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ethereousdelirious · 1 month

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FINALLY managed to write something for my special little sensitive crybaby princess OC. I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing.

There are a few context things I'd like to explain, so bear with meeee

(He has the flu in this. There's mentions of nausea at the end, but nothing happens with it)

Some Context (this is optional so just scroll down to the bolded text if you want to skip):

I've written about these characters before, but I've changed the world and plot of the novel they're supposed to be in, so if you remember anything about that world, just flush it.

Since this is essentially fanfiction of a story that doesn't exist yet, here are some things you're supposed to know about the characters: All of them are in their mid-20s. Hewitt and Sterling are close friends and have recently met Gilles, who had to move out of his family home after they all moved back to France without him (long story). Or fantasy France. I haven't decided if this fic takes place in the "real" word, so to speak, or a fantasy/alternate world. I'll use real world terms for now to make it easier. Gilles is Black and originally from France. Hewitt is white and British. Sterling is extremely mixed race and American.

You'll see Hewitt making vampire jokes at Gilles and referring to Sterling as "Adonis," which are both references to inside jokes woth the characters that I'm not gonna bother to explain because it doesn't matter

Sterling uses Celsius measurements when he's trying to be courteous to his European friends and Fahrenheit when he's alone or distracted.

Okay das all I think

Story starts here

Gilles’ belongings sat in a disordered pile on the cobblestones, dwarfed by the narrow three-story house looming behind them. He swallowed, throat stinging. This was it.

Sterling bumped him a little on his way to the front door, murmuring his apology. Gilles scarcely heard. Even that light touch had made him flinch, sent goosebumps all up and down his arm. His heart pounded. This was really it.

God, he didn't know these people. What if they killed him in his sleep?

“Gilles?” Hewitt bumped him with his hip. That, too, hurt more than it should have, made him shudder. “Are you waiting for an invitation?”

Gilles shook himself and forced a smile. These were his friends. New friends, yes. But friends. “It's only polite, you know.”

“Fine, but just know I have garlic hanging on all the walls.” Hewitt grinned and beckoned Gilles to follow him over the threshold. “Come inside! Oh, but grab a box or Adonis will yell at us.”

“Have I ever yelled at you?” Sterling asked, appearing in the doorway. “Gilles, don't listen to him. I'll need you to help me with the furniture anyway, since Heaven knows Hewitt won't be able to.”

Gilles nodded, following Sterling to his dresser. The glossy wood gleamed in the late summer sun, and the beveled edges dug into Gilles’ palms.

“Well,” Hewitt said, “have fun carrying that up two flights of stairs.”

“There's still plenty of work for you to do,” Sterling said, nodding at the various boxes surrounding them. “But being a distraction is not among them. Ready, Gilles?”

“Ah—” Gilles swallowed and his throat stung again. Worse, this time. “Yes.”

His muscles protested the weight of the dresser at once. Every discomfort, which had felt so insignificant not 30 minutes ago, magnified itself as he shuffled across the living room.

That wasn't right.

He and Sterling had carried this out of his house— out of the house with no problems. It wasn't even that heavy. So why were his legs shaking? Why couldn't he breathe? They were still on flat ground.

“Coming up on the stairs,” Gilles said breathlessly, steering Sterling toward them.

Sterling gave him a quizzical look, his dark eyes narrowing. “Are you alright?” he asked. “Need a break?”

“I— N-no, I…” Gilles shook his head and had to stop talking to focus on ascending the stairs. His knees bumped the edges of the dresser and the sharp pain rippled outward along his skin. “I'm fine.” The words burned in his throat.

“Al‐right.” Sterling furrowed his brow and hefted the dresser.

He seemed to be doing a lot better than Gilles was, despite the obvious effort. His breathing, though heavy, remained steady as they bypassed the landing and continued up the stairs, and he was remarkably steady on his feet. He seemed to have the layout of the house memorized, oftentimes turning before Gilles could even give him an instruction.

Not that Gilles was good for much at the moment. Pain pooled in his palms. The dresser might as well have sliced them open, though the only liquid on him was sweat. It ran down his temples, down his back.

“It's here on the left,” Sterling said, though there was no need. The doorway to the right clearly led outside, and the only other option was to go left.

Dutifully, Gilles shuffled into the vacant bedroom, and then the dresser slipped from his hands and thudded onto the carpet. His whole body shook, his thighs tensing and releasing in minute spasms. He clung to the side of the dresser, staring at the silver dots glittering across the beige carpeting.

“Gilles?” Sterling sounded like he was back at the bottom of the stairs. But that couldn't be right. Maybe it was just… his breathing…. He was breathing so hard his chest hurt, and it was loud. “Gilles?”

He went down slowly, eyes open, and the room tilted in a sickening whirl of white and beige, and the ceiling light seared his eyes.

Somebody had a hard grip on his ankles, shoving the leather of his low-cut boots hard into the tendons.

Gilles’ throat hurt.

He stared at the ceiling light and his breath came back to him.

“Gilles? Are you with me?” Sterling asked.

Gilles lifted his head. Sterling… Sterling was holding his feet up by the heels, staring at him with clinical concern.

Heat flooded Gilles’ face. “What are you doing?”

Sterling let go of him and sat back on his heels. “Facilitating blood flow to your brain.” He cocked his head as Gilles sat up, staring at him. “Do you faint often?”

“N-no.” Gilles squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. It hurt to talk. “I've never fainted before.” A wave of chills rolled over his skin and he shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. How embarrassing. He must have looked like such a fool, overexerting himself like that.

Not that it should have been so difficult. What was wrong with him?

“Er, Gilles. You're shaking.”

“I'm sorry,” Gilles croaked, the words burning like acid in his throat.

“What— No, It's 28 degrees and you're shaking.” Sterling leaned forward and hesitated. “May I?”

Gilles blinked at him, tears pricking his eyes. “28 degrees?”

“Oh—” Sterling huffed and planted his hand on Gilles’ forehead. “You're sweating. That's good. How's your head?”

Gilles' breath caught in his throat. He flinched away from Sterling and coughed into his shoulder, all his muscles complaining at the motion.

“Never mind.” Sterling sat back again.

Oh. Gilles shivered and tried to sit up, but couldn't tear his arms away from his chest. “I'm so sorry,” he croaked, clawing at his collar. “I didn't know— I can—” What? There was nothing he could do. He was sick, and all his worldly belongings were sitting in the street. “I, I can— I can still—” He moved to stand up, forcing his arms down despite the painful chills running through him. Another coughing fit nearly knocked him down again, and he clung to his dresser, legs wobbling.

“Gilles, relax.” Sterling stood and, not asking permission this time, caught him under the arm. “Can you manage the stairs?”

“Y-yes…” He would manage the stairs. He'd have to be half-dead before he'd let anyone carry him.

Hewitt's puzzled expression melted into one of alarm. “What happened?” he asked, rushing forward, then darting out of the way like he'd changed his mind.

Gilles couldn't help but wince in anticipation of his humiliating episode repeated.

But Sterling remained silent as he guided Gilles to the couch, only speaking once Gilles was seated. “Gilles’ come down with something,” he said, calm as ever. “The flu, I think.”

“Really?” Hewitt peered at him like a child, blue eyes gleaming like marbles. “But you helped us move all that furniture onto the wagon.”

Gilles shrugged. If he’d been sore then, he hadn't thought much of it. It was a lot of heavy lifting, and he’d already been for a run that morning. But the reminder sent a spike of nausea through him, and a chill that had nothing to do with his fever. “I'm terribly sorry,” he said, squeezing himself in a vain attempt to ward off the cold. “Really, I just need a moment, and then I can—”

“You're crazy,” Hewitt said bluntly.

Sterling nodded like that settled something and leaned over to open the blinds, revealing the street and all Gilles’ boxes. “Hewitt, make sure nobody gets any funny ideas, will you? I've got some phone calls to make.”

“This is a very safe area,” Hewitt said once Sterling had gone. “No one will get any ‘funny ideas.’”

“Oh,” Gilles said faintly. Words and meanings were rapidly becoming two distinct entities. His body ached with the cold and all he could really do was shiver and think about how badly this all hurt.

“I do wish he'd been a bit more bossy, though.” Hewitt sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I never get sick, and Sterling really never gets sick, so I'm not sure what to do. Do you want to lie down?”

Gilles freed a hand and pressed it to his forehead. This was too much. He needed a blanket and he couldn't just borrow one, nor could he bear the idea of asking Hewitt to search through his boxes until he found one. So he'd have to get up. And find one of his pillowcases while he was at it, because he couldn't bring himself to subject his locs to the tweed throw pillows surrounding him on the couch.

Nothing for it.

Gilles got up.

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

His knees didn't want to work and his muscles ached.

But he was standing.

“Oh!” Hewitt stepped back to give him some space. “Look, you really don't have to worry—”

“I just need a few things,” Gilles muttered, and made for the door.

Hewitt followed him. “I could get them for you! Unless they're… secrets? I suppose? Do you have a lot of things you don't want me to see?”

The summer sun engulfed Gilles, soothing some of the pain from the chills. Cobblestones burned under his knees as he fumbled with a random box, his hands shaking.

“Why don't you just let me help you?” Hewitt asked. “I promise, I only judge people I don't like.” He stepped forward and opened the box for Gilles, revealing stacks of folded shirts.

“I just…” Gilles fell back on his heels, head hanging. This was a mess. He was embarrassing himself. “You and Sterling have done so m-much for me…” He stifled a few coughs into his elbow, tears burning in his eyes. He'd taken and taken, accepted their kindness with nothing but a few paltry words of gratitude, and now here he was, taking again. It was terribly rude.

“Well, look,” Hewitt said, “you can repay us by not worrying us sick, alright? Just sit back and tell me what you're looking for. And let me know if there's anything you don't want me to touch.”

This, at last, was too much. Gilles nodded, but the tears pooling in his eyes finally spilled over and he couldn't speak except to choke out an apology in French that Hewitt wouldn't have been able to understand anyway.

“Don't cry!” Hewitt's fingertips touched down on Gilles’ back. “I'm sorry! What did I say?”

“I'm sorry,” Gilles said breathlessly, coughing. “I'm not usually so—” He broke off, falling into another fit of coughing.

“Sick,” Hewitt finished for him, moving his hand to rest on the back of Gilles’ neck. “You're burning up.”

Gilles shook his head. “I'm c-cold.”

“Well, have you got anything in here?”

“Um…” Gilles blinked away tears. Did he? “Maybe?”

“Let’s have a look.” Hewitt wasted no time, pawing through Gilles’ shirt with total disregard for how carefully he'd folded them. “There's a lot of green in here.”

Gilles wiped his face. “It's my favorite color.”

“Yes, I can tell.” Hewitt continued digging through the box, until he finally produced the gray sweatshirt Gilles wore running on cold mornings. “How about this?”

Gilles nodded and took it, only remembering to thank Hewitt after it was halfway over his chest. The sunlight was nice on his skin but really couldn't help with the bone-deep chills running through him.

“Anything else?” Hewitt asked, his gaze darting down Gilles’ body in short, jagged lines.

Gilles pulled his locs free of the sweatshirt’s collar and nodded. He was still freezing, but… the cobblestones were warm and the street was quiet and…

Hewitt snapped his fingers. “Don't fall asleep!”

“Sorry…” Gilles ran his hands down his face and tried to rally. “Ah… Something. Silk or satin. A shirt, or one of my pillowcases.” He blinked slowly, his vision blurring a little. “Please.”

“Well, you've got a silk shirt in here, but—”

“S'fine.” Slowly, Gilles reached out for it. Even that small motion took twice as much effort as it should have. How was he going to get back inside? He curled his fingers around the fabric and stared at it.

“I think you need to lie down,” Hewitt said hesitantly. “You don't seem… Can you stand?”

Gilles shook his head.

The world softened to a dreamy blur as Hewitt manhandled Gilles inside. The effort of moving was almost enough to make him feel warm, but… Well, he wouldn't notice either way soon.

The couch was the only thing in the living room, the satin was the only thing on his skin. He lowered himself, aiming the shirt toward one of the throw pillows.

Sound came in little gentle washes of awareness and a bitter chill in his chest.

“Sterling!”

“Yes, good to see you, but please keep it down.”

Thudding and murmurs and footfalls.

“He's still out?”

“I don't think he's feeling well at all. Earlier, I mean—”

“He's shivering.”

Unfamiliar voices. The rush of the sink.

“Last one, I think.”

“Oh, good.”

Gilles awoke in sunset colors, curled on his side under a thick blanket. His dry throat burned and his chest spasmed with sharp, deep coughs.

Water.

He sat up, already breathing heavily, his vision narrow and vivid. The kitchen wasn't all that far, but… It might as well have been miles.

“Don't get up,” said a voice.

Gilles flinched and turned and found Sterling seated in an armchair with a book in his lap.

“Unless you need the bathroom,” Sterling continued.

“N…” Gilles started, but his voice cracked and he started to cough again, eyes streaming. His ribs already ached with the strain and now his head pounded with each forceful exhale.

Sterling got up without a word and sat beside him, holding a glass of water up for Gilles to take.

He seized it and drained it as soon as his body would let him, and fell against the back of the couch with his chest heaving. “I'm sorry,” he panted, staring at the ceiling as his face burned. “Th-thank you, Sterling. Forgive me.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sterling said. “You're our friend and we're happy to help you. Now.” He stood up and set the empty glass on the coffee table, where it must have been resting before. “I'd like to take your temperature, and it would be good if you would eat something.”

Gilles occupied himself getting back under the blanket. It was one of his own, thank god, and he'd managed to work it into a tangle.

“You're still cold?” Sterling asked. He moved as though to press a hand to Gilles’ forehead and stopped abruptly. “Here.” He held out his hands. Gilles passed him the blanket and Sterling shook it out, then tucked Gilles in like a child.

“Thank you,” Gilles mumbled, looking down. His own weakness was terribly embarrassing, but the way Sterling looked after him was so matter-of-fact, so natural. How could he resent it? “Why are you doing this?”

“Just as I said.” Sterling looked at him, his brown eyes nearly black in the low light. “You're my friend.”

“Yes, but…” Gilles shut his mouth. This was all extremely rushed, this… this intimacy. This kindness. “You don't know me.”

“I will,” Sterling said. “Is it bothering you? I can go.”

“No.” Gilles pulled the blanket up, unable to meet Sterling's eyes.

“Good. Maybe I take your temperature now?”

Gilles kept his gaze fixed on Sterling's hands, their pale brown looking ghostly in the light that filtered in through the blinds. This connection, however sudden, was perfectly real. If Sterling meant him harm, he'd had a dozen opportunities to deal it.

“I supposed I haven't been entirely honest,” Sterling said, lifting a glass thermometer to Gilles’ lips. Gilles opened his mouth. “There is a reason I like you so much.” Sterling angled the thermometer in, slid it carefully over Gilles’ teeth. “It's because Hewitt likes you. I don't think you know how rare that is.”

With the thermometer in his mouth, Gilles could only look at Sterling curiously. Hewitt had only ever been friendly to him. Albeit his bit about vampires had been an unusual way to break the ice, but Gilles could take a joke.

Sterling settled back into his armchair, bracing his elbows on his knees. “He was making fun of you that day. He didn't expect you to get the joke, much less continue it.”

Silence stretched out between them for a long moment. Gilles muffled a few coughs behind his closed lips, tensing to keep the thermometer in place without shattering it.

For some reason, Sterling laughed and sat up. “No, of course that wouldn't offend you,” he said warmly. “Hewitt is a wonderful judge of character, but his criteria are a bit unorthodox. I'm glad you aren't offended.”

This was more words than Sterling had ever strung together before. It had to be some kind of record.

Gilles sighed through his nose and slumped against the couch cushions. His body heat had finally caught up to him again, but even the thought of letting the blanket slip was enough to make him tense up. His eyes wandered around the living room, though not much had changed since his arrival that morning. The same floral prints hung on the walls, the same furniture filled out the expanse of flooring that transitioned into the kitchen. Only the minutiae had changed, little things Sterling had brought. A glass of water and a pitcher stood on the coffee table beside a small stack of handkerchiefs. And on the couch, Gilles’ silk shirt had been replaced with a proper pillow in a black satin pillowcase. He smiled a little, tracing the lines of his initials on the corner. GB, in wobbly yellow embroidery floss. Adéle had been so uncharacteristically shy when she’d shown him.

“I hope you don't mind,” Sterling said. “Hewitt mentioned you'd been looking for your pillowcases.”

Gilles shook his head, checked himself, then nodded. That was no good; that didn't mean anything. He smiled instead, wearily.

Sterling got up. “Let's take a look at your temperature.”

“Mm.” Gilles took the thermometer out of his mouth and squinted at it. He'd never gotten the hang of translating numbers to English and his head was far too fuzzy to really apply himself to it. He passed the thermometer over to Sterling rather than speak.

“39.4,” Sterling said. He pressed his tongue beneath his lower lip, brow furrowing. “I suppose that's alright as long as you stay hydrated. And lucid.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you lucid?”

“Yes,” Gilles said, and couldn't keep himself from adding, “unfortunately.” Speaking hurt his throat, but the pitcher on the table seemed… inert. Unsatisfactory.

For some reason, this made Sterling relax. “I was afraid you might be too stoic for your own good,” he said, and poured Gilles another glass of water. “What do you want to eat? Anything you want, I'll get it.”

Gilles looked at the water on the table. He'd have to get out of the blanket to pick it up, and it would be cold. And it would sit in his stomach, just sit there. Anything would. “I’m… not particularly hungry.” A few coughs forced their way up his throat.

“I know you're not,” Sterling said patiently, pushing the glass closer to Gilles. “You have a fever of 103. But I also know you haven't eaten since this morning. Just tell me what you think you can stomach.”

If Sterling knew what a particular torture this was, he didn't seem to care. Gilles only just resisted the urge to hide his face in his blanket. “I don't know… Coffee.”

“What else?”

“Nothing,” Gilles moaned, giving into his childish desire to not be seen. He tucked his head under the blanket and buried his face in his hands. Every instinct screamed at him to raise his head and apologize like an adult. Sterling was only trying to help, and he did need to eat.

“Can you be convinced?” Sterling asked after a beat.

“What?” Gilles raised his head. Sterling was looking at him with the same patient concern as always, no trace of annoyance in his face or posture.

“Can you be convinced?” Sterling asked. “Or would you like me to leave you alone?”

Gilles just stared at him. Thoughts came fast and shallow. Sterling… leaving? Not hungry. Shaking.

“You did tell me you were lucid,” Sterling reminded him, but with a small smile. Teasing.

“I know… I just— I can't really think.”

“That's the opposite of lucid.”

“I'm sorry.” Gilles closed his eyes. “I'm not trying to be difficult.”

“It's alright.” Sterling was quiet for a moment, shifting in his armchair. “What about hot chocolate?”

Well, it was better than anything Gilles could come up with. He opened his eyes, staring at Sterling's hands where they rested in his lap. “That would be fine.” God, he was like a prince sitting here, forcing Sterling to dote on him.

Of course, Sterling didn't see it that way. He only nodded and got up. “Good.”

—

Hewitt came in around the time that the taste of chocolate started to go sour on Gilles’ tongue. At least the warm liquid had warded off the worst of his chills, but, as he'd feared earlier, his stomach didn't appreciate the intrusion.

He kept hold of the mug, letting it warm his hands, and looked up at the sound of the door opening.

“Did you miss me?” Hewitt asked, flopping down in the armchair beside Sterling.

“Terribly,” Sterling said, but he kept his eyes on Gilles.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Gilles forced a wobbly smile to his lips and shifted, bending forward a little to try to control the nausea building in his belly. “Where were you?”

“Seeing Adonis’ friends home,” Hewitt said airily. “You slept right through their visit, you know.”

Gilles frowned. He had heard voices, hadn't he? The memories came murky and cold, disturbed by the pressure in his stomach.

“They helped move your things upstairs,” Hewitt continued.

Gilles ran his teeth over his bottom lip. “Please thank them for me…” He shifted again. The nausea was building, but slowly. He just couldn't… Couldn't get comfortable; it pushed on him. Hunching over had only helped for so long, but straightening up didn't really help either.

“We made your bed, if you'd like to go to sleep,” Sterling said after a pause.

They'd both been eyeing Gilles with varying degrees of concern and suspicion; their eyes burned on his skin.

Bed… That would be good. If only he could manage the trip up the stairs. His stomach wouldn't like it. Even just sitting up was nearly unbearable.

“Maybe… maybe in a moment.” Gilles shifted yet again and laced his hands over his stomach.

“You're terribly shy, you know,” Hewitt said. “If you tell us what's wrong, we can help. And you needn't be embarrassed. I told you, we never get sick. Looking after you is a bit of a novelty, to be honest.”

“Hewitt,” Sterling hissed.

They kept saying that, that there was no need to be embarrassed. Something in Gilles just couldn't believe it. All his ailments seemed so childlike, something he should have outgrown.

“Or you can keep your secrets,” Hewitt said. “But we didn't find anything particularly scandalous while we were looking for your bedding—”

“Hewitt.”

Gilles would have smiled if his stomach wasn't bothering him so much. The pressure seemed to have reached a peak, but he wasn't getting used to it at all, just stuck with the sensation of a hearthstone lodged firmly in his abdomen. Instinct took him and he doubled over, both arms wrapped around himself. “Sorry; I'm alright,” he said to ward off any words of concern. “I just… need a m-moment.”

“Now what's wrong with you?” Hewitt asked. “Are you dizzy?”

“It's really nothing. I get like this somet—” Gilles cut himself off with a hard swallow— “s-sometimes when I have a fever. My…” He bit his lip and released it. Why couldn't he just be normal? Why was this happening? “My stomach's a bit upset.”

“That can happen,” Sterling said. “Do you need to be sick?”

“I'd rather not.”

“But do you n—”

“No, Sterling.” Gilles grit his teeth and swallowed again, squeezing his eyes shut. “I'm sorry.”

“Sh, it's alright.”

“Do you ever get angry?”

“Oh, he does,” Hewitt chimed in. “Probably won't ever get angry at you, though.”

“Mm…” Who were these people? Gilles’ head spun, thoughts aimless and shallow. He might as well have been falling, picking up speed with every passing second. “I think I need to stay here,” he said. “I… I'll lie down properly in a moment, if— if you could just…” Words failed him then, and a terrible coughing fit jarred his ribs and his stomach, rattled his head.

“Yes,” Sterling said. His clothing raised against the fabric of the armchair as he stood. “We won't go far. Call us when you need us.”

Gilles didn't say a word.

#as usual my italics didnt copy over and im too lazy to fix it so just use your imagination #ethereous writes #ethereous ocs #gilles is my BABY

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valleyfthdolls · 6 months

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Drabble request: basically the missing kids + golden duo(cc and Cass). All forget their memories and names, so they go by their animatronic names, and act like the animatronic personalities.

(also cc and Cass)( are regarded as one person, even though they are separate, so like Fred or Goldie)

"Chica."

The little girl tilts her head. It's jerky, robotic. Years ago, she used to have a looser neck, she thinks. She glances.

The child awaiting her is blurry, its visage shifting, warping and distorting like it can't make up its mind. Through the monstrous yellow body, she can make out black, curly hair tied into pigtails. It stares blankly at her. Dressed in a ripped, baggy golden shirt with puff sleeves adorned with the dirtiest purple bow tie and vest she's ever seen, it stands with purpose, and oh. Goldie is acting like itself again. Chica swivels, turns around and faces it. Its image is blurry in her pretty blue eyes, shining a fuchsia hue under the stage lights. Its voice is whispery, but determined. Angry. Goldie is mad again, she thinks.

Trying her best not to upset it by noticing the difference, Chica smiles, and the skin of her cheeks crinkles and stretches painfully. She clasps her hands together.

"Goldie! Good to see ya got your wits about ya again, dear," She coos hollowly, her throat hurting with every word she speaks. She thinks there was something there once. Something cold, something metal. She swallows. It burns. Goldie scowls.

"Someone is here."

Chica's smile drops.

She doesn't like intruders. Not one bit. Not after they took her away from wherever she was supposed to have come from- the factory they made her body in, the pizzeria that used to be here.

"D- do Freddy n' the others know?" She whispers. Foxy won't like this, not one bit. Oh, and poor Freddy- the sweet little thing never got over his fear of the dark, and he'll be so upset knowing they've got someone lurking in the shadows. It doesn't help him to know that they're the monsters under the bed.

"Fredbear told them already," It rasps, pointing to its blue eye and tap-tap-tapping. "They're angry. They're real angry."

"Is that so?" Her voice rises, fearful. Goldie- Fredbear- either or, really- is angry. It always is. But it carries an air of seriousness- of barely masked fear and a desperation for self defense. Her eyes ask a silent question, a beg for an explanation that goes unseen and unregarded. Is it that man?

There's a man that Chica knows. The man, maybe, who took her from the factory, the pizzeria she was made in, stretched her skin and cut her neck and made her body rigid. All Chica knows is that because of that man, the world is no longer safe if it ever was.

"You know him," Goldie hisses. Chica's hinges are slow, awkward. When her head moves to face Goldie again, it's not looking at her, or any of the other children. It seems to be looking at itself. It nods carefully, and shaggy brown hair falls into its face. "I know him."

"Goldie? What's goin' on?"

"Shut up." Goldie's red eye briefly glances up at Chica as it brushes back a black curl that's slipped loose from its pigtails after years without brushing or washing. "You know him, Fredbear. Who is he?"

Chica steps back, not wanting to anger Goldie. Everyone is angry. Everyone is so angry all the time. The anger burning in Chica's little body is enough to make her want to burst. It scares her. It physically makes her sick with revulsion, and if she ever had a stomach she would throw it all up in the bathroom and it would come out tasting like old pizza. She wipes her mouth, almost preemptively. Her servo motors whir, air pressure valves clicking with the jerky movement.

"I will not let him touch us. Do you hear me, Fredbear? I will fucking kill him." Too young to be saying such nasty things. Chica frowns. Did it ever have parents? Did its creators ever scold it for its language? "Tell me. If it's not him, who is he?"

Suddenly drained of energy, Goldie looks down the hallway, a brown curl falling over its face. Its blue eye stares wistfully. Chica clasps her hands together again, preparing to try to butter it up so that no one else has to do anything that will make anyone more upset and no one has to make her any more afraid. Her cheeks ache as she prepares to smile.

"...I know him," It repeats.

(Drabble requests are open! Check pinned.)

(If you want a more specific situation that might focus on other characters, lmk and I can try to whip something else up for you too!)

#woe. southern chica and it/its golden freddy be upon ye #idk how that last one happened tbh #~700 words #drabbles #fnaf #fnaf fanfic #therealstickleer #fnaf golden freddy #fnaf chica #five nights at freddy's #golden duo #i'm not a frequent golden duo writer so I hope that my depiction of them (and cassidy's implied design) and the surreal vibe i went for #are up to what you were hoping for #tysm for the request! this one was so much fun #fic request #writing #i. fogot what my tag for these was

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crigne · 1 year

Text

The stench of rot is pervasive.

Seven thinks he might have flinched. Might have reacted, in some way, unconsciously and instinctively, but it's a distant thought.

Tobias grimaces. Pushes back a hand, and touches his palm to him, warm, alive.

Seven wonders why his ears are ringing. Why the world is narrowing, darkening, why the floor feels slippery beneath him, why-

"Breathe."

He gasps in a breath. Feels hands on his shoulders, and they're grounding, heavy, something he can cling to, and he doesn't think; just wraps his fingers around the wrists there, and clings tight, because the smell of rot is still in his mouth, and the world feels too thin.

"'s okay," Tobias says, squeezes. His voice is calm. "You're safe. It's good."

Another breath. In, then out. His lungs ache, and his vision isn't working, but it's okay. Tobias says it is, so it must be.

He shivers, without meaning to. Swallows, and it tastes like decay, and he doesn't know why that makes everything spin, why his chest feels hollow, but, well.

"Is it the smell?"

He manages a nod. Scrambles for another breath, and it hurts, keeps hurting, but that's okay.

"I'm going to remove my hand," Tobias says, voice still completely and utterly even. "Just one of them, okay?"

He waits a beat, and then, gently, lifts his hand. The absence of it feels big, like a physical thing, and Seven squeezes his eyes together, till smears of colours burn at them.

A brush of fingers against his cheek. Then, more firmly, a hand presses something over his nose, and at first Seven startles, nearly launches himself backwards, but-

It's still there. In his mouth, in the lungs of him. But when he breathes in, clumsy, like something new, it doesn't sting as sharply. Doesn't find him, and make itself a home in the bones of him.

He blinks.

Tobias squeezes his shoulder, and the colours of him is the first thing back- brown, worn down blue, the vivid stretch of his scars. And then it's his expression, eyebrows furrowed and lips tugged down, and oh.

"You were worried," he says.

Tobias rolls his eyes. Leans back, away, but keeps his hand where it is.

"Of course," he snaps, except it doesn't even come out that sharp. "You nearly fainted on me, christ."

Seven raises an arm- wonders at the heaviness of it, just for a moment, like whatever that was cut him from his limbs, and then stitched his nerves back on. Finally takes the cloth from Tobias' hands, fingers brushing, warmth spreading.

"Did I?"

It doesn't feel real, whatever it was. Like a moment in time, lost. The memory of it there, touchable, but not really.

Tobias shrugs a shoulder. Frowns a him, then lifts his hand- keeps it hovering over his shoulder, just for a breath, like he thinks he might freak, otherwise.

Seven thinks he'd like to hold it, maybe.

"You got any idea what that was about?" Tobias asks, and tucks his hands away. Like keeping them out feels weird, uncomfortable. Like he doesn't know what else to do with them, now.

Seven shakes his head. Turns back to that thought, instead of poking at Tobias' behaviour, and as usual, there's nothing.

No faded echo, no warped image. If the memory of this moment is off, like looking at something underwater, or through warped glass, whatever he's supposed to find here, is just a void.

The smell of rot, of decay, of death, sits in his mouth like something dangerous, though.

Like a wound, infested, and forgotten.

#ocs #my writing #s: pab #c: seven #c: tobias #just realised i can (and should) post my drabbles here so have my fave one :]

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jin0 · 2 years

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OTHER POSSIBLE GREEK GODS!STUCKY SERIES I HAVE IN MIND

(idk why i do this to myself when i cannot for the life of me write superpowers and shit) :

(putting these images cause idk which look to go with... thinking of replacing steve with ari or putting him in his ari look. also, jake jensen as hermes is definitely a thot im having)

olympus au with stucky as zeus and hades but also with sam as poseidon (let's say they're not brothers here) and zeus and hades both find themselves falling in love for the history major human who stumbled into their temple at three in the morning while completely drunk. the poor girl was supposed to do researches for her thesis but finding tangible infos on greek gods is very fucking difficult so who can blame her for turning towards booze to calm herself a little bit ?? definitely not the olympians drunk on absinthe every full moon.

amused by her drunk rambling, the statues carrying their faces come to life come to life and grow fond of her ranting about how annoying being human is but how violently worse being a god must be. they get a little more interested when you start violently roasting each and every one of the gods of the pantheon. they see the others get a little interested and reveal themselves but order them to leave, this is their moment with you.

both ignore each other's presence, one watching from above and the other watching from bellow, both sitting on a throne and smiling genuinely for the first time in centuries. the loneliness they felt by being idolized and put on a pedestal pushed them aside, leaving them lonelier than ever. and here you were, random human, drunk off her ass, coming into their 'home' to insult them without any restraint. you should've known better and you do know better, you simply do not care (because the floor splitting in two and swallowing you or getting struck by lightning would feel better than handing in a thesis on the two most mysterious and misunderstood gods of the entire greek mythology).

they could love you, agreeing to share you equally for the rest of eternity but the cannot, cursed and stuck in eternal loneliness by their own creator for wanting better for them and the rest of the pantheon.

beyond the borders of he universe, further than anything has ever been or lived, lies a being than anyone should fear at the simple mention of its name. cronus, resting and healing until the moment comes, until his sons, his most prized possessions, decide to allow themselves to be happy again, and fully happy. he waits, lurking in the shadows as they let down their barriers and weight out the risks : allowing you in their hearts or saving the world (and possibly the universe) from the rising of the titan.

you are his way out of his eternal prison, the key to getting his power back and to crushing the gods who dared to stand in front of his power hungry ways.

opposite to this, you are the key to truth and everything they could ever desire. you are an opening to everything they could have but never truly own : themselves. you are the way out to new beginnings.

but the duty still stands. the world still needs gods to fulfill their missions. and as they slowly fall deeper and deeper into love, you spreading in their minds and hearts and taking as much space as their was, they forget. forget the threat that lies ahead, waiting for them to slip. they're slipping and cronus is growing.

can they truly refuse you, when you're their everything ? and will you, the girl who was ballsy enough to call them all the names in the book upon first meeting, truly accept for them to leave you behind ?? when you know that they might just never come back ?? absolutely not. you'd dealt with gods before, and you might be blessed with you own personal secret card. because to destruction their is always creation.

to have cronus and his plan, you'll always have the universe itself standing in the middle : gaia. and she has great plans for you and her children.

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wri0thesley · 3 years

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uuuhhh hey nat can i get some jotaro, jolyne, and johnny getting confessed to by someone who's being really nervous and blushy about it and generally just looks like they're about to McFucking Lose It on the spot? if not, it's fine! also been a fan of your work for some time now okay bye-

♡ Jotaro is always a frightening man to confess anything to - much less confess something that feels this important. You’ve heard him talk about people fawning over him, seen him roll his eyes - and as a whole, you’ve gotten the impression that Jotaro Kujo is not a man who values romance highly. Still, this has been haunting you for what feels like weeks. Every time you see Jotaro, your heart seems to flip-flop over itself in your chest, and you know that the longer you hold onto your feelings, the harder it’s going to get to keep them a secret. So you gather all of your courage to your chest and rehearse what you’re going to say over and over again.

It’s not hard to find Jotaro on his own. He’s the kind of man who likes his peace and quiet. The two of you have become close enough that he doesn’t bark out a question as to what you want - he merely looks up at you from his spot under a tree. His face seems neutral, but you know him well enough to see the slightly quizzical uptilt of his eyebrow, the turn of his mouth. He patiently waits for you tp speak, even as you feel your cheeks begin to heat up.

Your voice is an awkward stammer. Your hands are shaking. You have to re-start, four times - and when you do manage to get your words out all at once, they’re a light, quavering mess. Jotaro’s eyes widen the smallest amount as you explain your feelings. As you talk about how you feel like he understands you, how his presence is a comfort, how you feel safe by his side and it’s fine if he doesn’t feel the same way, but if you didn’t get this off your chest you were simply going to die--

Are those two spots of red, high on his cheeks? Jotaro grabs the brim of his hat and pulls it down. You’ve seen this move a hundred times - he’s either angry and frustrated, or he’s embarassed. Your heart does a painful wrench as he murmurs, low; “Yare yare daze.” And then, he looks back up at you, and the sun seems to glint off of his eyes and his lips are marginally crescent-moon shaped, almost smiling. “You didn’t need to be nervous.”

It’s not a confession back - Jotaro doesn’t do things like that. But he scoots over to one side, letting you sit beside him - and when you do, he wraps an arm around you tenderly and pulls you in, and that’s just as good.

♡ Everybody loves Jolyne. You’re just one in a pool of faceless admirers, you know - only you’ve gotten close enough to call Jolyne a friend. You get to see her roll her eyes, put her arm through yours, exclaim wildly that the two of you should go on some slap-dash adventure. You’re helpless to resist when Jolyne calls you in the middle of the night with mischief in her voice as she asks you if you want to pull a prank on some asshole in the neighbourhood who keeps being rude to her mom.

You go along with it, swept up in the tidal wave that is Jolyne Kujo. You can’t not look at her sparkling eyes or her wide smile, the muscle in her lean body - you can’t not breathe in the ocean air scent of the body spray she uses. You’re hopelessly in love with her. She comes close to you and you can barely string a sentence together.

She’s more attentive than people give her credit for. It’s after one of these nighttime adventures, when the two of you are sat on her bed amongst her cuddly toys and blankets, that Jolyne pokes you in the side with her elbow and grins at you.

“Come on,” she instructs you. “Spill. You’ve been out of it since you got here! What’s it about? A boy? You can tell me!” She’s laughing, smiling, and your heart aches. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe she’ll let you down gently and you can move on. She sees that you begin to tremble. You wonder if she can tell that your cheeks are getting so hot you could probably fry something on them. “Hey . . . are you okay?”

Now or never. You open your mouth and spill out a confession. You’re not sure what you’re saying - you’re stammering all over the place. You must mention her hair and her skin about a hundred times. You must say some horrible embarassing things - and you must look like you’re about to bolt at any moment, like a frightened horse, because suddenly Jolyne has grabbed you by the face and is kissing you.

♡ Johnny has had plenty of lovers. You know all about his status as a playboy before the Steel Ball Run; and you suppose if you did admit something to him, you’d just be added to that number as another hopeless romantic who thinks they can fix a broken man. You would like to think it’s something more - that you and Johnny share some deeper bond. You’ve spent countless nights under the stars talking about your hopes and your dreams, admitting shameful secrets, feeling like he’s the only person in the whole world who understands you - you swear you’ve even seen Johnny’s pale freckled face pink when he looks at you. But it’s not enough to imbue you with confidence even so.

Snatching a moment away from the reporters and journalists who want to talk to him at all hours of the day is a difficult task in and of itself. He’s surrounded by people always, nowadays - he always tries to make time for you, but he’s not always successful. You see tension drain away from his shoulders when the two of you manage to escape to a quiet private room in today’s hotel on his press tour. Johnny sags as he rests in a chair (he refuses to use a cane or an aid in front of photographers, though he does sometimes need one - it is not so simple as merely ‘being able to walk again’, though Johnny insists that’s how he wants people to see it.), all of the world weariness seeming to drain out of him.

“I’m always so glad you’re here,” he says, his eyes half-lidded. “I feel like I can be myself for a sec’.”

When you don’t respond, he opens one eye lazily. You’re standing there, trembling like a leaf. Your breath feels short. You worry you’re about to have a panic attack right there where you stand, and the feeling doesn’t abate as Johnny murmurs, all low Southern drawl; “Sugar?”

(He’s called you pet names since the Steel Ball Run has been over. Every time, it fills your heart with a warm glow that you feel like you don’t deserve.)

You let everything come out in a rush of words. You assure him you’ll leave if he doesn’t feel the same, that you’re sorry to bring it on him at such a busy time, that you understand if he never wants to see you again - but spilling out of your mouth are words about how much being with him has meant, how you want to wake up next to him, how you think about him always . . . and Johnny stares at you, blue eyes wide. You finish what you’re saying and you stand there, swallowing, barely able to breathe - and Johnny says nothing.

“Okay,” you say, your voice cracking. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Johnny, I won’t bother you again--”

You turn so that he doesn’t see that your eyes are swimming with tears. You can barely walk. Your legs feel like they weigh three hundred tonnes; like you’re iron, welded to the floor. Johnny’s voice breaks through the haze of pain in your head;

“No-- wait . . .” You turn your head, your cheeks wet with tears. Johnny’s eyes do not leave your form for a moment. “Y-you . . . I thought ya knew. It’s always been you.”

#jojo headcanons #jjba #jojo x reader #jotaro x reader #jolyne x reader #johnny joestar x reader #johnny joestar #jolyne cujoh #jotaro kujo #themasterdisaster

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inknopewetrust · 3 years

Text

In Another Universe Part 4 (Marcus Moreno x Reader)

Summary: The reunion you've both been waiting forever for.

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Fem!Reader (We Can Be Heroes/MCU Crossover)

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: None.

A/N: This is it! Thank you all for showing interest in this series and being so enthusiastic about it. @jupitersmooneuropa, this is for you! You're idea was so wonderful, I just couldn't resist making it into a mini-series and I hope I did you proud. Requests are currently CLOSED but will be open again soon. Check out my MASTERLIST for all other works!

Being a hero meant a lot of different things to a lot of different people. Some loved the fame, the recognition, the money that sometimes came with, while some just wanted to be helpful and loved for their work. But one quality heroes had in common was that they were able to calm their nerves in the most crucial moments.

For Marcus Moreno, that crucial moment was now, and he could barely contain his nerves.

Clint could feel the anxiety radiating off the man. Marcus tried to play it cool because he had everything that made him seem cool: the swords, the tactical gear, his stoic face, but it wasn't enough to mask emotions from a world-class spy. Though Clint was able to sense it, he wasn't sure what exactly to say. He had only heard about Marcus through you, he only knew what little you told him, and that was how he determined Marcus wasn't some alien but the man you've been waiting for.

It was an awkward silence. One filled with the quiet roaring of the engines and every now and again, the sound of alerts from the computers around them. Clint kept his eyes on the sky while Marcus took peaks at the landscape below. The world looked so much like his own... just not as technically advanced as his own. The clouds swallowed the sip and his eyes drifted forward again as he took in a deep breath and exhaled.

"Nervous?" Clint managed to crack Marcus a smile and glanced at the man sitting to his right. Marcus chuckled, nodding his head with a nonchalance.

"You could say that."

"There's no reason for you to be."

"There's always a chance for something to go wrong."

Clint shrugged and flipped some switches as the quinjet began to descend.

"Are we there already?"

"Almost. About 5 minutes out."

Another uneasy silence fell over them but Clint wasn't contributing to it. Marcus just wanted everything to be like it was before. You, Missy, and himself in a home that felt like home. He couldn't have asked for a better partner in life and work, and it was taken away from him just like your life was taken away from you, but he wasn't going to say his life was better without you because it wasn't. Marcus just feared that maybe this life here was better than the one you had built with him. No one's reassurance except your own could tell him otherwise.

"Can I ask you a question?" Marcus glanced at Clint before returning to look forward again, a little embarrassed to be talking about you with someone he didn't know. But he knew you loved Clint like a brother, just as Natasha had been a sister, so he understood there was a level of trust there. Clint mumbled a 'go ahead' but his attention wasn't entirely on Marcus.

"Is she happy here?"

'Loaded question, but alright Mr. other world.' Clint thought before answering with the only truthful answer that could be given. He has watched the progression of a quiet depression become one of reclusiveness and a bitter happiness. You weren't happy here, in this world, with him or any of the Avengers. Natasha was gone, Steve was gone, Wanda was MIA, Bucky and Sam were on their own adventures. No one was here except him and that wasn't nearly enough to support someone who lost everything and then some because of a greedy man with glowing stones. This wasn't your home anymore.

"Was. She was at one time. I don't think this is where her heart is anymore."

Clint gave him a flat smile but Marcus did not return it. The thought alone of you avoiding social contact because happiness was ripped away from you in every direction was heart-wrenching. He never wanted to bring you any pain and a part of him couldn't help but believe that if he tried harder, if he hadn't wasted time being upset with your arrival years ago, things may have been different.

"We're here."

The announcement sent shockwaves through him. A thunderbolt of pure, unexplainable fear and anticipation of seeing you again struck his core. This was it; this was his endgame and the farm that slowly made itself clear out the window was the destination.

"Let me go in and see them first, make sure they're home, and then I'll come back. Is that alright?"

Marcus could only nod and watch the man grab his bags and bow and leave the jet. Marcus unbuckled himself because there was no point in staying in the seat. The back was left open and while Clint had told him to stay, he couldn't help but walk down the ramp and stand just to the side of the jet. He ran his hand over the side of the matte gray finish, slightly impressed by the time it took to get there. It was faster than he thought even if it felt like an eternity.

The house was a nice weathered white. It had seen better days and as Clint approached the door, he noted all the fixes needed. The rusted door handle, the broken pot in the corner, an abundance of yard toys and broken bicycle parts laid around him. He managed to open the door with limited squeaking, but Laura heard it and so did Lila. The boys weren't home because if they were, they would have tackled him to the ground the moment they heard the ship land in the yard.

"Clint!? What are you doing here? I thought you weren't supposed to be back for two weeks." Laura said as soon as she came around the corner from the kitchen. Lila was right behind her with a smile and hug for him–which he gladly accepted.

"Emergency. Where is Y/n? I have something I think she'd want to see."

Laura furrowed her eyebrows and moved to the window. Outside, beside the jet, stood a man who could have been a new Avenger for all she knew. She turned back to Clint, moving away from the window so Lila could sneak a glance too.

"What is it? Who is that man out there?"

"That man is Marcus. That Marcus. He just appeared at the compound looking for her. They apparently have been trying to find a way to bring her back and whatever he did, it worked."

Laura let out an audible gasp, returning to the window and looking at the man. Slowly, just as Clint had hours before, she began to piece together the man before her eyes from the stories you had told her about.

"Oh my God! OH MY GOD!" She almost yelled so loudly the neighbors two blocks away could hear her. Clint shushed her but she couldn't keep the smile off her face. Laura ran to the staircase and yelled up it.

"Y/n! Get down here!"

"Oh my God, Clint! She had a great day today and wow-I just can't believe it."

You had heard Laura's loud enthusiasm from the room you had been staying in. You thought you'd leave her be until her voice trailed up the stairs again and she called out to you. It wasn't like you had any idea of what was going on. You heard the quinjet, figured Clint was back, and it was around dinner time so maybe it was time to eat? It was the first time in a long time that your thoughts hadn't been cluttered with death or sadness, but those feelings lingered. You exited the room, walked down the stairs and smiling at Clint when you saw his face.

"How's the girl?" Kate Bishop.

"She's a real hero." Clint replied and you nodded your head in reply. Doing so, you managed to turn toward the window from your place on the second to last step. Outside sat the quinjet that had taken so many of you and your friends on missions that could have well been your last. But it wasn't the vehicle that caught your undivided attention, but the body beside it. Standing tall in black.

Your eyes had to have been deceiving you.

"What is going on?" Your voice was barely a whisper, but Laura caught it, smiling and grabbing your hand. Your attention never left the window. The man was pacing slightly, a nervous tick you were sure you knew.

"Laura-"

"Go and see for yourself, Y/n." Her voice was quiet too but reassuring and warm, like a mothers should be. The man outside didn't know what was going on, but he left your sight because you descended the rest of the steps and ran out the door.

The door squeaked loudly this time and with a bang, fell shut. You barely made it to the steps before you stopped on the gravel. about 20 yards away, the man heard the door and turned.

Even if the entire world was watching the scene unfold on Clint's lawn, many could not recall who moved first. Laura would say Marcus because that's who she could see, but you were slightly convinced it was your own feet. Nevertheless, after the door had slammed and the two of you met again, the universe drew you together like magnets. You ran, he ran, and with the collision, you both wrapped your arms around each other and soon your feet were off the ground.

You could barely say a word with your blubbering tears, and he wasn't about to make his obvious either so instead of talking, he just pulled away enough to look you in the face. Your eyes the same, your nose the same, your lips still perfect to him. Your hands moved from around his neck to his face. You gently held his face in your hands as you tried to control yourself.

"You're really here?" It was a broken ask but he managed a smile and moved a piece of hair out of your face.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"I missed you s-so much." Marcus couldn't help but grin at the admission. It was everything and more than he wanted to hear.

"I love you. I love you so damn much." His hand rested on the back of your neck and he pulled you to him. His lips were just as you remembered.

Perfectly him and as if they were made for your own.

Reunions were sentimental and good. But they were followed with a series of questions that were often difficult to hear. Marcus had held you for a long time. You weren't sure how long and you weren't exactly complaining either, but there was a linger question: how did he get here and how in the world are you getting back?

You had been adamant in telling him 'yes' the moment Marcus asked you the question about returning to his world. That was the plan for you. There were no other options because life with Marcus and Missy was your life now and whoever was left that loved you like family had to accept that. Marcus had explained the machine built to travel through worlds over dinner with Clint because perhaps he could be the one to help. He had travelled through time before so what is traveling through universes, right?

But later that night, when the reunion had settled and everyone had gone to bed, Marcus sat on the edge of an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room with a woman he loves. Clint could help you, but he needed time. So, he left with the jet while you stayed with the family and Marcus. He went to go see Stephen Strange because he managed to pick up the phone late that night.

"Do you think they'll be able to get us back? I don't want to leave Missy there all alone." Marcus voiced his worry with a sad reflection. You sat up from your reclined position and waddled over to him, running your hands up his back and then around his shoulders before he gently took them and tugged them around him. He missed your touch so much.

"You've never seen Dr. Stephen Strange do his 'magic' so I think there's a chance."

"Are you sure this is what you want?" He turned his head just enough so he could look at your face. You may have been a spy, but your eyes never lied to him. He knew you better than any interrogator could ever wish to have known you.

"Yes, I want to be with you and Missy and all those heroes with weird names." You laughed for the first time in a long time and it was music to his ears. He smiled to where his eyes crinkled in the corners as your fingers played with the nape of his neck where his loose hair sat.

"I just want you to be happy, Y/n. Your happiness means everything to me."

"I am happy with you. I am happy in our home. This makes me happy."

That was enough for him. The next day you both waited... and waited... and waited for even one word from Clint, but nothing came. Sometime in the afternoon, the heavy engine of the quinjet could be heard in the yard so you dropped the puzzle pieces on the table beside Lila, grabbed Marcus' hand and ran out the door. Clint had a small smile on his face, but it was the sharply dressed Doctor that you focused your attention on.

"Doctor."

"Agent."

"I trust there is a way home if you're here. You wouldn't come all this way to bare bad news."

"Your skills on reading people alarm me, though I would expect nothing less from an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."

Stephen nodded and then extended his hand to Marcus who shook it in return. They introduced themselves to one another and Stephen put a gold bar on his fingers before extending his hand to the wide landscape of the farm.

"What are you doing?" You asked with a furrowed brow. This wasn't the way Marcus had come, they were supposed to fix the control pad he had on his arm.

"Do you really think the Sorcerer Supreme can't open portals to other universes? There are so many worlds you don't know, but you found the one you were meant to be in, so let me get you both home."

With a circular movement of his fingers, Stephen opened a yellow portal that slowly became an image of a world you had known before. A house, perfectly structured in the suburbs was on the other side. The grass perfectly mowed and the bushes trimmed, the mail box accidentally left open which you knew was Missy's fault. The curtains were open and the sun shone brightly into the home. Marcus grabbed you hand, squeezing it tightly as you took in the sight. Months had gone by where you dreamed of this moment, of that house and all its residents. Your dream was here now with the man holding your hand to support you.

"Y/n." Clint called out to you, breaking your stare. You turned around and he approached with his family in tow. He held out a small envelope which contained a note from them and a series of pictures that you would later cry over, but it was a final goodbye from your life here on this Earth.

You hugged them all with tears in your eyes but when Marcus re-took your hand, it felt like it meant something more than just running off into the sunset together. It felt normal and needed and necessary to move forward in your life.

"Are you ready?" Marcus asked you to which you could only reply with one word:

"Yes."

Tag list for series: (thanks for the support!!)

@pasckles @jupitersmooneuropa @agingerindenial @karnita-mexicana @mcueveryday @shadowolf993 @computeringturtle @roxypeanut

#we can be heroes #we can be heroes netflix #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno #marcus moreno x fem reader #marcus moreno x you #marcus moreno x y/n #pedro pascal #x reader #x you #x y/n #final part #fanfiction #self insert #fanfic #requested #pedro pascal x reader

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universallywriting · 3 years

Note

unghrngh... your OCs... my beloveds... *opening heart locket gif* I wish to see more of Emma and Claire? I think they're cute.

every time i get these requests i get so flatter and flustered i literally have no idea what to do with myself. thank you so much.

----------

Her baby boy is conceived in magic. Emma has no interest in pregnancy. It seems like far more trouble that it’s worth - both to create and maintain a womb inside her. Instead, once she’s finished the core of magic within him, she sits with a small tank of her softly glowing magic and starts bringing him to life. It’s easy to start. Easier than she expected. She takes cells from an animals and she reprograms them. It’s worked with other animals before, but as she makes her son she worries that this is different. He’s human, and perhaps there is a human soul. She doesn’t have one, so how could she make one? If there is a god who imparts those sorts of things, she doubts they would grant one to a thing like her, or to the child she’s creating.

The fetus grows around the core just the way its supposed to and every day she stares into the tank and forgets how to breathe. Her child. Hers. He’s growing and he’s beautiful and in him is the pattern of so many humans she’s loved.

It works too well. She’s sure it’ll fall apart soon.

But it doesn’t. Every day he grows bigger with everything going according to plan. Each month the fetus grows, porcelain skin swallowing the core into itself, tying itself to it. She stares at the nerves, watching them bond to the closest thing she’s ever had to a soul. Still, somehow, everything is going as planned. Maybe all the rabbits who lost their lives in testing were worth the sacrifice after all.

“You’re smothering him and he doesn’t even have lungs,” Claire scolds her. “Stop gawking.”

She ignores that. She’s lived thousands of years - what’s a few months of watching? He grows and grows and soon she can no longer call him a fetus because he is quite thoroughly baby shaped, with little toes and little fingers and a button nose. She could scoop him out any day and start feeding him milk. He doesn’t necessarily need to be that magic womb anymore.

But she hasn’t seen magic from him. She’s been watching, despite Claire demanding she stop, and she told herself the time to take him out would be when he finally reached for his own magic. Then he would be done, all properly linked up and ready for the big scary world.

He never does.

As he becomes a week overdue, she chews her thumbnail and wonders what’s gone wrong. He seems fine - wiggling and squirming. His body does all the things its should be doing. If she carried him in the typical way, surely he’d come out of her by now. But she’s never done this before, and she has no idea when he’ll be done cooking, or what it should even look like for him to be done. She has no idea what she’s missing, or if she’s missing anything at all.

“You’re still smothering him,” Claire accuses. “He’s in a vat of your magic. Everything’s magic. He probably can’t even feel his own. Just take him out.”

“But what if-”

There are a million worries, but Claire softly rests her fingers on Emma’s lips. She sits by her, cast in the glow of the tank filled to the brim with Emma’s magic. “You have to give him a chance to fail or he will never succeed,” she whispers. “You have to.”

Emma births her son into the world on June 16, in the middle of the day. She steels herself and reaches in, scooping him out and snipping his cord, and the shrieks he makes as she pulls him into the cold air are simultaneously a beautiful relief and a terrible agony. She croons as she brings him to the kitchen, stands by the kitchen sink window and points to the flowers outside in the hopes that this will soothe him.

“Look, baby,” she says. “Look how pretty! It’s okay. Mama’s here. Look how pretty.”

His screams slowly ebb away, and his screwed shut eyes blink open. They were supposed to be brown, but they’re yellow. Bright, beautiful yellow- like the sun. Like the flowers outside. A laugh bursts from her, because there it is. Magic shines from his eyes like a light.

“Look at you,” she whispers. “Chrysanthemum eyes. Pretty boy.”

She trails green magic across him, and is surprised to find him latching onto her finger. He suckles at cool, green energy like milk, and her smile grows wider. He was conceived in her magic, after all. It makes sense that he would nurse for it. It makes sense that there are so many ways she can comfort him, and care for him, when she’s made him from spare parts and memories.

Later she tucks him into a cradle, everything warm and soft for him. When she turns off the light, he glows. It’s pure light beneath his skin and when his little thumb comes up to his lips, yellow magic crackles softly. He uses his own spark to ease himself to sleep.

“I told you that you were smothering him,” Claire says, and Emma doesn’t have the slightest care to disagree.

#hadoc #writing #snippet #my writing #drabble #i can't believe people are nice enough to ask for this

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gabrieldrawsstuff · 4 years

Text

Aight fellas, I'm doing a list of canon descriptions of dw characters for future reference, might do a second part with more minor characters

SPOILER ALERT OBV

STRANGER

-THE JOURNAL : "Somehow I'm wearing a coat, so I must've changed my clothes on my way here. I don't recognize myself anymore. I can barely hold this pencil. Has my body changed?"

-DOCTOR : "I see you haven't regained your speech. You need to find another doctor."

-SNAIL : "Your face... What happened to you?

The snail's jaw falls so low, it almost detaches itself from the rest of the body.

You scared me... You barely resemble a human... You should cover yourself..."

SNAIL : "You're so ugly, I feel like puking... You barely resemble a human being..."

THE CRIPPLE : "You, lad. You've got your hands and legs. Strong arms. I beg you!"

MAMA ELEPHANT : "Can't you speak? Did someone take away your voice?"

MAMA ELEPHANT : "Your gob looks like that because of this fiendish air, do you know? I bet you can't speak, because you didn't keep your mouth shut when walking through the woods."

MAMA ELEPHANT : "(...) I know you want something, you leper demon."

MUSHROOM GRANNY : "(...) But you're young and strong."

CHICKEN LADY : "Whaddaya need, poor soul? Hungry, eh? I'd give ya some stew, but what good will it do?"

(I think in polish version it was closer to 'how will you eat it' although I can't be sure)

MIRROR : "You are one ugly bastard. I guess you got what you deserved."

MUSICIAN : "This is our doctor, yes? He is just as brave and good as you are!"

MUSICIAN : "You're not af-fraid of anything!"

WOLFMAN : "Even from afar I can smell your putrid stench. Be glad I don't have an appetite for carcasses, Meat"

WOLFMAN : (after the church dream sequence) "Meat, what's with the big eyes? Hehe... Scared?"

WOLFMAN : (when you nod to a question if you're making a joke of him) "You're a brave piece of meat... and what's more important, one with a sense of humor.

WOLFMAN : "Are you pretending to be human, or are you just cracking jokes?"

WOLFMAN : "You look tired, Meat. Busy night?"

WOLFMAN : "Have fun, Meat... Just remember to hide that disaster of a face or it's no dancing for you"

WOLFMAN : (when you spare the sow) "My heart sings with joy when I see such selfless kindness. Tell me the truth, Meat. It was you, wasn't it?"

vvvvv

TRADER

-A man, roughly my size, is standing before me.

I can barely make out his disturbingly familiar features through the matte visor of his helmet...

The massive helmet is covered with an old sack and seems to be an integral part of the unnaturally pale body.

-The man reaches out to me with his black hand. It's covered in charcoal... There's something written on his worn, woolen glove.

-Visibly struggling, the man drops the sack from his back and bends in half, as if out of breath. He shakes the dust off his clothes, then rolls up the sleeve of his, seemingly too small, jacket.

-The old sack covering his body slides down, revealing his chest, covered in horrid growths. It is fused with a porous helmet, pulsating to the rhythm of his breath.

vvvvv

WOLFMAN

THE JOURNAL: "If I'm not delusional, the man whom I met... had the head of a wolf."

FIRST ENCOUNTER: The figure hides its face under the hood. It smells of wet soil and fur.

WOLFMAN: "(...)I barely believe my beautiful eyes... (...) The Wolf smiles, revealing a row of sharp teeth.

AT BARN RUINS: The Wolf makes a quick leap and, bouncing against me with his swollen belly, he puts his paws on my shoulders. He ostentatiously licks his face. (...)

-I notice fresh bloodstains on his fur and feel streaks of his saliva dripping onto my coat.

-The Wolf takes two steps back. I can only see a row of filthy, sharp teeth underneath his hood.

-The Wolf squeezes my arms and starts licking my face. Once from the left side, once from the right side. (...) His breath stinks of rot.

WOLFMAN: "Thanks to you I feel fulfilled! I got my girl, my sweet little lady back."

-Suddenly the Wolf sends me back with a powerful push and reaches into his coat pocket.

WOLFMAN: "(...) and then nothing wil keep you from getting the fuck out of my part of the woods! Do you get me, Meat? You will pack your bags, dive into that stinking hole of yours and dissa-fucking-pear!"

-Finally he snorts, his thick, yellow spit landing on the photo.

-The Wolf grabs the box and starts sniffing it from every angle. I could swear I've heard his tail moving under his coat.

WOLFMAN: "And what am I supposed to do with it? Bite it until it opens? Your brain must be rotting if you think I will break my fangs for this shit."

WOLFMAN: "An electronic game, eh? About a wolf stealing chicken eggs... hehehe. Good one!I've a soft spot for games, how about you?"

-As I produce the key, the Wolf's pupils widen with excitement.

WOLFMAN: (about villagers) "Those selfish, deceitful wretches! They think they're superior, because they have human gobs. They treat us like lepers! But you know what? Fuck them. We're buddies, aren't we? And them? They deserve to be punished, Meat..."

-The Wolf pierces me with his look and grins. A string of saliva lands on his hole-riddled jacket.

-The Wolf puts his paw on me. I can feel his claws puncturing my skin.

WOLFMAN: (about piotrek) "Meat! Fucking hell, seen that? Hahaha! Seen that? Hahaha! Off he flew, didn't he? OFF HE FUCKED!!! Hahahaha!"

WOLFMAN: "If you wish to spend some more quality time basking in the striking, yet natural beauty of my features before you head off to the Silent Forest, you will find me in my camp in the Dry Meadow."

vvvvv

DOCTOR

THE JOURNAL: "What I do know is that the insane fucker took my key. My only chance to get out of the woods. He also tore out all the pages from my journal."

THE JOURNAL: "The doctor has escaped. So be it. He would only be a hindrance anyway."

CHICKEN LADY: "My sisters! Where did ya find it? It's all that godless quack's fault - devil brought him! All he did was prescribe this and that, scribble this no-good drivel! To hell with them papers!"

-I can feel the doctor's cold hand grab me by the jaw, (...)

-He removes his dirty glasses with a trembling hand and freezes.

DOCTOR: "First they begged for help, now I need to hide from them! I'm just an ordinary doctor! How the fuck was I supposed to help them?! How?!"

-With shaking hands, he reaches for the cigarrete butt between his yellow teeth.

DOCTOR: "I used to come here to treat people. I pulled out kids' milk teeth, delivered babies... (...) Last time I came here was three or four years ago. Then the trees blocked the path."

-The Doctor is visibly pleased with himself and his theory. His hands are no longer trembling. He produces a hand-rolled cigarette and lights it.

DOCTOR: "(...) I have no idea where it leads. I'm a shitty diver. (...)"

-The Doctor stares right into my eyes. Mud drips from his face. He hasn't blinked in over a minute.

- (...)His glasses are so dirty, I barely see the eyes hiding underneath.

-A chunk of mud falls down on his exposed tongue. He chews it slowly and swallows with satisfaction.

-The Doctor puts the muddy hand into his mouth, grimaces and pulls out a yellow tooth. He puts it into the pocket of his torn trousers. The tooth falls through a hole. He does not notice this...

-Slowly he bends down and grabs a thick branch from the ground. He starts biting the bark off of it. He swallows the bark with an effort, but also great satisfaction. He places the stick among other ones sticking out of his mud-covered head.

WOLFMAN: "Well, well. I know this quack. A nonentity, a third-rate witch doctor. Useless fucking clunker... But he still managed to screw you over with that key. Eh, comrade?"

MUSICIAN: "This is our doctor, yes? He is just as brave and good as you are! He helped me. He is helping all of us! He gave me this beautiful mask, so I could be healed of my afllictions. Maybe you could have one too..."

vvvvv

MUSICIAN

THE JOURNAL: "I met a boy in the village. He told me that the "Chicken Lady" keeps the "Pretty Lady" locked in her house. The boy really wants to see her, but the old woman won't allow it."

THE JOURNAL: "I decided to give the key to Chicken Lady's room to the little boy. He thanked me and asked me to bring him his mom's violin (it's hidden behind the wardrobe). He's afraid to go himself, as his parents are supposedly angry with him."

THE JOURNAL: "The boy sure was happy to see the new violin. (...)The kid also told me I should visit him in his parent's home someday."

CHICKEN LADY: (after musician's death) "Maybe it's just that me ears are getting worse, but it's been a while since I've heard that monster outside me windows..."

CHICKEN LADY: "Holy Mother, this creep again! May the devil take him and his blasted violin!"

MUSICIAN: "The Pretty Lady? S-she's... the most beautiful lady in the w-world! I w-watch her through the cracks in the window. S-she ch-changes when I watch her... g-gets more beautiful. I p-play for her... I want her to be h-happy..."

MUSICIAN: "I fished out the Pretty Lady's w-wreath from the river! (...)Oh yes, I will become the Pretty L-lady's husband! We w-will walk hand in hand, s-sir. I will play for her, mister s-sir."

-A skinny little hand emerges from beneath the tractor and grabs me by the ankle.

MUSICIAN: "They will not l-listen to me, they w-won't hear how sad I am, sir..."

-One of the strings securing his mask falls off, together with his ear. The boy reattaches it as if nothing happened.

MUSICIAN: "My m-mom has this beautiful violin! I would ask her to b-borrow it to me, but she's too angry with me... Could you p-please c-convince her to b-borrow it to me? I'll g-give you a card with drawings for her. To apologize."

-The boy turns the game in his hand for a while, but he can't find a way to reach the buttons with his overgrown fingers. The game slips out of his hand and drops to the ground. The wannabe musician freezes.

MUSICIAN: "(...) maybe you could take a wee piece of... m-meat for me? I've never eaten a pig and I've h-heard it's very tasty! W-would you take s-some for me?"

-The boy sniffles and rubs the mask with his deformed hand.

-From beneath the mask you can hear a horribly distorted, resounding voice... of a child?

-The figure tries to turn its head, but its enormous neck makes this task impossible to complete.

MUSICIAN: "P-please let me stay. P-please, don't chase me off. I've got nowhere to... go. The villagers don't a-a-allow me to live in the camp. I p-p-promise I won't p-play anymore! I'll be quiet. You can c-cover me with something, if you don't w-want to look at m-me..."

MUSICIAN: (after gifting you a rat) "(...) I mean, she jumped on my hand and s-started nibbling on my f-finger! I quickly clasped my h-hand and b-bit through its neck!"

-The corners of the boy's mouth turn up in a grotesque smile, exposing rows of overgrown teeth, which even his mask couldn't hide.

-The boy clumsily grabs the ball in his hand. He carefully hides it under his legs, so that it doesn't roll away.

MUSICIAN: "S-sorry! I didn't want to! T-this thing is coming out of m-my body. I... I tried to stop it, but I don't think I can... N-now the whole room is covered with... this. I didn't want to make a mess, I s-swear! Please, don't t-throw me a-away!"

-The boy leans over the violin lying next to his overgrown left hand. He plucks one of the strings with his right hand, clumsily trying to keep the rhythm.

MUSICIAN: "Recently, I've grown quite a bit. My mom always used to say that I need to be b-big and s-strong... to help her out in the field..."

The boy tries to hug his frail knees with the disproportionately massive torso.

"But I... I don't want to be big anymore. It's v-very hard being big. You need to be so... so strong! To even walk.Now my v-violin is... too s-small for me!"

vvvvv

#darkwood protagonist #darkwood wolfman #darkwood trader #darkwood stranger #darkwood #darkwood musician #darkwood doctor

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ironwoman359 · 4 years

Note

if you don't have anything for either of these yet: on the run/bounty on their head? roman's a prince, but there's some kind of uprising or assassination attempt and he and his most trusted guard have to gtfo. they're on the run, sleeping in shitty motels (with only one bed ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ) and roman has to learn to live w/o 24/7 service. you can pick who the guard is.

Safe With You

@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: On the Run

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Summary: Prince Roman gains a new appreciation for his personal knight when he is forced into hiding to escape an assassination attempt.

Content Warnings: Mentions of death/violence, some mild bickering, prinxiety (can be platonic or pre-romantic), platonic moxiety

Word Count: 1,645

Read on AO3 here

Bad Things Happen Masterlist

Requests are closed

---

Roman had never been so exhausted in his life. His feet were sore, his muscles ached, and there was nothing he wanted more than to collapse into his feather bed and sleep for a day. No wait, a massage from the royal masseuse to ease his muscle tension. No, a massage then sleep for a day.

Yes, that would be the dream.

Unfortunately, Roman’s life had been more akin to a nightmare these past few days. He was a prince, for crying out loud, heir to the throne itself! And now he was being forced to sneak through the woods in the middle of the night like...like some common ruffian!

“You said we’d be reaching real lodgings soon!” he whined. His mother would say that his tone of voice was “unbefitting of a prince,” but he felt that after three days of sleeping rough with no one but his irksome personal knight for company, he was entitled to a bit of complaining. Speaking of his knight...

“We will, highness.” Roman could never figure out how the formal address managed to sound so insulting when Sir Virgil Ellsworth said it. “We should reach it before daybreak, so long as you do not slow us down with any more of your griping.”

Roman made a petulant noise (that his mother would also not have approved of), but Virgil just rolled his eyes and pressed onwards, slipping through the foliage with the ease of a practiced woodsman. Roman stumbled along clumsily behind him, trying to resist the urge to gripe (he was a prince, he did not gripe...he loudly protested) about the terrain.

He managed this for approximately three minutes, which he thought was a rather impressive effort, giving the circumstances.

“If your plan was to hide out at an inn then I don’t see why we had to trek through the undergrowth like this. Would it not have been simpler to take the roads? You do know what roads are, don’t you Sir Ellsworth?”

“You do know what caution is, don’t you highness?” Virgil retorted. “By all means, take the roads, if you want to be caught by the assassins in less than a day.”

Roman opened his mouth to argue back, but Virgil shut him up with a scathing glare.

“I know you’re used to being the one to boss people around, Princey, but we’re not in the palace any longer. It’s my job to keep you alive, and out here, what I say goes. Got that?”

He turned around without waiting for an answer, a breach of protocol that ordinarily would land him in serious trouble, but even Roman had to admit that the systems of etiquette and protocol that he was used to didn’t matter much in the middle of a coup. And as much as Roman had whined and complained (and alright, griped) about their traveling conditions, underneath his brash facade he was just glad that Virgil had remained loyal to him, even after the people who paid his salary had been run through by assassins’ blades.

Not that he’d ever admit that out loud to his knight of course.

“Okay, we’re almost there,” Virgil said, pulling Roman out of his musings. “Keep your head down, and let me do the talking.”

Roman glowered at him, but he pulled the hood of his travelling cloak up to obscure his face and followed Virgil without further complaint. Roman wasn’t sure how Virgil knew where they were, the woods all looked the same to him, but one minute they were surrounded by trees and the next they were stepping onto a dirt road that led into a tiny village. Virgil kept glancing around as they approached a building that Roman would call quaint if he wanted to be kind...ramshackle if he was feeling more irritable, which tonight he was.

“You’re sure this is an inn?”

“What part of keep your voice down is confusing you?” Virgil hissed with perhaps a touch more venom in his voice than was typical, and Roman blinked.

“Okay, okay, sorry,” he muttered, folding his arms with a huff.

Virgil sighed and shook his head, then stepped forward and nudged the door open a crack, peering inside. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he pushed the door open properly and gestured for Roman to follow him inside.

Roman didn’t have much experience with inns, on the rare occasion that he had to travel his entourage would usually solicit the hospitality of a local noble family, so he had no idea if the cramped space was typical of this more...rustic establishment. Still, the room was cleaner than he’d expected; the stone floor was swept, the worn wooden tables were wiped down, and a pleasant, homey smell wafted through the air. It wasn’t hard to imagine the room full of peasants after a hard day's work, enjoying hearty food and drink to forget their hardships for a few hours.

For now though, the room sat empty, save for one man who was hunched over the fireplace, stirring something in an iron pot. He spun around when he heard the door close behind them, and his eyes widened behind a pair of round glasses.

“Oh! I wasn’t expecting customers this early in the morning, I–”

“Pat, it’s me.”

The man froze.

“Virgil?” he asked, and Virgil nodded. “Oh my– what are you doing here? When I heard about the capital, I was afraid that–”

“I need your help,” Virgil interrupted, and the man nodded.

“Of course, whatever you need!.”

“A room? And off the books, Patton, nobody can know we’re here.”

Patton’s eyes flickered to Roman for a moment before looking back to Virgil with a firm nod.

“Of course, of course. This way.”

He led Virgil and Roman up a staircase and down a hall, ushering them into a room.

“It’s not much, but it’s yours for as long as you need it. And once I’m done opening things up downstairs I’ll come up and bring you some porridge, you kiddos must be hungry.”

“I can pay you,” Virgil began, but Patton shook his head.

“Keep your money. I have a feeling you’ll be needing it more than me anyhow. Just stay safe for me, okay?”

Virgil nodded. “Thank you.”

Patton smiled at him, then with one last glance at Roman, slipped out of the room and back downstairs. Virgil shut the door behind him, then quickly crossed the room and closed the shutters as well, blocking out the first few rays of morning sunlight.

“Okay,” he said, a bit of tension finally leaving his shoulders. “We should be okay to rest here for a bit.

Roman looked around the room, and tried not to grimace. It was tiny, barely big enough to comfortably fit the single bed, wooden chair, and side table. No wardrobe, no desk, no vanity, and no lavatory. Still, at least there was a bed. No matter how lumpy the mattress might be, it was sure to be more comfortable than the forest floor.

“Will this suffice for you, then?” Virgil asked, raising an eyebrow, and Roman sighed.

“It will have to do, I suppose,” he said, and Virgil rolled his eyes.

“It better, because this is the only inn this side of the capital that won’t sell us out at the first flash of some coin.”

“So that innkeeper, you trust him then?”

“With my life,” Virgil responded immediately, and Roman blinked.

“Well alright then,” he muttered. He looked around the room, then frowned as one particular detail stuck out to him. “There’s only one bed.”

“It’s a roadside inn, Princey, it doesn’t exactly have suites.”

“I know, I wasn’t exactly expecting the lap of luxury here, but–”

“Relax,” Virgil interrupted. He pulled off his cloak and bunched it into a ball before stretching out on the floor and stuffing it under his head. “I’m all good, see? No need to worry about sharing your bed with the measly common folk.”

“I’m aware you’re making fun of me,” Roman grumbled, and Virgil laughed.

“Good, I’d be worried if that was lost on you.”

“You think just because the world is collapsing around us that you can mistreat me so? I am still your prince.”

Virgil gave him an unimpressed look, and Roman swallowed, suddenly cognizant of the fact that the only reason he was still alive was because of Virgil’s interference. He’d taken it for granted, Virgil was his knight, after all, it was his job to protect him, but when the rest of the palace had fallen, there would have been nothing stopping Virgil from giving Roman up to save his own skin. Instead, Virgil had taken him to safety, and Roman felt his face warm in shame.

“I apologize,” he said quietly, looking down. “That was...not a very chivalrous remark. I do recognize that it is only because of you that I am even alive, let alone a prince, and...I am grateful for that.”

He glanced up, just in time to see a strange expression flicker across Virgil’s face for just a moment before his familiar smirk was back.

“Alright, Princey, don’t get sappy on me now,” he said, and Roman let himself smirk back.

“Just covering my bases here, I can’t exactly have rumors start spreading that the prince of the land doesn’t appreciate when someone saves his life.”

“Go to sleep, highness, your precious reputation is safe with me,” Virgil snickered, closing his eyes.

Roman chuckled, but as he lay back on the lumpy mattress, he didn’t miss the way Virgil’s hand drifted to rest on the hilt of his sword, or how he adjusted his position so that his body lay across the doorframe, one final barrier between Roman and any threat that might dare to enter.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, letting his own eyes slip closed. “I know I’m safe with you.”

---

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#badthingshappenbingo #sanders sides #ts fanfic #prinxiety #virgil sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #my writing #asks and answers

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r3b3lgrrrrrrrl · 4 years

Text

A LunaTic and Her Gunn (Part 117 2xs2) "Internet Thangs"

Colson and Luna pull up to The Chateau Marmont. Colson steps out first, handing his keys to the valet. As another man approaches Luna's door he puts his hand up to stop him. Walking around, he'd rather open His Girl's door himself. Slipping out of the SUV, the somewhat notorious couple manages to walk inside, hand in hand without being bothered.

"Why are we here?" A slightly drunk and totally confused Luna asks.

"They usually film in NY, out here they book where we want. Ash or Jackie must've chose The Chateau... I'm not sure who booked this one." He shrugs out his answers as he leads her to room 29.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Inside the room looks nothing like the hotel Luna's used to. Everything is draped in black sheets. It actually makes the tragic landmark a bit more gloomier, which Luna didn't think was possible.

"Hey, Colson! How are you?" Sean the host greets him. "This must be Luna, it's such a pleasure." He grins as he stretches his arm out.

"Thank you for having us." Luna accepts his hand warmly, still not knowing what the fuck Colson has gotten her into; all she knows is that there's supposed to be wings and she's starving.

"We're all set up. Make yourselves comfortable and we'll start in 10... Sound good?" Sean confirms to Colson's nod and Luna's look of uncertainty; this is Colson's third time, Luna's never have I ever.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Welcome to Hot Ones, Everybody!" Sean greets the camera. "We've got a special couple's edition here today with some self proclaimed Bad Things. I'm talking with Machine Gun Kelly and if you don't mind my saying so, his STUNNING girlfriend THAT Brooklyn Bitch. They're both ruling the charts with their hit single Bad Things along with other collaborations like I Think I'm Okay and Nightmare." Sean now turns to them directly. "Guys, I've gotta admit, I've seen the music video, caught your performances on SNL, Ellen and GMA... Not a stalker but I might've also peeped a couple hot Insta pics and stories of you two... I have to say, they do not do justice to the amount of tattoos and bad assery, I don't know if that's a word but I'm making it one... That comes along with the two of you in person. Just looking at the you, I wanna peirce my nose, buy a fender and find a hardcore chick to rule The World with!" He laughs nervously as Luna gives him an weird look; in her drunken mind, he's an odd, little man.

"Do it! Live the dream, my Dude!" Colson encourages him with a chuckle.

"Don't tempt me, I just might." Sean wishes. "Okay, so lemme give Brooklyn a little insight... We've got ten wings. Ten types of hot sauce raising in intensity with each wing... And one question to go with each wing and sauce." The host explains.

"Wait, what?" There's that magic sentence again as Luna hears how each wing is contingent upon a question. "You told me hot wings... You didn't say anything about questions." Luna raises her eyebrows at Colson.

"Ten wings. Ten questions. Come on, we got this, Kitten." Colson sinks a firm kiss onto Luna's cheek.

"Not the way you eat fucking wings." Luna lowly snarks for only Colson to hear with an obviously unamused tone; she doesn't like to be blindsided.

"Okay, Round One... One wing, one hot sauce, one question. Beware they get hotter as we go. Don't worry though, we've got your water and your milk that you can refill at anytime." Sean begins to start them off.

"Hold on... Wait. What? What is milk and water? Are you... Are you children?" Luna slightly stutters in disgust. "If I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna enjoy it. Fuck this ballsack shit, lemme get a beer. Please." Luna asserts while finding herself asking the same stupid fucking question AGAIN as she tries to reel herself in.

"Fucking MILK??? Who the FUUUUUCK... Ugh... Shut up, Loons. Get your beer, eat your chicken, let Colson answer whatever questions and roll on." She tries to calm down and mentally prepare herself for who knows what besides chicken and beer. "They are REALLY trying to ruin two of my favorite things though." Luna can't help but still complain to herself, thinking of how much she HATES interviews.

***********************************************

Colson can't help but laugh at her. He knew today was gonna take a lot of patience and persuading, considering Luna's great love for interviews and all things The Internet. He's surprised she's held up this well so far. "SHIT!! I hope either Ash or Jackie screened these FUCKING questions." Colson's heart suddenly begins to panic.

"Heineken, please." The sound of Luna's voice breaks Colson's thoughts as he focuses on the secretive smile on her face.

"Alright, Penny Lane." He teases her as he squeezes her thigh and tries to drop a kiss on her lips.

"Unh Unh... Luna Smith, motherfucker." She declares with a slur as she ducks just out of his reach; reminding him of the first time he tried to kiss her.

Giving him a playful eye, she let's him pull her into his lap. Luna runs her fingertips along Colson's jawline as he dips his tongue inside of her willing mouth, lightly dancing together until he breaks away to only hold her by the lips; hands firm upon her ass as always. There's a sweet, sensualness to them as love and other emotions rush between their beings by just their kiss on the lips. Colson wraps his arms around Luna, both sighing upon his release as they rest forehead to forehead. Intimate words are exchanged between the two of them until Sean interrupts them after grabbing Luna a few beers. EVERYTHING being caught by the cameras. Slightly intoxicated, Luna doesn't even think to be aware of them like a fucking dumbass.

"Alright... Round One... Now complete with water, milk and beer." Sean rubs his hands together with a chuckle.

"Thank you." Luna lifts her beer graciously to his smiling nod.

"Starting us off, we've got Hot One's classic sauce. It's our garlic fresno edition so critique away." He suggests as they all bite into a leg.

Colson takes one bite. Luna's eating the fuck out of her chicken wing as always. Then dude starts asking questions and ruins everything.

"You two are getting married in like two weeks so I'm assuming you live together... How do you guys typically start your day off?" He is easily the most awkward interviewer Luna has ever encountered.

"We do." Colson answers after he swallows his bite; looking over at Luna whose still munching away, her chicken filled nod agrees with him for the moment. "We usually start the day by fucking and getting stoned. One or the other or both together. It don't matter which order as long as their together. Back to back. Fucking and stoning. Stoning and fucking." Colson clarifies himself as Luna almost snorts her beer and Sean tries to compose himself.

"I fucking love him." Luna's soul shines for Colson.

"Round Two... This is a shawarma sauce by Dawson's. Little spicier but not much." The host leads.

Colson takes one bite as expected. Luna's chilling. Eating fucking chicken. She can't talk if she has a mouth full of chicken.

"You've got this new album out, Hotel Diablo... What would you say is the most personal song on it?" Sean asks as he takes a sip of his milk.

"Glass House." Colson answers lowly; Luna hands him her beer, only slightly happy her mouth is preoccupied by delicious meat.

"Next we got Goat Rider by Angry Goat Company... " Sean begins to describe the next sauce.

"They should call Em that... " Luna says lowly as she looks up at Colson and tries to contain herself; his smirk only encourages her. "Because he's the angriest little GOAT of them all." She says in a tiny, childlike voice; it's Colson's fault she couldn't help herself as she dips her face into his chest to hide her giggles; he's just as bad as he covers her head and his own laughter with his arm crooked around her.

"God Damn, I fucking love her." Colson's heart glows with amusement from his Kitten's sense of humor.

"Hey... Hey... Hey... No secret conversations. Hot wings and questions." The host tries to redirect them.

"Alright, super chicken man." Luna announces as she comes out of her hiding spot. "What's next?" She asks as she grabs her third wing and chomps into it.

"Are you guys REALLY getting married at ESTFest?" He asks as Colson almost chokes on his chicken.

"Need some milk?" Luna asks sarcastically with a full mouth.

"Fuck you." Colson coughs out as he sips the milk. Luna almost chokes on her own chicken as she laughs at him. "See, that's what you get. Asshole." He calls her out after handing her, her beer and making sure she'll live.

"So ESTFest... ?" Sean goes on to remind them.

"Yeah... " Colson nods after he collects himself also. "During ModSun's set."

"What?" Luna asks Sean directly when he won't stop looking at her for an answer. "You see the ring." Luna wiggles her sparkling left finger in the air. "ACTUALLY... I got two." She grins like a spoiled little girl as she extends her right hand out. "THIS one is my favorite... " Luna declares as she admires it herself before she leans back against Colson, staring up at him with THAT One Look as she plays with one of her most prized possession.

"Is that a guitar string?" Sean asks with pure wonder.

"Is that the fourth question?" Luna asks with a teasing charm as she holds her hands together towards her chest, just underneath her chin.

"I like that you play hard ball." Sean chuckles nervously as he wags his finger at her, not wanting to let this question go. "I'll trade it in for Round Four's question as long as it's a two part answer." He bargains.

"Mmmm... Nope. Two questions. Two answers. Two chickens." Luna's unwilling to budge.

"Fine... Is it a guitar string?" He asks again with a tinge of disappointment but still wanting to know.

"Yes." Luna nods her head proudly as she answers and presents her hand back towards him again so he can fully study the work of love.

"Wow. That's really neat the way the wire is twisted around to reinforce itself." He observes in admiration. "Where did it come from? EXACTLY." He reframes the question.

"We were On Tour in Pittsburgh and Colson sporadically proposed to me in his dressing room after The Show. He made it with one of the strings off the guitar he'd used that night within like 20mins." Luna sweetly admits as she thinks back to those private moments.

"I just wanna say, for the record, One... The guitar that string came off of goes everywhere with me now. Has ever since... Actually I don't think I've used another electric since that night." Colson looks over at Luna, who shakes her head to agree with him that he hasn't. "And Two... I had that rock for a few weeks but my dumbass left it behind when we hit The Road." Colson points out.

"Annnnnnnnd I love them both." Luna coos as she pecks Colson on the side of the mouth. "Now can I see why this goat is so angry?" She asks as she shoots him a grin and grabs her chicken leg.

"Alright, where are we at?" The host struggles to regain control of his show.

"We're at you owe me another hot wing because we gave you two answers." Luna reminds him of their deal as she splashes the sauce from the next bottle in line onto her fifth tiny drumstick. "You want any?" She asks Colson as she reaches over.

"Ahhh... Just a bit." He groans.

"You know Imma tell Slim all about this later tonight, right?" She chortles at him lightly.

"I fucking hate you." Colson chuckles at a munching ass Luna while he reaches for her beer.

"So... Round Six?" Sean asks as he weakly throws his hands up to their nods. "We've got Scorpion from the Heartbeat Hot Sauce Co. Now we're climbing up the ladder guys but Brooklyn, you've eaten all of each of your wings. The only other person to do this is Shia Labeouf. Think you can you keep up?" He asks her as if it's a test.

"This motherfucker is DUMB." Colson snickers to himself at the idea of anyone challenging Luna.

"Hold up, I have some questions. First off... What do you mean only one other person has eaten all their wings? What the fuck do they do with 'em?" She asks, feeling kinda offended by the lack of chicken respect on this Internet Thang that Colson has her involved in.

"Most guests usually take a small bite of each wing." He explains to Luna's look of horror.

"Why did you ask me if I can keep up? Did you run out of chicken and beer?" She genuinely asks around the sexist insult to his head shake.

"She's such a fucking bitch." Colson thinks in amusement as he watches Luna. She is his favorite person in The World, especially when it comes to her level of IDGAF.

"Okay then, let's eat and answer questions." Sean simply requests as he takes a healthy bite. "What's the craziest thing you two have done together?" He asks once he's swallowed.

Colson takes a drink from the beer he's now sharing with Luna, mentally refusing to sip anything else after she made fun of him. His insides are dying. Luna's having the time of her life like she's the Abba Queen of hot wings as she wipes her mouth after fucking up her latest victim. Both of them are on totally different waves lengths but when their eyes meet for the question anything drops away and everything makes sense.

"The craziest thing I've ever done with Luna is fall in love with her almost 10yrs ago simply by her presence and smile." Colson grins as he looks down for a moment. "I think I might've even described it once as a cosmic boner." Colson lightly laughs to himself as he looks up into Luna's welling eyes and they lightly giggle together at the reality of their love; she covers her mouth to slightly to muffle her happy whimpers.

"Yeeaaah... We've done some crazy shit but none of our foolish antics compare to the risk that we're taking by starting a life together." Luna answers sincerely as her breath catches and her eyes never leave Colson's.

"More wings for Round Seven?" The host interrupts their intimacy again.

"Round Seven." The couple agrees before nodding studiously at each other and focusing on their wings.

"Round Seven we have Bourbon Habenero Ghost from Hellfire Detroit. Let's give it a go." He suggests as they each take a bite. "Best song on Hotel Diablo?" Sean hits them with a rapid fire question.

"AHHHHH... Fuck!! THAT'S hot!! Ahhhh... Ahhh... Bad Things!" Colson shouts out his answer as he stands up and begins waving his bandana around.

Sean heads directly for the milk after one full bite, chew and swallow. Luna eats the whole wing. Then finishes her beer.

"Aww... Bunny." Luna coos with a smile as she lightly giggles and sucks her teeth. "Don't listen to him, he's hot sauce dumb right now. Col, get some milk... " She advises as she hands him the glass. "Hotel Diablo is bigger than just ONE great song." Luna air quotes. "It's a whole concept from beginning to end. I won't say which song I think is the best but I think when a song that is not only number on the Alternative charts but also number two in POP with a major lyric that stands alone about hurting oneself... " Luna's voice begins to quiver. "Than that means to me that millions of people are responding to and resonating with a certain kind of painful feeling... " Luna starts to become visibly emotional as she continues to speak. "And I think it's important to pay attention to that point because it's incredibly concerning that so many individuals in our society obviously relate in some kind of vulnerable way to the words of this song but we don't talk about ANY it. It's time to change our question. It's not what is the best song. It should be WHY is this the best song." Luna has tears rolling down her cheeks as she looks down in her lap to let them drop silently, leaving both men speechless.

"Holy fuck... I never thought of it that way." Colson stares at her while holding the empty glass of milk before making his way over to comfort her.

"Are you guys ready for Round Eight?" Sean gently asks as he sits back down with them after Luna's had a chance to pull herself together.

"Yeah, Man. We got this." Colson answers as he squeezes Luna's thigh.

"Okay... Round Eight... We got Beyond Insanity by Da Bomb and a direct question for Brooklyn. We ready? Bite!" Sean declares skipping his own wing to ask Luna the question mid chew. "Why won't you proclaim your birth name publicly?"

"What the FUCK was that?" Colson's bewildered by the question presented to Luna as he holds tight of her thigh and drops his wing as she speaks. "Just know I'm here, Kitten." Is all he can think as he stares daggers into Sean and Luna cooly rips the host a new asshole.

"Do you know my birth name?" Luna asks as she slows down her chewing and stares through the stupid host. "Because I don't. It's not Luna Smith if that what you're suggesting. That's my legal name. Not my birth name. You should really do your research before you ask your guests personal questions... Or at least have them worded correctly." Luna advises icily as she finishes her wing. "We ready for Round Nine?" Luna asks loudly with an annoyed tone as she drops the chicken bone onto her full plate.

"Yeah. Let's do it." Sean continues uncomfortably. "This is called Chipotle Express and it's by PuckerButt Pepper Co... We may be rising in heat but we're gonna take it down a smidge in the questions... I know you've collaborated a few times but do you guys think you'll ever do anything like a full album or project together?" Sean asks as he bites into his wing.

For the first time Luna doesn't use her love of food as an excuse not speak. "That's probably the best question you've asked yet." She compliments Sean finally as she looks over at Colson's own turning wheels before choosing to explain. "Because it's the first one that I don't have an answer to because I never heard the question."

"I think what she's trying to say is as natural of a next move that you may think making an entire album together may be... It never occurred to either of us until the moment you presented the question... " Colson turns his head to stare at Luna with a loving smile; both knowing that they're sharing almost the same thought. "And now I can't stop thinking of all the other thousands of things we could create together. So thank you." Colson and Luna turn away from each other for a moment to look at Sean with gratitude.

"Do you guys believe in soulmates?" He asks his final question while caught up in the loving feelings between the couple.

"Yes."

"No."

Colson and Luna answer at the same time but with different responses. Different ideals. Different expectations.

"What do you mean no?" He asks her with furrowed eyebrows.

"I don't. I believe in true love but I don't believe that we're only destined to love one person. I think different people are supposed to come into our lives at different points for different reasons for different amounts of time. If that wasn't my truth than I would've never been able to fall in love with you after Justin." Luna explains her logic to him as if they're the only two in the hotel room.

Colson's silent for a moment. Totally hating Sean and his hot wings. ESPECIALLY hating his stupid fucking questions. Deeply contemplating what Luna just said.

"But you do, MGK?" Sean asks him directly, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yeah. I believe I found my soulmate... And if not, I'll have her as my wife." He smiles coyly, never taking his eyes off of Luna as she watches him with adoration.

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"What were your other questions?" Luna inquisitively asks Sean after they wrap up taping.

"Oh! Uh... What do you think married life will look like for you guys and do you think you'll ever have kids?" He responds, slightly caught off guard.

"Life won't change." Luna smiles. "We're gonna keep on creating, traveling and being kind to The World as for... "

"You ready, Kitten?" Colson interrupts them as he slips his arm around Luna's waist. "Thanks again, Man." He acknowledges Sean before leading Luna away.

"We already have one... But maybe another one day." Luna answers his second question over her shoulder with a twinkle in her eye.

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"Where are we going now?" Luna giggles into Colson's ear as he carries her piggyback style up a slight hill.

"You've shown me a lot of cool things, now it's my turn." He answers her as he gently sets her down in the evening glow of the dipping sun. "Here, lemme get that blanket." He asks of her as he takes the schoolbag from off of Luna's back. Stretching it out, he reaches for her once he sits down. "Lay with me, please?" He requests.

"Where are we?" Luna asks as she curls up next to his body.

"Just wait." Colson gently instructs as he lights a blunt.

On a quiet hill somewhere in LA, Colson and Luna snuggle up together in the warm summer's air as the sun falls off the edge of The Earth. The night's sky slowly creeping around them. Luna's breath catches in her chest as she takes in Colson's surprise. It's a WHOLE sky filled with stars.

"I knew you'd appreciate this." He smiles to himself as he kisses the top of her head.

"It's so beautiful... How did you ever find this?" She asks in amazement.

"Mod showed me one night when we were tripping. It's the ONLY place you can see the stars out here." Colson breathes in deeply as he pulls her closer.

They lay together pointing out what they think are different constellations. Debating what's a satellite and what's a star. Luna drawing out Orion's Belt as Colson shows her where he believes to be The Big and Little Dipper are.

"So you really don't believe in soulmates?" Colson asks Luna again under the cosmic sky.

"No. Not one. I believe we're destined to love who we love... And I love you, Bunny. What's the difference?" She asks him.

"I don't know... I guess I find the whole idea of belonging to one person to be comforting and romantic. It's like having a predestined home." The idealistic yet hurt little boy inside of him answers.

"Oh, Bunny... " Luna purrs as she snuggles closer to him. "I am your home. Forever. Married, not married. Soulmates, not soulmates. I know a lot of shit but there's not much I'm sure of." Luna admits. "I am sure that I've loved since I saw you but that I wasn't meant to truly meet you until I did." She places his hand in the middle of her breasts so he can feel her beating heart. "We are who we are for a reason and right now... Our reason is the only thing that makes sense or matters to me."

Colson grabs her chest with a firm lightness. Holding their feelings tightly inside of his large palm. After a moment he gently rolls his body so that he looms over top of Luna. Staring down at her, he brushes the random stands of hair from her face. Leaning on his forearms, he dips down to kiss her passionately. She runs her fingers along the sides of his face into the back of his hair as she pulls him closer and kisses him firmly.

Their touches are sweet and soft under the star filled sky. They slowly undress each other as their kisses linger on their bare skin. Colson and Luna stare into each other's souls as he fully enters her. Making them both shake from their pure feelings and emotions.

It's not often that Colson and Luna make love. They usually fuck the shit out of each other. Tonight they're not animals. They're intimate lovers, both taking their time. Dropping heartfelt I love yous into each other's ears as they softly pant and moan. Soulmates or not, Luna and Colson are in this shit called Life together. Forever.

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2Xs2

To be continued...

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rightnowyoucanttell · 4 years

Text

Malibu, Next To You

Title: Malibu, Next To You

Summary: Is it supposed to this hot all summer long? Or is it just him? A very fluffy date with some minor molehills between Veronica and Grayson on a Malibu beach. Just because the sun is down, the night is still young, and so are they. But which way does it go...

Warnings: Fluff, implied smut (I don’t write smut, sorry guys), talks of anxiety

A/N: When this idea came to mind, i say that because i have a roughly planned full series timeline in my head it started with just the first part as a blurb but then I was like hey let's make a series, it was originally to be a reader insert (Y/N, Y/L/N, ect.) but i always have problems doing that as they feel too weird to write so I came up with Veronica and added it to the plot/timeline whatever you'd call it. so you can do that or appreciate it for the beauty it is with Veronica and Grayson.

Tags: @dzoint @graysavant @blindedbythelightt @tadadolan @heartofalionxo @beatement-l @grayswhore @saggitariusagirl @tattoogray @onlyangels-world @dxlxnbby

Part one

Series Masterlist

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

“You know..” Ronnie drifted as she walked kicking the sand beneath her feet forward in a rhythmic pattern,” I’ve never enjoyed going to the beach..” Veronica glanced up from the sand and over to Grayson who gazed down to the ground before making eye contact.

The smell of saltwater brushed their noses, seagulls cawed in the distance as the water crashed closer and closer and then pulled itself back out. The pair, Ronnie and Gray watched the sunset as they walked barefoot as the tide came in and set back out, like both of their hearts, coming to a calm stop and then flooding back in a rampage of fluttering butterflies, beating in there chest.

He explained the currents and she just gawked in a secretive manner, so he didn’t notice, the dumbfounded look his body gave her.

“Really? You don’t say, I mean I figured that much, for someone who has a fear of seagulls and drowning…” he pondered the thought as his feet stopped the wallow in the incoming tide that was just far enough from Ronnie who was in the dry portion of sand.

She giggled shaking her head continuing down the shore all while facing Grayson,”..are you saying you’re not enjoying yourself?” he shouted over the crashing waves that he ran from to catch up to her.

“You remembered…,” Ronnie’s heart fluttered. Grayson knew about her anxiety. Ronnie explained to Grayson that night in Starbucks, her fears, in return for him doing the same. There was a semi prolix list. Seagulls, birds, circus clowns, large crowds, heights, and significantly Drowning.

She shook herself from the bliss and continued, “but, no. No no, no.. of course not. You brought me here!” she exclaimed twirling with open arms, the wind catching her grey wool shawl that covered her white strapless sundress with bright red roses.

Her damp dark brown hair caught in the breeze flew gently, her eyelids covered her vibrant green eyes. Grayson’s eyes followed Veronica in awe as she twirled in the sand and breeze all the way as she ran back to him and nearly ran into him.

The two laughed and turned around to walk back to the there picnic blanket, both inaudible deciding it was time to eat,” Your something else, you know that?” he offered up to the conversation. His hand brushed against gently against Ronnie’s.

Ronnie just smiled letting silence sit between then,”..Something good I hope…” the entirety of the walk back to the picnic blanket and the food was silence, blissful and incentive for Grayson, but nervous and nerve wracking for Veronica. She hastily wondered if she had said the wrong thing, or turned him off or away and that’s why he hadn’t said anything, but she tried telling herself it was just the anxiety and the nerves this Italian boy from New Jersey stirred up.

Veronica Chandler likely always would be anxiety-ridden. After all, Fears my life, Ronnie had the words tattooed on and wrapping around her wrist. The black ink still had water droplets from when she had been swimming and wading in the water with Grayson. Veronica left the fishing on her stepfather’s, Darren, boat to him and her older brother Noah, even all the while, an excelling science student, she never got how they were floating.

However, if tonight, if Grayson asked her, Ronnie probably would step foot on a boat. She never willing went to the beach, even though living in Miami with private beach access growing up at her home, and certainly did not stand by the ocean. But on this evening, Grayson brought her there, and she was happy that he did.

So here they were.

The sunset warmed Veronica the pinks and blues entangling themselves, like the hopes of how Veronica undeniably wanted to be entangled with Grayson later that night. Something in Grayson hoped it too.

On a picnic blankets, following a stroll along with the tide on the now rather deserted from the public eye, on a beach in Malibu. Munching on what Ronnie’s mom would call “Rabbit Food”.

“This is one of the best wraps I’ve ever tasted,” Ronnie added as she quietly finished chewing her toes in the sand below and surrounding the blanket.

"Its from.." Grayson paused to chew," this stand in downtown LA, Marty's I think, they're delicious." They made eye contact, Ronnie smiled with her eyes, covering her mouth as she was chewing.

"We should go together sometime,"Ronnie offered nervously.

"Defiently...,"Grayson brushed his hands above the wrap on a clear piece of plastic wrap beefy ass salad chickpea wrap sat on, in between final swallows of his bites of food he started, "so... care to explain why you ignored me for a week, 'ronica?"

That's when the evening went south.

What Grayson didn't know, that the week Veronica avoided him..one week desperate Gray was left with no sign she was alive, no text, calls, and no DM’S except the confirmation seen from the first night.

That week the week she ignored him, the week he was referring too, Veronica, was in Miami visiting her mother. Veronica had deep-rooted feelings for Grayson.. but, again, like a record used, the last had left a few scratches, and overtime... they scarred.

But it was nothing, Gianna, Mama Chandler couldn't fix...

Ronnie sighed heavily,"Why does everyone I love settle for someone so low of them?" She pondered the thought in silence as she finished her rant of the night she met Grayson.

“..well, he sounds like a keeper..and handsome....,” her mother drifted. Ronnie wasn’t paying attention fondling with the small strands that belonged to the blue and white polka-dotted beach towel her mother and herself were tanning on. Within seconds her attention was grabbed by an incoming frisbee, that landed...perfectly in one of the white polka dots. Ronnies eyes widened when she caught its sight, she gazed curiously and then picked it up examine it, before tossing it to the wind aimlessly,”-Veronica! You could have hit someone!” Gianna gently smacked the four-arm of her daughter’s right hand with the back of her hand.

“Mom!? What the fuck? Did you not see that it landed in the circle, that’s not a coincidence...that’s a fucking conspiracy. Like how a cartoon predicted 9/11 and then moon landing was faked...," Ronnie slumped back so her back rested against the beach chair set up behind her.

"It was an accidental coincidence..dear," her mother licked the tip of her finger pulling the pages apart. Her sun hat covers her sunglasses covered eyes, and held her brown hair in place around her shoulders, she was paler than Ronnie, she and noah got there skin from her absentee father, he was the Brazilian in her jeans.

"Yeah well, accidents don't just happen, accidentally, mother," Veronica huffed and crossed her arms leaning back farther and closing her eyes, enjoying momental peace before the woman started up again.

"When you head back to Los Angeles, you better text that boy, I'll be damned if you pass up a chance with someone like that. He's a good one that Grayson, I can tell. You cant let your life wither away to nothing and give up on love because of one bad drinker and a beater bad apple.. theres good people out there.. you just gotta look in front of you."

The memory on the beach faded, she hadn't realized she had been gazing into Grayson's hazel eyes the entire time the flashback played out in her head like a scene from a movie,"do you, uh. Really want to know? Is it fundamentally necessary.." she drifted off leaving a tenacious gap of silence. Just the wind and the waves to be heard.

Grayson scoffed a chuckle,"..well, no, but, I'd like to know."

Ronnie thought for a few moments, if she didnt tell him, he'd be suspicious, if she told him he might doubt the feelings she had if they were legitament,"I was in Miami. With my mom, i needed advice. A break. I was worried you were..a player. And now I know, I know that your not. Your kind, cute, hot, sexyyy, and-"Veronica's ramble was cut off by Graysons hands wrapping and cupping her head into his hands and pressing his lips to hers.

Internal fire works went off, if it were a movie they would be exploding over the water between there heads just visable to camera shot. Both hearts beat against there respective rib cages, not knowingly they both had been wating for this moment the entirety of the night.

Ronnie's hand came to touch Grays chest shortly before she came up to breath in the salty air,"that.." she panted,"was hot. But, I dont know.. if this'll work. I'm lonely and broken.. and can barely take care of myself, just, Grayson-"

"I like that your broken, and lonely" he grasped her face one hand still behind her head his thumb caressing her cheek,"not like in a kinky sort of way," they both laughed for a few seconds, Ronnie looked down. He placed his pointer fingern underneath her chin, tilting it up,"I could be lonely with you.."

"My place or yours?" She smirked. Hoping that night of entanglement would happen after all.

"Mine, definetly mine." He breathed there chins pressed together.

Ronnie had never run faster than she didn that night, all the way back to the porsche.

#lyricalbrokendolan #brokendolan #grayson dolan blurb #grayson dolan imagines #grayson dolan au #grayson dolan oc #grayson dolan series #Spotify #grayson dolan fanfic #grayson dolan fanfiction

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timebuzzer · 3 years

Text

Ever After Chapter 15.4

Disclaimer: MATURE CONTENT AHEAD. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. SKIP IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THIS KIND OF CONTENT.

This is Sage and Alex again, okay? They are married and on HONEYMOON. Don't forget that. AND this is just a product of our imagination. Play the music to add feels? Hahahaha! Enjoy?

This will be the last 🙈

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3rd Person POV

"And anywhere." He utters against the skin on her neck as he tightens his arms around her waist.

"Your smell was so inviting." He whispered, soothing the area with his tongue and a kiss. Unconsciously, she began to shift closer to him, angling herself to give him more access to continue.

Sage's eyes glistened mischievously. She was too lost in the moment with her eyes wistfully closed as he trailed light, soft, and open-mouthed kisses onto her neck, beginning from the back of her ears, down the sides of her throat, and to her shoulder blades.

"You smell so intoxicating as always, Love." He whispered into her ear, his warm breath tickling it, which made her shiver and clutch his arm.

She gasped when he bit the area where her neck met her shoulders, feeling him suckle that sweet spot he's so accustomed to now. She let out a small whimper when he kissed the spot and nipped it again, creating a mark. "Sage, the mosquito is at it again", she thought.

His lips brushed against the sensitive area, "You really do..." His feather-soft lips were teasing her. She was growing dizzy and could barely hold up her own body. Her legs wobbled, but his firm arms held her in place. His torturous seduction was doing things to her that she did not know was possible.

She gasped when his hands left her waist and cupped her bosom without warning, squeezing. Her body melted and her knees gave out even if she was still wearing her satin robe but he held her up. He moved his lips higher up and settled on the side of her neck, lavishing the area with his attention. She let out a quiet, pleased moan, his fingers digging against her robe.

He turned her around and she automatically pressed her body against his chest. His pupils dilated when he felt every curve of her body beneath her clothes. He was supposed to be seducing her, but he felt it was the other way around, and she was doing it effortlessly. "More." She whispered, standing on her tippy-toes, wanting a kiss.

He bent his head as if he was about to kiss her lips. But he didn't. His lips landed on her forehead, her eyes, her nose, and on her cheek, trailing a path to the edge of her soft lips. She was going insane, her hands traveling up his chest and clutching his shoulders.

"No." She sharply breathed in when he squeezed her behind, drawing her closer. He was not playing fair and he knew it too. A devilish smirk was on his face when she attempted to move her face for a kiss, but he moved his mouth first. She groaned in a protest.

After seeing how much she wanted him, he crashed his lips onto hers, one hand traveling behind her neck to angle it better. Their lips feverishly met in a passionate, lustful kiss. She moaned against his mouth, opening her lips for his tongue to dive in and explore every nook and cranny. He pulled back to let her breathe and continued to kiss her closed eyelids, starting from the left to the right. He then peppered her face with gentle kisses as her hands tugged at the ends of his hair. She was driving him equally crazy. He wanted her, every part of him did, but this time he is going to take his time.

Sage remained still for a while but the next second he moved, he untangled the satin robe slowly, letting his fingers trail on her slightly exposed milky skin, sending shivers down Alex’s spine, as the robe was now partly revealing her body, As if she wasn't already aware of his touch, he followed it with warm kisses, starting from her neck moving towards her back and straight down to her waist. As he kissed the base of her spine, he undid the silky cloth off while staring deeply into her eyes and a second later, her robe fell with a soft swoosh, revealing a pair of black lacy lingerie.

The moment he saw her almost naked skin, he sucked in a breath, trying to control his raging little friend. Alex was more comfortable with her pajamas. She had a few pairs of satin lingeries but she rarely wears those and Sage knows that. But when she does, Sage would always lose his mind. However, tonight is an exception because it is a sheer black lace paired with lacy underwear for Pete's sake. Sage could clearly see what's underneath, her white as snow skin and her pink rose ready for him.

This is actually one of Paris' belated bridal shower gift. Alex never knew that the time would come and she would wear these kinds of revealing clothes. But there would never be another night like this again so she would take this opportunity to show her husband just how much she would be willing to offer herself to him and only him.

Sage slightly moved away from her to fully ogle at his wife. He gave her a lingering gaze from top to toe, which made Alex feel slightly embarrassed at being half-naked in front of him but this paled in comparison to her desire to be one with her him.

Alex stared at him seductively, as if noticing his burning desire, and looked at him with her pure, clear eyes. But she decided to break the staring contest and look away as she could not rival his intense burning gaze.

Sage moved closer and touched the tiny bow design in the middle of her chest. His fingertips then moved to slowly trace from the bow of her lingerie to the skin between her bosom, up to her chin, tilting it that made her meet his brown eyes burning with desire.

She felt her heart skip a beat when he gently smiled, "I believe I haven't complimented you enough." He murmured, "They're beautiful." She thought he was referring to her breasts or the lingerie itself, but he was staring at something else, he was staring at her. "I used to own a telescope when I was younger," He leaned in and kissed each of her eyelids, "Yet, none of the stars I've seen in my life could ever rival you. I love every bit of you. I can't seem to fathom how vast these feelings are but I know that losing you will be the death of me, both literally and figuratively, Alex Lee."

Alex's heart pounded against her chest, warming up at his words. His hands then trailed up to her face, his fingers touching every inch of her features until they brushed against her lips. "You never fail to leave me breathless, as always. Thank you..."

As she could no longer contain his words, she then leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck before she planted a soft kiss on his lips. Then her hands went down to the hem of his shirt, underneath it, touching his well-sculpted abs.

After that tease his wife just did, Sage burnt from the contact of her delicate fingers on his skin. He then slowly removed his shirt, revealing his perfectly sculpted torso while his eyes were glued to her as she also moved her gaze to his grandeur. Alex would never get tired of admiring his physique. She has seen a lot of men'ss bodies on magazines, TV, or movies, but none could rival his. He was just so well-built, lean, and muscular... It screams perfection that she felt the fire of desire ignite within her.

He gazed at Alex as if asking her for permission to continue what they've started earlier and she answered him by pulling his head down to her so she could devour his lips. It wasn't long before a moan escaped from her as Sage’s hand roamed all over her body. His movements were gentle, almost too slow to caress her like he had all the time in the world.

His hand then wandered down below, to confirm if she was ready for him. His finger graced over her lacy underwear and he was delighted to know that she was excited and he loved it.

However, knowing how long their day had been, Sage didn't want to lose control this time. He wanted to savor this night and he planned to take her slow, gentle.

Sage then led her to the pool in all his grandeur. “Let's try the pool, Love. Want to join me?” He then removed his shorts revealing his gray underwear concealing his on high alert ‘friend’ as he looked at his half-naked wife, teasing her as he dipped into the pool.

As he enjoyed the water, he looked back, expecting to see her follow his suit but found her still standing in the same position he left her beside the pool, looking hesitant and problematic. Alex was contemplating. She was wearing lingerie, as she thought they would go inside after their wine night. If she only knew that he has plans of swimming, she could have just worn a swimsuit underneath.

"But I'm not wearing a swimsuit...You could have said that you have plans of night swimming beforehand." She scoffed at him while crossing her arms on her chest.

“So am I. Come here now, Love. It’s just us here. We set our own rules." He called out. His voice, his gaze, everything about him was hypnotic. He was bewitching her again.

Alex swallowed. The lights around the pool glowed yellow and the atmosphere here felt different at night. It was like it was more romantic than during the day but Alex could tell it was mainly because of the presence of that alluring perfect creature right there.

"I believe you, okay? I know I am beautiful because you are head over heels with me," she told him and when Sage smiled, she immediately stuck her tongue out then let go. She turned and was about to go back to her spot when Sage’s hands wrapped around her tiny waist and pulled her into his embrace, trapping her between his legs.

The first thing Alex felt was his hardness onto her stomach and her face burned. "I'm glad you know that I am head over heels with you. I thought I need to show it to you again." Sage whispered in her ear.

His hands slipped gently teasing her smooth skin, brushing against the edges of her exposed hips before it slowly inched upwards. Her body tensed up in anticipation, waiting for him to do something, but he didn't. Just as she had tortured him before, he was going to do the same.

She let out a soft, contented sigh when his lips inched along her jaw, then dipped down to the spot where her shoulder met her neck, his favorite spot as always. Her fingers entwined into his silky locks, her hips subconsciously moving closer to him, wanting more of him again.

"Are you going to torture me all night?" She asked him, watching as his hands trail down her sides. She shivered at his touch, her body wanting and waiting. He just chuckled upon hearing that his little wife is growing impatient already.

Alex yelped when Sage suddenly scooped her to level with him. She wrapped her arms onto his neck, and her legs onto his waist, instinctively. The water in the pool seemed to become warmer.

He teasingly nipped the most sensitive part of her neck as he squeezes her behind, causing her back to arch, holding onto him. "You're such a tease…" She whispered when he didn't kiss the spot she desperately wanted his lips on.

"Now you know how I feel." He hummed against her skin, his hands exploring over her body. Everywhere he touched ignited her skin. He was taking his own sweet time with her and she knew it too. She trailed off, eyes closing when he began to show her collarbone attention.

They continued the teasing game as Sage moved towards the stairs of the pool and sat there, half of their bodies were still submerged in the water. Alex is now straddling on him. His rough hands on her behind slowly moved upwards to catch her twin peaches softly. Alex bit her lips, suppressing her moan, as she felt the heat from his palms on top of the lace material. He played with her peaches, the lace material against her peaks added sensation that hardened his member, even more, wanting its release. His skillful tongue and hands did wonder to her heating body, including his "friend" that is greeting hers, making her lower region aching a bit.

However, her eyes opened when his hands left her body. "I believe we should take this off." He told her while resting his fingers at the edges of her lacy brassiere. Then he trailed kisses on the blades of her left shoulder, making the strap of her lingerie fell off the sides. He did the same to her right shoulder making the "covering" on her bosom loose, his eyes burning with desire. When he can't take it anymore, he pulled the lingerie up then threw it to the side while his onyx eyes were dripping with lust. He kissed her lips as he continued playing with her peaches directly.

"Can we do it here, Love? Under the starry night," he whispered against her lips with his now husky voice, his hands not stopping from doing their delicious magic, which is now going south.

"B-but… we're outside, ah… not here, Sage…" Alex's tiny bit of reason returned and suddenly felt shy. Not because of her husband, but with the thought that they would do it here, under the moon, the stars. They never tried this before, outdoor.

Sage’s hands, one on her behind squeezed it while the other one busy teasing her sensitive lips making her let out a cute moan. "I'll dim the lights if you want. No one is around here to see us. I wouldn't even dare to let anyone else see your sexy body, this is for myself alone..." He negotiated while his hands continued doing magic on her body. "Consider it logged in our little book of adventures, shall we?"

Alex's mind is getting hazy with his touches that with just one plea, Alex gave in and nodded at him.

Sage smiled. His “friend” began rubbing her down there, on that sensitive spot. The friction from their underwear played havoc on both of them.

He began sucking her lips and she responded, wilder than ever. His wife was beginning to make a move on her own and he loved it, so damn much. Her fingers were tugging his hair as she pulled him closer. Sage wanted it slow but he can't seem to get enough of her that he started increasing his pace as he leaned his forehead with hers with eyes closed.

She pressed a hand to her mouth to suppress her moans. He didn't like that. "Don't bite your lips, Love, moan for me. Don't restrain it. Besides, the butler said the next occupied villa is 5 villas away from us. So we are alone in this villa, no one can hear any sound we make." he uttered and Alex obeyed. She stopped biting her lips and let out soft, yet cute and seductive moans he would never get tired of hearing.

Alex was feeling overwhelmed. She hardly recognized herself. His touch and everything he did to her body felt too good. Every time they got lost in each other's arms, everything in the world just disappeared. No thoughts, no worries, just them, feeling each other and becoming one whole soul.

But he was not going to enter her just yet.

"Sage…" Alex started calling out his name. She felt him become hard against her and the pleasure that she had felt a while ago was starting to resume again.

"Do you want us to continue?" Sage asked her.

Alex’s eyes wandered and in the end, she meekly nodded. She was embarrassed but her body and heart wanted him too. And she thought there was no reason for her not to want it or to hide her want for it.

She saw Sage’s eyes glimmer the moment she nodded and she blushed again. Then his lips went back onto her mouth, capturing it in a gentle kiss. He was slow and sensual, lazily kissing her, allowing her to drown in his seduction. Before realizing it, Sage scooped her into his arms again while their lips never parted.

"I've changed my mind. Let's just continue exploring the outside world during day time. It's getting cold now." He explained. But before she could say anything, "Don't celebrate yet, wife. We are not yet done. Not even starting to collect my dues." He said mischievously as he led her to the en-suite bathroom.

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For visual purposes

Alex's lingerie:

#Spotify

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airedelalmena · 4 years

Text

not meant as a serious post but time for a lil personal rant here.

reading books that talk about the lesbian sex wars, the cultural struggle involved in that, and how not only were butch/femme relationships verboten, any kind of sexual experimentation verboten, but even writing about "the wrong kinds of things" sexually, never mind doing them, was considered "politically" wrong in a real way. like, "politically incorrect" was not a joke but a phrase they used and meant, convinced people they were evil inside and to beat them over the head with. butches made to debutch, femmes to unfemme into basically librarian androgyny, sex removing any top/bottom or social power exchange (yes including kink, but also including labeling all b/f as a harmful kink in one fell homophobic swoop!), between grown lesbian adults, as evil. i think about this and it's creepy, because now, they're basically doing it over a website or a few. the internet lets this far right christian originated guilt and shame be perpetuated - "politically incorrect/wrong" people are "problematic" now and "canceled". and just as then, being a real, flawed human being is being frowned upon and refused the right to exist and be messy as people are. exploring dark topics among adults, is equated to harming the overall social world and other people in it, no matter how privately it is done. repressed culture intended to make anyone repressed. and hilariously ironically, the current b/f revival-ish (it never went away really but) folks on here are allying themselves with the exact hating types as if thr same forces haven't been working against their pride and self esteem since forever. b/f original crowd lesbians allied themselves with the exact feminist movement that was repressing their relationships, swallowed self hate because they cared about women's rights and were being told this was the only avenue to express that - hate yourself and your desires. now it's just another iteration of that.

anyway read the persistent desire by joan nestle and look up further books from there. and look yourself in the mirror and figure out the goddamn patterns. (hell, read carl jung and learn about the shadow self and repression. if any side, especially the sexual side of a person is considered dark and weird, they will become incredibly self destructive when asked to repress and deny its existence, and will actually sabotage their life through this. that's kind of the entire mechanism of the closet, but even moreso of intentional campaigns of guilt and shame and moralistic control like this.) hating yourself through hating someone else for not being clean enough from supposed sin is gonna sabotage the whole damn group in the end. telling people their life is somehow the same as violence and making them monitor themselves in shame and fear is the actual violence. some real scarlet letter shit here. watching this play out so blatantly obviously has been surreal after a while. i'm so floored at how blatant this is and i'm so grateful it hasn't caught on this badly in actual real offline life, where, gratefully, you can't be stifled from being a person, nearly as much as on this supposedly "woke" zone. read and learn from what's barely history or it will keep repeating itself.

#ugh #lmao #spicy opinions #i will not accept and debate on this just block you without response #this is not debatable for me #i have watched it happen #r*d*c*l f*m*n*sm has spoiled the soup again

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hayleysstark · 6 years

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Title: Pretty Words Words: 2356 Warnings: Swearing Summary: "You know, you really should just tell them. The lucky troll. Come on, Branch, we both know you didn't make up those pretty words on the spot." Missing moment. Notes: this was not supposed to happen. i don't know why i wrote this. mutual pining is The Good Shit though.

Read on Fanfiction or AO3.

It's official, Branch decides as he stares unseeingly through the curtain of vibrant rainbow monstrosity Poppy calls Bridget's "Lady Glittersparkles" hair, and he tries to pretend he can't feel everyone's eyes on him or his heart crashing around inside him or his cheeks burning furiously in that stupid obvious purple blush spreading vividly all the way to the tips of his twitching ears. Feeling things is bullshit.

There is one thing, though. Poppy and her friends—at least they're not over there out-and-out staring at him. They're actually making some kind of an effort here, and yeah, the glances they sneak at him every few seconds from the corners of their wandering eyes aren't even in the same stratosphere as subtle, but they're—come on, they're trying, and it's decent of them. Even if they're not very good at it. Even if their eyes have begun to burn holes in him, everywhere their gazes fall, little black voids, cracks and fissures opening in his skin and he wishes he could barricade himself behind his own hair or curl into a ball or even just cross his arms a little tighter, anything to stop feeling so naked, like he just cut his own head open and let them have a look inside which—oh, yeah—he kind of fucking did.

He can still taste the words inside his mouth, on the tip of his tongue, clinging to the corner of his lip. If there was a way to—to spit them out, like spoiled food—spit them out into his hands or into the trash or—well, he thinks, as the Bergen King helps Bridget into her roller skates and she giggles and the sight makes something twinge painfully in Branch's chest and he tells himself it doesn't, at least that stupid poem did someone some good. And—the Bergen King goes to his knees before Bridget, and slowly, lovingly, laces up her skates, and Bridget looks like someone has given her a handful of sunshine and it's not a twinge anymore, it's a twist, a tight coil Branch can't breathe around—and even if she is a Bergen, Bridget deserves some good in her life.

The Bergen King and Bridget link hands, and Branch has to close his eyes, and he tells himself he's only tired.

"Sooo—"

Poppy's voice at his ear and Poppy's breath on his cheek and Branch snaps his eyes open and she's standing at his elbow with her hands clasped behind her back and bouncing on her toes and she's got a huge, obnoxious—adorable—grin on her face and she bumps his shoulder lightly with her own and he wonders if she's actually trying to kill him—

"—you've been holdin' out on us, buddy."

"I—" And maybe Branch's mind is just moving really, really slowly because of Poppy's proximity, but for the life of him, he can't figure out what she means. "What?"

She giggles, and he can't tell if the sound fills up every empty place he's got, or drags his insides out through the gash he made in his own head.

"Those were some real pretty words you were flingin', my man." She raises her eyebrows. "Who knew you were such a romantic?"

"I—I don't—" Okay, if a black hole could just open up right this fucking minute and suck him down inside, that would be great. Please and thank you. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, and he knows his voice isn't half as rough or mean as it needs to be. Romantic. Poppy called him a romantic. Death would be kinder.

"Your eyes are like two pools so deep? Come on, no need to play dumb with me, pal."

Branch can't decide if he wants to shut her up with his hand over her mouth, or his mouth over her mouth.

"I just," his tongue feels too heavy, "I just—made that up. O-on the spot. I didn't mean it."

Poppy's rosy cheeks lift a little higher as her smile widens, and he knows she doesn't believe him. "Mm-hm. Sure. Okay." She nods so hard, her frizzy pink hair quivers where it fades smoothly into green-yellow and blends seamlessly with everyone else's. Branch wonders what it would feel to twine his hair with hers. He wonders if her hair is as soft as it looks and if she'd let him touch it if he asked and if it still smells like strawberries since it's touched the other trolls' so much.

And he wonders why he's wondering things that are never going to happen anyway.

He looks away—back to Bridget and the Bergen King, and he sees the soft-spoken scullery maid is still nervously clutching the dirty railing around the rink, to hold herself up even though the Bergen King is promising he won't let go of her hand, promising he won't let her fall. Branch wonders what it would feel like to hold Poppy's hand, and not let go.

"You know," Poppy whispers, "I think you really helped Bridget. Like, a lot." Her eyes are soft, and sparkling like diamonds with a million different colors under the flashing rainbow lights of the rink, and there's no goddamn way Branch is ever coming up for air. "I mean, just look at her! She's really gotten the hang of it now, hasn't she?"

"Sh-she's stuttering up a storm, Poppy." And apparently, she's not the only one. "A-and," Branch continues, quickly, before Poppy can comment on that for herself, "I'm pretty sure she'd have gotten the hang of it without me. She's not stupid. And she had you."

Fuck.

It's way too late to save anything but Branch snaps his mouth shut anyway and isn't that just the fucking name of the day right now—saying everything he means and everything he doesn't want to mean and everything he'd never thought he would—it's like the truth about his grandma had lodged itself in the back of his throat, too big and sharp to swallow down, too horrible, too shameful, to spit out—and now it's gone and there's nothing left—he's got nothing left—no barriers, no roadblocks, nothing to stop the words coming out of him—and God, he has so many, so fucking many—he's kept them inside him so long and now they won't stop coming, they just won't stop coming and Poppy looks at him and she's never looked more like herself than she does in this moment, with her eyes shining and her mouth slowly curling up into another smile—

"That," she says, and there's the barest touch of a laugh to her voice, "just might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me. Can I hug you?"

"No." He tells himself his heart isn't picking up speed at the thought of hugging her, at the thought of her body pressing against his, and fucking God, Branch, get a hold of yourself. "And you'd better not get used to it." Because if we don't all die a miserable death at the hands of a horrible, bloodthirsty Bergen, I'm going to barricade myself in my bunker until you completely forget my existence because if I have to go the rest of my life with you thinking of that stupid poem every time you look at me, I might as well pitch myself off the side of Bridget's head and shatter my skull on the skating rink right now.

"Come on! You don't want to hug your bestest friend in the entire world?"

"I swear to God, Poppy, if you take one step closer to me, I'm handing you to the Bergen King myself."

"Wow, rude," Poppy huffs, but she retreats a little, and her arms fall back to her sides. "Catch you at Hug-Time, then."

"Don't count on it."

"Aww, come on, where's your way with words gone?" The corners of her mouth start to creep upward again. "Don't tell me that was a one-time thing!"

Branch is pretty sure his face is going to catch fire sometime in the next ten seconds unless Poppy decides to learn the wonderful art of shutting the fuck up. "I don't—I told you—I just—on the spot—didn't mean—"

"Branch," Poppy says, quietly now, and there's something softer about the edges of her smile, when she looks at him. She takes a step closer, and her fingers close around his wrist. His breath hitches and he prays she doesn't hear. "You know, you really should just tell them."

"T-tell—?" Fuck fuck fuck she knows okay can I die now please—

"The lucky troll, of course." She tilts her head a little, to hold his gaze. "We both know you didn't make that up on the spot. And I think if you just—if you just gave—whoever it is—a chance—" She's so close so close so close and he can count every single sparkling freckle on her round pink cheeks and God, what he wouldn't give to kiss each one. "—a chance to know you—to see what I've seen in you—" Her hand slips down his wrist until she's holding his hand holding holding holding his hand and she can feel his fingers shaking and his palms sweating and he knows she can and he should pull away he should really just pull away but he's never wanted to do anything less in the entire world. "—well—" the word's barely a breath in the space between them, "—I think they'd like what they see."

Kiss her kiss her kiss her kiss her and the words echo over and over in his mind in time with the frantic pounding of his traitorous and hopeful heart and everyone's watching them and he shouldn't he shouldn't he shouldn't—he swore he'd never—but he is—he's leaning down and leaning in and here's the crazy part—she's leaning in too—

Bridget falls. Spectacularly.

An earsplitting, headache-inducing screech of her skates against the slick tiles of the rink is their only warning, and then the world is a blur of bright lights and Bridget stammering out apologies and the Bergen King kneeling in front of her, asking her if she's okay, and the unmistakable throb of bruises forming all over Branch's body as Bridget strikes the ground, colors popping in front of his eyes and he's only marginally cushioned by the thick cloud of rainbow hair and there's a strange kind of weight on his chest—

Instinct acts for him, tearing his eyes open and ripping his head back up off the ground—and though the others haven't moved, sprawled where they fell atop Bridget's head, they're not hurt, and he lets out a breath—everyone's all right—no—no, wait, everyone's not all right—where—Poppy—where's Poppy—?

The weight on his chest shifts.

Branch snaps his eyes shut. Why didn't the fall just kill me?

"—I-I'm so sorry, I just—I didn't mean—I'm such a clumsy idiot—" Bridget's trembling voice breaks through his momentary pity party. God, the poor girl sounds like she's about to burst into tears any second. The "Lady Glittersparkles" façade has cracked clean in two—Branch tugs his eyes back open, and makes himself meet Poppy's gaze—tries to tell her, without words, to help Bridget—

"No, no, no, that's okay! It's okay!" The Bergen King smiles down at her. "We all lose control of our skates once in a while, darling!"

Poppy absolutely beams. "Ha! Listen to him! Can't take his eyes off her, can he?"

"I—" Branch tries not to notice the warmth of her breath on his neck. He's not the only one. "Great," he says, a little breathlessly, and it's supposed to be sarcastic but that gets a little lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth and yes, her hair does still smell like strawberries, and she's smiling at him and a second too late he realizes the lift, the ache, in the side of his face means he must be smiling back—

"Hey, Branch?"

His name falls softly as snow from her lips. He tells himself he doesn't care if she ever says it again.

"W-what?"

His own voice is ugly in comparison, all shaky and stuttery and clumsy, like a child still learning how to speak.

"I think you kinda do have a nice smile, too."

Branch's heart stops. Either it's finally hammered its way out of him, and flung itself as far away as possible in a desperate bid for freedom from all the shit Poppy's put it through in the last three minutes alone, or it's just given up, and died in his chest and either way, he really can't blame it. I think you kinda do have a nice smile, too, and his skin is tingling where it's pressed against hers and he needs to say something—something horrible—something that'll make her hate him—

Bridget shifts, and reaches for the Bergen King's outstretched hand—and she starts to stand, and the world is a blur all over again and Branch doesn't know who moves first but the world is a blur of he and Poppy ripping away from each other, ripping back, scrambling away like they can't ever put enough space between them—like repelled magnets, like the touch of one burned the other—and his body aches with the absence of hers and he tells himself it doesn't and now that he can't smell the strawberries in her hair or feel the tingle of her skin on his, it's so much easier to remember why he can't kiss her, why he can't love her, why he can't hold her hand in his or twine his hair around hers or go around telling her she has a nice smile or go around believing it when she tells him he has a nice smile—

"Well," she says, softly, and there's something strangely flat in her voice, in her face, "I guess that's my cue." She slides down Bridget's head, to settle right above the enormous ear, and she doesn't look back.

Yeah. It's official. Feeling things is fucking bullshit.

#trolls #dreamworks trolls #emrys' spellbook

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setepenre-set · 7 years

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Love and War (chapter 8)

Strange Magic

Bog/Marianne, T rating

This is a story about two kingdoms, side by side, but worlds apart. And at war.

When the Bog King finally wins his war against the Fairy Kingdom, he decides that a political marriage with the eldest daughter of the deposed Fairy King will help to promote peace.

Obviously, he’s never met Marianne.

AO3 | FFN

The Dark Forest, Marianne thinks, as they fly through it, isn't really as dark as she had always pictured it. The trees overhead do make it shadowed, but golden sunlight still dapples much of the forest floor.

The great river that runs along the western boundary of the Fairy Kingdom bends away from the forest and does not enter it, but there are little streams that twine through the tree trunks, and small pools hidden like secrets behind tree roots and boulders and thickets.

People live scatted in the Dark Forest, not in orderly rows of houses like the brownies and the fairies and the elves do in the Fairy Kingdom, but here and there as they please. Frog-like kappas and fish-like undines peer up at Bog and Marianne curiously from pools, trolls blink up at them from the mouths of their burrows, and sprites hovering around their hives buzz a little louder as the two of them pass by. Marianne waves at one small sprite, who flutters excitedly in the air and waves back.

"This way," Bog says, flying through a tangle of thorny branches.

Marianne tries to follow, but her wings are too large; they catch on the thorns with little pinpricks of pain. Bog looks back over his shoulder, and then ducks back to her side of the briars.

"Ah—sorry about tha'," he says, "I wasna' thinkin'—we don't need t' go through the thorns; there's another way around—"

"I can fit if you'll help me," Marianne says.

Bog blinks, and she sees understanding dawn on his face. His claws click together nervously.

"Oh—" he says, "—if you don't mind."

Marianne shakes her head and furls her wings, letting Bog catch her around the waist as she puts her arms around his neck.

"I don't mind," she says, hoping that he can't hear the slight tremble in her voice. "Let's go."

The way they're positioned means she can't really see his face, just the edge of his jaw, if she turns her head. Marianne swallows.

"Tough girl," Bog says, and his voice sounds deeper, this close, "Should have known you'd want t' go this way."

He spins the two of them, slow and careful, in the air, and the two of them fly into the brambles.

"What's an adventure," Marianne says, knowing he must hear the trembling in her voice, hoping he'll put it down to fear of the thorns, "without a little danger?"

He laughs; Marianne she feels the vibration of it in his chest, where she's pressed against him, and she swallows and closes her eyes and stops herself from pressing closer to him only by a supreme effort of will.

"Are we going t' have an adventure, then?" he asks.

Marianne bites the inside of her cheek and resolutely does not shiver.

"Aren't we already?" she says.

He doesn't answer for a long moment.

"I suppose we are," he says, voice low, and this time she does shiver and press herself closer, and then the two of them are out of the thorns and in the sunlight again, and Marianne has to unfurl her wings and let him go.

It's fortunate, Bog thinks, that he knows his forest completely, because if it wasn't for automatic reflexes, he's pretty sure he would have flown into a tree by now, distracted by the memory of having Marianne in his arms.

It isn't right, how much he'd enjoyed it, how much he'd enjoyed the way she shivered and pressed herself close to him. She'd been afraid of the thorns, not seeking his touch, and he needs to remember that.

"Oh!" Marianne says, her voice startled, and he looks over at her.

She's looking at the fern below her; she must have brushed against it, because it's curled itself inwards. Marianne looks up at him, her face filled with wonder.

"It moves!" she says, and Bog can't help but smile at her smile.

"These all move," he says, and brushes his fingertips delicately over another frond.

The plant curls in on itself.

Marianne laughs, a more carefree sound than he's ever heard from her before.

"That's amazing!" she says. "Moving plants! I didn't know you had moving plants!"

Bog laughs as she reaches for another one, touching one leaf lightly. It curls, too. Laughing delightedly, Marianne darts between the plants, brushing one with a wingtip, one with a hand.

"Moving plants!" she says again, stopping to hover in the air before him.

"We've got another kind of movin' plant," Bog says, grinning at her, "Do you want t' see?"

"Yes!"

"Close your eyes," Bog says, on a wild impulse that he can't quite catch in time to stop.

He's shocked to find that she does, completely without protest.

Bog stares at Marianne, hovering in the air before him, her eyes closed. She raises her eyebrows.

"Okay, so what now?" she says.

"Ah—" Bog comes back to himself with a start. "Just—give me your hand."

She holds one hand out for him to take. He does, holding it carefully.

"And come this way," he says, flying backwards, leading her slowly through the trees. She lets him guide her. "—we can stop here."

Marianne stops, but, to his surprise, does not immediately pull her hand from his. Bog swallows, looking at her closed eyes, at the slight smile hovering around the edges of her lips.

"Open your eyes," he says, and she does.

She looks at him, first, her eyes meeting his, and then she looks down and gasps, seeing where he's taken her.

"They have teeth," she says.

"They do, yes," Bog says, grinning at her expression.

"…why do they have teeth?" she asks.

"So they can bite things," Bog says.

Marianne looks up at him sharply.

"You're kidding," she says.

Bog shakes his head.

"Look," he says, and taps the open mouth of one of the plants with his staff. The two jaws snap shut.

"Okay, so that's slightly terrifying," Marianne says.

Bog laughs.

"What's an adventure without a little danger, tough girl?"

Marianne makes a face at him and he laughs again.

"They eat insects and things like tha'," Bog says, "Th' sprites do have to warn their children t' keep away, though."

Marianne's fingers tighten around his; he glances down at their joined hands automatically, and Marianne takes a sharp breath and lets go of him quickly, as if she's just realized she's still holding onto him.

"They're, uh—they're…lovely," she says. "Lovely murder plants."

Bog snickers.

"Watch," he says, and he steps onto the closed plant. He taps the next, still-open one with his staff, taking a step forward at the same time, timing it so that he steps onto it just as it's closed, continuing on down the row of plants. He hops off the last one and into the air, spinning around to face her. Marianne looks torn between glaring and laughing; Bog raises one eyebrow at her challengingly.

To his utter delight, her chin goes up and she eyes the next line of still-open plants as if she's judging the distance between each one. She looks up at him and smirks.

And then she furls her wings and dives for the first plant, landing at the edge of the mouth, balanced on her palms. She flips herself over to the next one, and then the next, never stopping until she reaches the last one, then launches herself into the air, wings snapping out, spreading gloriously.

"Ha!" she says.

Bog has to catch his breath at how absolutely beautiful she is.

But she's looking at him, so he laughs and claps his hands for her. She bows graciously to him and an invisible audience all around them as she flutters down to his level.

"Thank you, thank you," she says.

"You seem to be enjoyin' your adventure," Bog says.

"Definitely," Marianne says, grinning at him. "I should have done this years ago."

Bog looks at her curiously as he leads the way back to the path that will take them to his castle.

"I always—I always said," Marianne says, "that when I was queen, I was going to go into the Dark Forest and talk to—well, to you, I guess, although I didn't know it was going to be you."

"And what would we be talkin' about?" Bog asks, mesmerized by the thought of it: Queen Marianne coming into his castle, demanding to speak to him. He wonders if his first glimpse of her in that world would have been as staggering as meeting her at their wedding had been.

"An alliance, opening trade routes, cultural exchange," Marianne says, shrugging. "Stuff like that."

Bog takes a sharp breath.

"So you—always wanted t' ally the Fairy Kingdom with the Dark Forest," he says slowly.

There's a beat of silence before she answers.

"Well, yes," she says, "don't you—I always thought we would work better that way."

"…together," Bog says, his heart beating too hard, suddenly.

There's another short little pause before Marianne answers.

"Yes, together," she says. "And—I do think the Dark Forest and the Fairy Kingdom—work better together, don't you?"

"Yes," Bog says quickly, hope welling in his chest, "yes, I do."

They're both silent, for several minutes after that. It seems—strangely fraught, the silence does. Bog doesn't know how to break it.

(should he ask? should he ask now, if she'd be willing to continue ruling with him after the divorce?)

He glances over at her.

No, he decides, no, not now. The—the moment when he could have asked has passed. Resuming that line of—conversation, after so long a silence, would be—uncomfortable.

After a few more minutes of rather excruciating silence, Bog clears his throat and touches down on the ground. Marianne follows.

"So, ah—we're nearly there," he says, pointing, "if you look, you'll be able t' see the castle."

Marianne looks, her eyes going wide as she catches sight of it, and Bog takes the opportunity afforded by her distraction to pick one of the nearby flowers, a deep blue one. She turns back to him and he holds the flower out to her.

(he will deny absolutely, if asked, that his entire purpose in landing her was actually to pick one of these flowers for her.)

She looks at it warily.

"Is it going to try to eat me?" she asks.

Bog laughs.

"So suspicious!" he says.

She grins at him, and so, quickly, before his nerve fails him, he tucks the flower behind her ear.

"All right, well! Let's go, then!" he says in a rush, and takes off again, in the direction of the castle.

Marianne stands very still for a long moment, and then she takes off, too, and follows him.

After several seconds, there is a quiet rustling in the undergrowth.

The Imp emerges into the little clearing, its tail switching back and forth excitedly as it sniffs the air.

The two flying ones hadn't noticed the Imp, it knew, although it had been following them for some time. They had been too caught up in each other; too busy being in love and unhappy to see the Imp. It could smell it on them, the sweet scent of affection undercut with the bitter smell of what they thought was unrequited love.

Silly flying ones; very silly. The Imp shakes its head, and then wriggles all over delightedly.

Oh, but the flying one with the pretty purple wings had smelled of something else, too, something that the Imp hasn't smelled in ages—the smell had been faint, incomplete—

—but the Imp had recognized it nevertheless: the divine, delicious, addictive scent of the Love Potion.

The potion hadn't taken hold of the purple-winged one; the Imp could tell. But if it follows the flying ones to wherever it is they're going, then perhaps they'll lead it to where the rest of the Love Potion can be found. And won't everything be wonderful then! Love for everyone!

Sniffing the air again, its pointed ears pricking up, the Imp scurries swiftly in the direction of the flying ones.

Roland, free at last from Lady Plum's loquacity and safe behind his own locked bedroom door, grinds his teeth together in frustration.

Already in love with someone else. Already in love with someone else.

The potion doesn't work if the person dusted is already in love with someone else.

And Roland is fairly certain he knows who the person Marianne is in love with is. When he'd heard from a giggling Celeste that the King and Queen had been singing together yesterday, during the preparations for Dawn's wedding, he hadn't known how to account for it.

He accounts for it now.

Marianne is, unbelievable as it might seem, actually in love with her husband.

How! How can this be happening?! She was plotting to murder him not a month ago!

Roland hadn't believed her, when she told him that the coup was off, had thought she just meant to cut him out, meant to keep him from any of the glory. He'd made plans to deal with that situation, the situation of Marianne trying to command his army without him. He has a whole speech planned, ready for the first indication that she intended to make a move, ready to tell each of his commanders—

the queen is a young and impetuous girl with no real experience, no proper training; the queen is flighty and uncertain, can't be trusted to stick with a decision—

(a pause here, to look pensively into the distance with an expression of noble suffering as everyone remembers how she left him at the altar)

—King Dagda has spoken to me privately, though, and he says that now is not the time to move against the usurper.

A plausible lie; Roland knows better than to try to involve King Dagda in any coup; the old man is far too cautious and soft-hearted; the troops know that as well, know that, had Roland been allowed to use the kind of ruthless tactics he prefers, they wouldn't have lost the damned war in the first place. But King Dagda had refused, when Roland had advised that they set the Dark Forest on fire in several strategic places, trap the Bog King's army between the flames, and let them burn.

But it's just that soft-hearted caution of King Dagda that would convince the army that Roland spoke the truth.

Oh, he has no doubt that he could have ruined any rebellion Marianne tried on her own; he planned for that.

What he didn't plan for is her having fallen in love with her goblin husband!

How is Roland supposed to get this coup going without a single member of the Fairy Kingdom's royal family's cooperation? His troops might adore him, but he knows better than to count on mere affection making them willing to commit treason.

Love is an illusion; people think they feel it because of the things you can do for them.

Success is not a guarantee with any coup, and his men will be well aware that Roland can do nothing for them from a prison cell, should he fail. They won't risk it. Not without a royal directive.

If only that damned love potion had worked, then he could have gotten Marianne to give her approval and—

Roland goes very still.

A plan begins to assemble itself in his mind.

Does he still have—?

He moves to his desk swiftly and yanks the drawer open, rifles through the contents, all of the love tokens he's collected from all of his dalliances—

He pulls out a folded piece of parchment, unfolds it, reads the words written in Marianne's handwriting:

Tonight. At the ball. I'll give the signal.

—Marianne

The note had been in reference to a party they both attended, early in their courtship; they'd snuck out together so that he could tell her how beautiful she was in the moonlight and so on and so forth.

But it was vague enough that it might be about anything.

Enough to convince the troops, make them willing to move. He can pretend anything he likes is Marianne's signal at the wedding ball tomorrow; they won't know any better.

But to convince everyone else, later—

Roland digs through the contents of the desk drawer again. Marianne hadn't ever given him any really personal love tokens, nothing that was undeniably hers. More's the pity. No rings with her name on it, no locks of hair. But—

He pulls out the cheap little locket Bella gave him, back before they parted ways, before she realized that his engagement with Marianne hadn't just been a political one, with no affection on either side, as he had claimed.

Roland flicks open the catch of the locket. Inside is a lock of brown hair, tied with a blue silk ribbon. He takes it out of the locket, places the lock atop Marianne's note.

Bella and Marianne always did have the same shade of hair.

And for extra insurance, perhaps, another love token seemingly from Marianne?

Well. Her majesty is gone today, gone to the Dark Forest with her husband. And the entire rest of the court is busy finishing up the arrangements for the wedding of Princess Dawn that's to take place tomorrow.

Nobody will notice if Roland happens to slip into the queen's rooms while she's gone.

And while he's there—

Roland folds the note carefully around the lock of hair, slides them both in his pocket.

With the Love Potion.

It really is so very unbelievable that the fairy queen is in love with the goblin who usurped her kingdom.

He has no doubt every member of the Fairy Court with think so, too, once they know.

"So that sister of yours is getting married," Griselda says, and takes a drink of tea.

"Tomorrow, yes," Marianne says, "and—since it's a royal wedding, of course everyone in the entire kingdom is invited to come, but Dawn—and I—both wanted to be sure to extend a special invitation to you." She shoots a dark look at Bog out of the corners of her eyes. "We do apologize for the short notice, but we were under the impression that the invitation had already been extended."

Bog, dipping a maple biscuit in his own cup of tea, has the grace to look abashed.

"Well, that's very sweet of both of you girls, but—" Griselda begins.

"And you won't need to worry about the music," Marianne hastens to assure her. "We've figured a way around that."

Griselda looks faintly surprised at that.

"Marianne figured it out," Bog says.

Marianne makes a dismissive sound and he's the one who frowns at her this time.

"Isn't that interesting," Griselda says, and the two of them start at the sound of her voice and look away from each other and over at her again, as if they had forgotten her presence.

Griselda grins at them.

"I'll come," she says, "It sounds like fun! I'm sure see I can round up plenty more people who'll want to come, too."

Bog and Marianne both let out a relieved breath.

"I'm so glad," Griselda says. "to hear that she's marrying that nice elf boy of hers. I do love a love match, don't you?"

She smiles a little maliciously at Bog, who looks extremely uncomfortable. Marianne's own smile goes a little frozen around the edges. Griselda must notice this, because she reaches out and pats Marianne's hand.

"But you two have done all right, too," Griselda says to her.

Marianne and Bog both wince, and carefully avoid each others' eyes. Griselda looks back and forth between them with a puzzled frown.

Bog clears his throat.

"Speakin' of Sunny, Mother," he says, "I talked t' him this morning, and he mentioned that he and Dawn would like us t' bring some of our own musicians, if we can. That way the, ah—Dark Forest guests will still be able to dance some of our own dances, even if they don't know the Fairy Court dances."

Marianne looks sharply at him, her eyes wide.

"Bog—" she says.

He looks at her, grinning.

"Yes, of course, Marianne," he says.

Marianne makes a gleeful noise.

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I thought surprisin' you would be more fun."

She gives a delighted laugh; Bog, watching her, smiles.

"Just promise that you don' intend to kill me, tough girl."

"Oh, no," she says, laughing, her eyes sparkling, "seriously maim you, at most."

"I'm lookin' forward t' it."

Griselda's teacup makes a quiet clink as she places it back in her saucer, and, again, both Marianne and Bog freeze at the sound, and look over at her almost guiltily.

"Oh, don't mind me," she says, grinning at the two of them widely. "You two just pretend I'm not here."

...to be continued.

Thank you for the reblogs and the comments! They really help keep me motivated and inspired. I hope you all liked the chapter!

#strange magic #love and war #bog/marianne #butterfly bog #arranged marriage au #fanfiction

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