#by touching something and having his fingers (inevitably) flake apart | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

chocosvt · 4 years

Text

⚬ pairing: ghost!jihoon x fem!reader ⚬ word count: 9242 ⚬ warnings: abusive relationship, suicide ⚬ genres: heavy angst, romance, ample fluff

✧✎ synopsis: freedom was a word that had completely lost its meaning - unable to escape from a toxic relationship, you can only find happiness upon confiding in jihoon, the spirit of a writer who died a century ago.

✧✎ a/n: SORRY this took so long to post! i have a habit of holding onto completed fics for a while, bc i feel the need to endlessly proofread. i rly appreciate everyone’s patience :D

You didn’t understand him. You hated him.

You wanted to conjure a pair of scissors and cut the invisible rope that connected your piteous relationship. Tight around your wrist, you could still feel the indents left by his fingernails, how they pushed blunt into your skin like a stamp to a liquid, wax seal. There was no taste of freedom unless you left him, and yet, you lacked the strength, instead rotting in your own indolence.

The doorway to your cottage home burst open as you thundered inside. Smells of the cinnamon bread and ginger tea you had for breakfast lingered in the air, when the morning was soft and you were unaware of his incoming anger that would inevitably cumulate. Gleaming on the edge of the kitchen table was an old pocket mirror, a century-dull shade of gold with a rose engrained into its shallow dome.

Within the next moment, you were sitting inside your closet, frustrated tears pooling slowly down each cheek as you held onto an ignited candle. The flame rippled and danced in response to your ragged breaths. It was the only source of light, for darkness pressed in from every angle. Hands shaky, you set the candle to crackle on the floor, behind the pocket mirror you had opened. Looking into its small reflection, you saw the wet flakes of mascara stuck to your skin, how your lips were so bitten they became mottled with blood spots.

“If I ask for you,” you sighed, eyes falling shut, “will you come to me?”

You waited and listened to the dancing wick, then snuck a peak at the mirror.

Nothing.

Inhaling a deep breath, you closed your eyes and warbled again: “If I ask for you, will you come to me?”

The mirror was still open, casting an image of your broken countenance, marred by viscid trails of tears and a patience that turned thinner than the air itself. Every mark, every scratch left by his fingernails only sunk further into your wrist, establishing this control he had over you, until one day, his reign might become permanent. The thought forced you to hiccup a burning sob.

“Please!” You whimpered, tasting the sharp salt on your lips, “If I ask for you, will you come to me?”

Snap.

The sound of the pocket mirror being shut was accompanied by an overwhelming sensation of cold, like an arctic breath had just been exhaled into your face. Cautiously, you eyed the candle, in which its flame had stopped dancing and instead stood tall, almost as though it were afraid to flicker. The gentle light glinted off the mirror’s gold dome. At last, you picked your head up and met his eyes, honey-brown, like crisped sugar.

The noise that crawled up from your throat was a feeble squeak.

“Jihoon.” You said his name.

Even though each syllable felt like solace, that didn’t smooth the tremors in between. Unlike your boyfriend who was so assailing in nature and unreceptive to your heart, Jihoon read the pain from your body like it had been scrawled with thick ink. He reached out his hand for you to grab.

Head bent down, tears streaming toward your chin, you cried to him in that small halo of light, squeezing his glacial fingers, crushing his bones, yet he never protested or shook you off.

You had asked for him. And if it’s you, then Jihoon will always be there.

“A peach?” Jihoon murmured, staring at the sunset colour of the fruit in his palm. “I haven’t eaten a peach since… Since…”

“Since a century ago?”

Jihoon looked up at you, his face illuminated by the wax candle. “Yeah.”

He seemed hesitant to sink his teeth past the fuzzy, orange flesh, and kept stealing oblique glances at you. Wiping away a delicious trail of juice that streaked your chin, you encouraged him to just take a bite and stop ogling the fruit like it was plucked from outer space.

A peach was nowhere close to the strangest item you’d brought him. In fact, the sole manner in which Jihoon could connect with the simple indulgences of when he’d been alive was through you.

At first, he sighed, followed by slight apprehension, and then he stopped prevaricating. Jihoon brought the peach to his mouth and buried in his teeth, a loud slurp indicating he’d suckled out the juice just before tearing away a reasonable chunk. He chewed, chewed a little bit more, crinkled his nose and continued chewing. You raised an eyebrow once he swallowed, curious if its sweetness still held true to when he’d eaten the fruit in his youth.

“Not bad. Rather messy.” Jihoon rated with little mirth, his tongue then licking at a trail of liquid dripping to his wrist.

You eyed him whilst taking another bite into your own fruit.

The next time you met, you brought him purple orchids, wrapped in a crinkly, pale mint packaging. He buried his nose into their petals and took a breath. Jihoon had long forgotten the rain, it’s scent, but that’s exactly what the aroma reminded him of.

It was close to midnight, the autumn wetness clinging in a sheer mist, a cobweb almost, that drifted down the road. You stared into the fog, wondering if it might swath around you until you couldn’t see or breathe, only to thin away at the last moment, revealing a place that was warm and brushed with sunshine. There would be no boyfriend, no pain or fear, and you’d have freedom— a word that seemed to have lost its meaning as time wore its grit against you.

Leaning into the side of your boyfriend’s car, you watched him pace back and forth next to the gas pump, cellphone at his ear, occasionally tossing his head back in a splitting chortle whilst he blew plumes from a cigarette. A light rain pattered against the roof of the gas station.

You wanted to go home. You wanted to be tucked in bed, beneath sheets that smelled like summer lilacs. You wanted to close your eyes and dream about the phantom boy who lived in the closet, where your fingers would trace his skin and you might feel the heat from his blood. Yet you lacked bravery. Taking one look at your wrist constantly sore from his steel grip was enough to snuff out any defying fire. He laughed again, kicked his boot into the gravel, brought the cigarette up to his mouth in order to fulfill a toxic addiction.

Headlights suddenly pierced through the mist and tires rolled against the damp pavement. You thought about running onto the road with your arms flailing, hoping the driver would pull over and let you into their vehicle. They might ask where you wanted to go.

You’d say, “just get me away from him. Anywhere, I’m begging.”

“Hey!”

Turning your head, you saw him stalking toward you. In an unconscious attempt to give yourself space, you unpeeled from the vehicle and a took a step back, intimidated.

“Get in the car,” he spat, opening the driver’s side, “m’taking you home.”

With the decaying cigarette hanging from his lips, cellphone now stowed into his pants pocket, he slammed the door. The air inside the vehicle was acrid, stifling, ashes tumbling onto his lap as the engine revved to life. Grey smoke prickled against your eyes until they lined with water and glass. Just before you exited the gas station, your boyfriend rolled down his window and tossed the cigarette, only to reveal another from the glove compartment.

Sticking the wand in his mouth, he tossed you the lighter.

“Spark.” He demanded.

Your whole arm was trembling whilst you positioned the lighter close to the cigarette, thumb pressing down in an anxious flurry, teeth grinding together as you piously prayed the stupid flame would just blossom already so he wouldn’t get foul. Once he exhaled the first puff and took back the lighter, you sunk into the upholstery, hoping he didn’t see your tears.

“Jihoon?”

The boy had been occupied pulling pink tufts of cotton candy apart. The last time you two met within the closet, you were discussing an autumn carnival that took place each year in your town, how you spent the night with a pocket full of tickets and sugar floss melting against your tongue. Jihoon said he couldn’t remember the taste, the smell, the texture, so you promised to bring him a large bag stuffed with cotton candy. He glanced up at you, candlelight swimming in his eyes like a brightly coloured coy fish.

“What did you write about?”

He paused. Then, Jihoon was sitting with a straight spine, rubbing his index finger and thumb together, as though he were attempting to lure an ancient memory from hiding. You wondered if he missed literature, how a ballpoint pen glides across cream paper, the specific click that echoes from a typewriter, running fingertips across a leathered hardcover just to feel every bump and divot. You wished it was possible to read one of his books. He told you he burned them all, every page disintegrating into dust and cinders.

Jihoon looked at the last clump of cotton candy in his hands.

Delicately, he tore the floss in two pieces. Something deep inside your chest fluttered when Jihoon gave you the other tuft.

“Love.” He said, finding the vivacious reflection in your eyes, “I wrote about love.”

As a child, the darkness used to scare you. It was impossible to fall asleep without the dim glow of your aquarium or the fluorescent stars tacked to your ceiling. Things looked different in the dark, they became unfamiliar and colourless and shapeshifted into malignant creations that stopped moving only when the light touched them. Even now, the darkness was still harrowing, but you’d grown to realize that tenebrosity was much scarier when it lived inside human beings.

No light existed which could freeze them in their intent to hurt, no light which transformed them back into the coat over the back of your chair or the laundry pile lumped in its basket. And as you sat next to Jihoon on the closet floor, his gaze thoughtlessly wandering to your wrist, he knew you’d give anything to stay in the dark closet if it meant you never had to see your boyfriend again. You kept rubbing at your skin, squeezing in an anxious pattern.

“Stop.” Jihoon couldn’t stand to watch you repeat yourself. It felt like you were going to erase the flesh clean off.

“It helps.” You told him, though your argument was inconceivably frail, emaciated.

Suddenly, Jihoon reached across the space, his fingers falling over your wrist to bump away your pesky hand. The second you were unable to scrub at the fingernail indents, the scratches, the dull throb of every bruise he’d ever printed upon your skin, the breath died in your throat and there was a stinging sensation that burnt your eyes. Your boyfriend had ruined you. The wounds controlled you, left you in prostration and agony.

Before you could erupt into tears, Jihoon’s thumb began stroking back and forth over a fading scratch, a rhythmic movement, one that managed to calm you down until the tears slowly dried up and the flame no longer illuminated the glossiness of your eyes. He urged you to take a breath whilst he continued to brush soft reassurances across your skin. At first, you were offended by Jihoon’s interference, even slightly angered.

But the way he was so gentle with you brought you to capitulate.

“I’d never try to hurt you.” Jihoon whispered when you caught his gaze in the candlelight.

“I know.” You sighed, placing your hand over top his, “thank you.”

Your hands curled around the handlebars of the bicycle, slightly raised from the uncomfortable seat as you pedalled into town that autumn morning. An impending cold front gushed from the north, sweeping against your face in a harsh frigidity that caressed away any remnants of sleep. Tucking your chin into the fleece of your pullover, you stopped pedalling and allowed the bicycle to simply glide, maneuvering over the small pebbles and gorges in the cement.

A familiar house at the end of the block became closer, closer, closer, to which you bit down on your cheek’s inner flesh, your knuckles tensing like they could burst from the thin covering of skin. You stared straight ahead. It was too early for him to be outside. He was too lethargic.

Or was he?

“Hey!”

You’d been caught, a disarrayed haze momentarily warping your vision. The tires skidded to a halt on the sidewalk, your sneaker touching the ground whilst the northern wind nipped at your cheeks. He sat on his porch, wearing a burly-looking coat that appeared to be seldom washed, a flimsy cigarette perched at the corner of his mouth. Blowing a weak cloud of smoke from between his lips, he gestured for you to approach him, and your heart dropped.

Step by step, you walked the bicycle up his driveway, a few scarlet leaves from an oak tree spiralling down and colouring the gravel. Not even their warm tint could sugar coat that wicked, tight-lipped smile dancing from one spot of his mouth to the other. It was like the devil sat behind him, a myriad of strings on his fingers, and he was pulling each and every one.

“Where’re you off to, sunshine?”

“Into town. I’m getting some groceries.”

His eyes, bloodshot, much too hollowed at the early hour, gave you a once-over. You felt the sponge in your bones deflate. If a person’s stare could be washed from your skin, then you’d find the nearest hot shower and lock yourself inside.

He tapped some ash off his cigarette. “You don’t need to do that now, do you?”

“I-It’s a good time, actually. It won’t be busy.”

Don’t break down, don’t break down, do not let him infiltrate.

In an abasing fashion, your boyfriend laughed, like it was impossible to fathom that you could uphold a life, responsibilities, independence, beyond him and his fallacy of omniscience. He stood up and took another hit of nicotine from the cigarette. Then he was balancing the wand between his teeth, smiling down at you again, the devil’s strings metallic and unbreaking.

“Come inside,” he said, tipping his head toward the door, “leave your bike and we’ll share a nice drink, sunshine.”

You knew through mistake that it would be an unkind fate to deny him. Resting your bicycle against the porch, you trailed a few steps behind him into the house. Just before you closed the door, you drew in a long breath, examining the leaves on the oak tree, feeling that crisp air touch your face, looking up at small gaps of morning light between the grey clouds.

You always tried to remember the natural world, just in case you prematurely became a part of it.

Jihoon had set the notepad overtop his knee, one hand holding the papers still whilst the other clasped a black pen. Upon waiting for him to finish his prose, you fidgeted with the gold pocket mirror, pressing the edge of your nail into its infinitesimal grooves that created the rose. Time and time again, you wondered about the pocket mirror, a robust relic from the nineteen-twenties that the boy had gifted you.

“Done.” Jihoon announced, lifting the pen from the notepad.

The candle was rather inept at providing sufficient light, though you managed to read his looped, cursive writing with a surprising ease, with familiarity, like the words had been from a love letter you read every dusk.

Peaches and cotton candy are sweet. Orchids smell like rain. Scratches can fade.

You smiled at him. The inside of your chest was warmer than a July heatwave. After exchanging the gold mirror for the pen, you brainstormed a set of prose to match his. Jihoon had never looked at his reflection since he was alive, when oxygen still pumped to his heart and his veins hadn’t been replaced with frost. Suddenly, an idea sparked, and you wrote quickly.

Once you handed him back the notepad, he returned the mirror.

I’ll admire you so that you don’t have to. I’ll keep your beauty alive.

He circled the pen between his fingers. With knees pressed tight against your chest, you watched Jihoon’s teeth sink into his bottom lip before he hunched over the notepad, printing a line of clean cursive. Out of all the items you’d brought him, this seemed to be his favourite.

Jihoon passed you the notepad.

Letting the pocket mirror sit between your crossed legs, you held the paper close to your face, hoping it would help conceal the flustered grin.

If I had a second life, I would find you. I would take you away from the pain you have now.

“I wish you had a second life too.” You told Jihoon in a delicate, almost trembling voice. “I wish I could bring you into my life, even if it were just for one night.”

The boy nodded whilst he stared at the wax candle, one that a priest let you take home after you spent a visit to the church, hoping to discover some sense of purpose, some form of guidance. That was two years ago. Even though you had thanked the priest for the candle, it seemed completely useless. Or so you thought. Now, it was the only way you could differentiate every detail of Jihoon’s face, his skin constantly basked in a golden aurora.

“I think…” Jihoon murmured, sitting up slowly and staring into the warm light, “I think there is a way.”

Something seemed to be revolving in his mind, something that planted hope in your belly, and as he explained to you the procedure, you hadn’t realized his fingers gradually interlacing with yours.

The night of October thirty-first, that was the only sliver in which Jihoon could ever separate from the closet, the cottage house, and reacquaint himself with the earthy air and moonlight. It was the only time when the barrier between the human realm and spirit realm was significantly thin enough. Jihoon stood in your bedroom, dressed in an auburn, corduroy button-up vest, the sleeves of his white dress shirt cuffed to his elbows, his trousers hemmed along the leg.

Could those be the same clothes he wore upon taking his own life? You were always curious, though refrained from acting too inquisitive. The boy suddenly reached into his right pants pocket, shifting his fingers as though he were attempting to fish something out, until he glanced at the gold dome in your hand and a pink dust developed along the arch of his cheeks. These days, you’d been holding onto his mirror like it was a personal ligament.

He shrugged. “Old habit.”

Jihoon followed you into the living room. Whilst you tossed on a water-proof jacket and wriggled each foot into a pair of degrading tennis sneakers, the boy paused just in front of the fireplace. He touched the crimson brick, then stuck out two ice-cold palms. The embers were radiant and warm. They drew a beautiful glow to his skin. If Jihoon felt the energy of the heat, he didn’t express it. You stuffed the mirror into your pocket and called for him.

There was a slight drag as Jihoon seemed hesitant to part from the flames, twirling and alive, like he’d been trying to seek for a lost artifact that might still remain amongst the ashes.

“Nothing is the same.”

With his head constantly pivoting in order to gauge every detail, Jihoon seemed to realize that the town he moved into during the last century was starkly and scarily different. Houses now built over cobalt roads, where the wealthy had once let exhaust tumble from the pipes of their timely vehicles. A shopping centre stuck the middle of what was once a cornfield, always rife with healthy, luminous green stalks during the balmy summers. His favourite diner, where he used to gather all his papers and write until his pen lost its ink, listening to revolving tunes on the jukebox, had been replaced by a furniture store.

Jihoon didn’t sound upset, but jaded perhaps.

He’d moved from his homeland, Busan, South Korea, at twenty years old, taking with him little to no belongings apart from some clothes and a pocket mirror his girlfriend had gifted him. He desired a meaningful existence with his writing, hoping to make something, be somebody.

And yet, three years after leaving Busan, Jihoon had killed himself in his cottage home.

“A lot can change in a hundred years. Good and bad. ” You sighed whilst waiting at a crosswalk.

The boy shivered due to the crisp, autumn wind. “It appears so.”

He then clenched his teeth together. “Say, do you think I could get some new clothes? These have a few holes. They’re scratchy too.”

You glanced at the enormous, neon sign anchored to the shopping centre across the street.

“I think I can help you out.”

For the first time in a century, Jihoon stared at himself in a mirror. It was a tall, thin mirror stuck to a changeroom door. His decaying articles were folded on the bench, faintly stitched with the scent of wood pyres and dust and potent ink. It took Jihoon less than a minute to discover his new clothes, a dark blue hoodie and black sweatpants. The hoodie swallowed his upper-half. He seemed comfortable, warm, his fingers rubbing the inside of the fleece sleeve.

In a peculiar way, it hurt.

He no longer held the appearance of a middleclass writer who’d burn out his cigars on paper, always had a whisky shot coursing through his blood, some ash from the fireplace constantly rubbed to his cheek. He had no longer just stepped through a time portal into the most recent era. Instead, Jihoon looked like a student you might brush shoulders with before a lecture, or a modest stranger who’d catch your eye at a party.

If only Jihoon had actually been that stranger, rather than the boyfriend you have now.

“Don’t let go of my hand.”

You asked Jihoon wearily whilst stepping onto a cement ledge next to the sidewalk. Truthfully, it wasn’t that high. Truthfully, you just wanted feel his cold touch caress your skin.

He blinked up at your figure, the moonlight glowing behind you, outlining you in a silver, narrow frame.

“I won’t. I promise.”

Once you were steadied on the ledge, you began placing one foot in front of the other, taking attentive steps that had little to no breadth, and yet they felt like immeasurable strides. Jihoon held your fingers with a sweet pressure. You were almost near the end of the ledge when that autumn wind decided to ripple hard and fierce, and as you braced against the current, you lost your balance. With a small shriek you nearly stumbled over the edge.

Jihoon didn’t waver. His hands fastened upon your waist and he caught you in his arms, feeling your heartbeat that drummed through your chest and into his.

“W-Whoops…” Your laughter was anxious, embarrassed.

Never having been pressed against each other before, there was slight uneasiness. There was racing thoughts and cotton-hearts, a fleeting catch of the other’s eye and faces so close that you shared the same breath. His hands cupped at your waist; your palms flat against his shoulders. If you kissed him, would he taste like a Cuban cigar? Or a soft, warm peach grown beneath summer sunshine? Jihoon thought you smelled like an orchid.

However, you both peeled away from each other.

“Wait—” you remarked before continuing down the sidewalk, “you promised not to let go of my hand.”

Jihoon intertwined your fingers, his thumb smoothing quickly over the ridges of your knuckles.

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

The stars burned in their own soot, twinkling intermittently and spread apart across the blackness. Some were passionate and lurid, whilst others were dim, barely there, only glistering to indicate that their radiance still lived. You sat next to Jihoon on the train station bench, the heated rim of a paper cup touching your lips, stained with hot chocolate. After taking a sip and feeling the velvet against your throat, you handed him the drink.

Upon purchasing Jihoon’s new cloths, you’d emptied all the bills wadded in your pocket. A small palm of coins remained and you counted them aside to buy two train tickets in addition to a hot chocolate. The tip of his nose was slightly pinkish from the cold. His eyes focused on the steam, which he impatiently dispersed by forming his lips into a tiny O shape. You continued exchanging the cup until there was nothing more than a ring of wet cocoa powder at the base.

Jihoon began softly bumping his knee against yours whilst you waited for the train. He seemed unaware, though you couldn’t be certain. He had quite the array of small, endearing habits.

Suddenly, you felt a slight vibration inside your coat pocket. And then another, another, and one more after that. Once you slid out the device, something that was thicker than dread surrounded you, absorbing every ray of starlight. His snarl jeered at you through the texts.

[11:15PM | DO NOT ANSWER]: Why haven’t you responded to me?

[11:15PM | DO NOT ANSWER]: Where are you??

[11:15PM | DO NOT ANSWER]: What did I tell you about going out and not saying anything?

[11:15PM | DO NOT ANSWER]: You don’t just fucking do something like that.

You could already feel his ironclad grip suctioned around your wrist, his fingernails submerging into your flesh, carving out new scratches to replace the ones that had faded.

In the distance, you heard the train rattling and smelled the burning coal. You stuffed the phone into your pocket and pretended the texts were non-existent, yet, that characteristic glint in your eyes was much too candour. How was there a point in pretending when you gave away your own lies?

“Come on,” Jihoon stood from the bench, his breath ghosting into the nighttime air, “you have the tickets ready?”

As the train slowed to a trill halt, you nodded, revealing the two tickets from your pocket.

“Good, good.” He gently traced his fingertips down the back of your wrist before encompassing your hand in his. Jihoon squeezed firmly, leaned into your ear where his breath was ticklish.

Somehow, you didn’t feel afraid anymore when he whispered, “let’s go home, alright? I’ll help warm you up and we’ll go to bed together.”

The conductor accepted your tickets with a tight-lipped smile, and Jihoon’s fingers played with yours whilst the man readied his hole-punch. For some reason, your eyes drifted to the side of the boy’s neck, where ever so faintly, a reddish-pink scar curled around his pearl skin. It was the first time you ever noticed the mark now that Jihoon was no longer blanketed in the closet’s meagre light. The mark seemed painful, like something had been taunt against his windpipe.

You knew Jihoon had taken his own life three years after leaving the comfort and familiarity of Busan. You knew Jihoon had a girlfriend back in his hometown that he wanted to marry. He put love on hold to become a writer. He sacrificed everything yet gained nothing.

The universe was awfully typical.

Upon exhaling a soft breath through your nose, eyelids droopy from the drowsiness, you rested your temple against Jihoon’s shoulder during the train ride home. He must have thought you’d fallen asleep, for his fingertips brushed sweetly against your exposed cheek, his lips pressing to the top of your forehead, leaving behind the warmth of a tender kiss. Jihoon’s touch was always cool, yet it translated into heat.

Forcibly, you gulped down a surprised cough. You knew that was what an intimate relationship should be.

It was more so the fact you had never experienced it.

You kissed the boy’s jaw. His shoulder became rigid, though you were smiling with eyes shut tighter than a locket.

Jihoon mumbled lowly against your forehead, “you were supposed to be asleep.��

Refusing to open your eyes, somewhat petrified that gazing upon his face would further embolden just how attached were to him, you simply shook your head.

“I am asleep. I talk in my sleep. I’m sleep-talking.”

“Do you kiss people in your sleep too?”

Your eyebrow quirked. “Didn’t you just kiss me?”

“Because I thought you were asleep.”

“I am aslee—”

Jihoon’s palm gently cupped overtop your mouth, muffling the syllables. Your laughter was hot against his skin, and your eyes finally opened. No, you didn’t want to fall asleep. It just meant that the next morning Jihoon would be gone.

You removed the little mirror from your jacket and placed it on the night table, then pulled the cloth curtains shut as though you were going to disrobe. However, you only removed your jacket and flung off your bra, much too cognisant of your dwindling time with Jihoon, afraid that even changing into your pyjamas would waste the precious minutes. He observed each of your movements as he lounged on his side, taking up the left half of your bed.

How long had it been since he last sunk into a mattress, since he last had a warm body to share the space with?

Jihoon stared at the dull, golden dome of the pocket mirror. He remembered his past lover’s face, the pain she attempted to make imperceptible as Jihoon stood with only a single luggage case at the Gyeongbu Line station. It was the nearing the terminal of nineteen-seventeen.

His twentieth birthday had transpired only a week ago.

“Just come back, alright?” She had been thumping her fists lightly against his chest, long strands of black hair draping her cheeks, “promise you’ll come back to me?”

“I promise, Jieun. Everything I am is you.”

He framed her beautiful face in his hands, kissed her slowly, wanted to permanently grain the taste of her lip gloss against his taste buds as well as the powdery notes of her perfume. Before he could leave, she slipped her gold, shiny mirror into his hand, a momentum, a memory, something that would preserve her significance to him.

Three years after leaving Busan and Jihoon would only remove the mirror from his pocket so that he could polish the surface. He wrote her love letters, filled every one of his notebooks with limerence-indulgent poems until the twine could no longer keep the pages from bulging open. His typewriter clicked from every pale-yellow morning to the midnight crickets. Being in love felt like a high. He dreamed of their wedding, their first house, a baby tucked in their arms.

Three years later and Jihoon’s rotary phone started wildly buzzing. It was his best friend, Soonyoung. He was sobbing, pouring out hiccups and inarticulate fragments that Jihoon could hardly understand. It wasn’t until the impatient boy snapped at him to clear his nose and take a breath that those words pulled taunt and impaled straight through Jihoon’s heart like a crossbow. There was no blood, and yet it seemed to fill his lungs and bubble thickly in his throat.

“I’ve been sleeping with Jieun. For almost a year now. I had to tell you. It’s eating me alive.”

That same day, Jihoon received a postcard with a picture of cheerful Songdo beach, a place they had often visited to walk the waterline, wondering about their future The back was blanketed in Jieun’s rushed, tear-stained handwriting.

It was true.

They both admitted it.

In that cottage home, Jihoon threw a match into the brick fireplace. Every poem, every notebook, every piece of literature he’d ever written were gradually enveloped and burnt up by the monstrous flames. An hour later and he was standing in his closet, an apple crate under his feet and a segment of durable rope in his hands. The fire continued to crackle in the living room whilst the smoke drifted from the chimney. Buried in his pocket was the gold rose mirror.

In due time, the flames had become the only live part of the house.

As Jihoon continued to stare at the mirror sitting on your night table, he was consistently poked with a truth that made him ache so terribly: his spirit could only be freed if the mirror broke.

But if the mirror broke, there was no possible method for you to contact him. Jihoon could not be summoned, and in no way, shape, or form could he interact with your life, rather he’d be an invisible observer with infinite freedom. This became information he never shared. The conflict was too saturated, and as much as Jihoon despised his condemnation to that dark little space, it was how he discovered you. He’d quickly learned you didn’t have freedom either.

Your freedom only seemed to develop in the presence of each other.

Suddenly, the bed dipped. Jihoon snapped from his musing. The sheets wrinkled below your hands and knees as you crawled toward him, eyes sleepy, intent to create the comfortable position where the curve of your spine was seamless with his front. When your gaze flitted downward, you spotted Jihoon’s hand resting on your hipbone. He waited, and you grinned.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him, “I want you closer. Please?”

Jihoon’s small huff tickled your ear whilst he slid his palm flat under your t-shirt. It stilled, pressing to your abdomen, the cold of his fingers meeting your soft warmth. His thumb began drawing strokes just under your navel, to which your eyes fluttered shut and a calm sigh rose in your chest. Somehow, you wanted to preserve this moment, like how petals could be sealed inside an amber stone so that their beauty never degraded. Jihoon’s hand etched further up your torso, his fingertips tracing the supple underside of your breast.

He kissed that tender sweet spot just below your ear, until your eyes opened, gaze falling directly onto the pocket mirror. Aside from the intense heat, another sensation overwhelmed you, and with a breath that was nothing short of unease you looked back over your shoulder at the boy who’d be gone by morning.

“I don’t want you to leave,” your voice emerged in a telling crack, “I need you.”

Jihoon shook his head. Leaning forward, his lips brushed yours in a gentle kiss.

“I’m not leaving. You know that. I’m always here.”

The tears brimmed your eyes. “N-No, I need you out here. In physicality. Not just in a c-closet.”

Your emotions mimicked a violet insurrection, where they could not be quelled no matter how fiercely you took your bottom lip under your teeth, or how rapidly you blinked, hoping the liquid would retract itself. Instead, they flowered in one big uprooting. You suckled in a sharp inhalation that gave them even more fuel and greed.

“Dammit—I didn’t want to cry, but I c-can’t help it!” You covered your eyes with your palms. “I had so much fun with you tonight, Jihoon – I just don’t want this to end. I don’t want to have this pain. My happiness is ripped away every time I see him. I want it to be you but it’s not!”

The boy tugged at your wrists, urging you to uncover yourself. He succeeded at catching your eyes despite how distorted they were with water.

“Relax, alright?” He cooed, his face hovering over yours. “Let yourself breathe.”

The backs of his fingers brushed up and down your far cheek. Before a tear could roll onto his thumb Jihoon had already pecked it away. Heeding his words, you drew in a slow breath and felt the coolness fill each lung, all whilst he comforted you using a benign hand.

“You have me. You’ll always have me. Whether I’m palpable or not doesn’t change that.”

“I-I know…” It squeaked out with little conviction, “If I couldn’t have that mirror, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Jihoon traced his thumb below your teary eye. “You’d be fine, even without the mirror.”

He was met with a doubtful glance.

“Trust me,” his reverence shone through each word, “whenever you speak to me, I will always listen. Even if you can’t see me, or grab my hand. Even if you feel completely alone. I will always hear you. It seems unlikely, but it’s true.”

Honesty consumed the boy’s gaze. His reassurance was akin to a sewing needle that wove back together the collapsing fabric of your heart.

Jihoon’s tone then became even more earnest, and your eyes burned into his.

“I love you. It’s a bit cheap of me to say that considering my circumstances, but I need you to know that having met you… You reunited me with what love is, when I thought it was impossible to feel it again. Life is cruel. We can’t be together in the way we want. I can’t steal you away from him and make you mine no matter how badly I wish I could.”

His fingers paused atop your cheek. Jihoon swallowed and pressed his forehead to yours.

“It’s too late for me, but you have your whole life.”

He kissed you deeply, slid in his tongue to taste the cheap hot chocolate, his chest aching when he heard one of your soft gasps melt into his mouth. Your fingers carded through his hair, but then Jihoon pulled away, rubbing his thumb to your bottom lip whilst you cradled his nape.

“You deserve someone who will cherish you, protect you, sing to you, let you be vulnerable in every way and adore you all the same.”

With a ginger smile, Jihoon looked deep into your eyes.

“And you need to have strength. Okay, my love? Will you promise me?”

Another tear trickled and soaked into your hair. Jihoon was right. There was no second life, and you didn’t want to spend any remainder of your first anchored to a boyfriend who would never love you like Jihoon did.

“I promise.” You spoke quietly, printing a kiss to his thumb. “I love you too. I always will.”

Then it was time for bed.

After reaching toward the night table and plucking off the lamp, you nestled your head against the smooth slope connecting his neck and shoulder, smelling the faint tang of an ancient cigar on his skin. One arm draped across his waist, your leg over his hip, every bit of your warmth seeping through Jihoon’s cloths and into his cold body. As a goodnight rhythm, Jihoon’s fingertips swept along your arm, the contact slightly ticklish but a reminder he was still tangible, still holding you, still positively in love with everything that fabricated you.

His heart wouldn’t change, even if he was no longer burying kisses to the top of your head by morning.

“You better watch your tone, sunshine. That’s all I’m saying.”

He leaned back against the kitchen counter, next to the sink crammed with grimy, porcelain dishes that had most likely been collecting for a week. The windowsill above the faucet was lined with dead flies, the glass adapting a sallow hue, as though some type of algae was beginning to develop. A vase sat on the small dining table, filled with orchids, though the purple petals were shrivelled and the bulbs drooped like they were trying to escape the stem.

A cigarette was held between his fingers, to which he smeared off the ashes by rubbing it against the countertop. Squeezing your hand even tighter around the pocket mirror, you stood ground.

“I’ve been watching my tone for the last two years. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Oh yeah?” He huffed, folding an arm over his chest. “Then I taught you well. Don’t make me teach you again.” The smoke wafted from between his lips, and he hacked dryly.

You couldn’t believe you were doing this. The only reason you weren’t blubbering through every word was due to your unwavering grip on the mirror and the tearful promise you made to Jihoon. Maintaining an ember of hope, you prayed this would be the last time you smelled the poison from his cigarette. Freedom felt like a walk out his front door.

“The way you treat me is disgusting. You don’t know anything about a real relationship.”

He might have been dense, but his instinctual evil knew contempt like the back of his palm. His eyes flashed, recognizing your defiance, your desperation to break free. Rather than the slumped posture against the countertop, he started to straighten himself out and bare his teeth.

“What the fuck do you know about a real relationship? I treat you like you’re supposed to be treated. I made you a better partner, and you’re not even goddamn thankful?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You felt not a grain of fear, but great astonishment, in which months of belligerence bled through your negation. “You made me better? Did you really just fucking say that? You put me in the worst position of my life! You’re an empty-headed, narcissistic, manipulative asshole!”

It was like a pin dropping in an empty theatre. The words that harped from your tongue merely skimmed the surface of your resentment, and you might’ve kept barrelling down if it weren’t for the obsidian in his eyes. You knew that soulless look. Already, you could feel the ache in your wrist, see glimpses of his iron hand reaching for your skin. He ripped the cigarette from his mouth, smacked it into the sink, and immediately loomed over you, wrestling for your wrist.

“H-Hey, don’t fucking touch me!” You cried out, whipping your elbow backward.

“Don’t act up then!” He roared, clutching onto your arm and wickedly shaking it until your grasp loosened around the pocket mirror.

With a horrified countenance, you watched the artifact fly from your hand and rattle against the plastic, stained tiles. The fragile clasp broke, its gold dome popped open, cracked glass crumbling out from the inside. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t speak. Air stuttered on the tip of your tongue whilst you stared at the hundred-year-old mirror, now decimated and irreplaceable. It felt like the universe had an unforgiving hand around your windpipe. No breath left your lungs.

“What the fuck,” he muttered, his brow furrowing, “why were you holding that?”

Why were you holding that?

With your mouth agape, you locked eyes with the man in front of you, and for once, he seemed afraid. The pain upended itself in your stomach, it burst into your atrium, your veins and blood. It was electricity. A frustrated growl reverberated from deep inside and suddenly you were slamming your hands against his chest, pushing him backward, making him stumble and wheeze and fear your aggression until he was caught against the kitchen counter.

“What the he—,”

“Shut up,” you choked out like your whole life had been ripped away from you, tears leaking down your face, “don’t you ever come up to me again. Don’t ever put your hands on me. Don’t you ever speak to me. Don’t you ever look at me. You can’t keep me trapped in your little cage anymore. We’re fucking through.”

He was heaving in quick-paced breaths, and you could see the disorientation cloud in his gaze. Before you left, you scooped the broken mirror and all its fragments into your hands.

You stalked through his front door, but it didn’t yet feel like freedom.

Darkness pooled around you, exempt from the yellowish flame that wriggled up candle wick. Gently opening the pocket mirror, you placed it on the closet floor, holding back a brittle sob as the tiny glass shards collected against its bottom. Glass shards that could never be fixed or glued back together. It was unadulterated heartache. You wondered if that was how Jihoon felt when he watched all his books smoulder in the fireplace, having to accept the voice at the back of his head which told him his literature would be lost forever.

Your eyes were damp and welting with tears as they fell shut. Quietly, into the small space you whispered: “If I ask for you, will you come to me?”

But the world was silent.

You felt not a single gust of arctic air against your face, nor did you hear the pocket mirror snapping shut. Jihoon’s soft fingertips weren’t brushing your arm, your teary cheek, the tender inside of your thigh, assuring you he was right at your side. A shudder split through your body. It couldn’t be true.

You entreated him again, “if I ask for you, will you come to me?”

A terrible sickness disseminated from your gut. You felt lightheaded, dizzy, saliva coating the inside of your mouth as though your system was preparing to vomit. Perspiration dappled your forehead, and you were burning hot, yet your hands were trembling like you’d been confined outside during the coldest winter. You leaned over into your palms and let out a petulant shriek. It was unclear how long you stayed in the closet, wetly hiccupping and mourning. The pain needed to escape, no matter how viciously.

And even though you couldn’t see Jihoon, he was looking after you as a free spirit, absorbing your agony, ensuring you didn’t have to feel such torment all by yourself.

Eight months later

It was around lunchtime as you picked up your bicycle, resting against the ivy that coated the sun-soaked wall of the cottage. You decided to pedal into town and grab groceries. June summers were always pleasant, colourful; the heat was rarely unbearable or notably sticky and when you rode your bicycle, the breeze blew the scent of the neighbourhood honeysuckle into your face.

Soaring along the sidewalk, you felt – for once in your life – remarkably free.

When you neared that ominous house at the end of the block, you weren’t afraid, rather you continued pedaling with contentedness, brushing right by the driveway as though it were any other house one might pass on a bike ride. You didn’t think about your wrist. The scratches had long since faded. There was no more bruised tissue or blunt carvings from fingernails. Upon nearing the grocery store, you were creating a small list in your head.

You knew you wanted peaches. Ice cream if they had your favourite flavour. Vegetables and meat and spices for a stew. In fact, you were so concentrated on making the non-existent list that you didn’t even note the young man who’d just rushed out the market door. At the last second you jammed the breaks and gasped, feeling the inertia against your body.

Some of the papers and photographs tucked under the stranger’s arm dislodged, fluttering to the ground.

“Holy shit,” you set your bicycle against the store wall, “I’m so sorry! I wasn’t paying attention at all—here, let me help you.”

“I-It’s alright,” he replied, sounding a bit shaky as he joined you in collecting the papers, “I wasn’t paying attention either.”

When you grabbed one particular photo from the ground, you immediately froze.

It was grainy, black and white, but you could recognize that face amongst hundreds. His eyes, his lips, even the corduroy button-up and crisp dress shirt. He was leaning against a jukebox, hands in his pockets, a pen tucked behind his ear, grinning like he’d just struck the lottery. You were so entranced with the photograph that the stranger could only stand before you, a thick blush on his cheeks whilst he waited for you to finish ogling. It wasn’t until he slightly cleared his throat that you budged.

“Do you know this guy?” You asked after handing him back the picture.

“Well, not personally…” He scratched the nape of his neck. “But I know who he was. Lee Jihoon. I have this culminating project in my writing class. I thought it’d be cool to choose him since his story is so intriguing. I—,” Suddenly, he stopped, and laughed anxiously.

“Sorry, you probably don’t know what I’m talking about.”

His amber complexion turned increasingly pink. You’d never seen him around town before, but god—he was cute. He had these thin, circular glasses that sat on his pointed nose, a mole doting the upper arch of his cheek, the deepest brown eyes you’d ever seen. His hair was a bit disarrayed after you nearly struck him with your bicycle, the black strands fluttering against the summer breeze. And interestingly enough, he knew who Jihoon was.

“I know of him,” you smiled, though it was hollow, “his story is intriguing, according to what I’ve heard.”

The stranger seemed to sense your aching.

“Yeah… kinda sad stuff. Um, I-I’m Seokmin by the way. I heard Jihoon lived in this town so I’m trying to collect resources.”

You glanced at him thoughtfully and returned your name. Seokmin started organizing his papers, proceeding to shove them back under his arm.

“Resources?” Came your inquiry. “Like what kind?”

“Anything, honestly. I started researching him when I lived in Korea. I even got my hands on some copies of citizen records. I know he had a cottage around here too, but I don’t know the address. And that’s weird right? Knocking on the owner’s door asking about a deceased writer.”

“Seokmin.”

He pushed up the silver bridge of his glasses and gulped. “Yeah?”

“I think I can help you out.”

After taking Seokmin on a curt tour through the cottage, he seemed speechless, and quite frankly a little bewildered considering his luck at encountering you. Much of the cottage had been renovated and refurbished, all but the closet and the crimson fireplace.

The tour ended in your bedroom, where Seokmin shot a wary glance at the closet you had always kept empty, knowing what the cramped space entailed in terms of the writer’s premature death. You thought he needed to sit, so you assured him it was fine if he took a couple minutes on the edge of your bed.

With his documents next to him, Seokmin’s eyes once again probed around the room. He then sighed as you leaned against your dresser, to which you pondered on what had disturbed him.

“I can’t believe he burnt all his work. It’s just gone, y’know?”

Tapping your fingers against the wood, you nodded. “It’s unfortunate.”

“When I was poking around for information back in Busan, I heard he had this girlfriend who cheated on him with his friend. All his books were these amazing love stories based on her, but I guess he felt they were tarnished… So, he just… Destroyed them. I wonder if there’s anything of his left.”

Immediately, you stiffened. Stowed away within your night table’s compartment was the gold pocket mirror. You had removed the broken glass after slicing the edge of your finger on a shard, and only the antique shell remained. It was too painful to keep the mirror with you as frequently as before, so you stored it in a special place, and only accessed it when you needed to talk with Jihoon, when you really needed to feel his presence, even if it couldn’t be what it once was.

Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, you approached the table and pulled open the compartment, revealing to Seokmin the pocket mirror, dulled and broken after a century of hardship. He outstretched his palm when you allowed him to hold it.

“S-Shit, I heard about this mirror. His girlfriend gave him this. Is it the actual thing?”

Folding your arms over your chest, you nodded. “I promise, it’s not a fake.”

Gently, Seokmin opened the broken clasp.

“No glass?” He questioned.

“Um…” You were nibbling your lip hard enough to draw blood, “Just… something happened, and it broke. It was too dangerous to keep the glass.”

“Oh,” Seokmin hummed, “that’s fine. It’s still beautiful. I can’t even believe I’m holding it.” His chest rumbled with disbelieving laughter.

“It’s so hard to see it broken…” You sighed, feeling your lungs shake and your throat tighten.

Seokmin looked up at you, how you gazed at the mirror as though it were a lost love. He rose from the bed and delicately placed the momentum back into its compartment.

“I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing.” The boy pointed out in a soft voice.

“Why not?” You sniffled, tears stinging your eyes, yearning to fall.

“Well, there’s this myth, I guess. People who take their own life are condemned to their personal grave. When items that were precious to them break, like that mirror, it sets their soul free. So, even if it’s painful for you, it could have been a good thing. If you believe in spirits and all that.”

For a moment, you simply held yourself firmer, staring deep into the kind earth of Seokmin’s eyes whilst this catharsis bloomed inside you. Even though you knew the mirror wasn’t necessary for Jihoon to hear or see you, it had been the most difficult tribulation you ever knuckled through. Trying to accept life as it was, not as what it could have been. Seokmin’s brow knitted together concerningly, his bottom lip pushing out, hoping he didn’t upset you.

“Are you oka—,”

He lost an ounce of his breath when you wrapped your arms around his waist, holding onto him tight whilst a few tears beaded toward your chin. Seokmin was at first stunned, though it melted off easily, and you felt his hand rub tenderly against your back. He murmured some small reassurances. His voice was incredibly dulcet, almost velvet-like, and you thought he’d make a good singer. When you took a step away to wipe up any tears, Seokmin gazed at you fondly.

“I’m really sorry,” you chuckled, fingertips brushing against your eye, “but thank you for saying that. It’s something I needed to hear.”

Seokmin shook his head. “Don’t apologize. Pain is pain.”

You smiled at him. He wasn’t wrong.

Realizing he needed to move on with his day, you lead Seokmin downstairs and to the front door, where he stood next to your lilac bush, the afternoon sun adding a touch of honey to his cheeks. Just before he left, you couldn’t help but note that he was fumbling with his words a lot, licking his pretty lips, running a hand through his black locks. Eventually, the boy found his words.

“Do you want to meet up again, maybe?” He quickly adjusted his glasses. “And we can do something? I-I think you’re really nice and cute and I still can’t believe you showed me around when you didn’t have to. I’m sorry if that’s too soon. I totally understand if you’d rather ju—”

“I’d love to.”

The overwrought nature to his face immediately cleared. Instead, Seokmin looked vibrant, so much in fact, that you could feel a familiar sense of warmth rise in your face. It was a sensation you hadn’t experienced in a long while, but it made you happy, inconceivably happy.

“Really? Okay, cool. Do you want my number?”

As you removed the phone from your pocket, your heart skipped a beat.

“Sure,” you eagerly complied, “let’s do it.”

And on that day, your life began in the way you always dreamed it would.

✧✎ a/n: again, i just want to apologize for my lack of posting (pls refer to my last update if you’re curious). I HOPE THE ENDING MADE UP FOR THE PAIN AND SADNESS lolll.

#caratwritersclub #seventeen scenarios #jihoon scenarios #seventeen angst #jihoon angst #lee jihoon #seventeen woozi #woozi scenarios #svt fanfic #svt angst #jihoon x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen imagines #abuse tw #suicide tw

332 notes · View notes

westallenfun · 3 years

Text

Home for Christmas - 2/3

WestAllen secret santa gift

From: @backtothestart02

For: @cheryls-blossomed

Merry Christmas, Mailina! I did my best to write up a short multi rom-com au for you. I hope you enjoy it and have a wonderful holiday!!

Chapter 2 -

As the hours ticked by, the snow slowed to a stop until, when they reached Central City, and pulled up to a familiar house, not a single flake could be seen falling from the sky. In its place was a crisper, icier night sky, though it was only just around dinner time. The whipping wind had become a gentle breeze, but it was still cold nonetheless.

“What are you going to do if they don’t let you in?”

Barry frowned. He hadn’t considered that.

“You said you haven’t seen them for fifteen years, right?” Walt sought to clarify.

“Yeah…” Barry trailed off. “They’ll let me in though.” He turned to face his driver. “We’ve been in contact since I left.”

“With Iris?” Walt asked, somewhat surprised.

“Uh, no…with her dad.”

“I see.”

“He owns the house though, and Iris might not even still live here, so…”

“Well, I’ll wait for you just in case. I can always drive you to a local motel and pay for a one-night stay.”

Barry’s eyes widened.

“You don’t have to do that, Walt. You’ve done so much already. That’s…that’s too much.”

“A thank you would be nice.”

His jaw dropped.

“Go on now. You might not even need it. Let’s see if the man will let you in.”

Barry’s lips twitched.

“Right. Okay.” He opened the door and stepped out into the cold night. He missed the warmth of the car already. He turned around to say something, but Walt cut off whatever attempt he might have made.

“Go,” he said, and Barry nodded and closed the car door behind him.

Six inches of wet, heavy snow had fallen in Central City. The front walkway was clear of it though, so Barry presumed Joe had shoveled it. Salt had been sprinkled on the pavement too, so there was no fear of slipping and falling.

Taking a deep breath, Barry made his way up to the porch and knocked three times on the door, shaking a little in the cold and starting to lose his nerve.

He was just about to turn around and take Walt’s offer when the door opened.

There, in the flesh, was Joe West. He wasn’t as tall as he remembered, which made sense since he’d been 10 the last time he’d seen him. In fact, he was either just as tall as he was or an inch or so shorter. It was strange being at eye-level with the man, but the sight of him warmed him all the same.

“Hello,” Joe West said, his brows furrowing in confusion, and that was when Barry remembered. Over all those years, they’d never exchanged pictures. “Can I help you?” he asked.

Barry shook himself out of his memories.

“It’s Barry, Joe,” he said, a crooked smile adorning his features. “Barry Allen.”

Joe’s eyes widened, and the confusion in his eyes disappeared. He appeared to find Barry familiar all of a sudden – whether it was the way he stood or his eyes or how he talked, Barry didn’t know, he was just glad.

“Barry!” He clapped his back and urged him inside. “Come in, come in. Wow, what a surprise. And look at you, so tall!”

Barry chuckled a little nervously, then turned to look outside before the door closed, to say goodbye and thank you to Walt. But the car was gone, and his opportunity with it. Still, he hoped Walt knew how truly grateful he was, and hoped that perhaps one day he would meet him again.

“We’re just about to have dinner,” Joe said, pulling Barry back into the living room of the West house.

He blinked as he watched Joe set another plate, presumably for him.

“We?” Barry asked, unzipping his coat, then tossing and missing the coat stand near the door.

“Iris is upstairs,” Joe said, practically giddy.

Barry’s breath caught in his throat.

Iris was upstairs. She was just one floor away from him. Just up the steps and down the hall, and there she’d be. He felt faint just thinking of how he would cope with the sight of her. She must be stunning, more beautiful than anything he could imagine. Her voice would be like silk, her eyes deep enough to drown in, and those perfect lips would be impossible not to stare at, especially if they were painted with a gloss or lipstick of any kind. Maybe more so if they weren’t.

“Barry?”

“Huh?” His head snapped up, his eyes entirely focused on Joe’s.

Joe chuckled.

“Why don’t you go say hi? I’m sure she’s missed you.”

Barry’s hand wrapped around the back of his head, as he sheepishly said, “She probably doesn’t even remember me.”

“Don’t be silly,” Joe said. “You were her childhood best friend. You knew each other since you were five. You were inseparable.” He pursed his lips. “I’m sure if you just tell her your name…”

“Actually,” Barry said, “There’s something I wanted to talk about with you first, Joe.”

“What is it?” He frowned.

“I kind of…don’t have any place to stay while I’m here, and I don’t have money either. Is there any way I could-”

“Stay here?”

Barry looked at him hopefully.

“Of course. Wally is away at school and won’t be here till the Christmas party in five days. Iris just signed a lease for an apartment here in town, so she won’t be using her room either. You’d be better off sleeping in her room for when Wally comes home, but I suppose up until then you can use either.”

Barry smiled tremulously.

“Thanks, Joe.”

“In exchange though, I do want to know how you got here and why you’re penniless.” He paused for a moment, then leaned in. “Is everything okay with-”

“My relatives?”

Joe waited.

“Everything’s fine. I haven’t lived with them since before college. I just…have had a few things happen today that have prevented me from looking like I’ve got it all together.”

“Such as?” Joe pressed.

“My car was totaled, and my landlord kicked me out. Not before taking double my rent though.”

Joe’s eyes widened.

“Why’d he kick you out?”

“Well…there was sort of an…explosion.”

“A what?”

“I’m a forensic scientist!” Barry burst. “I couldn’t do all my testing at work, so I moved some of the chemicals into my spare bedroom, and-”

“Lord save us,” Joe muttered, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers to his forehead. Barry stopped talking. “Just…go say hi to Iris. We’ll talk more about this later.”

“Okay,” Barry said, accepting.

“I’m going to go finish dinner. When you’ve finished your reunion, come on down, the both of you.”

“Right.”

Barry turned then, kicked off his shoes on top of his jacket, and braced himself for the inevitable.

After 15 years, he was going to reunite with Iris West.

…

Barry’s damp socks stained the wood stairs as he took them two at a time. The stairs creaked as he put his weight on them, and it gave him pause, made him suck in a breath and cringe. How was he ever going to surprise Iris if he made such a racket going to the room she was in?

The hallway was worse. He’d forgotten the squeaky spots – the ones he’d avoided during sleepovers and his time staying at the house before he left. Still, Iris didn’t pop out of any of the rooms when the squeaks were made, and for that he was relieved.

He peeked into the first room on his left – Wally’s room, and found it empty. He dismissed Joe’s room entirely, because why would Iris be there? The bathroom door was wide open, and the interior appeared to be empty, so he didn’t attempt that either.

But from the room to the immediate right, Barry heard some mumbling and moving of things followed by the most beautiful laughter he’d ever heard in his life, and he knew he’d hit the jackpot.

He knocked lightly on the door before opening it and was enraptured by what he saw.

Iris was stunning, just as he’d imagined she would be. She was petite, hardly having grown to more than five feet. The height difference between them almost made a possessive growl escape his lips. He wanted to protect her like she had him. He wanted to hold her and love her and kiss her, and-

He shook his head, wondering how something as simple as her height had such an effect on him.

Maybe it was because it wasn’t just her height. It was her silky shoulder-length raven hair and the curves of her hips. It was the maroon sweater that sparkled in the light of the room, hugging her curves – and the jeans too that accentuated every inch of her lower half. She had fuzzy slippers on, which he found adorable. It made him imagine the two of them snuggling on the couch, her legs draped over his lap, and his fingers in her hair, and-

“I’ll be right there, Dad!” she called, and the sound of her voice while melodic and angelic, also brought him back to the present.

“It’s…not your dad.”

Iris dropped the book she was holding and froze. Slowly she turned around, as if prepared that he was a burglar of some sort.

“Who are you?” she asked, a threat in her eyes, and something inside of him broke.

Sure, he looked much different than he had at 10, but some part of him had hoped she would see past the height and the lanky figure and see her best friend.

“It’s me, Iris. It’s Barry.”

It looked like she still didn’t believe him a little, but he could see her working it out, looking into his eyes to see the truth of what he was saying. Finally, she caved, almost a whisper passing through her lips.

“Barry?”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she raced to him. She jumped into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist, burying her face into his neck. The force of the impact sent him backpedaling into the hall and up against the wall where they came to a stop.

He chuckled and played with the ends of her hair, satisfying part of what he wanted to do, until she pulled back and lowered herself onto the floor.

“S-sorry.” She laughed nervously. “I just can’t believe it’s you. I never thought… Oh, God, you must hate me. Fifteen years it’s been, and I stopped writing when I was 13!”

He shook his head, eager to soothe her.

“It’s okay. Your dad picked up where you left off. We’ve stayed in touch over the years.”

She rolled her eyes. “Hardly the same thing.” She licked her lips, then met his searing gaze. “Are you staying for dinner?”

He grinned. “I’m staying for the week!”

Her jaw dropped. “Seriously?”

“Uh-huh. Your dad said I could stay in your room, since I’ve got nowhere else to go.” Her lips parted, and he started to worry. “I mean, as long as that’s okay with you.”

“What? Yeah, of course. I just hope you fit on my bed.”

He winced. He hadn’t thought of that.

“Right.”

“You’re so tall!” She laughed, and he blushed.

“I did have a growth spurt in high school,” he muttered.

“I’ll say. I used to be taller than you.”

“You grew too.”

“That’s putting it nicely. I’m a munchkin, and you can’t tell me different.”

He chuckled. “Munchkins are cute though,” he said without thinking, and that caught Iris off guard.

“Yes, well, should we go down for dinner? My dad said it would be done soon, and I’m sure he sent you up here to bring me downstairs.”

“And to say hi,” he added. “He said you’d missed me.”

“Oh, I did. I did miss you.” She smiled. “Even though I didn’t write.”

“Iris, forget about it. You’re here now, and I’m here all week. We’ll catch up. It’ll be like I never left.”

“I’d like that,” she said, then looped her arm through his. They made their way down the hall and down the stairs, where their looped arms dropped for hand-holding, completely stealing Barry’s breath.

When they reached the first floor, Iris dropped his hand, and Barry’s racing heart slowed to normal.

“There you two are,” Joe said. Looking between them, he smiled. “I see you’ve been re-introduced.”

Iris rolled her eyes and moved past Barry to help bring in food from the kitchen. Joe’s eyes stayed on Barry whose eyes stayed on Iris and reluctantly moved to the table when she disappeared from sight.

Barry felt Joe’s eyes on him and knew exactly what he was thinking. He’d probably confront him about it too after Iris had gone home.

This man, no longer a boy, had come home for one reason, and it wasn’t just nostalgia.

He was going to win his daughter’s heart.

Barry glanced up at Joe before sitting down and saw satisfaction in his eyes and a pleasant smile.

Did he approve? Did he even know?

“Dinner time!” Iris announced after bringing out the last of the dishes.

The two men focused back on her, but for entirely different reasons.

#westallen #westallen secret santa #submission

26 notes · View notes

izzyovercoffee · 3 years

Note

29. Surprises. I default to Eme/Mereel but also I would thrive with any ship.

I KNOW I’M MORE THAN A MONTH LATE BUT HERE IT IS

Prompt number: 29. “surprises” Fandom: Mass Effect, Republic Commando crossover Ship: Commander Emeline Shepard / Mereel Skirata Rating: PG words: 1100~ Warnings/Tags: none that I can tell, ask to tag if needed Summary: Twice he’s surprising, and once where he’s surprised. Notes: I really meant for this to be a short thing, but then it got away from me (as ... apparently everything I write tends to do lmao). I hope you like it, Eme/Mereel always holds a special place in my heart 😭💕

xxix. surprises

He comes around the corner a touch too sharp and a hair too fast and he nearly collides with the Commander—or he would have, if he were a very different man, and she a very different woman. As it stands, she sidesteps him in a swerve to be remembered for the ages, and his steps falter as he's compelled to watch her go.

He's been on the ship for only one day, but one day is more than enough time to field a first impression.

Training on the Normandy is a rote affair—but not for lack of trying to change things up. Space, and resources, and time—they're all desperately limited by need, and availability. The inevitable end of everything is coming, and unlike the Krogans—and the other expat Mandalorian refugees—everyone else seems to take that as a demotivator.

Right up until Mereel hashes together an Armax-Arena-friendly simulator out of pieces and parts everyone else swears shouldn't be able to work together.

He catches a glimpse of a rare sight—Emeline Shepard's smile—and counts his lucky stars.

Right before Vega blows a new hole through his holographic head, anyway.

Night cycle on the ship is an interesting affair—different from the rotations in the galaxy he fled from. It’s a bitterness he usually keeps folded politely away, out of sight and out of mind of those who wouldn’t or couldn’t understand—and shares in the rare call to one of his vode. But here, in the dark recession of the Normandy’s mess hall, under warm if dim light to simulate nighttime, he holds a mug of behot in hand and scrolls through the feed as it updates periodically on his datapad.

He isn’t as alert as he should be—hours of missed sleep and high anxiety does that to a man, no matter how jatnese be te jatnese he might be—so he doesn’t pick up the sounds of careful footsteps as she comes around the corner behind him.

Mereel doesn’t jump, he doesn’t startle, he doesn’t even react—just tilts his head up in muted surprise as she places down a plate piled with cookies on the table in front of him. She takes another step to the side, and takes a seat to his right.

It’s still dark, and the lights are still low, and the Mess is just as empty as it was before, with only one more person in it that wasn’t him, but the mood shifts in a way he can’t quite pin down.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says. She eyes the datapad beneath his graceful fingers sliding over its surface, settled flat on the table. Her brow arches as she looks back to him. “I’m guessing you can’t either.”

He wants to say something clever. Uphold the charming, devil-may-care appearance he wears in the light.

But he’s tired, and she just brought him cookies, unprompted—and she doesn’t, can’t, know what sweets means to him, specifically, but it’s…

What can he do?

“You know,” he says, in the way he does when he can’t be bothered with a segue into another topic bridged from the one before, as he taps the datapad to put it to sleep. He leans forward so his elbows meet the table, and his hand can raise to motion emptily at the ceiling, “where I come from, the lights don’t change on big ships between the day and night cycle.”

There’s something in her gaze that says she’s equal parts annoyed as she is curious, which, really, is par for the course when anyone converses with him, so he’ll take that as approval.

“Never noticed it was a thing could be done,” he continues, “until I got here.”

“Here, the Milkyway, or here, the Normandy?”

He smiles at her, soft, as he reaches for a cookie. It doesn’t quite crumble in his hand, but it flakes and comes apart if he holds it too hard. The crumbs gather on his fingertips as he tucks it away between his teeth, and chews silently beneath the dim light.

It goes well with the behot, which is a surprise all on its own.

“Me and my brothers,” he says, “are a very expensive, very high quality product. And, generally, most don’t quite care to concern themselves with the emotional state of an object.”

There it was. That bitterness that had settled in his heart. The sharp bite of anger he couldn’t quite contain, though he could easily redirect it, now, to and fro.

“Who do I have to kill to correct that?” she asks, and his brows jump high on his head.

It appears she has as much difficulty as him to control her anger when she’s sleep deprived.

He smiles wider, suddenly fond of this mysterious Commander and her wayward cookies, and her style. But, of course, it was her style that brought him here to begin with, wasn’t it?

“Careful, Commander.” His tone flirts warm as he takes a sip of behot to clear his throat. “Get anymore heated, and I’ll wonder if this is less about justice and more about impressing me.”

“Please,” she snorts as she leans back in her chair, casual and arrogant and altogether put together in the way he didn’t feel so late in the day. “You’re already impressed.”

He laughs, then—warm, delighted, and echoing in his surprise; and so, so careful not to be too loud and risk waking anyone within earshot.

“I am easy to please,” he says, when he really meant to say impress, but the way she stares at him across the table makes him forget to correct himself.

He reaches for another cookie.

“Mereel—”

“They’re long gone, Emeline.” He taps the cookie against the mug that holds his herbal tea, and watches the crumbs fall to the saucer it rests upon. “And if not dead then far, far away—and soon to be.”

He lifts the cookie to his mouth and takes another bite. It crumbles, and parts fall onto the table, but he figures he’ll just clean it up later. The sugary sweetness is an immediate comfort, soothing and healing all in one.

And then she reaches across the table, and gently grasps his chin in her hand. He holds still as her thumb comes up, and swipes away the crumbs caught on his lower lip.

“Good,” she says, low, and oh. His heart dances in his chest.

They’re both tired—sleep deprived—and she’d given him plenty of space in the week, but now he finds himself caught in her orbit, unable and unwilling to pull away.

He gently kisses the pad of her thumb just as she pulls away.

“Don’t tease me,” he says.

“You like to be teased.” Her eyes twinkle with amusement in the dark. She stands up, deliberately slow, and he doesn’t look away. “Enjoy your cookies.”

“I think I will,” he says, as he watches her go.

She rounds the corner, and out of sight—taking the long way to leave—and he takes a steadying breath. Heart still rattling awake in his chest, he rolls his head back and closes his eyes.

Now how is he going to fall asleep, after that?

#clingy-ghost #jenny tag #ghost tag #I could've sworn I had a different tag for you but fuck if I can find it #I'm a whole mess #but anyway I love them ;;#writing: mine #writing: mass effect #writing: repcomm #c: Mereel Skirata #oc: Commander Emeline Shepard #r: just take the stairs #asks.txt #writing: star wars

11 notes · View notes

let-it-show · 4 years

Text

Fear

I thought of this during my most recent viewing, during “The Next Right Thing”. It’s an angsty piece where Anna expresses the effect of Elsa’s pushing her away for the last time.

"I never got to say bye to you."

The words hung alone in the air, cutting through the quiet and ushering a feeling of disharmony into the room. All peace that had existed there moments before crept away. Anna narrowed her eyes at the large painting before her of her sister, just Elsa alone. The piece was made shortly after Elsa had begun her short reign as queen, and it was so beautiful it always seemed to take Anna's breath away.

"You never let me tell you goodbye," she said, rephrasing her statement from before. "You pushed me away, giving me no direction, and then you were gone from sight. I couldn't see you, didn't know if I'd ever find you, until Olaf was gone. Then I knew I wouldn't find you," she continued, her words almost a whisper.

A tear ran down her cheek, followed shortly by another and she swallowed thickly. "I had nothing. I was in that dark cave, my friend just flurried away and you know what was left? A carrot. A carrot, some sticks, and some coal. All that I followed was reduced to a carrot, sticks and coal. Even his snow was carried away. All I had left of you was gone and I never got to say anything about it." The pain in her voice was like a dull knife, cutting painfully slow. "I got up anyway and I kept going. I had to. I didn't know if I could but I had to. I didn't want to. My stomach hurt, my eyes hurt, my head hurt, and-and shatter a frozen heart into a thousand pieces. That's maybe a fraction of what I felt, and the only one who could ever put it together again was you."

Tears began to flow and Anna covered her mouth as a sob threatened to erupt. "I still think about it. I have nightmares and Kristoff has to wake me to remind me you're not gone. I don't have the nightmares with you beside me because - because of course I don't!" she dropped her hand, voice raised. "I know each time we part and we say goodbye, that means you're not gone. I know I'll see you. But what if some night, I wake and Olaf's not there but the sticks are. What if I wake up to see the roof dripping from a thaw. What do I do? All because-"

"Because I didn't let you say goodbye."

Anna whirled around on her feet, her green dressed nearly tripping her up. "Elsa!?"

Elsa stood down the hall from her sister, wearing the white dress Anna loved her in. She called her a 'fairy' in it and loved to touch it and run the strange otherworldly fabric through her fingers. She'd come unannounced after receiving a troubling note from her sister's fiance. A journey she would usually enjoy and take her time on had become a rushed one of anxiety. Her arms were folded as she took in the troubling sight of her sister talking to her portrait and airing out raw emotion she hadn't displayed to her yet. "I'm here," she said, her head tilted slightly as she continued to study her.

Anna looked from Elsa to the picture, then back to Elsa. "Um...did you hear me?" she asked, almost sounding panicked.

"Mmhmm." Elsa's shoulders relaxed and she opened her arms. "Come here, Anna."

Never able to resist her sister's open arms, Anna rushed toward her. When she was close she did trip over her dress, only to be caught by Elsa. She pulled Anna in close and wrapped her arms around her tightly. "Why haven't you said any of this to me?"

Anna was crying. The tears subsided temporarily due to surprise but when in the familiar and warm embrace, she couldn't hold back. Her sobs were louder, mouth not buried in Elsa's shoulder as her face was turned against it. Her shoulders shook and Elsa just squeezed her. With her arms tight around her, all she wanted to do was convey she would never let her go as her own heart sank in Anna's sadness. She never wanted to hurt her. More than anything she had never intended to send her home with any part of her feeling broken and incomplete even if it was inevitable to some point. Being apart always left her with a noticeable emptiness she was sure Anna suffered as well.

Since Anna had yet to respond, Elsa loosened the grip of one arm so that she could stroke her fingers through Anna's hair. It was messy as though she has started to fall asleep but got up before it went into its full bedhead frenzy. "Sssshhh," she whispered. "I'm here, I'm here."

Anna shifted her weight against her but didn't let go. "I don't want you to let me go," Anna sobbed finally.

"I'm not. I've never let you go, Anna. I- I know I've pushed you away thinking it would protect you and save you, but I've never ever let you go. Sssshh." Elsa's own eyes held tears in them but she didn't allow them to pour while Anna was breaking.

"There was nothing when I thought you were gone. Nothing. It hurt so bad Elsa, I'm so scared of feeling it again. I've never been so scared of anything in my whole life," she said, finally turning to bury her face in her neck.

"Why have you never told me?" Elsa asked her again.

Anna sniffed and it tickled. "When I see you I'm so happy. I don't think about it, or maybe I don't let myself think about it. I can't because you're here and I'm so, so happy."

Elsa slowed the stroking of her hair, but only for a moment. "But you deserve to be happy when you can't see me, too."

"I-I am. I miss you, but I'm okay. Sometimes though it's dark and I visit that memory and I can't stand it. Sometimes I visit it when I don't mean to, when I dream even though I have Kristoff right there. I even have Olaf but when I'm afraid, I'm terrified I'll open my eyes and see him flurrying away again. Sometimes I just see those flakes and Elsa, I don't just lose him. I lose you." She was rambling. Rambling and crying.

As a result Elsa drew back and lifted Anna's chin with one delicate finger, taking in her red eyes, wet cheeks and runny nose. "You'll always have me, Anna. I'm so sorry I pushed you away like that, and even...even sorrier for what you've endured because of that," she told her, her stomach a hollow pit.

"It's...I don't want you to feel bad, I don't want-"

"No." Elsa said the word so firmly and suddenly that again Anna's crying was interupted and she stared at her in shock.

"Don't you try to absolve me of this guilt, Anna. You always try to take on my pain and the burden of my mistakes to make me feel better, but I don't want that. I didn't make a good choice." Elsa wiped a tear away from one of Anna's eyes. "I hurt you, and I am deeply sorry." She was, in a way words couldn't describe. In a way Elsa found herself wondering if the extreme emotion she felt, from love to pain and sadness, was deepened with what she had become. Realistically, she knew love and all that came with it was still human. She was not so far removed and would never allow herself to be - especially with Anna grounding her.

"I forgive you, though. I do, Elsa! I do. I'm not...the fear hurts, and I sounded bad when you heard me I know I did." She sniffed and cleared her throat. "I'm not mad at you. I got you back."

"You must be a little mad," Elsa told her, and she tilted her head forward to touch her forehead to Anna's. "It's okay to be mad, Anna."

"I don't like it."

Elsa smiled gently. "No one does."

Anna still had tears flowing, but she blinked slowly, and then a little smile came to her face as well, immediately brightening Elsa's world. "You're right. No-no one does. I really hate being mad at you, so I try not to be."

"Don't limit yourself for my sake Anna." Elsa's smile grew. "I want you to feel how you need to feel. I love you more than anyone in this world and any beyond it." She kissed Anna's forehead, her lips lingering just a second before drawing away. Anna beamed up at her, face still marked from crying but not masked with distress. "Don't ever forget that."

"I won't. I- didn't I used to help you with this stuff?" Anna asked, and it was true. She had helped greatly in breaking Elsa free of the shell she hid in anxiously for so long, and allowing her to feel as she needed, letting her air it out and handle her views on her self worth.

Elsa knew that she still would never see herself the way Anna saw her. That was something not even a thousand journeys to Ahtohallan could accomplish, and she accepted it. Elsa would never say it but she knew Anna could also never quite hold the view of herself that Elsa had. Anna's soul was a presence Elsa could only hope to equal someday and she treasured that. "You did," she finally answered. "You taught me how to do it for you."

Anna nodded, joy clear in her face. She was quiet for a few seconds, before she sighed. "My eyes hurt. And I had to try really hard not to wipe my nose on my dress."

She couldn't help it - Elsa laughed a little and gently cupped Anna's face in her hands. "You're beautiful, you know, but I think the sheen from the snot takes away from your natural look."

"Ew, Elsa!" Anna pulled out of her grip and leaned back with a laugh. "That's gross!"

Elsa lowered both arms only to take Anna's hand in hers. "Let's go wash your face up then. Find your nicest soap and the softest towel," she said playfully. "And I'll brush your hair out, you'll feel better."

Anna nodded. "Okay! And then we better get snacks."

"Slumber party?" Elsa asked, amused as she started to tug her along. Her eyes widened as suddenly Anna jumped foward and began to tug her old sister along instead.

"Yup," Anna giggled, her hand still in Elsa's firm grip. "Slumber party."

#Frozen 2 #drabble #Anna #Elsa #angst

111 notes · View notes

antihero-writings · 4 years

Text

Jack of All Trade, in This Masquerade

Fandom: Pandora Hearts

Fic Summary: Jack's stream of consciousness describes how society is like a masquerade, while his dreams show his own hypocrisy

Notes: Originally written for Phmonth18, Week 3, Prompt/Day 2: Mask.

What started out as something that was supposed to be a short little fic about Jack’s internal monologue became an in-depth look into Jack’s psyche…hehe. I’ll admit, this is one of the weirdest formats I’ve ever used, and I’m not quite sure if it works, but I had fun with it! This is my first time writing heavily about Jack, and it’s about how his mind works….so forgive me if there are any inaccuracies to his character.

If you like it, I’d really appreciate if you could leave a comment!! They really do make my week, and help me keep writing, especially when it comes to multi-chapter fics like this one!!

Chapter 1:

Everyone always wore a mask.

That was how things were, how the world worked. No question. No alternative. No argument you could make to stop it. Like a plague that replaced everyone’s faces with the skin of monsters.

The world was a masquerade. A dance, where you trade partners, and you never quite know who you’re dancing with anyways. You’re thrown in without knowing the moves, and are required to learn as you go, because you can’t stop. If you stop, the music, the momentum of the world turning, doesn’t. So if you do, you may just be trampled, thrown off the world.

As you grew up, you learned the moves, programmed them into your bones until the motions were mechanical, and your body knew nothing else. Nothing but the lies. Grew up, painted your mask, made it more ornate, less likely to show your true colors, less likely to fall.

Something that made a louder crash when it did fall.

They always do. Eventually. Don’t think you can escape it.

Your parents, your family, your friends, they’re no different. When I said everyone, I meant everyone.

But when you grow up in gutters, in the stench and blood, the offal of humanity, and watch from afar, forbidden from the dance, but also from...not dancing, learning that you must dance to make in it the world...you may or may not grow to hate humanity.

I couldn’t wear a mask. But I was doomed to see through everyone else’s. See their lies, see their hypocrisy, their cold cut rules about how much of a clown you could be, I could see the puppet strings.

I learned to hate.

But.

******

The room glittered and gleamed; the chandeliers, the polished marble tiles, the wine glasses, the clothing of the dancers.

Jack stood on the sidelines. The black and white players spinning before him, coming near him in flashes and fake smiles.

Outside, snow fluttered down onto a darkened ground, so much so he couldn’t see past the wind and flakes to a world beyond.

He had to stay inside, or else the storm might overtake him.

Storm inside. Storm out. Between two evils, how do you know which is worse?

They didn’t know they were simply chess pieces. That this was simply a game, that they would be sacrificed, all for the sake of the king.

Once, he had found their twirls and fanciful garments fascinating; the masks shined and their feathers climbed towards a twinkling ceiling. He looked on with longing, then.

Now, the word fake grew out of the crevices where their eyes were meant to be, it crept along their porcelain cheeks, their feathered heads, their bejeweled necks—and they didn’t see the vines, the spiders, linked together into chains, strangling them, driving fangs into their chests.

At the same time, sickness pooled in his own heart, started creating ripples towards his thoughts, reaching his words, crashing upon the shores of his actions.

A sickness called hate.

It took him far too long to realize the motions held no meaning. They were all just tumbling in the dark and the cold, trying to make meaning of the moves when there is none. The shimmer on the surface of the water was reflected from a sky they could never reach, not something buried beneath the waves that they could touch, hold, and keep, if they just held their breath long enough to wrap their fingers around it.

The same was surely true for the waters in his own heart.

At least, that’s how it seemed, and what he told himself.

Black and white. No color. Pawns and knights in a grand game of chess.

What was real?

What would happen if it all just…stopped? What if we called the world, the dance by name?

A pause. A flicker. A flash. Color.

First it was red. Red like lamplight, in the night-soaked brightness of the room, a lantern of hope, guiding him across the lifeless waters of a stormy sea—navy waves, navy sky, (navy, not quite black, not quite blue), till they were indiscernible from each other—to a land where there was more light like hers. Red that burned—could it burn down the masks? Like blood. Like roses.

Red in her eyes.

Then it was her hair, a splash of brown, flowing between the sides of black and white. Some say brown isn't pretty, isn't really a color. But looking and the rich hazelnut locks he would beg to differ.

Then the violet of her dress, like flowers, like the fluttering butterfly she was, like she was the only royal in a council of fools and common sense.

He lost track of the moves to stare her way.

******

One day I met a girl—brown hair, eyes red as roses in the snow—who wasn’t wearing a mask. She told me she could see through the masks too. But instead of hating the world in general for the practice, she questioned, she wondered, and she cheated the game.

And looking into those red eyes, I realized nothing else mattered. Not the world, not the deadened grasp of humanity, the music, the moves, or the masks.…Just her.

I tried to follow her, but in the mix of feet, in the unlearned motions, I myself was trampled to the ground.

So I resolved to learn the dance—not to live, not for the dance itself—but to follow her. To trade partners until I found her hand. I had to get up, to sew together a mask, glue on the feathers with blood, and pull the jewels out of dead men’s hands.

Horror is the word, I believe. The one to describe the things I did. I think you’ll find that both joining the dance, and subverting it, will inevitably lead to that word. I followed in the steps of people who did worse than me. Danced with partners whose masks were sewn into the skin. I did things that’ll make you shudder to think.

All part of the dance.

Nothing but her.

******

Outside, silent snow turned to to the taps of rain asking to get in, like little children knocking on the window frames to beg for some food.

As he stared the girl’s way, the masks knocked against his shoulders, they trod on his feet, and scoffed at his incredulity, scoffed at him for not knowing the moves he should have mastered by heart by now.

He looked over their heads, trying to peer through the feathers and jewels, catch another glimpse of the one real thing in the sea of falsity.

For the first time there was something compelling him more than puppet strings and patterns. There was something alive in him. His heart became a beating thing. His lungs a set of pumping parts.

For the first time he understood: the dance wasn't evil, he just didn't have the right partner.

She faded like a word on the tip of your tongue never breathed out into the air.

Living, which tasted so sweet, quickly turned sour, into something that hurt. His heart panged. His lungs thumped too fast. Fear, desperation set into to his fast-beating blood.

And, at last, his gaze on her fading footfalls, he moved.

Out from the sidelines, into the mix of motions. Out into the world, the sea that he always thought was full of things with teeth, that'd eat him alive if he got too close.

But instead of following the ordained pattern, he was a wrench in the perfectly predestined machine.

The other cogs knocked into him, dug their teeth into his shoulders. He tripped. Tripped into the workings of the machine, all the ugly machinations that made the pristine clock tick. The dance kept turning all the same, the other cogs kicking into him. Knocking him further, down to the tiles beneath, further below than he'd ever been. So he lay there, bruised and bleeding, staring at the calculated movements of the gears ticking above him.

“Lacie!” his cracked voice called, reaching out his hand to the star he could never reach.

And on the floor, where all the broken parts, the scraps of things that tried to change the direction of the machine go, he realized that that the pattern was too ruthless to break. Kicked and beaten by the dance, he understood that the only way to follow her, was to join the dance.

He wouldn’t give up. He’d follow her footprints through the forest of feet and fakes.

If he’d bend the rules a little.

******

I set the moves into my hands and feet, resolved to be a bruising and beating thing, like them, clawed my way back into the artificial light, until that red was back in my sight. I took her hand in mine and—

She…didn’t remember me.

No peppered, cheerful hello. No pretense, or pretending.

No mask.

My free spirit. My unmasked beauty. My blood red girl. My Lacie.

In eight years, as I broke myself apart and sewed myself back together, as I metamorphosed into something I myself barely recognized, she still hadn’t changed, been chained; she was still the same dash of color in a world of black and white fakes. A player in a world of pawns.

Despite all the things I had done, I knew she was the one person who would still accept me. She was still the one who questioned the machine, and would accept the things I did to fight it, would understand that the only way to fight it was from the inside out. I'd done it all for her, after all.

There's no sunlight at the bottom of the machine. Eight years. Eight years in the dark. Eight years since I felt the warmth of sunlight on my skin, the touch of something, someone, living.

"Dance with me." I'd spoke the words a thousand times, but this was the only time I ever meant them.

When you find your color in a black and white world, your dream in a world of nightmares, your life in a world of walking corpses, you never want to give it up, to let the song end.

But.

******

After the moving maze, the muddied world of men, the journey to get back to her, his hand found hers.

Something real, something dynamic, instead of stagnant, something warm to the touch, not metallic and cold.

Standing before him—at last—was his pride, his prize.

She was on the other side of the endless ballroom, off to the side, her head turned, gaze out the window. But she was still dancing with someone. Slowly, their moves less cold and mechanical.

He didn’t bother with the pretense of the dance, or courtesy towards the one she was currently dancing with. He threw his arms around her, and held her tight.

The shock in her eyes told him something wasn’t quite the same.

—(Or maybe he wasn’t quite sane)—

Did she not remember him? That moment when color entered his world?

What was all of time for him, was a passing glimpse for her.

It didn’t matter. As long as she didn’t cover those pretty eyes with the mark of a fake.

And she never did. Not as long as he knew her

“Jack.” She placed her hand on his cheek, running her fingers along his skin, pushing a strand of his hair behind his ear.

She smiled, and it was the only real thing.

But that smile didn’t last forever; it became a twisted thing, etching itself onto her features.

A thing that certainly didn’t belong to her, even now.

Was this her mask? Could her face have been a mask this whole time?

She pulled away from him.

“You fool.”

He drew in a sharp breath, and it pierced his heart.

“You really don’t see it, do you?”

She gestured grandly to the room as a whole.

What? What didn’t he see? This was how it had always been. Nothing had changed.

She grabbed his chin and made him look away from her.

“Look at them.”

Then he saw.

The dancers around them weren’t just dancers, strangers, background.

They weren’t strangers at all.

Or maybe they were even less known to him than strangers would have been.

They weren't even in black and white after all; there was color all around him, the color that had belonged to himself. Many of them were wearing the same green outfit he wore presently, others were in red, and blue, some wrapped in a thin blanket…They all had the same blonde hair, sometimes in a braid like his, others messy and short.

And they all still wore masks, as if the emotions could be written and plastered on rather than felt—happy, sad, angry…that disgusting smile…

His disgusting smile.

Each and every one of them was himself.

Had it always been this way? Since the beginning? Or had they become this way? Somewhere in the middle, had strangers morphed into mirrors?

The music faded out, and the rain outside grew louder and louder until he couldn’t help but turn to the window, as if to demand some peace and quiet.

The drops that dribbled down and splattered across the panes were not clear, or grey, or blue.

That red he had once found so fascinating, once begged for, was painting the world.

He swallowed.

As he realized the change in scenery, all the other Jacks stopped, turning to him with mechanical motions, and faceless expressions, some creepy army of past-self-dolls.

“Lacie,” her name on his lips—(the word echoed through the crowd, the other Jacks moaning it as if remembering the one word that made them alive once, though it wasn't alive in their mouths now)—he turned to her, his one hope, his one safety in a world that had fixed its canons against him.

She was no longer beside him.

Laying in his hand was a limp chain.

He didn’t want to look, to follow the trail; he feared what he would see. But he chased the links to the ceiling—

Her body, suspended in the air above, like she was one of those twinkling chandeliers. Her body, pierced by chains.

That red rain was inside now.

And below her, looking his way, was someone else. Someone else in color. Someone else who wasn’t wearing a mask.

******

My Lacie, who lied, and died at the hands of her brother. For the simplest crime of never wearing a mask over those red eyes. For the simplest crime of existence.

Oswald. Her brother.

I should have hated him for taking her from me.

And there was a part of me that did. Surely. But he loved her too, you know. And it was some sick sense of duty that threw her into the pit, not his own will.

I was a question in his eyes, and he was an answer in mine. There’s something about mutual darkness between people; being able to look into someone else’s soul, and see your struggles reflected, and yet…not yourself… Something that we call friendship.

******

The first thing he saw was his cloak, like a wave breaking across his shoulder. Crimson, just like her eyes.

Just like her blood he spilt.

Then his eyes, violet, like her dress. But unlike with her, this violet, this royalty, was sharp, cold, and unforgiving.

Then it was the black of his hair and clothing. A deeper black from the dancers before. A darker sky.

He was the black king, after all, wasn’t he?

"Lacie is dead,”

“I killed her.”

******

It wasn’t malice, or revenge. It was the requirement and requiem of a leader.

Or at least, they poisoned his mind and made him think so.

I’m sure he would have joined me, if he wasn’t such a fool. If he wasn’t so wrapped up in his own ignorance.

(An ignorance that was my fault).

Joined me to get her, that is.

Death isn’t quite the right word. She was cast into the Abyss, into a place where "return" has no meaning.

But I learned that the masks, the dance, the masquerade, goes by another name:

Chains.

Chains come in many forms. There are the chains that killed her, those that we create contracts with, linking us to a place darker than the bottom of the machine. Chains between people; like friendship, like love, like hate. And the chains we create for ourselves, tying us to an abyss of our own making, with no need for outside temptation.

Then there’s another type; this world is a ruin—(I always knew it)—and the Chains around it are the only things keeping the world from the Abyss, in the same token as others tie us to it. They fall between the lines on the pages of our story, into the places our eyes can’t see.

Or, more accurately, keeping the world from her.

Blood red world. My gift for my blood red girl. And I didn’t care how much blood I spilled in the midst. Not really. Not enough.

This world is rotting anyway. I’ve known it from the start. But not to her. She saw the color, the life, the light. She saw the stars. She saw that there was something real behind those falsely shimmering lights. That maybe it wasn’t all on the surface. Maybe there was something beneath the waters that we could reach.

And I’d bring the world she loved to her.

I’m doing this for you.

#jack vessalius #oswald baskerville #pandora hearts #pandora hearts fandom #lacie baskerville #tragedy trio #pandora hearts manga #Pandora Hearts fanfiction #pandora hearts fanfic #pandora hearts fic #pandora hearts jack #jack pandora hearts #pandora hearts oswald #oswald pandora hearts #lacie pandora hearts #pandora hearts lacie

9 notes · View notes

areallyshittywriter · 3 years

Text

Death Certificate

It was bright and cold. The sky wavered a dark mystic blue, with children of grinning stars shining brightly in its darkness. The wind was carrying newborn snow to the parents below, but never once ever howling in complaint. It had not a hint of human impurity, not even a breath in the sky. It was simply heavenly.

This only lasted of course, until a scruffy, thin, senile man scorched the soundless peace, with his ragged breaths and limping strides. Every wisp of his grumpy mumbling, creating a vivid cut in the air. Every inconsistent grunt felt like a lobotomy with a sharp ended stick. And every sight I took of him being a waste of a memory and a waste of time. He took his time, dragging himself from the misty abyss of the forest.

I could feel the length of my finger begin to tap mercilessly against the dark crusted parasol. Silver rusted flakes were cracking and falling against the snow, bringing another wave of heat to reverberate along my crooked bones.

“Would you please hurry up? It takes time for nature to clean up the contamination you’re polluting,” an evident coldness, leaked from my lips.

It took the goat a further 357 seconds before he finally reached a metre apart from me. Even then, I still took a step back from him; “How strange it is, that your filthy race has managed to charge straight through nature’s innocence, and still it took you 23 minutes to climb a measly slanted hill.”

Only a gruff was his response. His gaze never reached my own; the only pleasing thing about this occasion.

“To think this would be added to an eternal list of failures, Eric Blair. Or would you prefer I call you George Orwell?” Malice and stillness were left in my words.

The man froze silent. Even his deeds and actions cannot be concealed to my omniscient species. It is vital to know everything when coming to a conclusive judgement. Actions will reveal intent. Intent creates judgement. Simple.

“Tell me, George; why did you keep your books to yourself for all these years? Surely, someone would’ve read them?”

He took a deep breath and sighed, wiping the icy sweat from his rotting hands.

His croak, weak against the wind, “they would never be goin’ anywhere. The books. They were only an out, from this godforsaken world.”

How, ironic.

“Hmm, well let’s continue this discussion. The snow can only fall for so long before it touches the ground.” I began reading,

Death Certificate

Eric Arthur Blair

Date: June 8th1984

This is to certify that the records in my office show that Mr Blair,

Died at 7:30am on 8th Day of June 1984

That day was the official declaration of Stalin’s kingship over the world. No government had managed to prevent his dictatorship, nor any future ones. With the books kindled in fire, no one will ever achieve the ability of intellect, to fight his ruling. I could feel the second wave of heat roll over me as my tapping commenced again.

“That was a Friday. It seems you couldn’t even make it to the weekend.” There was no cover of the harshness in my voice. And still, the geezer ignored my comments and continued his sadistic stroll. I continued;

Gender: Male

Age: 47

Cause of Death:

“Oh that'll be interesting”

Injuries. This includes the carving and removal of the corpus unguis, cutting needles puncturing the retina and internal ear area and repeated fisted blows to the frontal lobe. Ultimately, created breakage in the cranium, acute deafness and blindness in the left eye, thus resulting in death.

There wasn’t an ounce of surprise within his eyes, let alone soul. How disappointing. Fortunately, though, I am aware of everything that occurred after the death. And I must say, it was absolutely barbarous; lucky me.

“My oh my, it seems we’ve forgotten a few very crucial and interesting details, my dear Eric.”

The decaying goof discarded my comment and continued his striding destruction of baby snow. Even so, I’ve learnt how to pull the shakiness and tears from any pathetic human soul, so I continued my unsparing talk;

“The certificate has seemingly never stated what happened after your death! What a shame, since you never got to find out. Well, I guess I could always do a small favour and simply just add it in, can’t I?”

After death, the corpse was then taken to a guillotine to have the head sliced from the lower body.

“Well, it stills seems quite connected to me”

The corpse was then dowsed in octane and was set ablaze with phosphorous sulphide.

The corpse was burnt to a point of unrecognition along with a wide collection of books.

Finally, I got him.

His treachery upon the land had seized, along with his mumbles and grunts. His burnt brown eyes were glazed in a fear so indescribably amazing, that I couldn’t help myself but grin.

There is a rule amongst my kind that we could never take pleasure in the sufferings of tyrannical beasts. However, knowing how fully capable this monster had in completely altering reality, just with a single stroke of a pen, was collapsing in the chains of fear. Well, I couldn’t help the laughter that overtook me. Especially when his lifeless grasp went to touch the very place his own kind, own friends tried to cut from him.

Although, he simply closed his eyes, took a deep breath and continued walking. As if it didn’t matter to him. Disturbing. Even after death, he can continue to accept his pitiful existence. Monotonous, I finished the last disastrous parts of the certificate.

Occupation(s):

Author, Novelist, Current Affairs Writer, Bookseller, Screenwriter, Literary Critic, Poet, Essayist

Marital Status:

Married to Eileen O’Shaughnessy

Witness:

Joseph Stalin, Nadezhda Alliluyeva, Kato Svanidze, Winston Smith, Emmanuel Goldstein, Keke Geladze,….

“…basically, the entirety of Russia”.

It was here where I finally halted. The certificate was finished, and his final moments were known to him. That is the job I own; to bring the knowledge of the final moments of the deceased to light, and to make a judgement.

Eric Blair is a special exception, however. There’s a peculiar complication of his intentions about his books. Although, a verbal recognition intent has never concerned me. Actions will always reveal intent.

Eric had turned quietly to meet my gaze.

His voice was cutting and yet somewhat like a cold croak, “I guess this is the end then”

Well, to a usual one of my species, he would be right. However, “No, it isn’t”.

His eyes were sinking heavy and an abyss of mist swirled amongst the forest. My final torment would have to be quick.

“Mr Blair I’m afraid I have never informed you of what my species is”

Callous, he spoke, “I already know. Your somethin’ like death, or like a Grim Reaper”

“Yes, I guess in a sense. Except my species can do something yours still tries to grasp an understanding of. You see we reap the lives of not just your people, but people in other timelines as well.”

The mist began to crawl and cling to edges of brown-skinned boots. Grasping and rising like the dead gripping to their mortality. Time was dwindling.

“I hope you understand well when I say that there is a reality where you actually published your books. And those very same books could’ve prevented the creation of your timeline.”

A living and breathing boil was breaking from its cavity within me. Glazing my cool bones in shakiness and heat, blistering an irritation that rivalled natures quakes. The gruelling fog began its pace, growing and falling in rhythmic tides, encircling its victim within. However, that never pulled away the attention of the monster from me. His eyes were locked and wet, awaiting his sentence.

“To put it simply,…”

Finally.

“You are the reason that civilisation crumbled. You kept your revolutionary words tucked away, like children. And just like that, you had allowed Stalin to rule a world, that’s unrulable. You caused the destruction of your timeline…”

The white cool mist began to mature into a black swirl of darkness, gradually picking up speed as enclosed the monster into a tight ring. His mudded wet eyes wandered in circles, as he inevitably realised his end was soon. Even so, the beastly Blair had grasped every drop of my bloodless confrontations;

“..All because you were simply too weak, too afraid to have any remote strength. You clung lonely to your books. You hid them from the world. You took knowledge from what could’ve saved the very few innocent people living. You are what all the demons in hell revere.”

The mist was cold and dark, raging like a wildfire around the decaying skin of Blair. Shapes of burnt cracked skinned hands clung to his arms and dragged him into the pulsating heart of darkness. Dragging him into the cold clutches of demons and villains below, where nature will never come to free him from the depths of his sins.

“And that is my judgement”.

So you’ve read my horrible writing. Congrats. It’s only going to get shitter from here. Please give some feedback tho

#1984 #george orwell #alternative reality #writing #shit #school is going to be the death of me #shitty hashtag

1 note · View note

charlemange1 · 4 years

Text

Ask of the Lesser (Frankenstein/Lovecraft Works): 8.1 Did I Solicit Thee from Darkness to Promote Me?

There was a time before pain had settled over my life like a thick fog. A time before Victor’s creature and Mama’s death, when I barely came up to Victor’s knees and spent my days charging though the woodland and whacking apart pond reeds that I pretended were incoming invaders. I had been prancing around the lakefront all morning when Mama kindly requested I stop chasing chickens and fetch Victor from the depths of our villa. I found him in the small stone room he always played in.

“Vic-tor, Mama says that Henry’ll arrive soon. She wants you and Elizabeth to be ready for him!”

Victor nodded absently from behind his table as he stirred the liquid inside one of several bowls.

“Do you not want to play?” My head tipped to the side.

“Of course I do,” Victor said, though his shoulder’s hunched. “But Henry and Elizabeth would rather recite poetry and paint the mountains. It is good fun, but shallow! Why not discover why paint changes color or heavens’ secrets that only the mountains know?” Victor’s stirring lessened. “They do not understand. No one does.”

“Oh, I cannot stand poetry either!” I chimed. “That man Papa had speak the other night was a great snooze. I think your little bowls and vials are quite fine, though I cannot say I understand em’.”

Victor’s stirring spoon clattered to the ground. He looked at me for the first time. “Truly?”

“Uh-huh,” I said with a finger up my nose.

“You can be my assistant, then!” Victor’s hands clapped together and he shoved a wooden stepping stool beside the table so I could watch him. I scrambled up and he handed me a bronze spoon and a bowl of reddish liquid.

“Now, do not drink these chemicals, Ernest. This is dangerous alchemy!”

“What are we doing?” I breathed in excitement.

“Turning lead into gold,” Victor said in his best serious tone, though his smile broke through. “Mother would love it if we brought her a golden necklace made all by ourselves!”

“Yeah!” I chirped, and Victor’s smile widened.

“Like this, Ernest,” Victor said, churning the liquid in his own bowl. My attempt to replicate him sent the liquid splashing carelessly over the rim. Victor’s hands gently took hold of mine and guided my stirring until I had gotten the rhythm down.

“You are a natural,” Victor grinned. “It is nice having someone to play with.”

My cheeks flushed with heat, making me notice how cold the cellar was.

“It is chilly,” I remarked, glancing at the open window high above us. “Could you close that?”

“I am afraid not,” Victor explained. “These fumes are suffocating and will build up if they cannot escape.” Victor pointed to a badly rusted fire poker and a flaking steel bucket in the corner. “See how the lingering chemicals can devour the strongest material known to man? Fear not though, as long as we have sufficient air flow, no harm shall come to us.”

“You are brilliant,” my eyes widened.

Victor’s reply was cut off by Mama’s faint voice announcing Henry’s arrival. Victor immediately set down his spoon and began shutting the lids on his containers, whistling a little tune to himself. He gave me the honor of closing the last one while he strained upwards to shut the window.

“We must do this again, Ernest,” Victor said as I followed him into the hall. The rusted hinges creaked as he shut the door behind us. “Once the chemicals have the proper consistency, we may add lead and move onto the next step!” He paused and gave me a very serious look. “I must ask that you do not enter this place without me. Alchemy is a dangerous art if not handled properly.”

“Okay,” I nodded, charged with excitement at this secret project for Mama as we rushed up the stairs to the main room.

Victor met Elizabeth and Henry at the front door. Though I was too young to join them, Victor assured me that I would be old enough before I knew it! From the window, I watched the trio’s departure with a creeping loneliness. Chasing chickens did not appeal to me anymore. My legs carried me back down the twisting stairway to Victor’s little stone lab. Each bit I yanked the hefty door open the rusted hinges squeaked. Thankfully, I could squeeze inside with only a few inches of leeway. Yes, Victor had said I should not come here alone, but I was a natural at stirring, he had said so himself! How happy would Victor be to return and find himself ahead in his research! I popped the lids off the surrounding chemicals as I searched for the one I had been stirring before.

A chilly draft swept by me accompanied by a great bang. I turned to see the door had shut. Hopping off the stepping stool, I bounded over to yank it open. The rusted knob disintegrated between my fingers, turning to dust in my hand from the continuous chemical exposure.

The surrounding fumes were thick in the air, and I rushed to open the window. My fingers strained upward, but even with the stool; I was too short. Too little. The peaceful blue of Switzerland’s sky rivaled my panic as I banged my fists against the wooden door. My voice grew hoarse as I screamed for Victor to save me. I screamed and screamed but no one came. No one ever came down here but Victor. I sunk to my knees by the door. The fumes were overpowering, pumping their poison into me as my shouts faded to whimpers.

I do not know how much time passed until the door swung open and inaudible cries reached me from where I had collapsed.

“He is here! Mother, he is down here,” Victor shouted, and I felt his arms carry me into the hallway. “Ernest, say something! Little brother? Talk to us!”

“Fetch a nurse,” Elizabeth whispered. My vision flickered between black nothingness and the vibrant colors of reality. The frantic screaming around me seemed to come from someplace far, far away.

My head bobbed as new hands tore me from Victor’s grasp. I recognized Mama’s voice as she cradled me.

“His face is blue! Oh Lord, Lord do something!”

“What happened here?” Papa’s voice came somewhere close to my ear.

The blurry shapes of Victor and his friends came into view. Victor was clutching his mouth, horror struck as Elizabeth stroked his shoulder. He stepped forward.

“Father, he was locked in my lab,” Victor croaked, nearly in tears. “The chemicals…”

“What have you done?” Mama’s shriek split the air. She was always so calm and nurturing to us, Victor adored her. But seeing me unresponsive seemed to momentarily tip her off the edge. “I told you to be careful with those chemicals! You would leave your little brother alone with your supplies? How could you be so irresponsible? You killed him! You killed your baby brother!”

Victor’s face had turned deathly white. “I, I...”

“Take him upstairs, he needs fresh air,” Papa ordered. Mama clutched me to her chest, as though her life could replenish mine. My head rolled over her shoulder as she rushed up the stairs. I watched the quickly fading figures left behind as Elizabeth touched Victor’s arm.

“She is in hysterics. She knows not what she says, Victor.”

But Victor was not listening. His horrified eyes were fixed on me with such an intensity that I could feel their gaze long after we had rounded the corner.

I never completely recovered from the incident. My coordination became sloppy and my constitution for academics nonexistent. Illness struck me easier too, and planned trips across Europe were canceled in favor of a more permanent lifestyle in Belrive. Being a child, I adapted well enough, but that look never left Victor’s eyes. It lingered with each unnecessary hour he spent trying to explain the schoolwork and dance theory everyone else had forgone teaching me, or every stone he threw at those laughing faces when I could not keep up. He stayed in his room for longer periods too. Only Elizabeth and Mama could draw him outside, so much did they mean to him.

Then Elizabeth sickened, and Mama died tending to her. Shortly after the funeral, he made arrangements to depart for Ingolstadt. I caught him just as he was stepping out the door with a suitcase of carelessly packed clothing poking out the sides. His shoulders shook when I called to him.

“Must you leave so soon, Victor?”

“What use am I here?” Victor muttered. “I failed to fix Mother, just as I failed to fix you.”

“It was never up to you what Mama’s fate would be,” I pleaded. I needed him to stay! How precious ‘stay’ was. “God decides these things.”

“The god spoken of in Geneva’s pulpits is benevolent and good!” Victor whirled on me. “Whatever governs this world is insensitive. Uncaring! No God of love would let Mother slip away, not when she was doing his good work by caring for others!” Victor shook his head. “What right have I to enjoyment while she rots in the ground and you are, are,” Victor turned away. “How can any of us claim happiness when we could sicken at any moment? All I hear is ticking, a countdown until everyone I have left follows her!” Victor’s voice dropped. “Modern medicine can cure disease, surely there exists a remedy for death? Some elixir for immortality as the ancient alchemists claimed? If so, I will not find it within these walls of tortured memories, but I will find it, Ernest.”

“Let me come with you, then,” I said, leaning forward on my cane. “I can help!”

“You must remain here where it is safe.”

“But—”

“No Ernest! You are too weak,” Victors’ eyes radiated hatred. Self-hatred. “Too weak, and it is all my fault!”

My Fault.

It had been forever since that day. I had tried to repress it. To forget. If I had never messed with Victor’s chemicals, if I had not crippled myself, Victor would not have that guilt and the urge to tamper with life and perfect it. Maybe I had not whispered to him to create that creature, but I had set him on the path to inevitable destruction, and when he had come to me, begging for help, I had called him mad and drove my own creation away to die alone.

The memory repeated over and over in the pits of that cosmic creature’s unearthly yellow eyes. Then the eyes blinked, and I awoke.

#Just gonna say it- this is by FAR my favorite chapter!#ask of the lesser #frankenstein #victor frankenstein #classic literature #ernest frankenstein #The Case of Charles Dexter Ward #frankenstein fanfiction #frankenstein retelling

2 notes · View notes

pietromaxi · 5 years

Text

you’re a bad guy 2

warnings: violence (not really), cursing, ANGST (holy FUCK i cried writing this)

ahh here she is! you’re a bad guy is my baby to say the least. writing the first part, i wasn’t sure if it would get to people, i wasn’t sure if they were going to enjoy it. but literally not even a day after i posted it i had 15+ inboxes asking me if i was writing a second! i just want to thank you guys! also probably gonna do a third part because i couldn’t fit everything i wanted into this. it’s long and it’s sad. and there’s so much more i want to do with this story so i would say probably expect another part sometime if you guys want one!

**i wasn’t completely sure about the exact timeline between the two movies (ca:cw and endgame) but ca:cw and iw were roughly two years apart according to the russos and adding the five years between iw and endgame, so roughly, its been 7 years!**

----

white surrounded you on all planes.

the floor was white. the sky was white. is this what heaven looked like?

you’d just woke up. you were laying on the soft floor until your eyes jolted open, “dad?”

you stood up on week knees, blood seeped from deep cuts on your arms and thighs, “hello? is anyone here?”

surely this wasn’t heaven, no one was around. you were completely alone.

but you were dead. you remembered dying. the funny feeling in your stomach as you crumbled to nothing right in front of him. but you didn’t reach for him, “hey, nat? what- what’s going on?”

you remember watching bucky fizzle out into nothing more than ash and flakes of black. you knew it was coming, and you were ready.

you remember both him and nat turing around at the sound of your voice. you and him had been on bad terms the entire fight, you’d shot him in the arm, he thinks you did it on purpose.

you laughed thinking about it, the sound echoing across the flat planes of white. you’d definitely shot him on purpose.

he tried running to you, but you looked him dead in the face, uttering the words, “don’t touch me.”

“hey!” the word echoed in your ears and you whipped around quickly, it gave you whiplash.

peter parker was standing a few feet behind you, “y/n? what’s going on?” his voice sounded pained, he’d been crying.

little trails made by his tears cut straight through dirt caked onto his face. your heart broke at the sight of the small boy standing before you. his spidey suit now torn up with stains of dark crimson covering it.

“we’re dead, kiddo.”

his face fell, “how are all of us dead?”

you raised an eyebrow and cocked your head to the side, “all of us? you’re the only other person i’ve seen, bud.”

he said nothing as he grabbed your hand and dragged you across the planes of white. the ground seemed to slope under your feet, as if you were walking around the side of the earth. but your feet stayed flat on the ground.

sounds of shouting and crying drew your eyes up from the shimmering, white floor. standing before you were millions of people you’d never seen before. a sea of sobbing women, children, and men laid out before you.

and right at the front was none other than james buchanan barnes.

peter let go of your hand and nodded his head at you, walking towards a shaken wanda.

bucky smiled sadly when he saw you, “you too, huh?”

you stayed silent as you stared in shock. thoughts swarmed your mind, a tornado of good and evil spun wildly, round and round. until it dwindled down to one single word.

“hi.”

he laughed lightly and jutted his head lightly to the left, silently asking if you’d follow him.

bucky led you a little away from the group to where the two of you could talk without shouting, but you could still keep peter in your eyesight.

you stared blankly at the floor, deciding to sit down. you sat indian-style and bucky followed. tucking his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

“i led you over here to apologize. for what happened a few years back.”

you laughed dryly and looked into his cloudy eyes, “i forgave you a long time ago, buck.”

bucky’s eyes lit up, all the clouds seemed to immediately move from his eyes. they shined like they did in the 40s when he went on a date with that pretty blonde girl. when he first went in for the kiss and she kissed him back. he was over the moon.

the girl he loved more than anything forgave him. but he wouldn’t tell her that part.

“what about him? he misses you, y’know.”

he watched y/n take a sharp intake of air, she picked at a piece of string on her shiny black suit before she spoke, “the difference, bucky. the difference is that you didn’t know what you were doing. he did.”

bucky stayed quiet.

“he knew he was breaking me the entire time and he didn’t care.”

“y/n, you know he cared.”

you dropped it and stared at bucky.

his beard had grown quite thick, his hair was long and some pieces stuck up in weird angles. his eyes sparkled, but she knew something was still missing.

he was dirty. blood and dirt clung to him in all places. he had scrapes and bruises all over, and, yet, he still looked ethereal.

you’d been staring at him for a while and he just stared back, neither of you realized what you’d been doing until he was leaning in.

he was leaning in, and in, and in.

you leaned in too.

his hand rested on yours that was sitting on the soft ground next to your leg, his fingers tickled the skin on the top of your hand, and for the first time in what felt like years, you laughed.

a genuine laugh, not a hard chuckle, or a laugh-so-hard-you-can’t-breathe-laugh, but a soft giggle.

and it was enough for bucky to place his medal hand behind your neck and pull you into him.

your lips slotted together and you tangled one hand into his slightly greasy hair, the other held his flesh hand tight in yours.

you couldn’t tell if this was a rebound kiss, or a pity kiss. but you liked it. and you didn’t want it to stop.

bucky’s hand traveled down your neck to your waist and he pulled your body to face his, no longer sitting side by side. you untangled your hand from his and placed both hands behind his neck, interlocking all your fingers to keep him where you want him.

you stood on your knees and leaned your face down, mashing hard against his. bucky growled in the back of his throat and squeezed your hips, pressing his lips equally hard into yours.

his hands started trailing downwards when you heard shouting, screaming.

you broke apart and stood up quickly, bucky looked starstruck and you looked bewildered. the two of you stared at eachother until peter caught your attention, “guys! we have to go!”

you saw holes burn their way into your mini paradise and for a moment you wished you didn’t have to go. you wanted to stay.

as the holes turned fiery and burned bright orange, your suit began to repair itself. your cuts faded and your heart began racing with adrenaline.

bucky watched in awe as the skin surrounding the deep cut on his arm crawled back together. the skin was left an angry red, but it was healed. his suit sewed back up and he felt good.

more and more holes opened right before your eyes. the larger the burning holes became, the louder the outside was.

your ears were immediately filled with the sound of screaming and fighting. metal clanging onto metal, bombs went off, avengers were flying left and right, and you were shocked.

large groups of avengers piled out of the enlarging holes, screaming in anguish to avenge the already fallen.

you’d lost bucky by then, but peter stayed close to you. fire seeped from your palms and your surroundings became windy, you blew off a few of thanos minions before you were in a gigantic group of your closest family and friends.

he was front and center.

blood dripped from his nose and lip, his face was caked in dirt and blood. yet somehow, he still managed to look good.

and you’d just kissed his best friend.

you worked your way to the front, standing beside bucky, who was next to him.

you heard doctor strange and wong to your left, “is that everyone?”

“what? you wanted more?”

and then you heard him, steve. he held his hand out and mjolnir came flying straight into the palm of his hand. you remembered the time back at the tower when he’d laughed about not being worthy. but you always had a hunch.

“avengers... assemble.”

all hell broke loose. avengers were flying left and right trying their hardest to take down thanos and his hordes.

clint was running on your left as you heard him talking on the comms, “cap, what’d’you want me to do with this damn thing?”

steve spoke up, stopping slightly beside you, nodding his head at you, “get those stones as far away as possible!”

it was your turn to speak up, “no! we need them to get them back where they came from!”

“no way to get them back, my beloved daughter that i missed oh-so-much, thanos destroyed the quantum tunnel.” your dad spoke up on the comms and you smiled ear to ear, “i missed you too daddio.”

you drowned out the rest of the conversation and focused on the hordes of space-aliens coming towards you, you burnt them, blew them away, crushed them with tree roots, and washed them away with water. but every time one was dead, another came straight at you.

you were getting tired before the man himself showed up. no, not thanos. worse.

steve showed up behind you and helped fight off the baddies getting too close to you, “it’s good to see you.” he shouted in between dodge and attack with his current opponent.

you nodded your head at him and continued to blow back the impending enemies.

you fought back to back with steve, then helped wanda hold back thanos. then got the gauntlet from peter, then gave the gauntlet to captain marvel.

and then you heard thanos speak behind you, “i am... inevitable.”

avengers fell to their knees in agony, you turned around and ran to them all as fast as you could, bucky not far behind you.

you saw your dad, standing in front of thanos. he was raising his hand up to his face. he looked straight at you as he spoke, “and ... i am ... iron man.”

he snapped. his hand held all of the stones.

“daddy, no!”

you’d been blown back by the snap, your eyes were closed and you were so scared to open them.

you felt bucky bump you with his foot and your eyes shot open, “daddy, oh no, daddy no. please no.”

you crawled to where your dad lay, almost lifeless, on the harsh rock.

“oh no, here-here lay on this.” you slipped the top part of your suit off, now just in your sports bra. you bunched up the material and softly lifted your dads head up and placed the top behind his head. placing his head gingerly down onto the shirt, you wept into his chest.

“it should’ve been me, daddy. please don’t die on me, please. i need you more than anything, you’re my best friend and i can’t do this without you. please, daddy. i can’t lose you. not like this.”

he inched his hand downwards and rested it over yours. you cried harder, pressing a soft kiss onto his forehead.

pepper kneeled next to you and placed a hand on your back, the other one resting on tony’s shoulder.

softly, you pressed your forehead into his and cried, “i love you so much, daddy. you’re my best friend and i will always look up to you. you’re my everything.”

you leaned down and curled up next to your dad, softly laying your head on his chest and keeping his hand in yours, he breathed out slowly, “i... love... you...3-“

“i love you more. i love you 5000. you can rest now, daddy. it’s okay, i’m right here.” you sobbed as you watched his arc reactor power down, pepper rubbing your back and hiccuping lightly.

you screamed as loud as you could when he’d finally let go, his hand slipping off the top of yours, “fuck! god! fuck, why! why not me? why did you take him? i cant live without him!”

both steve and bucky moved forward towards you, arms reaching for you. steve looked at bucky like he had two heads, “what’re you doing?”

bucky said nothing. he just looked at steve and then hung his head real low.

and in that moment, steve knew what bucky had done.

and when bucky looked back up he knew that steve wasn’t just crying about his lost friend, but now the love he’d lost to his best friend, to him.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #tony stark #tony stark x daughter!reader #avengers #avengers x reader #marvel #marvels the avengers #thanos #endgame #stucky x reader

104 notes · View notes

strangershield · 5 years

Text

A Midnight Call

Pairing: Daisy Johnson x Reader

Warnings: description of injuries/ blood

A/N: I added a cute lil Fitzsimmons moment in this so enjoy. Also, requests are open!

“Bloody mortality.”

“Daisy!” You screamed as the now blonde staggered through your door, face clenched as she drew quick and short breaths. The door slammed behind her, rebounding off the wall with a solid thud. You were positive that it would leave a dent, but your wall’s plaster was the least of your concerns. All of your worry was now focused on Daisy. She swayed with uneven footing until she collided with an armchair. Meanwhile, you had leaped from your previous position on the couch and raced towards her, hitting your toe on the coffee table in the process. You swore but ignored the pain, high on adrenaline and fear. The newfound energy pulsed through your veins as you reached her collapsing form. She saw you approaching, but could only grunt due to the pain that consumed her body. You arrived by her side just in time. Your arms wrapped around her middle as she fell, the chair providing little support. Her head lolled onto your chest, feverish and sprinkled with perspiration. Your heart rate continued to soar as her breathing intensified, still coming in short bursts. Her dark eyes rolled back into her head, exposing a milky blankness that made your mouth go dry. Her body became slack in your hands, crumbling against your weak grip. Your hands fumbled to hold her better, to try to prevent further injury. That’s when you felt it, a sticky warm substance that flowed onto your hands by her side. It didn’t take you long to figure out what it was, you didn’t even have to look. You knew the coppery scent of blood all too well.

The next few hours faded in and out like flashes of a camera. After Daisy collapsed you moved her onto your couch, unfazed by the stains which her blood would inevitability leave on the grey fabric. However, the blood itself did concern you. Normally you weren’t one to scream or faint by the presence of blood. But there was something about Daisy’s that made your stomach churn. Maybe it was because it was hers, your Daisy’s. Or maybe it was because her face had grown dangerously pale and slick with sweat, her eyebrows twitching together as she remained in a dreamlike state, never quite reaching unconsciousness. You found the courage to leave her to tear apart your kitchen to find bandages, water, scissors...any supplies that might be needed. Upon returning to her injured body you found the source of the gushing blood at her side. Carefully, you cut away the fabric to inspect the wound, the sharp snapping of the blades filling the room. You gagged as you made your first assessment. You were no doctor, but the blood alone told you that it wasn’t good. There was too much blood. You couldn’t tell what was an open wound and what wasn’t. Blood had covered her skin, coating her in a second scarlet skin. With the mixture of wet and dry blood, of fresh and old, you couldn’t tell how bad her wound was. Hesitantly, you grabbed a wet washcloth and placed on her skin with a shaking hand. You wiped the blood away, trying to scrub as gently as possible on the tougher areas where it had already began to dry and flake away. Daisy remained still, occasionally moaning when you touched her more sensitive, tender skin. While the blood left streaks you worked away until it had mostly been cleaned, the scarlet dulled down to a few auburn swirls. You were oblivious to the new mess you had created, not noticing how her blood stained your skin and clothes. Perhaps it was for the best. Seeing her blood on you would’ve sent you into a panic. Setting the used cloth aside you reassessed the wound with nimble fingers. It was bad. Two circular opens granted passageway for her blood, two openings into the world. One was bleeding less profusely, a trickle of coppery substance running down her side. When you looked closer something gleamed in the light. Confused, you grabbed you phone for a light and froze, your gag reflex kicking in. The bullet was still encased in her skin, glinting silver amongst red. A part of you let out a sigh of relief. This was good. This meant less blood, less damage. Simultaneously, it meant that there was a freaking bullet in Daisy. Who knows if it was laced with poison or something worse. The other wound scared you more. It was similar except for the excessive amounts of blood. In fact, you couldn’t see the extent of the damage because of it. Your own blood froze when you realized why; the bullet was gone. It must’ve fallen out, or worse, gone straight through her. Hot tears spilled from your eyes as you wiped them away with shaking hands, fuelled by frustration and fear. You couldn’t do this. So, you called your emergency contact, no matter how much it would annoy Daisy or potentially get her in trouble. You loved her and she was dying. It was simple really. You needed help. You needed Jemma.

Fitzsimmons came in a neatly tied package, so you weren’t the least surprised when you opened the door to find Jemma and Fitz at your doorstep. In normal circumstances you would’ve smiled and greeted your two friends warmly, leading them inside with a hug and the promise of tea. This was not normal. Jemma tried to keep appearances, but her smile almost comically fell when she saw you. Fitz swallowed hard by her side, his eyes flickering everywhere and anywhere. You must’ve looked a sight. Despite not having seen your reflection, you knew that you were almost covered in blood from head to toe, none of it your own. The wind attacked your wet cheeks, making you shiver as you ran a hand through your hair. Dishevelled, just as you had expected. No words were passed as you opened the door wide, the pair quickly entering your home. There was no need to lead them to Daisy, she was in plain sight. You closed the door with a soft click and rested your forehead against its wooden frame for a moment, stalling. The moment didn’t last long as you peeled yourself away, back into reality. Jemma was already kneeling by Daisy’s side, Fitz looking as helpless as you felt. Fitzsimmons mumbled words inaudible to you as you watched from afar. The world seemed to move as you stood in a trance, your mind unable to comprehend anything. It was as if you were submerged in water, making movements languid as you stood frightfully still, drowning. Unbeknownst to you, Fitz’s attention had turned to you. He took one glance and felt his heart sink. You were almost as pale as Daisy before he made eye contact with Jemma, an entire conversation had with a single look. Carefully he crossed the room, walking slowly towards you. You didn’t even see him approach, so you jumped when a hand was placed on your shoulder. Your eyes bore into his, and suddenly the trance started to break. Fitz noticed your glassy eyes and shaking frame as he smiled kindly. What if he was in your position? What if Jemma was bleeding out on his couch as he watched helplessly? He’d be a wreck, and that wasn’t even scratching the surface. He couldn’t imagine your pain, so he offered the one thing that always comforted him.

“Tea?”

The strong, soothing aroma of chai tea filled your small kitchen as Fitz carefully placed a steaming mug in front of you, the soft clink echoing as cheap china collided with wood. The sweet yet spicy tea did wonders for your mental state, the smell alone making your shoulders relax. Fitz watched you tentatively from across the table, his mind working overtime. He wanted to say something. The right something. Yet words failed him. Nothing seemed, well, right. Meanwhile, you were lost in your own world, except your mind was terrifyingly blank. You slowly ran a delicate finger around the perimeter of your mug, your lethargic state hypnotized by the continuous circle. Shock had hit you hard, completely freezing your mental capacity. You no longer felt worried or stressed or scared, only eerily calm. Your mind was blank, although it conveniently steered clear of any thoughts of Daisy. You couldn’t think about her, even if you wanted to. She was bleeding out on your couch, only a wall separating you two, and you were helpless. Maybe the shock was a good thing.

“How’s work?” Fitz asked suddenly.

You looked at him through your lashes and watched as he picked up his tea and took a hasty sip. Immediately he regretted the action, recoiling from the tea as he winced and put the tea down at arm’s length. The hot liquid burnt his throat and made tears brew in his eyes, yet he tried to remain composed. You smiled with something like pity, eyes flickering back to your tea.

“You don’t have to do this Fitz.”

His eyebrows knitted in confusion. “This?”

You sighed, heart and mind heavy. “This,” You gestured to yourselves and the tea. “Being nice, trying to have a normal conversation. I appreciate it, I really do, but it’s-“

“Wrong, I know,” he said quickly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I just...don’t know what to do or say.”

You longed to reach across and take his hand, to reassure him that he was doing his best, but you were too exhausted to attempt such an action.

“Hey,” you whispered softly, willing for him to look up. He did, your eyes locking. “You’re okay.”

Ever since his injury, you had found that Fitz sometimes needed some extra reassurance. He was terrified that his mind would take over and cause delusions again. He was also terrified of losing his friends or messing up horribly. Fitz let out a sigh as he stared at you, teeth just visible as he worried at his lip. Slowly he learnt across the table and found your hand, the action you didn’t have the strength to do. His warm hand encased yours, squeezing ever so lightly.

“She’ll be okay.” He whispered. You swallowed thickly and moved your eyes towards your connected hands, praying that he didn’t see your glistening eyes. In truth, the shock was beginning to wear off. You felt exhausted, every muscle and bone in your body aching. It was hard to keep your eyes open, let alone focus. Exhaustion also made you more sensitive, and thoughts of Daisy were beginning to resurface.

She was next door, dying, and you were drinking tea.

You felt sick, disgusted with yourself. However, the disgust was hopeless. You couldn’t help even if you wanted to. You let out a frustrated sigh as you buried your forehead into your shoulder. Fitz ran a thumb over the back of your hand, feeling just as helpless and stuck as you. He hated seeing you in so much anguish and pain, his heart beating sickly. You were his friend and you were in so much pain, and he could only watch. It seemed unfair, this torture. Unfair, unjust and plain cruel. Two soft taps against the doorframe made Fitz tear his eyes away from you. Slowly, you forcefully lifted your head and searched for the cause of the noise. The sound of a chair scrapping against tiles filled everyone’s ears as soon as you locked eyes with Jemma. Both you and Fitz watched her, carefully avoiding the blood that stained her clothes and latex gloves (that girl was always prepared). She offered you a tired yet kind smile as she leaned against the archway.

“She’s stable,” Jemma said softly, and you felt air enter your lungs for the first time in hours. “She will need further treatment, but she’ll need to move to SHIELD for that. For now, she can rest.”

You and Fitz clung to her every word as if it were liquid gold. Knowing that Daisy was okay allowed you to breathe again, and an invisible weight lifted from your shoulders. But knowledge wasn’t enough.

“Can I-“ You stuttered, unable to finish. With a nod, you raced out of the room, carefully avoiding crashing into Jemma. The scientist sighed as soon as you were gone, giving her husband a small smile. Fitz stood instantly and engulfed his wife into his arms. The embrace was warm and comforting, allowing Jemma permission to relax. He rubbed his thumb across her shoulder in slow, soothing circles as she buried her head into the crook of his neck.

“You did good.” He mumbled against her forehead, his voice muffled as he placed tentative kisses there. Jemma sighed again, her body collapsing into his. No tears were shed, for they were too tired for that. Instead, Fitz held Jemma’s weak form as she clung onto him, desperate for comfort and support. The late night house call had heavily impacted their consciousness, even if they didn’t admit to it. You and Daisy were as close as they were, inseparable and the best of friends as well as soulmates. What if the roles were reversed? What if Jemma had been injured, or Fitz? It was the noisy and ever present what if’s that made their hearts bleed. Jemma and Fitz stood together as one as time froze around them, two silhouettes illuminated by the kitchen light.

Despite the rooms being next to each other, the air in the living room seemed thicker somehow. Denser, making it hard to breath. Yet it wasn’t warm, your skin peppered with goosebumps. However, maybe the temperature wasn’t to blame. Your heart thumped painfully in your chest as you stopped with a jolt, eyes landing on her.

Daisy.

She was alive...hurt but alive. Her cracked lips were parted, drained of any colour other than ashy. Her skin seemed to convey the same greyness, all white with barely any life. Yet there was still blood. It had now dried, but it clung mercilessly onto her skin, her clothes, her hair. You drank in her unconscious form that was carefully situated across your couch. She looked like a warrior version of Snow White. You approached her slowly with timid footsteps, not wanting to disturb her rest. Up close you could see the horrid array of bruises that had already begun to blossom, covering her skin in various shades of purple and yellow. It made you convulsively choke. Of course she had been injured before (you couldn’t count the number of times that you had helped her bandage her bruised arms), but it was never to this extent. It was never so sudden either, so desperate that coming to you instead of SHIELD was the best option. You didn’t want to know who did this to her, or why such brutal force was necessary. Slowly you lowered yourself until you sunk to your knees, crouching beside Daisy. Immediately your legs began to ache, not used to having to support your body weight in such an awkward position. Yet you didn’t care. In fact, you only sank lower onto the floor, crushing your ankles beneath you. Carefully, you let your head rest on her shoulder, sighing deeply. You closed your eyes, somehow breathing in her perfume amongst the blood and sweat. It almost made you smile, the perfume. It was a reminder that this was Daisy, your Daisy, and she was okay. You sat their momentarily, lost in your own thoughts. You were so far gone that you didn’t notice Daisy’s sudden intake of breath, nor her groggy groan.

“(Y/N)?” Came a rough, husky whisper.

You jolted upright, something suddenly stuck in your throat. With a frenzy your eyes searched her face, but you couldn’t see anything but a blurry haze. Hastily you wiped your face with the back of your hand, desperate to see her. She was smiling at you, softly and delicately as if the small action costed her a large amount of strength. You smiled back but your eyebrows creased together, making it more like a grimace. You found her hand and gripped onto it tightly, her fingers dancing against the back of your skin. Her wheezing frame longed for you, and was more than happy when you shuffled closer. Softly, you placed your head atop of hers, inhaling the leftovers of a floral scented conditioner intertwined with a deeper, coppery scent. Your hands remained together as you closed your eyes. Daisy was already asleep, exhausted from her injuries. Her soft snores and sighs lulled you to sleep, the warmth of her body providing comfort and relief. If you listened closely, you could faintly here a dull thump amongst her wheezing and groans. Perhaps you were imagining it, but you didn’t mind if the thump was a figment of your delusions. Audible or not, a heartbeat meant that she was alive.

#agents of shield #Daisy Johnson #daisy x reader #marvel #aos #fanfic #fitzsimmons #daisy johnson x reader #writing #my writing #agents of shield fanfiction #marvel's agents of shield #skye x reader

51 notes · View notes

theonewiththefanfics · 5 years

Text

Love Is Our Resistance (one-shot)

Synopsys: She is his mission and his salvation.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Genre: angst

Warnings: none that I can think of, not even a swear word

Word count: 2072

(inspired by the artwork and beauty of min1919, here on Tumblr. Imma link to their page, just because they’re so talented like boo, you got a real gift)

(If you want, listen to Resistance by Muse, cause sorta kinda based on the song as well ;) )

The winter soldier watched from the rooftop as the coat-covered figure made her way through the snowy New-York streets. The city seemed completely abandoned, save for the woman and some stray cats rushing to find a warm place somewhere behind a dumpster or on a windowsill of a nearby apartment. It was the perfect opportunity. Her palm was pressed tightly against her ear, a phone definitely in between the stranger’s fingers as she spoke. He was high up on the top of a building but still could easily hear what she was saying. “Well, it’s not my fault I can’t control the weather. Do you think I like being stuck outside right now?” She wasn’t going to make it to her friend’s Christmas dinner. Her car had broken down a few blocks away, yet she still had miles to walk. “I’m sorry, Nat, I am. But let me make it up to you- tomorrow, brunch, just the two of us. And I’ll pay.” The soldier could imagine her smile even from so far away. Too bad she was not going to be able to fulfil the other promise either. He scaled the walls and rooftops until he was down and in an alleyway. Everything was deserted, not even one light shone in the windows. Yet even then no one would hear the shot. Nor would he allow her a second to scream. Snow crunched under his boots as he stalked towards her, pace matching that of her clicking heels. But then suddenly the atmosphere changed. Her head turned to the side. “Nat, I really am sorry.” The soldier noticed a tremble in her voice. “I really am but I have to go now. I’ll talk to you as soon as I can. I love you.” She said the last sentence in the sincerest way possible and it made the man stop dead in his tracks. In front of him, she had as well. Slowly, the woman turned around, winter winds whipping the giant white flakes in a beautiful dance of twirls and dips around her like she was an angel and diamonds encrusted her Y/H/C hair. She smiled. “I was wondering when they’d send you.”

He aimed the rifle at her head, the scope putting a red cross right in the middle of it. There was a painful grimace on the woman’s face. “S, okay James. I’ll turn around. So, it looks like it was supposed to.” The soldier’s hold on the rifle tightened as she so freely, so contently moved her body to face away from him. He could hear her soft sniffle and see how her hand trembled, phone still tightly clutched in between the gloved fingers. Her whole body was shaking as the woman waited for the inevitable shot. Hot tears streamed down her face and almost immediately they froze upon her reddened cheeks. But the bullet never came. Instead, there was a soft clunk against the snow-covered ground and a strong hand gripped her shoulder, dragging her in the nearby alley. “Who are you?” Bucky growled in her face, looking up and down her body, trying to find a feature that would reveal the mystery of why he couldn't pull the trigger, why he couldn't kill her. “I’m no one,” she whispered, looking at the soldier. He removed the mask from his mouth and took off the glasses the dark glasses, his ice-blue eyes gazing into her Y/E/C ones. She couldn't speak anymore, so only salty pearls streamed down her face as Y/N gazed upon the man she had been in love with and still is. A man who didn't even recognize her. “James, I know you have to do it.” “I- I-“ he looked like he was struggling for words, the cogs in his mind turning and spinning, trying to click back into place. “No!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I- I won’t!” “You have to,” there was conviction, strength and determination in her tone. “James…” “Why…” he choked on the word. “Why are you calling me by that name? Who are you?” Y/N sighed, letting her gaze settle on a snowflake and watched as it looped down to the ground disappearing in a mountain of the white powder. “You know who I am. I’m quite sure they gave you a file of information before sending you away on this mission.” “But that is not the whole thing,” his heart ached at her words and the soldier didn't even know why. “Who are you to me? And who am I to you?” The girl looked defeated like she could no longer fight her own will. So she relented. “We love one another. And that is why I’m a liability to you. To them. We,” her words turned into a puff of steam and it fluttered up into the dark before dissipating into nothing, “we met while you were on another mission a few years back. I wasn’t your target, not that time. We were in a bar, started chatting. I was slightly drunk… and you just… took care of me. You got me home safely, put me in bed, made sure to leave a glass of water by the bedside table… when I woke up, I thought you’d be gone, but I was wrong. You sat in a chair, right by the window, looking out to the world, like it was a creature you’ve never seen before. But when you looked at me- it was like all the pieces clicked.” The soldier’s eyebrows scrunched up as flashes of what he could only describe as a jagged memory came back. “You were nice to me,” he muttered. “You made me feel safe. And I couldn't help it... you were just so soft and warm...” And then Y/N smiled. “You made me feel safe as well.” But there was such sorrow in that kind gesture Bucky’s heart felt like it was being ripped in shreds. “James, if you don’t do this, they eventually will come after me. No matter what.” Y/N said it so matter of factly, Bucky was astounded. It was like her life had no worth at all. “And then they’ll hurt you. And I could never live with myself if I knew I was the reason for your pain.” Her palm was so tender against his rugged cheek, Bucky practically melted at the touch. “I can’t. I can’t do that. I-“ there was desperation in his look, “I love you. I know who you are, and I love you.” “I know, but this… it can’t happen… we can’t do that,” there was a sad, a heartbreaking smile painted upon Y/N’s lips. “We both know it to be true.” Bucky was crying now as well because, for the first time in forever, he finally remembered, he knew who he was and who the woman he was sent to assassinate was. “I can’t lose you. Not again.” And his forehead pressed tightly against hers, the snowflakes fluttering down from the sky settling in his hair and melting from their combined heat. “I love you.” “I know, baby. And I love you too. More than anything.” She kissed him, then and there, throwing all caution to the wind. Bucky reciprocated. Tenfold at least. His hands snaked around her waist, one of them entering under the coat and feeling Y/N’s warm sweater, pulling her as close as possible by the hem of the garment. They were meant for one another- she was his salvation and he was her home. And yet the rifle still laid in the snow gleaming under the white streetlights, reminding him of what he was there to do. “I won’t do it,” Bucky said after pulling back, pain in his blue orbs. “I refuse to. If they wanna torture me after that, so be it. But I will not kill you. And I won’t let them do it either.” “You can’t protect me, James. They found me and sent you. With or without the Winter Soldier, they’ll do it again. Only this time it will be with someone who won’t hesitate. Who won’t even think twice.” Bucky wanted to scream, he wanted to punch the brick wall and demolish it with his own hands at Y/N’s words. “I can’t lose you,” it ended up as a choked-back sigh. Her arms wove around his neck, pulling at the long dark tresses, so slowly he leaned his head down and hid his face in the crook of her neck. Y/N smelled of something sweet, something like cinnamon and sugar and coffee altogether, so cosy and warm and nice. Bucky wondered how he could even remember what those things were, given his diet was mostly stale pieces of bread, water and sometimes an instant noodle package if he got lucky. One small palm slid across his bulletproof vest covered back and yet he could still feel the weight of her actions, how gentle and loving she was being. “You’ll never lose me, James,” Y/N’s words were lost in the night, but he still heard them, still trembled as she repeated how much she loved the man. Then her palm settled on the knife at his side, pulling it out from its holster. “But you have to do it,” the blade was pointed at her stomach. Bucky immediately clutched onto her wrist, terror consuming his body, scared eyes looking into her calm Y/E/C ones. “Stop.” “Don’t think about it,” her gaze didn’t waver, so much love shining through, Bucky couldn’t help the sob ripping out of his throat. “Just aim it here and don’t think.” Y/N raised his hand and leaned forward, the knife now pressing against her ribcage where with an upwards push he could end her life. “I love you, James.” She rested her forehead against his, uncontrollable tears flowing down both of their cheeks. Bucky’s hand trembled, the grip upon the handle tightening and tightening. One push and she’d be gone. Forever. Hydra wouldn’t be able to ever hurt her or destroy her life. She would no longer be in danger just because the girl knew of him, loved him, cared for and adored him. It would all be over, and he could mourn the loss of this amazing person without the terror of finding her locked up in one of the damp cells in Siberia. He could make it so easy and swift she wouldn’t even be able to take a breath, nor would she feel a thing. But Bucky was weak and selfish, and the knife snapped in half, the razor-sharp blade dropping to the ground. He threw the heavy handle down as well and shook his head. “Not gonna happen.” “James-“ “No! I’m done with being controlled. I’m- I’m done with that life. It wasn’t even mine! It was some monster created by people who didn’t want their hands getting dirty. I wanna live. I want to love. I want to be with you.” And Y/N was just as selfish and weak, if not even more than Bucky, so how could she say no to those eyes, to that desperate mind breaking through decades of brutal chains, wishing for freedom and a home. She didn’t need much encouragement to once again kiss him, only this time there was a promise of future and hope sealed within the touch of their lips. His tongue glided along her freezing mouth until she let him inside and it was like homecoming for Bucky. It felt righter than anything in the world ever had. “Where do we go now?” Y/N whispered after coming back for some air. “We kinda need to go down real low.” “I’ll figure it out,” he squeezed her hips tighter and brought the woman closer to share their warmth. “We’ll figure it out. I promise.” “You do realise we both have a hefty price on our heads now, right?” Bucky huffed, looking around the deserted New-York street and the dark alleyway they were still in, huddled against one another. Suddenly, he broke off and walked back into the light, picking up the rifle and strapping it to his back. “So, we’ll move. We’ll move every day if we have to. I- I can’t lose you, I can’t give you up like that. Not ever again.” Y/N nodded, weaving her arms around Bucky’s middle and pressing her face against his chest. “Love is our resistance,” he heard her faint mumble. “No matter what they throw at us…”

Tags (crossed out wouldn’t take): @nerissa98 @happyseagrill @asguardiansoftheavengers @crazybutconfidentaf @wishingforahome @lumelgy @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @breezy1415 @pizzarollpatrol @crazy--me @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @s-c-a-r-e-d-po-t-t-e-r @reblogger-not-a-blogger @m-a-t-91 @dalilx @i-need-a-hero-i-need-a-loki @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @in-the-end-im-still-trash @gallifreyansass @dewy-biitch @avxgers @unlikelygalaxygiver @thunderous-flower @who-cares-rn @projectxhappiness @callmebucky-doll @coal000 @killuaenthusiast @courtneychicken @sophiealiice @raquelbc2003 @watch-out-for-thorns @potentially-kinetic @thatonegirljessy99 @proxinge @bbkenna @buckysclub @ulired @fangirlofeverythingbasically @mrsalh32611 @horrorx570ximagines @the-nargles-made-me-do-it @pooslie @itsisabelanotisabella @httpmcrvel @purplebananatragedy @pxrrishly @parker-barnes-af @skulliebythesea @california-grown

A/N: I’m seeing Bohemian Rapsody on Wednesday, so you bet I’ll have at least one fic based on a Queen song :D

P.S. please, tell me what you thought :)

P.S.S. if you wanna be tagged or have any requests, drop a message :)

P.S.S.S. please, don’t repost without credit :)

309 notes · View notes

lululawlawlu-writes · 5 years

Text

The Hardest Part of Living

notes:This fic is for the LawLu Bang 2018-2019 sponsored by @lawlu-events @mushroom-san created this super cute & sweet art work for part 1.

tags: post-apocalyptic au, mentions of suicidal thoughts, terminal illness, attempts at levity

summary: Law is a descendant of humans who were able to survive nuclear annihilation, but radiation, in addition to other man-made pollutants had been seeping into their underground bunker, slowly poisoning them. Now Law’s the only one left alive. Although he'd made a promise to his departed sister that he would find a cure and live a full life for the both of them, his future seems bleak.

The day he meets Luffy could turn his life around. Luffy has a secret that could be the key to saving him, but neither he nor Luffy knows it yet.

___________________

Part 1: It’s hard to depart from this life when there’s no exit.

Law wrenches open one side the rusty metal medicine cabinet, grainy orange rust particles powdering his fingers. His eyes skim over the contents—old medicine bottles, a safety razor, and a lighter.

His eyes study his face in the rust-mottled mirror on the closed side of the cabinet. He runs a hand over his stubbly, two-toned face, contemplating a shave. Well, he doesn’t have anyone to impress. There isn’t too much chance that he’ll run into anyone worthwhile in the near future either, but what’s the point in being a survivor in a post apocalyptic wasteland if he can’t go about taking as he pleases and looking damn good while doing it. At the very least, making an effort to look decent helps him feel a little less like he’s falling apart from the inside out.

His aching fingers absentmindedly wander to his cheek to scratch at the itching patch of white that’s blossomed there, flaking off the irritating blanched skin, leaving a burning sensation beneath his fingertips. Attempting a shave is likely a bad idea—he’d probably just end up peeling off half of his face in the process. This dying slowly shit is so goddamn annoying.

He pockets the lighter anyway. It could be useful. He takes up one of the long cylindrical medicine bottles—prescription pain medication, opioids long past their expiration date. He should probably keep those too because why the hell not. If they’re still potent, they might help his chronic aches and addictive though they may be, he isn’t planning on living long enough for that to take effect. At twenty-six he’s already well outlived nearly everyone he’s ever known.

Struggling with terminal illness isn't exactly Law's ideal way to live. It’s excruciatingly painful, sure but more than anything, it’s annoying as fuck. What good is being stuck in some cruel joke of a life which keeps him half-alive, while he can practically feel himself rotting away like a goddamn zombie.

Law knows he’s been cursed from the start—born with half a lifespan and not much reason to value it. Thanks to the valiant efforts of his ancestors, humans have survived nuclear holocaust—humans, not necessarily humanity. He tries twice to get the lid off of the pills before he realizes he’s meant to push down as he turns the lid. He’s already scraped his fingers along the ridges of the cap, lost his skin in the process. The pad of his thumb aches; the soft skin on the side of his forefinger gone hot like it’s on fire, protesting the strain of everyday activity. He places the bottle on the cracked marble countertop next to the sink, leaning into it. A grunt of frustration, a little extra leverage, and losing another layer of skin seems to be just what it takes to finally pop the top—nothing like a little extra pain to help him remember just how much he could use some relief before he meets his inevitable death. He wouldn’t put it past his dick-bag ancestors to have set him up to die like this. They'd probably consider his poor life tragic and beautiful. They were the same people who made death so romanticized in their movies. If those ancient movies are any indication of how people actually thought back then, with their tragedy and self-sacrifice worship, it's no wonder the world has turned out to be a hollow, burned-out shell of what it once was. Hell, he's sure revering such shallow ideals is what got his community in the bunker wiped off the face of the Earth.

Law shakes the bottle lightly, assessing its contents—a handful of chalky little pills. He tips two of them out into his hand where they camouflage themselves against the splotch of white on his palm, similar even in texture. Both look so pale and lifeless. He contemplates dumping the rest into his mouth. There’s a temptation just to hurry things along and end it all before he ends up bedridden, crippled with pain, wasting away because he hasn’t got the strength even to feed himself. But he’s promised he wouldn’t.

Law is sure he isn't going to have a beautiful or meaningful Hollywood-esque death that would serve to inspire anyone. He sure as hell isn't going to come up with some ‘touching’ last words. He imagines his last words will be something like "Aw, fuck," although even a line like that might be too contrived. At least he has plenty of time to think of something better. On second thought, maybe he would actually try giving that flowery last-words bullshit a shot after all, just for the sake of irony. Dying a slow, painful death might not be without it's merits after all.

It’s not that Law actually wants to languish in pain, waiting for death to come around. He would much rather get it over and done with. He would've even tried to put a bullet in his own brain by now, but lack of ammunition and a naïve promise that he’ll find a cure are the only things holding him back. Poisoning so bad it’s seeped into the core of his DNA structure doesn’t really seem like something he can cure, but in retrospect, how could he have refused his little sister’s dying wish for him to keep going. At least she’ll never know he can’t make it a reality.

“Hey, you in the bathroom, You want something to eat?” calls a voice from the other side of the wall, muffled by layers of cracked plaster and rotting drywall.

Law nearly jumps out of his skin—practically tosses the painkillers across the room. He thought he was alone in this abandoned house, if that’s what you’d call it because a half-torched, roofless structure with two of its external walls missing doesn’t really seem like one anymore. He’d checked for any signs of a possible resident when he came in. He’s usually extremely cautious about such things. It wouldn’t take much more than a five-year-old with a stick to take down his weak ass, and he knows that out here in this wasteland there’s likely to be much worse. Still, he’d checked every room top-to-bottom when he’d arrived and hadn’t heard anyone else come in, so who the hell- “I’m Luffy, by the way.” Ok, so Luffy, apparently. “Who are you?” Luffy speaks again, closer this time, as if a breath’s width away from the door.

Law has no time at all to think before the door is shoved aside and he finds a small, opened tin of ham thrust into his hand. The scrawny guy who’s given it to him casually kicks down the toilet lid, taking a seat backward over the toilet. He releases an armful of provisions, presumably for himself, onto the tank of the toilet like it’s perfectly normal to use a toilet as a makeshift table and chair.

“Cheers!” he cries, clinking a tin of ham against Law’s own. He shoots Law a wide, toothy grin and tosses his head back, shaking the tin over his mouth until the ham slides out with a sick, sucking sound. Pale pink jelly-like substance drips from the can onto his face. It runs down his cheek mimicking the line of a thin scar etched under his left eye.

Law eyes the tin of meat in his own hand. This could be some sort of trap. This person could be an organ trafficker or something. Well, it’s not like Law has a lot to live for anyway, although being murdered by a stranger isn’t really how he wants to go. For a guy who wants to get it over with, he sure is being picky about death.

The mass of ham he’s been given does look a thousand times more interesting than the dried-out, flavourless rations he’s recently had the pleasure of surviving on. Its pinkish hue and marbling is indicative of actual meat, if ancient movies are to be believed. He wouldn’t know from personal experience, but the smell of it—that can’t be normal. It smells awful, pungent, somewhat sulfuric—like farts. And if humans of the past voluntarily ate things that stank like intestinal expulsions, they were a lot more messed up than Law gave them credit for. “Good shit, yeah?” Luffy says, eyebrows raised, beaming up at him from his spot on the toilet lid. Maybe this guy is more messed up than Law gives him credit for. He doesn’t even seem to care about the look of the tinned meat or its flatulent odors. Law watches him toss back a third can. The scent alone is starting to make Law’s stomach turn. He cautiously leans in to place his can of ham on the back of the toilet.

“You never told me your name,” Luffy notes, reaching for the new addition to his personal buffet. He passes Law a long, vacuum-sealed packet of crackers instead. Now this is food he can eat. “I’m Law Trafalgar,” he says. The plastic along the perforated line twists around Law’s fingers but doesn’t tear open.

“You from the underground? Your name sounds weird like underground people.” Luffy muses. “I’m from a PPU if that’s what you mean.” Law turns the packet over, attempting to rip it open from the other side. “What’s a PPU?” Luffy asks around a mouthful of ham. He takes the packet from Law, breaking off the corner of the crackers as he rips it open. “Population Preservation Unit.” Law specifies, taking back the opened packet offered to him. “That’s underground, isn’t it?” Luffy hums in thought, licks the canned ham lid. “It’s getting dark,” he tells him. “So let me stay at your cool underground base tonight.”

Law hadn’t been offering and he doesn’t want to think of the dangers that letting outsiders in can cause. This time he can’t make an attempt to assuage his fears with the notion that he’s near-death and has nothing to lose. The PPU is almost more of an embodiment of himself than he is at this point. It holds all that he ever was—his culture, his memories, his last connections to his people and their legacy of death and decay. In a way it’s as precious to him as it is painful. He’d rather keep those hallowed metal halls to himself, though he isn’t sure how to refuse Luffy. The guy has just shared a vital resource with him. “Alright, let’s go,” Luffy tells him, jumping up from his spot. It’s not a question. “Show me your home!” Though Luffy’s tone doesn’t sound threatening, Law knows that the matter is not up for debate.

By the time the bunker comes into view, the sun is dipping low on the horizon, spilling crimson hues into the sky as if it’s impaling itself onto the hills in a last-ditch effort to get free of the world. Law feels like he can relate on some level. He wouldn’t mind being free of it all but being impaled is a pretty slow way to go. Slower than a sunset for sure—look who’s being picky about his death again.

The sun may be fading into the distance but a suffocatingly hot humidity still hangs in the air, heavy, blanketing everything. It never really goes away. Law had given up feeling uncomfortable in the heat a long time ago but it still weighs on him. When he’s walking out here alone in the wasteland his brain sometimes likes to fantasize about the inevitability that he could either drown in his sweat or lose all moisture and shrivel up to nothing, become mummified.

He doesn’t get to indulge in such thoughts today. Today he’s with Luffy, and the inane chit-chat he’s offering is enough pull Law’s attention away from his morbid daydreams.

“You got anything to eat at home?” Luffy asks.

“You just ate,” Law points out.

“It’s weird, but I’m so hungry all the time since the thing happened. You think it’s possible to miss someone so bad it makes you hungry all the time?”

Law wants to ask him what the hell he’s talking about, but his head is reeling and his mind feels blurry, out of focus. It’s physically hard for him to walk distances. There’s a dull aching behind Law’s knees that makes them feel like they’re ready to give out at any second. He can’t help stumbling.

“Traffy, hey, you okay?” Luffy’s saying, “Let’s get you back to your secret underground base quick.”

Law feels his wrists being grabbed and pulled over Luffy’s shoulders but doesn’t have the strength to protest being picked up. Luffy lifts him up around the hips to carry him piggyback. Although it’s cheesy and embarrassing, and he’d rather die than admit it, it’s kind of nice to ride piggyback like people did in those ancient movies he watched as a kid. Here he is, just like Vanessa being carried by Wade in the classic 2023 film, Deadpool 4.

It’s really, really nice, actually. Law feels more at ease than he’s felt in years. It’s not just a matter of giving up, saying that he’s close to death anyway. It’s almost startling for him to realize he actually feels safe. There’s something about Luffy—something genuine in his actions, something disarming in his smile, that makes Law want to trust him. Law sighs, closing his eyes, resting his head on Luffy’s shoulder. Right about now is when the leading role, Wade, would tell his love, Vanessa, something sweet.

“You smell nice,” Luffy tells him softly, and Law feels his heartbeat pick up, tightness building in his chest that he wishes he could blame on his illness, but then “-like food.” And the feeling is gone. Law still thinks he appreciates the sentiment though Luffy’s words are nowhere near as romantic as the line in the movie. It’d almost be weird if it was romantic. After all, he’s only just met this guy.

Law swears he only closes his eyes for a second, but when he blinks them open, he’s already in the entryway to the bunker and Luffy’s dropping him from his shoulders.

“How’d you know the code for the door lock?” Law asks. He presses the palms of his hands over his aching eyes. “You didn’t break it did you?”

“What do you mean?” Luffy blinks at him. “It was already open.”

Already open?! That shouldn’t be. Law’s blood turns cold in his veins. His every nerve prickles with the chilling realization that he and Luffy are not alone here.

Sure the bunker is visible from the outside, if you’re really looking for it. But it isn’t easy to get past the security codes or penetrate the layers of protective steel by other means. Besides, as far as Law is aware, most salvagers don’t find it worth the trouble to use their resources for breaking into bunkers. He’s been told the kind of outdated, dysfunctional tech they’d find in a bunker just isn’t that valuable.

Law is almost certain it has to be someone who knows him personally, which just puts him at further unease. He doesn’t have friends.

#lawlu #lawlubb 2018 2019 #lawlu big bang #It's also on ao3 if you want to support me there <3 #lawlu fanfic #my fic

16 notes · View notes

strawberriestyles · 6 years

Text

Chapter 16

(Banner made by the loveliest @harry-nofookingway-styles)

Harry X OFC (AU)

In which Melody is reacquainted with an old classmate named Harry, and must keep afloat in the violent, criminal lifestyle of an underground boxer.

Read previous parts here.

Author’s note: HI. I LOVE MY BABIES AND I HOPE Y’ALL DO TOO!!!! Please leave some feedback if you have the time. Enjoy. Xx

Snow had begun to fall in the city, blanketing the sidewalks with a thin sheen of sparkling flakes. It shifted and turned slushy beneath Harry’s shoes. A fresh shower of the stuff settled atop the hood of his sweatshirt and dotted his eyelashes. It was cold, but not frigid, and he was caught by surprise when he almost wiped out on a sheet of ice just outside the door to the warehouse.

Newly frustrated, Harry yanked on the handle he had used to keep himself from falling and stomped into the entrance, slamming the door behind him. He brushed his hood back and shook out his hair as he pushed through the inner door. Only one line of lights was on over the center of the room. The ring was lit, but the edges of the room fell into shadows. Two men were swinging at each other on the platform. A number of others lined the perimeter on the ground, some watching, others busy with mittwork.

“Ah, there’s the man I’ve been waiting for!”

Harry looked up to find Scott Dent in the ring. His arms lowered when he caught sight of Harry and he was rewarded with a swift punch to the jaw.

“Goddammit, Joey!” Scott shouted, shoving the other man back a couple of steps. He pressed a glove to his sore jaw and waved Joey out of the ring. “Styles, get in here.”

Harry dropped his bag at a corner of the ring and began stripping his hoodie and shoes. He tied his hair back into a quick knot and pulled his gloves from the duffel bag before climbing beneath the ropes. Joey lowered himself to the ground with an agitated huff as Harry took his spot.

“Tryin’ t’get knocked out again?” Harry asked, slipping his already taped hands into his gloves and tightening them around his wrists. “Or did your nose heal crooked an’ yeh want me t’straighten it out?”

“Eh, you got lucky,” Scott said with a shrug.

“Lucky, my ass.” Harry shook out his arms and stretched his foot until his ankle cracked. “Got a win count yeh would kill for, old man.”

Scott chuckled. He smacked his gloves together and took a step forward. “Show me what you’ve got, then, Mr. Brit.”

Harry brought his arms up as he moved toward Scott. He easily blocked a couple of jabs before either of them spoke again.

“So, how are things with your girl?” Scott asked. He took advantage of Harry’s shocked pause and delivered a hard kick to his ribs. “You hit that? Seems like a little spitfire.”

Harry stumbled with the force of the blow and clutched his glove to his side before righting himself. He stretched his abdomen, lifting his arms again. “Don’ know who yeh’re talkin’ about, but probably.”

Scott dodged an angry throw toward his face. “That little blonde girl that’s always hanging around you.”

“Really don’ know who yeh’re on about. Could yeh be more specific?” Harry sucked in a sharp breath and lunged at Scott, sending a glove hard into the man’s abdomen.

Scott heaved a heavy sigh and took a step backward. He tilted his chin back to get more air, gritting his teeth. The area just below his ribcage stung with the expansion of his lungs. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. You know, the girl that got you into all that trouble with Goodman.”

Harry grunted, waiting for Scott to get back into position so he could hit him again. He found it therapeutic, especially during their current conversation.

“Yeah, everybody’s heard about that mess. Better have fucked her, for all the trouble she caused you.”

Harry hummed. He could feel his own blood boiling beneath his skin but he tried to keep himself at bay.

“If you’re done with her maybe I could show her how real men do it.”

Harry’s mind strayed for a moment to flashes of Melody stretched out naked on his bed, kneeled on his couch with her thighs wrapped around his face, pressed up against the wall like the very first time he touched her. His ears rang with the sound of his name on her tongue. Then it all shifted and it was Scott in his place, his name falling from Melody’s mouth. Harry’s lungs deflated and he felt something painful snap in his gut.

“Would need a dick for tha’, wouldn’ yeh?” Harry spat, rushing forward. He threw a hook to each side of Scott’s smirking face and then sent a raging knee into his gut, where he had hit him earlier.

Scott, heaving for air, fell to his knees. He wrapped an arm around his stomach and pressed his other glove into the floor for balance. A few of the other men outside of the ring paused to watch the show. Harry lowered his fists, clenched within his gloves, and stood over Scott’s crumpled form.

“Guess it wasn’ luck after all, was it?” Harry said, pulling his hands free. Training suddenly didn’t sound as appealing. “Girls are all the same t’me, Scott. Couldn’ even tell yeh most o’ their names.”

Harry ignored whatever Scott grumbled to him and hopped down from the ring, stuffing his things away and redressing. He left the warehouse as quickly as he had come, exiting into a blizzard of snow that melted against the angry heat of his skin.

***

Melody had been in unusually high spirits for an entire week. Even the arrival of snow and the inevitably resulting slush hadn’t been able to put a damper on her mood. She had taken to bunkering down with a thick woven blanket and a hot mug of coffee for studying—an escape from the brutal cold of winter. What she most looked forward to, however, were the days when she was able to venture to Harry’s apartment, and today was one of those days.

A blistering wind had made the streets nearly unbearable. Beneath Melody’s hood, a thick hat attempted to retain some heat. She had her chin buried deep within the confines of her coat and her hands buried in its pockets, clutching at a couple bottled smoothies and a box of popcorn. When she reached Harry’s door, she kicked at it with her foot instead of pulling her hands from their warm refuge.

Moments later, Harry, in a heavy pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, pulled the door open and stepped to the side. Melody flew into the hall, throwing back her hood. Harry shut the door behind her, a welcome barrier between them and the frigid weather.

“It’s fucking freezing,” Melody observed breathlessly. She kicked her shoes off in the entryway and strode a few feet down the hall, setting the contents of her pockets on the countertop.

Harry followed, stepping over the snow that she had tracked inside. He peeled the hat from her head as she unzipped her coat and frowned. “Wha’s the backpack for?” He turned his head and found the things that she had brought with her. “And those?”

“I brought my laptop,” she informed him with a smile, slipping the bag from her shoulders to rid herself of her coat. “And I stopped at the corner store to get us a few things. I’m gonna make you watch a movie with me.”

Harry noticed the way Melody’s cheeks and nose had reddened from the cold. Her eyes shone glassily, framed with melting snowflakes that had settled on her lashes. He set her hat on the counter.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t seem to do anything for fun. And it’s actually for one of my classes, so I have to watch it anyway.”

“Do loads of stuff for fun,” Harry said, raising a hand to work his fingers through the tangles of her hair. He stepped closer to her, pressing a kiss just behind her jaw. Her skin was icy beneath his lips. “We can have a lot of fun. Don’ need a computer.”

Melody laughed—a genuine, amused sound that Harry would unironically label as melodic. He grasped at her hip and turned until she was pressed back into the edge of the countertop, closing his lips around a bit of her flesh. Her laughter faded into a ragged breath.

“Harry, what are you doing?”

“Warmin’ yeh up,” he mumbled against her skin. Already, he was craving her. He wasn’t sure whether it was the sensation of her fingertips squeezing at his waist or the unwelcome memory of Scott’s teasing, but Harry wanted to devour her, to hear her call his name again. He was greedy for it as his teeth dug into the skin just above her collarbone.

“Don’t,” she begged, shoving weakly at him. “Please. I really do have to watch this movie.”

“Can watch it later, yeah?” Harry removed his face from her neck and pressed his hungry lips to her mouth. She hummed, raking her fingers down his sides, and then turned her head, breaking their kiss.

“No, I can’t. I have to write a paper.”

Harry sighed, dropping his forehead frustratedly to her turned cheek. Her arms slipped around him and her hands clasped together at his spine. She planted a quick peck on his jaw as he lowered his hands to the counter behind her and lifted his head.

“Wha’ movie is it?”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” Melody said, tilting her head back to settle it against the cabinets. “Have you ever seen Fight Club?”

“Yeh’re jokin’.”

“I am completely sincere.” Melody grinned. “Speaking of which, when’s your next match? Do you know who you’re fighting?”

Harry sighed, licking his lips. He broke free of Melody’s hold and went to hang her jacket up in the hall.

“Harry?” she asked, turning to watch him from around the corner.

“I don’ want yeh comin’ t’my matches.”

Melody frowned, shaking her head. “What? Why? Did I do something?”

Harry trailed back into the kitchen, striding past her without a glance and opening the fridge, more to avoid looking at her than anything. “No, I jus’—”

“Harry, I don’t know why you keep doing this,” Melody said exasperatedly. “What’s the reason? I think that I deserve—”

“Mel, for fuck’s sake!” he shouted, spinning around and letting the refrigerator slam shut behind him. Everything that had been stewing inside him since that group training was now bubbling beneath the surface. He could feel anger everywhere, from the depths of his gut to the tips of his fingers. “Jus’ b’cause I goddamn said so! Can tha’ be enough? Why do I have t’explain every decision I make to yeh?”

Melody flinched, almost imperceptibly. She had started to grow accustomed to the other Harry, the one who spoke to her in low tones and liked to run his fingers through her hair. However, she hadn’t forgotten this Harry, the one who snapped and clenched his fists and all but foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog. She hadn’t forgotten him, but she had hoped he was fizzling out, that he would be restricted to the boxing ring. Here he was in front of her, though, and even with the bit of progress she had made in communication—only snippets of information, like his favorite subject in school (history) or his favorite food (guacamole)—she was sick of having to fight him for any type of knowledge.

Melody let her tense shoulders fall as she reached for her backpack and turned to drag it into the hallway. She reached for her coat where Harry had hung it up only moments prior.

“Mel,” Harry said from the kitchen. His voice had settled immensely from his outburst, but still sounded edged with that same attitude. “Melody.”

Harry padded across the kitchen and into the hall, where he found her shrugging her coat back on. “Melody, Christ, just stop, would yeh?” He gripped at the sleeve of her coat to keep her from zipping it up.

“No,” she snapped, yanking her arm from his grasp. “I don’t wanna be here if you’re going to yell at me for asking a harmless question. If you still don’t want me around, then say the word and I won’t come back.”

Harry let a heavy breath leave his lungs. He shook his head, stepping in front of her to block her path to her backpack. “Don’ want yeh t’leave,” he whispered.

“Then what?” she said, lifting her chin testingly. “You only want me around if you get something out of it? You—”

“Wha’?” Harry asked, eyes widening, his mouth agape. He took a surprised step back and almost tripped over her bag. “‘S tha’ what yeh think?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” Melody breathed, throwing her hands up in frustration. “I don’t know because you don’t talk to me. I’m walking blind.”

Harry’s jaw settled into a tight grit. He shook his head. “Well, ‘s not like tha’,” he muttered.

“Then why don’t you tell me anything? Am I just like those other girls? Are you—”

“No,” Harry said firmly. “Sometimes, I jus’ don’ wanna talk about things.”

“Well, sometimes seems like always. I know the bare minimum about your life. I’ve told you a lot about mine—”

“Yeh’ve had a good life.”

Melody sighed, biting roughly at her lip. She was trying to reel in her frustration, to speak civilly. “Yes, as far as lives go, I’ve been pretty fortunate.”

“Some of us aren’ so lucky,” Harry said. “An’ I’d like t’be able t’decide when I share tha’ stuff with yeh.”

Melody tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Can I at least know why you don’t want me at your matches?”

Harry cracked a few knuckles on his left hand. There were lots of reasons why he didn’t want her there, some much deeper and darker than others. The comments that Scott had made were only a small part of it, but even the thought of relaying those comments to Melody made him want to crack his head against the wall. To appease her, he decided on the least revealing reason. “B’cause yeh’re distractin’.”

Melody laughed drily at the ceiling and then lowered her head. Maybe she imagined it, but she could have sworn she saw a light blush rise beneath his cheeks.

“Stay,” Harry said. “We’ll watch your movie. I won’ bother yeh while yeh write your paper. No funny business, I swear.”

Melody sighed. Harry took her hesitation as an opportunity to rid her of her coat once again. He hung it back up and paused. “An’ tell me yeh won’ come t’my matches.”

“Whatever,” Melody mumbled, reaching for her backpack. “I don’t like them anyway.”

“Ironic,” Harry commented.

Melody raised an eyebrow as she turned around to look at him. “How so?”

“Yeh’re the reason I started fightin’, remember?”

“But not the reason you’re still fighting,” she reminded him, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She reached for the drinks on the counter and headed toward the living room to set up the film. “And for the record, when I said, ‘stick up for yourself,’ I’m fairly sure I meant ‘tell them to leave you alone.’”

Harry smiled—an amused, fond quirk of his lips—as he followed Melody to the couch and settled in.

Chapter 17

#harry styles #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fan fic #harry styles fic #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #harry styles brutality

161 notes · View notes

norxxcoffee-blog · 7 years

Note

84. ❝i didn’t realize i needed your permission.❞ - please please with DenNor♥

This was probably one of my favourite prompts to write, I love writing them all but Treaty of Kiel stuff is very angsty! Enjoy :D

Denmark has always thrived off other people. They fuel his natural charisma, keep the smile wide on his face, save him from falling into the dark thoughts that hover constantly at the back of his mind. Norway knows that, since that day in 1523, Denmark has never slept a night through unless there is someone beside him. It is 1823 now. Nine years in a union with Sweden. He has spent them passively, attending meetings with his usual blank facade and doing his best not to fill Finland’s shoes. Because that’s really why he’s there. To make up for Sweden’s loss, help him forget that Finland was ever his colony. But it didn’t work, did it, brother? Norway thinks bitterly as he strolls down an ice-coated Stockholm street. He is too cold for Sweden, possesses none of Finland’s natural warmth. Sweden tries to deny that. On their first night as kingdom and colony, Sweden caught Norway by the hand as he was walking to his bedroom. It was a brief touch, no words said, but the meaning came clear enough. Norway had shaken his head, and locked his door every night after that one. He did not think Sweden would force him. But war does strange things to a person’s mind. Norway does not intend to spend the three hundredth anniversary of the Kalmar Union’s end with Sweden. There might be a formal dinner, perhaps a few words from Sweden himself. Awkward. Uncomfortable. So he brushed past Sweden’s feeble attempts at restraining him, and sent off a letter to Denmark. It contained only three words. Stockholm. Fountain. Us. Now Norway makes his way there, a brisk morning breeze ruffling his immaculate hair. It feels strange without his cross clip. But Iceland needed a reminder, something to tell him that his brother would return. Sometimes Norway doubts he’ll ever see that clip again. He reaches the fountain and perches on its lip, hands buried deep in his pockets. Winter in Stockholm- early winter- is his least favourite time. The air becomes thin and sharp, whipping across faces with no mercy, and the snow never settles until at least November. A flake lands on his forehead. Norway bites back the urge to shiver, and hunches down a little further in his coat. Soon. He will come. Throughout these nine long years, he has never allowed himself to pine for Denmark and Iceland, focusing instead on his country’s union and getting out of that union. Yet now the fantasies come flooding in. How Denmark’s arms will go around him, impossibly tight. How he will whisper words that make Norway feel alive, alive as he has not been for nearly a decade. And he will cry- perhaps they will both cry- and hold each other, be together as it is supposed to be. He watches Denmark enter the square. He is noticeably thinner, face drawn into taut lines, with a coldness to his eyes that was not there before. But still tall, hair still dishevelled, still the same man that shattered every time Norway left him. And now I must put the pieces back together, for the thousandth time. His face visibly crumples when he sees Norway. What little composure Denmark had is tossed away in seconds, and he runs, seizing him in a bone-crushing embrace. ‘You’re here,’ he sobs into Norway’s neck. ‘You’re here.’ Suddenly tears of his own begin to fall. There are no words, nothing he can say that will make this easier when it inevitably ends. So Norway just stands, and holds the one person he ever let past his layers of ice. He puts up a hand when Denmark’s lips inch towards his. Norway studies the face he knows so well- lips chapped but soft, eyes bright and wide with hope, the light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose.‘Not yet.’ he breathes. 'I didn’t realise I needed your permission.’ Denmark tries to smile, so Norway kisses away his doubt. He kisses him long and deep, until their tears mingle, tries to internalise the wonderful feeling of flying. 'You don’t. Never again.’ They embrace, somehow sweeter than a kiss. Denmark’s hand slides through his hair, one arm still around his waist. For the first time in years, Norway feels whole. 'Where can we go?’ There is no suggestion in his tone. Nothing but the simple understanding between two eternal lovers, the melody of a voice that can say more than a thousand words. 'I know a place.’ They stay close together as they walk, arms entwined and shoulders bumping. Norway’s heart is full, brimming over with feelings so raw and good he cannot name them. Perhaps this is love. Can I do that? Can I love? If someone as emotional as Denmark thinks so, then Norway will accept it. He gave everything he had in their centuries together, laid bare his soul and took Denmark’s in return. There is no crueler fate than for them to be separated. But that is what Sweden has done. Unknowingly or not, he broke them, tore them apart beyond repair. Ten thousand lifetimes will not be enough to mend it- but to Norway, a patched, messy love is better than no love at all. He stops in front of a narrow house and unlocks the door. 'It belongs to some merchant who paid his way into the king’s favour,’ he explains, pulling Denmark by the hand. 'Hasn’t found a buyer yet, but he gave me the keys.’ He locks the door, always careful, and sheds his coat. Denmark’s eyes rove over him- the thin, wiry body, crisscrossed with hundreds of scars beneath his clothes. He used to kiss every one before we slept. He said they only made me more beautiful. Norway never believed it, but he does now. There is something deep and passionate in Denmark’s gaze. Something that sees past scars, sees past all the ravages of time to the truth within. And tears spill down Norway’s face all over again. He draws Denmark into the bigger of the two bedrooms, lighting a fire in the grate. They give each other a long look. After a thousand years, some things don’t need words. Norway gathers a stack of blankets, and they sit wrapped in them whilst the fire builds up, huddled close together. 'Three hundred years,’ muses Denmark. 'We had some good times, didn’t we?’'We did indeed.’ They fall silent for a while, remembering. The night it happened- the swing of an axe, a knife in the dark. Over in moments. Norway reaches out, finger tracing the raised groove of Denmark’s scar. 'You’re alive thanks to me.’ he says. Denmark clutches his hand. 'Sometimes I wonder if you should have saved me at all.’ His face is serious. 'Don’t say that,’ Norway murmurs, inching even closer. 'We had our time. It was beautiful, messy, bloody. I wouldn’t change it for the world.’'But it’s over, Nor. I let you go and they took you away. Now we’ll never be us again.’ He sighs and leans his head on Denmark’s collarbone. It juts out further than he remembers, but Norway tries to ignore it. 'Then I swear to you I’ll get free. We’ll both be independent nations, and no one can keep us apart.’ There is something grating on the edge of Denmark’s smile. He holds Norway close to him- perhaps to soften a coming blow. 'If you’re independent, you won’t live with me. And-’ A hand covers his mouth.'Idiot.’ He says it like he might say I love you. 'I could have walked out any time during our union, and you’d have been to broken to stop me.’ 'But you didn’t.’'And that makes all the difference.’ But Sweden would stop him if he ran now; Sweden knew his own strength, could deploy and restrain it to his advantage. But he is not fire. He is not Denmark. And Norway kisses him again, each touch repairing their broken love a little. They are not whole. They are not perfect. But there is no one else for them.

Thanks for the ask! :D

21 notes · View notes

walktalldontcha · 7 years

Text

Art trade for @jailhouserokk / @aquaburry! They requested that wonderfully agonizing angst - I hope it hits the spot! And I can’t thank you enough for wanting to do this with me ♥

Pairing: Johnny/Vance Rating: T (M at a push) Synopsis: There’s a savage, irreversible thunderstorm brewing inside Johnny in torrential bullets, licking momentous at the crackled bedrock of his aching sternum as he attempts to sellotape his own bestial thoughts back together into something which an be reasonably translated. Doubts corrode impressionable mind with titanium band suddenly feeling far too weighted -- restrictive, cuts off all circulation and has him reacting feverishly to everything he swore he once wanted. Vance has vivid sunlight in peridot eyes that burns so bright that, for a moment, Johnny begs for a savage hailstorm to rain down on them both and put an end to this ongoing moment of falsified clarity.

It should be raining, that’s the only clarified thought Johnny can successfully focus on at this particular moment of suspended mummification. It should be absolutely fucking thundering, those huge fat raindrops that hibernate on upturned lashes and crash on fallible glass with such brute force that the surrounding walls seem to creak in a decibel which would indicate impending collapse; there should be saturated cobwebs and their creator struggling to cling on to sloppy, rotting panes as the world around them simply screams monsoon season. Only then could his sudden state of dire melancholy and villainous imagery make even a single fucking modicum of sense. Perched on shallow hips knots an ethereal being who truly defied royalty, blood once undoubtedly stippled in cobalt along convoluted pathways now coated in multicolored oil; that aqua-blue vibrancy has transferred onto the collar of he, his father, and his ancestors before him. Vance has an enrapturing illumination to him, iridescent translucence that leaves Johnny’s worn fingertips aching as though covered in one thousand minuscule cuts; one day he’s certain to contaminate his boy, he certain of it, plague him with the same unnecessary darkness that likes to flood his own head and can only be silenced with the chalky influence of vile-tasting pills and a chase of aged whiskey. Butterfly kisses flounce across taut jaw, prettily freckled lips melting over unshaven speckle until those beautiful winged delights threaten to contort into moths; for even in instances of dewy intimacy, lingering touches and pecks designed to be chaste, Vance has a natural possessiveness to him he likes to pretend is well-hidden. When Johnny does not immediately respond - not even to roll tired eyes nor shrug him off with a scorned sigh of him being ‘annoying’ as is sometimes the custom - Vance views this as a open invitation to bring more of his kinetic energy. It’s rare for Johnny so be quite so visually numb. “Hi!” Vance shrieks as though they hadn’t been sitting together, engaging in something of a pickled silence, for well over an hour now. “Is there anybody in there?” Soft hands raise, ring finger extended, to click titanium band across Johnny’s all too familiar earring. The sound pings! far too violently, makes all acid tucked away within churning stomach formulate a cannonball of unspoken anxieties to crash down within his organs once more. Johnny leaps with it, swipes his own ear the very moment that Vance makes an unceremonious tumble into (thankfully carpeted) flooring; he hears the creak of ill-prepared patella skidding through loose fibers a minute later. “Don’t fuckin’ do that!” It’s all acid. Acid and mold and rust and his throat feels clawed raw every time his mind manipulates him into talking to Vance this way; scrapes him off his boots and leaves him crippled on baked asphalt. Vance doesn’t have to say anything. There’s incinerated welts in his vision that speaks absolute volumes, an inflamed braille wordlessly seeking out answers and spluttering apologies and suddenly - fuck - Vance feels two feet nothing. “Sorry.” He eventually splutters. Switchblade apologies. A carotid artery shattering word when uttered in that broken squeal. It should be raining. When he practiced this exact moment within his crippled mind over and over and over again, words and phrases clicking together like cheap plastic bricks to form something akin to logical sense, it was raining. Pouring. An apocalypse was dawning on the horizon. The tears which burst from Vance, corroding silvery tendrils on cheeks of garnet, fall in such robust torrential waves that they look like that hailstorm he had been promised; every droplet leaves his soul just as frostbitten. Johnny wants to choke. There’s a dusty little dish full of decorative pebbles tucked away in the corner and he’s certain that if he were to swallow them all his throat would close up and he’d hack hack wheeze his way to an immediate universe where Vance can’t look at him like he’s such a fucking criminal. “Stop that.” He whispers, as though such a command would somehow locate his fiance’s - boyfriend’s - off switch, sever all cables. Power out - time to do damage control, sweep their mistakes under heaped rug and try, in vain, to move on. Vance is in-fucking-consolable, presses strawberry welts into his temples beneath murky fingers and blunt nails, tries to scrub his tears clean but they coagulate and form anew. There’s a fist around his throat that’s coated in thistles, that squeezes his essence from rickety lungs, tries to remove every last molecule of happiness he once had stacked within him like daisy chains and loose dandelion seeds. Such revelations would always be inevitable; he swore he could hide behind ebony lashes and talks of matching tuxedos, that if they focused on how many rhinestones they wanted their Elvis impersonator to wear they could somehow make this high school romance something absolutely timeless. He’s a fucking idiot. Stupid, selfish, reckless little disaster held together by his own amplified psychosis. And he knows that he should let Johnny slither away like he so desires, press silver halo into wide-set palm and allow his love to taste freedom once again; let him taste purified oxygen in ways he hasn’t been able to for far too long. Sever the noose that he forcefully knotted against crushed jugular, allow him to genuinely l o v e again. But he’s nothing if not dedicated to embossed leather, ripped jeans, stale cologne and the way Johnny holds him, pushes all his pieces together until they click without once hesitating nor making him feel less remarkable for doing so. They maintained balance through that stark crimson thread the poets always wrote stances about. He should have known Johnny’s would fray if it was gnawed at often enough. One word. One decibel. One future impossibly snuffed. “Oh.” Johnny’s vision fades to onyx, severed vessels in his eyes making everything as horrifically dark as the shallow emptiness ricocheting inside compact skull; all those mistakes he has made - will continue to make - stacked together into heavy cement bricks. There’s blood in his mouth that he can’t spit up. Justification (or lack thereof) would only tear freshly inflicted wounds, would gouge his fingertips directly within sunken holes to p u l l flesh and tissue apart; spit salt over sensitive nerves. There would be no recovery. But maybe he isn’t quite so far gone as to leave Vance dangling like that, trying to scoop his heart back into broken chest - sand licking the open junctures of his fingertips despite how Johnny promised to keep him safe; he hadn’t indicated protection from the agony he himself would have undoubtedly inflicted. “Don’t fuckin’ say ‘oh’ like that. Like yous surprised!” Johnny’s hands are pressed into fists, bladed lock, pressed spine-first into cemented doorway. He cannot remember when he stumbled toward the nearest escape route, when his natural instincts to flee over force had suddenly kicked into overdrive, but if Vance keeps looking at him like he’s a steel blooded criminal finally unmasked he’s going to go running for the hills til his ankles crack clean off, broken chips of flecked marble. “You ain’t really think marryin’ me, bein’ my... my husband was gonna work, did you? Did y’really think I’d be able t’jus’ whisk y’away t’fuckin’ never-land like yous deservin’?” There’s a pain in his throat, the very stones he was too afraid to swallow bubbling back up, and when he looks at Vance all he can see is moonlight wilted by frost; rain. “You ain’t get it Vance. I’s gonna ruin you. I can’t keep y’tied t’me forever. Yous talented n’fuckin’ gorgeous n’I’s gonna be nothin’ but some joke who thinks with his fists firsts. I love you too much t’let you be known as the fool who married Johnny Vincent. I ain’t gonna let you be the man whose husband ran out on ‘im.” Bones scraped raw, mandible cracking, Vance’s sobs playing like broken records on the back of his mind. If he could find that articulated crevice of skin located inside his joints he could peel it clean from bone. If you squint, count shadows and effectively decoupage silhouettes together, add a sprinkle of decades spent suffocating under collegiate weights, painting cartoon smiles on Vance’s face until he can pretend to taste ambrosia when in actuality he settled for a fucking loser, Johnny is cookie cutter carbon copy of his own father. He’ll break, decimate, then flake. Leave Vance incomplete, bleeding and disemboweled during a volatile windstorm. And it’ll be raining. “You won’t,” Vance speak so quietly, cotton lungs, that he almost doesn’t realize the vocabulary comes from his own sleek lips all chapped up from his own trauma; from shaking quite so viciously. “You won’t be a joke. You won’t walk out on me. You won’t.” “How the fuck d’you know? I’m fuckin’ poison Vance. I fuck up everything. I’m a fuckin’ deadbeat like him.” There’s an unknown adrenaline that shoots Vance full of confetti and freshly lit dynamite, implosive, scattered prisms of fractured light throughout his joints until he’s skidding to a halt in front of his... Johnny. His fingertips are coated is tears, salt, pressing loose pebbles on either side of honeyed cheeks; waterlogged visions uniting until suddenly there’s a clash. a boom. a collapse. "You ain’t gonna leave me because I need you. An’ you need me.” Like blood coiling crimson hot betwixt copper veins, carrying explicit oxygen and patchwork endorphins through overgrown foliage that threatens to paint vessels mahogany with doubt; they truly n e e d each other. Their own prepackaged medication sealed within cushioned lips and wandering tongue, freshly prescribed antidotes for their own crippling mental paralysis. Johnny isn’t crying but he’s stumbling toward the very precipice of an unknown abyss, crystallized bedrock and an inflamed agony prodding across spiderweb lashes. Spacious palms holding onto Vance’s hips for ear fucking life, licking away those crisp tears continuing to tumble in a forceful shower down Vance’s heavily freckled features - through spiced nutmeg and rose - and he kisses his apologies on bowed lips. Their teeth clack. Chests rattle. Cool metal swallows exposed skin as the shudder into one and other, attempt to thaw through Johnny’s anxiety and remind Vance that fuck does he matter. They can do this produce wedding bells and exchange vows and borrow names from one and other in pleasant greeting. And on their wedding day, when futures glisten leather and lace with an entire army of supporters lodged beside them, it absolutely will not be raining.

#Drabble #Chaz does the writing thing #Johnny/Vance

5 notes · View notes