and dress his wounds. They don't look like wounds that have come from a dragon's fangs or claws. If anything, they look like wounds inflicted by a blade.

"You saved me."

Charles starts, gaze flicking up to meet the stranger's pale eyes. The blankness has not entirely faded, but there's an intensity not present before.

"I would not condemn a man to death without knowing all the facts," Charles says. "Although now that you're lucid, I hope you can give me some answers. How are you feeling?"

"I've had worse before. I'll recover." The man grimaces. Charles can't place his accent - it's a mix of many things, some of them infuriatingly familiar, a fading memory he can't properly grasp. "Am I your prisoner?" He shrugs his bound arms.

"Unfortunately, yes, you were found under some rather suspicious circumstances." Charles gives him a small smile, wanting to show the man that he does not mean to treat him unkindly, despite his status. "May I have your name?"

"Erik. Erik Lehnsherr."

"Charles Xavier, a sworn knight under Lord Sebastian Shaw. I promise you, I will ensure you are treated fairly and with justice."

Rather than look comforted, Erik skewers him with a sharp look. "Shaw? Sebastian Shaw?"

"You must know of him, surely, these lands are under his rule. Are you a traveler?"

"You could say that."

Charles frown, giving the man's shoulder a brief squeeze. His skin is terribly cold and clammy. "I would advise you to be forthright in your answers. You're in a great deal of trouble, my friend."

Erik barks a sharp laugh. "Fine. Ask your questions."

"What were you doing at the garrison?"

"Attacking it, what else?"

Charles' composure fractures, and he stares at Erik in open shock. "...I'm sorry?" He manages. There are still bandages in his hands, and Erik is smiling at him, teeth bared, fierce and hungry yet without a shred of malice. If anything, he seems entertained.

"You heard me."

"I did - I'm sorry, I'm just very..." He shakes his head, knowing Erik is deliberately throwing him off-balance. "You were working with the dragon? You're admitting it openly?"

"Yes. Problem?"

"Many," Charles snaps, the broken, bloody corpses flashing in his memory. "All those men, Erik! Why?"

"It was justice," Erik growls. "I've heard of you before, Charles Xavier. Shaw's right hand, his keenest blade, his most powerful mage. He sent you to slay a dragon, didn't he?"

Charles watches him with warily. "He did, but killing it was not my intention."

"Good. Because he wants to meet you."

#cherik #xmfc #my writing

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