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kyuuppi · 3 years

Text

vegetable stew

Pairing: Kenma x Reader (f)

Contents: hurt/comfort; angst and fluff; body dysmorphia; eating disorder (negative thoughts, fat shaming, insecurity, mentions of starvation)

Word Count: 2.1k

Kenma has always been observant.

It was a large part of his success as a setter and even now his keen observational skills contribute to his career as a professional gamer. He tends to notice things others don’t and lately that means noticing how you’ve changed.

The more he thinks about it the more difficult it is to pinpoint the exact starting point of your behavior. Haven’t you always preferred baggy clothing?

He remembers the pretty blue sweater you used to treasure back in high school, wearing it every chance you got as soon as the weather report hinted at anything lower than 10°C. He loved that sweater too—not just because of the cute sweater paws it gave you or how it almost completely covered the shorts you wore beneath, offering an unobstructed view of your shapely thighs—but instead he relished in the way it seemed to make you feel. The confidence and joy in your expression was clear as day when you wore your favorite outfits and early on in your relationship he had quickly learned that somehow your happiness was synonymous to his own.

Hence Kenma’s current frustrations in seeing that spark of joy and self-confidence gradually diminishing in the past several weeks.

Although that particular sweater had long since left your wardrobe within the first few years of university, as well-loved and worn out as it was, the more recent favorites of yours have also seemed to have gone lately. It had been a while since you had worn the short yellow polka dot dress you had been so eager to show Kenma the first day you got back from the mall with your roommates. Every pair of shorts and colorful tennis skirts had also left your weekly rotation, leaving behind only dull sweatshirts with childhood cartoon characters and baggy joggers.

Objectively, Kenma hardly cared about what you wore. If fastening a potato sack around your form made you happy, Kenma wouldn’t bat an eye—the problem stemmed from the fact these clothes didn’t make you happy. Moreover, the bland clothing brought with them their own slew of behavioral changes.

You no longer wished to go out and you avoided taking pictures of yourself, your social media suffering from an obvious lack of cheeky selfies or “outfit of the day” posts as of late. However, the most concerning change of all was your refusal to eat.

Kenma had a habit of forgetting to eat himself. He rarely felt the mild twinges of hunger, his attention generally hyper-focused on something else whether it was a game, a video needing editing, or a class project he had pushed off for far too long. It was only when his own stomach growling would startle him or the hunger pains got unbearable that he would acknowledge the human requirement of sustenance (not that the instant ramen in his cabinets provided much nutrients anyhow).

You were much more in tune with your body and, unlike him, you looked forward to eating; scheduled your days around it, even.

Your mornings began with a balanced breakfast—a meal Kenma was rarely even awake in time for—followed by a generous lunch break in which you would intentionally put everything on pause. Regardless of how much work you had to do you always made time to put everything down and have a decent lunch. It was good for your soul, you would say. A time to live in the moment and relieve yourself of stress.

For dinner you often made it a point to eat with others, whether it was going to a rowdy Korean BBQ with some friends or a dinner date at home with just him, you enjoyed sharing a meal surrounded by the people you love. On top of it all, you frequently had snacks: small bags of crackers, slices of fruit, or a few cookies you made yourself.

You loved cooking almost as much as you loved eating; most of the times he invited you over you brought a large bag with you filled to the brim with ingredients he wouldn’t have a clue what to do with. You would chastise him about his awful eating habits, grimacing at the ramen and chip wrappers overflowing in the kitchen trash can before you diligently prepare a meal for you both, healthy and flavorful, full of the vegetables he hadn’t had since the last time he went home to visit his mom.

You made him look forward to meal times too, if only to see the way you light up when he compliments your cooking or the pure bliss when you take the first bite of your favorite side dish. Eating with you became one of his favorite parts of the day.

And so that last time you made him dinner—a steaming plate of curry with shrimp tempura—the normally delicious food suddenly turned sour on his tongue when he realized you had only made him dinner.

“I’m just not very hungry today,” you had assured him with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Foolishly, he hadn’t said anything at the time.

Maybe you had a large lunch, maybe you had a stomach ache, maybe you just didn’t want curry today—at that point in time he had no reason to think there was something seriously wrong. He had no reason to think you were starving yourself.

It wasn’t until weeks later when all the evidence stacked up, the many different signs piecing themselves together like a puzzle until it was impossible not to see the picture, even if a few were still missing.

Your baggy clothing, your refusal to eat anything, your off-handed comments about how the female characters in whatever fighting game he was playing had such nice figures—it became crystal clear what you were doing and it made him feel sick.

Kenma doesn’t generally care about others’ looks; he tends to worry more on how he is perceived than how he perceives others but he is confident that he rather likes your body as it is. He would rather die than admit how often he finds his gaze wandering when your legs are bare or how his eyes naturally trace the curve of your waist down to the width of your hips his fingers twitch to touch—he has had many thoughts about your body, none of which have ever been negative.

Even so, he doesn’t mind if you want to change yourself. He isn’t foolish enough to think he has the right to dictate how you decide to present yourself to this world, but he refuses to allow the reason for your change to be one that stems from low self-esteem or insecurity.

When you step into Kenma’s apartment, weary from a long day of classes and the extra hours spent at the gym, the last thing you expect is to be greeted by the scent of some type of stew, warm and hearty. Your stomach clenches longingly but you quickly reprimand yourself—you already reached your tiny caloric limit for the day.

You have hardly made it into the living room when Kenma comes out from the kitchen, dyed hair tied in a low bun but messy, several strands poking out and sticking across his sweaty forehead. A dark blue apron is tied around his waist and his right hand holds a ladle, the perfect image of a frazzled housewife. If you weren’t so shocked by the scene you would have laughed.

“Welcome back,” he greets softly.

“Are you...cooking something?”

Kenma looks slightly embarrassed by your incredulous tone but not offended. In all the years you have known Kenma you have never seen him in the kitchen for longer than the three minutes required to heat up a bowl of noodles. Him slaving away in front of the stove for a bowl of homemade soup is nearly unfathomable to you.

“Vegetable stew...it’s my mom’s recipe,” your boyfriend explains sheepishly.

The mental image of Kenma shyly FaceTiming his mother as she patiently walks him through chopping up carrots and mixing spices makes your lips twitch upwards and you make your way past him to curiously survey his work.

“You didn’t have to go through the effort, I could have cooked you something, y’know,” you comment as you lean over the large pot on the stove.

The contents are a rich brown color with hints of potatoes, carrots, and onions peaking out. You’re gifted another pang of hunger and you quickly step back as if it would prevent you from falling into temptation.

Kenma quietly slips into the kitchen directly behind you, his chest nearly brushing your arm as he speaks.

“It's okay, I wanted to cook for us this time.”

You freeze.

Immediately, you break into a cold sweat, the prospect of eating sending you into a state of anxiety. You can’t eat—you don’t deserve to eat. Not when your arms are so flabby, your waist so undefined, your inner thighs so close to each other—

“I appreciate it,” you start.

Your voice sounds unnaturally high even to your own ears.

“But I’m not hungry—I had a really big lunch.”

Turning, you try to offer him an apologetic smile but his face looks off. His lips are pulled into a slight frown and his eyes seem to be looking through you, as if he knows you’re lying.

“Y/n...I don’t like what you’re doing.”

You attempt to laugh but it comes out hollow.

“I’m not doing anything bad, just dieting a bit.”

“I think you’re being a little extreme.”

You huff, starting to feel defensive. You don’t want to have this conversation, not now, not ever.

“Kenma, I’m totally fine, I promise.”

“I’m worried about you,” he insists.

“I’m telling you there’s nothing to worry about, I’m being safe.”

“Skipping meals isn’t healthy.”

“Kenma, being this fat isn’t healthy!”

The words escape before you can think to stop them and you can already feel the shame pricking at your eyes as you turn away. You don’t want to see your boyfriend’s look of disgust once he realizes you’re right, once he realizes how fat and unattractive his girlfriend is. Kenma is skinny, he deserves a petite girlfriend who is just as tiny, a girl with slender legs that look cute in shorts and a stomach that lays flat regardless of the time of day. He deserves the sexy girls in his video games, in shape from years of training and perfected suited for tight leather bikini tops.

You don’t realize you’re shaking until Kenma wraps his arms around your shoulders, burying his face into the side of your neck. He lets out a shuttered sigh and if you didn’t know any better you’d think he’s crying as well.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, “and I don’t like seeing you hurting yourself. If you want to lose weight, I’ll help you. We can make healthy foods together and eat them together and exercise together—just please stop skipping meals.”

Your throat feels like it's stuffed with cotton so you can only nod in agreement, raising one hand to weakly wipe at the hot tears staining your cheeks.

The two of you stand like that, huddled in the middle of the kitchen, for several long minutes until the last of your tears have gone before Kenma gently pushes you to sit down at the coffee table. He prepares two steaming bowls full of vegetable stew for you both and you silently eat as Kenma tells you how low calorie the broth is and how many nutrients his mom said were in the vegetables he used. He tells you about a new fitness game on the Nintendo Switch that you two can play together. By the time you finish your meals, Kenma has already promised to wake up early to go jogging around the neighborhood together even though you know he absolutely hates waking up early and exercising when he doesn’t have to.

Your chest aches with how much he loves you, how far he’s willing to go just if he thinks it will help you and make you happy.

A small part of your mind begs you not to listen. It insists you’ll be fat forever if you don’t starve yourself; no pain, no gain. But the more rational part of you gazes into those soft golden eyes, filled with concern and love as he rambles on about the best sources of protein—all stuff he had learned from his professional volleyball player friend Hinata—and you know your answer.

Kenma loves you, he would do anything to see you happy and healthy and you would do anything to please him.

You love him more than you hate yourself.

#kozume kenma #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #kenma x reader #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines #kenma imagine #kenma scenario #kenma x chubby reader #haikyuu x chubby reader

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tsuchann · 3 years

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𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞.

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navigation | send a request!

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𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠; 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗌 𝗑 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎''𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍.

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞; 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬; 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗒

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notes: not really a songfic but i did write this while listening to “you are in love” by taylor swift

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it happened gradually, happened without you even noticing. so slow you didn’t realize (as most things do) until your thoughts wandered to him any time you listened to a love song, or until your mind was too focused on sweet words he said to you that day instead of sleep, or until you were staring into his pretty doe eyes for a moment too long, counting the colors.

you can’t quite remember when it started- maybe when he complimented your dancing during the 6th grade dance even though you stepped on his foot a gazillion times (and you had heels on), or when he held you as you cried a week straight after your pet hamster died with no complaints, or hell maybe it was on the very elementary playground you met.

you’re not sure why either. maybe it was because he never failed to catch you when you tripped over air (even if he had to sprint from a couple feet away), or maybe because he always held your hand anytime you saw him, or maybe it was because he was just so undeniably stanley.

and you couldn’t get enough.

you can, however, pinpoint the exact moment you realized- it was too memorable to forget and you were sure you would be able to pass the story off for bedtime when you and stanley eventually have kids like you both knew you wanted (though you weren’t sure if you’d want them with anyone else).

it was saturday night- of course it was, the losers were cooped up in bill's basement, a random horror movie playing on the tv while the rest of your friends began to doze off.

richie and eddie wrapped in a cocoon blanket on the floor, mike on the armchair, and bill, bev, and ben squeezed on the couch. you and stan take the loveseat (as always)- your body on top of stanley's own, arms tangled, and legs hanging slightly off the loveseat's arm.

he was still awake, as far as you could tell. either that or he was humming in his sleep. his fingers were tangled in your hair, braiding it maybe, or just toying with it. your face in the nook where his neck and shoulder dove to meet as you played with the fingers on his other hand absentmindedly.

he shifted a bit, and let go of your hand to place his keys on the table and out of his pocket so it would stop poking his leg. but, his finger hit the corner of the table as he went to hold your hand again, and he hisses out a quiet “fuck.”

you let out a tired giggle, all you could muster in your sleepy state. “language.”

you could almost feel stan roll his eyes, his pretty eyes.

“didn't know you were awake, angel.” he mumbles, trying to play it off, but you can hear the smile in his voice. god, those damn pet names that make your stomach flutter.

you shift to rest your chin on the palms of your hands, elbows trapping stan's torso between them, so you can look up at him just to find him smiling fondly down at you. you don't say anything, just stare at him, admiring him with a dopey smile.

that's when it hits you, you think, as your eyes land on his lips. friends don't want to push their lips against each other's until they need to come up for air again. friends don't wonder how good their lips would feel against your neck. friends don't think about each other like that.

his smile widens, cheeks flushing a little as you unconsciously reach out and grab his hand again, interlocking your fingers. “you look sleepy, babylove.”

babylove.

you gulp, smiling weakly when all you wanna do is tell this boy how infatuated you really are with him. “just nearly there, love.” you offer, pet names slipping out so naturally and you realize you barely call each other by your names anymore.

it happens gradually, you think, but it doesn't seem like it. it seems like it hits you like a train, so fast, faster than your heart beating when he smiles.

he hums contently, carding his fingers in your hair. god, this boy, this boy. you were whipped.

“you're my best friend, y/n.” he says, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.

you smile back, but you don't meet his eyes. just a best friend. “you're mine, too, stannie.” you reply meekly.

regardless, you drift off to sleep comfortably in his safe arms.

“i love you.” you said once, nervous even though you had said it before. but, that was before you realized the real intensity of your love for stan.

stan grinned blindingly down at you, standing tall over you still in his baseball jersey, sticky with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead, and eyes bright after winning his game. “i know, angel. i love you, too!”

he pulled you closer by your waist, leaving his hands to rest at the curve on your back, pressing your chests impossibly closer.

“yeah.. but,” you averted your eyes, making his eyebrows knit in confusion. “i love you... but,” you but your lip, finally meeting his eyes again as his stared down questioningly.

“but?” he prodded in that voice you loved so much- you loved everything about him so so much.

your voice was quiet, “more than.. just a friend.”

his eyes widened, you could see it, and you prepared yourself for a rejection, but before you could even say anything, he was pushing his lips on yours.

cheers erupted from around you and whoops of “stan the man's getting some!”- right, you were at a party with all of stan's teammates and more-but you couldn't find it in you to care as he locked your fingers and smiled into your first kiss.

it happens so slow, so fast- you shrugged, only took you 8 years.

god, you were so in love.

#it chapter 1 #it chapter 1 imagine #it imagine #stanley uris x reader #stan the man #stanley uris smut #stanley uris #stanley uris deserved better #stanley uris is literally all i want #i’m whipped #i want a stanley uris so bad #i am so in love with this boy #i wrote this instead of sleeping #it's literally 4AM

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hanibalistic · 3 years

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#372064 | HWANG HYUNJIN.

genre | fluff, vague lovers au, best friends au

word count | 1060

warning | none

there was only laughter when the rain began to pour.

the weather forecast did not anticipate the gloomy sky tonight, and neither did you and hyunjin, as you two had headed out to the nearby park—you with your juice box and him with his skateboard—to spend the last night of summer holiday together.

it would be hustle and bustle all over again tomorrow morning after you two trail up the school stairs in unwilling steps, so you two had wanted one last breather, one last moment of quietness where you wouldn't have to deal with flipping pages and scraping pencils. just the chilly night air of the open city, where you two didn't have to be soon-to-graduate seniors.

your plan to laze around in the park did not pan out too well for you both. the sky decided to throw a fit only ten minutes into hyunjin skating slowly along the uneven path, and you drinking your carton of peach juice next to him.

you could almost pinpoint the exact moment you realized the tears would start piling down on your two, and when the sky began to really cry, hyunjin had looked to you with wide eyes and a big, surprised smile before he took your hand and made a run for it.

and then it was pure laughter. he took off with you, running toward nowhere on the lookout for shelter. the seats under the tree, the tiny bus stop out in the road, or even the dirty public restroom located not too far away from the park.

none of them were good shelter locations, unfortunately. the seats were already tainted by the droplets slipping through the leaves, the cars passing by continued to splash water against the poor bus stop, and the public restroom stunk of dirt.

you two were getting more soaked by the second; your shirt sticking to your skin and his hair damp from the rain. this was a recipe for disaster and a very bad cold, but you could not care less with the way he gripped your slippery hand. he was holding you tight, firm, like he could never let go of you even if the lightning strikes hit the very fibers of his body.

"when is the rain going to stop?"

your voice was soft under the pitter-patter of the rain. your head laid weirdly on hyunjin's chest, the wet fabric of his hoodie cold but unbothering for you when it went up against the rhythmic beats of his heart.

his feet moved against the arch of the plastic tube attached to the outdoor playground, a location you two decided to hide in for the time being. it was a small space, made rather uncomfortable for his long limbs, but it was the only dry haven you two could find now.

"i don't know," he replied in a deep mutter, his fingers stroking your dampened hair.

"hmm..." you sighed with your chest, your heavy lids blinking as you slumped further against his side.

the blinding glow from the car headlights dimmed as they got filtered through the yellow tunnel. you counted the lights as they blazed past, the numbers you whispered out your lips also being printed on the skin of his wrist with your chipped nails.

"can you believe summer is already ending?" you said in faint disbelief, arching your head up to look at him in this dim atmosphere. "it felt like yesterday when i was just whining about being bored."

"you just don't want to go to school," he giggled, glancing down when he felt you move your head.

you two could barely see each other. it was too dark inside, the only light being the flashes from each end of the playground tunnel. you laid on hyunjin's body, your neck arched up so you could watch him, and you weren't seeing much aside from the outline of his face.

come to think of it, even back when you were younger, and the sun was shining bright whenever you had the chance to get into one of these playground tunnels, you were never really able to see anything in it. it had always felt like a rose filter—these tunnels made everything lighter, dreamier, more colorful.

now that you have grown up, things appeared to have stayed constant. under the dark, yellowish light, hyunjin still looked prettier than ever, and his body was soft to lean against despite the cold.

how did this happen? you had not the faintest idea. your relationship with him breezed past like the seasons, ever-growing each year until you two were able to share a comfortable everything—a comfortable silence, a comfortable small talk, a comfortable hug.

looking at him right now, under the rain and being held closely for his warmth, you felt a spread in your chest that you have always felt even back when you first met him. the fluttery feeling of a thrilling fall, the affectionate charge of recognizing how you felt for him once again, which was that you were in love with him, that you have been in love with him, and you still were in love with him.

and you would go out late at night just to watch him skate around the park, his black locks falling over his attractive eyes and bouncing whenever he smiles. and you would run in the rain with him, clumsily trying to find a shelter while laughing about how unfortunate you two were. and you would, always, let yourself fall in love with him more each time he pulls your closer to him in this tiny tunnel, as if he could give you all the warmth he could muster from his body.

"i don't want to go to school," you admitted as you sat up a little more. your head hit the tip of his chin, and you laid your head on his shoulder instead, feeling his skin on your cheek. "i want to stay here with you, though."

"really?" he chuckled, turning his head and letting his lips brush against your forehead. "even with the rain and everything?"

you laughed, giving him a nod.

nothing beats the silence, the yellow tunnel lights, his lanky arms around your waist, and counting cars under your breath as they pass by the park.

even with the rain and everything.

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ncssian · 4 years

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A Favor: Part Two

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: im so sorry i know i need to start editing these

***

Nesta stands in her guest room at Cassian’s cabin, hands on her hips as she eyes the garbage bags full of things she managed to salvage from her old apartment.

All of her rain-soaked clothes sit in two huge bags, waiting to go through the laundry, while her books are carefully spread out on the windowsill, floor, and anywhere they can catch enough sunlight to dry their pages. Nesta almost cried when she saw that Lorene had salvaged her few adult coloring books and the art supplies to go with them, still dry.

For a brief moment, she’s glad she didn’t buy any physical copies of her textbooks this year— the loss of that money would be too much to bear.

A brief knock sounds at her door, and Nesta spins to find Cassian standing there, laundry basket in hand. “I can take your clothes down for you if you want,” he offers, lifting his own basket with a hand.

Nesta’s lips tighten. He wants to do her laundry with his. Their laundry will get cleaned together. Her underwear will get tangled up with his.

Cassian’s brow furrows. “Nesta?”

This is her new reality now. She’ll have to accept it at one point or another.

“We can do separate loads if you want,” Cassian adds. “Feyre told me you— well, she said you might be more uncomfortable with some things than others. It’s totally fine if you don’t want your clothes mixing—”

“No.” Nesta finally snaps out of it. “I don’t care about the laundry. My clothes are right here.”

Because she has a sneaking suspicion she might be being unintentionally bitchy again, Nesta helps Cassian drag her bags of drenched clothes downstairs.

“I feel sort of bad for bullying you into this deal,” Cassian rambles as he dumps clothes into the washer. “Which is why I need you to know you can enforce whatever rules and boundaries you want while you’re here. If you’d prefer I never speak to you for the rest of your time here, I can manage that, too.”

Nesta looks at him with a hint of disbelief. Sometimes he says the oddest things. “I don’t want you to never speak to me again.”

There’s relief in his sagging shoulders. “That’s good,” he says as he pours out detergent. “I mean, I was a little worried you were against this so much because you hated me, but you don’t know me enough to hate me, do you?”

Hate. Nesta rolls the word over her tongue, tastes the hard corners of it, and decides it doesn’t fit for Cassian. Not even close. She wonders how to articulate this to Cassian.

She settles on: “You seem nice enough. Obviously, since you’re letting me live in your luxury mountain cabin for free. But I don’t want to set any boundaries while I’m here. You shouldn’t have to change your normal lifestyle just for a guest. Do whatever you want; it’s your place.”

Cassian presses a button and the rumble of the washing machine begins. “I want you to be comfortable,” he says, turning to face her completely. “Whatever you need, Nesta, seriously.”

For starters, it would make Nesta comfortable if he didn’t say her name like that. His earnestness makes her skin itch, but she’s not going to tell him that.

Instead, she bravely lifts her chin. “I’ve been pushed so far out of my comfort zone that I don’t think I know how to find my way back.” The honest truth. “At this point, you might as well keep me out here.”

Cassian’s eyes narrow. “If you don’t tell me what things bother you, I’ll have to find them out for myself, you know.” It sounds like a challenge.

“Go ahead,” Nesta deadpans. She doesn’t know what Feyre’s told him about her, but contrary to popular belief, Nesta isn’t a glass doll. Sensitive, high maintenance, yes, but fragile? Never.

She turns on her heel and leaves Cassian in the laundry room, determined not to let her circumstances get the better of her while she stays here.

***

Cassian takes everything back. He’s obsessed.

He can’t pinpoint the exact moment, how or when or why he decided he likes Nesta. Maybe it was an amalgamation of different things, but by the time she settles onto his living room couch with a box of takeout Thai food, it’s safe to say he’s fascinated.

She’s nothing like how Feyre talks about her. She’s barely anything like the woman he met at the dinner party two years ago. The problem is, Cassian hasn’t pinpointed what she’s like. There’s still too many walls in place, but here, as she slurps noodles unabashedly while watching TV with an intense fixation, she’s softer than he’s ever seen her. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t feel the need to defend herself to a sitcom; there’s no self-consciousness, only a deep focus on the Community episode they’re currently watching.

Cassian splits his focus between offering commentary in an attempt to make Nesta laugh and observing her reactions from the corner of his eyes. A few things he’s noticed so far: 1) Her cheeks bulge like a squirrel’s when they’re full of food; she seems to have no shame about this. 2) She isn’t inclined to respond to Cassian when he makes comments on the show, but the corners of her mouth tilting up imply that she likes it anyway. 3) She watches sitcoms like she’s studying for a final exam about them.

When the episode finally ends, she turns to him and glances at his hands. “Are you going to eat that?” she says.

Cassian glances down at his untouched container of food, a little surprised, but hands it over to her without a fight. He can’t pretend it doesn’t do something to him to see her eyes light up over something as simple as curry and rice.

Nesta’s poking her chopsticks around the box when she notices Cassian watching. “What?” she says, immediately on the defensive.

“You eat funny,” he admits. Her brows furrow so deeply he thinks they might create a permanent indentation. He’s quick to add, “It’s adorable. Seriously.” It isn’t something he would have said yesterday, but he’s taking Nesta’s words from the laundry room to heart. He won’t put a damper on his personality as long as she can handle it.

Her hand comes up to self-consciously touch her cheek, but she quickly drops it. “Play the next episode,” she says as she picks up her chopsticks again, and that’s the end of that.

***

Cassian wastes no time coming up with ways to push Nesta out of her comfort zone, just as he promised. The next morning, he greets her downstairs in nothing but a pair of sweatpants. Nesta takes a long, slow blink at his bare torso, muscled arms, and brown skin, and turns around to get started on making breakfast. It’s not good enough— he catches a glimpse of her reddened cheeks when she reaches for the milk container anyway.

It’s only until they’re both settled in the living room after dinner that he realizes he doesn’t have the upper hand he thought he did.

Nesta is stretched out on her stomach on the Persian rug in an oversized tee and nothing else. Her bare legs swing in the air behind her, and she’s listening to music and coloring.

Cassian’s unanswered emails sit abandoned on the phone in his lap. He truly can’t stop staring; there’s just too much to absorb.

For starters, she wears glasses. Big, round, gold-rimmed glasses that are almost slipping off her nose at the moment. That revelation alone is so affecting that he has to quickly move on to other, smaller details. Like the sound of her uncapping different markers and filling in smooth lines on the page before her. Cassian feels a desperate desire to see what she’s coloring. Her hair is up in a ponytail, and her legs…

Cassian can’t say that ever since he first took notice of the beauty mark at the corner of Nesta’s lush mouth that he hasn’t wondered where else on her body she might be hiding little moles and freckles. He just never expected to get an answer so soon. Because right there, where her shirt rumples up to reveal her bare thigh, is the smallest dark spot.

He wants to put his mouth on it.

His own thoughts take him by surprise, and he realizes he’s gripping his phone so hard the screen might crack.

He uncurls his fingers from the phone and squeezes his eyes shut against the wave of desire crashing into him. Desire and something else, something achingly fond and frustrated at the same time.

“Cassian?” The sound of his name has his eyes snapping open. Nesta’s watching him, brow furrowed. “Are you feeling okay?” she asks.

He feels stupid for trying to play this push-and-pull game with Nesta, because it’s barely even started and he’s already losing. “I’m gonna go put a shirt on,” he mutters, moving to get up.

Nesta’s lips turn down a little. “And ruin the view?” She says it completely seriously, not a hint of slyness to her words.

Cassian’s ass falls back into his seat in pure surprise. His eyes widen. “Was that a joke?” Did Nesta Archeron just make a joke?

Her frown turns deeper. “I don’t think so. Was it funny?”

“It was teasing.”

“Then it wasn’t a joke.” She shrugs and returns back to her coloring. “If you put a shirt on, I’m putting my pants on,” she says without looking up.

Cassian has absolutely no idea what he’s gotten himself into. But he doesn’t move from the couch for the rest of the evening.

***

By the end of the weekend, Nesta has gotten the hang of being around Cassian. There are several occasions in those first couple of days— slips of the tongue, really— where she pauses in trepidation, worried she’s said or done too much. She is always doing too much. But then Cassian grins, or laughs, or as of more often lately, teases her right back, and her muscles can relax again.

He has also relaxed around her. Nesta knows that quiet front he put up when they first met was partly for her benefit, because the more comfortable they become with each other, the more he reminds her of the Cassian Feyre’s always talking about. And yet, the person he is with her is nothing like the person she’s seen hanging around Feyre’s inner circle. This person doesn’t make her feel excluded or ignored. It’s the exact opposite— she hasn’t been on the receiving end of this much male attention since Tomas.

And as much as it surprises her to like it so much, she’s not in the mood for his particular brand of teasing at seven in the morning on a Monday.

She stumbles into the kitchen fully dressed and more than a bit disgruntled, needing the strongest cup of coffee available to get through her morning classes today. Cassian is already sitting at the island with his laptop, and raises his brows to see her up this early. He dares to smile at her before the sun is even fully up. “Glad to see you woke up ready to play, Nesta.”

Nesta almost throws her empty mug at his head. “Don’t talk to me,” she says, thumping her mug down beside the coffeemaker.

Taunting becomes questioning as he eyes her outfit. “You have somewhere to be at this hour?”

“I’m a law student,” she grumbles, punching buttons on the coffeemaker. “I have morning classes three days a week.” It’s unacceptable, but it isn’t the worst thing she’ll go through as she tries to get her J.D.

Cassian sits up straight at that. “Who’s taking you to class?” Her car is still in for repairs, and she has yet to rent one to make up for it.

“I’m Ubering,” she tosses over her shoulder.

“That’s ridiculous,” Cassian says. “I’ll drive you.”

Nesta spins around at that. “No way in hell.” She throws whatever bite she has into her refusal.

Cassian is unfazed. “It’s on my way to work.”

“You work from home.” He’s not even dressed.

“Then today is the day I’ll make a stop at corporate headquarters. My subordinates get to see my pretty face for once, you get to go to class, and we all win.” He grins, and in this moment Nesta truly hates his grin. It lights up his whole face in a way that should be illegal. He’s probably robbed banks with that grin.

Nesta doesn’t have the brain capacity to argue with him. She doesn’t even feel like criticizing the fact that at twenty-seven, Cassian runs the entire security division of Night Court Inc. thanks to the help of the CEO, also known as his adoptive brother.

She’s never met anyone who makes nepotism look so good.

Grabbing her steaming coffee mug and taking a deep sip, unflinching at the feeling of her tastebuds being burned away, she meets Cassian’s expectant gaze. “Get dressed.”

***

When Cassian texts to ask her when she’s getting out of class, she doesn’t expect him to actually show up outside the law building with drinks and a paper bag of food. She has to stop and glance around for a moment, as if he could possibly be here for somebody else.

Approaching him cautiously, Nesta takes the cup holder from his hand and inspects the contents. A green tea and a rainbow-colored slushie. She looks back up at Cassian, and he smiles. “Shall we?”

They end up settling under the shade of an oak tree on the lawn outside where her Principles of International Law class is held. “So how was your day?” Cassian asks as he bites into a burrito.

Nesta can’t remember the last time someone asked her that and sounded genuine about it, and she almost doesn't know how to answer. “It's noon,” she says.

“Fine. How was your last four hours?”

“Nothing more interesting than yours.” She eyes his outfit at that. She’s never seen Cassian in this manner. Work Cassian wears expensive buttondowns tucked into slacks. Work Cassian must use some kind of fancy product on his hair to make it so flowy, because for the first time ever, he looks exactly like the amount of money he makes. “You look so...adult. I’d almost buy it if you didn't have the taste palate of a five year old.” Nesta sips from her tea.

He actually rolls his eyes at her. “You wish you had what it takes to handle an every-flavor-slushie.” Because that's what he’s drinking, a heart attack in a 32 ounce cup.

“That's bait, and I’m not falling for it,” Nesta says through a mouthful of burrito.

“You don't need to.” He offers the drink out to her. “Try it.”

Nesta stares at the cup, chewing slowly. Usually the thought of sharing a straw with someone would disgust her, but—

She just wants to know how it tastes. Swallowing quickly, she grabs the drink. “Whatever,” she mutters, and wraps her lips around the red straw.

Cassian watches intently as she takes a deep pull. Ten different flavors hit her tongue at once, and she thinks her brain spasms. She's too tough to make a face, and swallows the slushie like it's nothing.

“You like?” Cassian looks hopeful.

Nesta slams the cup down. “It’s disgusting. My point was proven.”

He laughs. “Weak.”

More easy moments pass like this before he says, “I wish you came around Feyre’s more often. I could have gotten to know you earlier.”

Nesta stills, food halfway to her mouth. “What do you mean?”

Cassian shrugs. “It just seems odd that we’ve talked more in the last three days than in the last three years I’ve known of you. Why don’t you hang out with Feyre like Elain does?”

She stiffens, and considers whether the conversation is even worth continuing. “Feyre’s always with you guys,” she chooses her words carefully. “There’s rarely time left for me.”

She waits for Cassian to tell her that sharing exists, and that she’s allowed to be at Feyre’s place with Feyre’s friends at the same time, but he just watches her patiently. Waiting for her to go on.

“Besides, I used to come over all the time before my sister moved to Velaris. You were there, too.”

“I was?” That gets his attention; he drops his food and turns to face her fully. “What are you talking about?”

Nesta nods, but an odd, old feeling is bubbling up in her chest. It tastes hard and a little sad. “I doubt you noticed, but I was there. In the background while you guys got drunk or laughed together.”

He huffs an odd sort of laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I would have noticed you from a hundred foot radius from Feyre’s apartment. We’ve only seen each other twice before this weekend.”

Nesta is caught between disbelief and disappointment, but she hides it well with a scoff. “We’ve only spoken to each other twice, idiot. I’ve seen you plenty of times.”

Cassian looks like she just came up to him with scientific evidence that the sky is green and grass is blue, and he can’t wrap his mind around it. “That just doesn’t make sense,” he says.

Nesta raises a brow. “Are you implying I’m lying?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No, but— it’s like you’re saying I failed to notice a fucking lion in the room every time I didn’t see you. It’s just not something someone fails to notice. It’s impossible not to notice!” He throws his hands up.

You’re impossible not to notice. Nesta has no idea what to make of that, or whether she should be insulted or not. He didn’t say it with the same backhanded tone as so many of the people she knew in high school, but it didn’t sound like high praise, either. On the other hand, the words are so ironic they’re almost funny.

She settles for a shrug and begins sweeping up her napkins and trash. “Well, it isn’t impossible for a lot of people.” The look she throws him says clear enough, Including you.

He works his jaw, seeming upset, but helps Nesta up from the ground anyway. Walks her all the way back to his truck in near-silence and drives them home.

A/N: you’d think the ‘ready to play’ line was a cute reference but i actually just suck at writing banter so i needed to borrow from sarah.

tagging: @ladywitchling @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @sensitiveillyrian @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy

if you want to be added or removed please send an ask or dm!

#nessian #nessian fic #ncssianwrites #nesta archeron #cassian #a favor

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writing-the-end · 3 years

Text

LoL Chapter 56- Ancient Quarrels

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

Ex returns home with new friends, but struggles with the reality that his old stomping grounds have grown up without him, all while learning more about the history of dark magic.

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

“I thought I told you to come alone.” Xisuma states, staring at the rainbow haired twins. No matter how much the two try to blend in, the ever shifting colors of their locks always stand out.

“I thought you could use the help. You clearly need it if you reached out to me.” Ex steps off the pirate ship, followed by the king and his brother. Ex tries his best to keep his gaze on the ground at his feet, the grass, sand, and dirt. He doesn’t want to see what Xisuma and all his friends have done to the safe haven they found together. As brothers. He doesn’t want to see what he's missed, what he’s been too afraid to claim for his own. He doesn’t want to see how much time has changed the island he once called home.

But Ex stumbles over a rock, his books scattering from his arms, while he plummets to the ground. He could let go of his remaining scrolls and books, but these articles are ancient and invaluable. He’d rather break his nose than let go of them.

Lucky for Ex, he doesn’t have to choose. One of the hermits grabs him before he gets a mouthful of dirt. Ex opens his eyes, forced to look at the island. And he sees everything.

It looka exactly the same. It looks completely different. The grounds were the same- the same rocky shores, soft beaches, hills, forest, even the lake at the center on the north side of the island. The grass the same green color, the sky the same blue, the distant mist and waves dancing together. But dotting the island now stood a menagerie of buildings. Where there used to only be the tower of stone he and X built, now a glass biodome rests on one side, a barn on the other. Smoke rolls free from the chimney of a weaponsmith’s house, and just off the island a cloud floats low, the white tower upon it open to the breeze of the sea.

Ex collects his books, and slinks off to the guild hall. Sor follows Grian to help with Apatia, to make the decision on how to move forward with his recovery. Tris follows behind Ex, taking in the open sea and sky. So unlike Milliara.

It was exactly that which drew the void twins here in the first place. They dared enter the Ashioll sea because it was quiet, peaceful, unlike Milliara. Back when there were only two- they didn’t need anyone more. They didn’t want anyone more. In the end, Ex got to be alone, moreso than ever. Without even a brother.

Being back on Eremita was painful, but as a healing wound would be. For the first time in years, his brother reached out to him. For the first time, they were putting aside the argument so long ago and working together. Like they did when they were young.

At the same time, both X and Ex set out their books on the same table. At the same time, like mirror images of one another, they set out their maps, their inkwells, their quills, even their books ordered the exact same way. The similarities between the two were uncanny, leaving the hermits baffled as they watch them. If it wasn’t for Ex’s white hair, it’d be impossible to tell them apart.

Ex speaks first, pulling the red fabric of his cloak away from his face so the hermits can hear him. “The last known insurgence of dark magic was over a thousand years ago. Before Lairyon became a kingdom, near the end of the ancient ones’s time. As we all know, Addows is the only place that still has significant and readable history of the ancient ones. Everything disappeared just like them.”

“And no one knows why.” Tris adds in, sitting down and plucking a book. He flips through the pages. “The ancient ones had magic more powerful than most wizards. Very few forms of ancient powers survive today- including angelic magic.”

The hermits look at Grian, but he simply shrugs. He knows nothing about the ancient ones, just that they’re… well, ancient. Iskall speaks up, resting his cheek on his hand. “Could it be that it was the dark magic that wiped them out?”

Both of the void twins and Tris shake their head, and begin to answer at the same time. Ex and X glare at one another, and Tris takes the moment to answer instead. “No, it’s not like there’s a sign of a fight, or a struggle, or anything. Just...one day they were all over this kingdom, and then- poof, gone.”

“But the ancient ones weren’t the only people here. The kiplings have been living in these waters longer than anyone. And if we cross reference the information King Sormena gave me access to in the royal library, and the deep sea libraries of the Kiplings, we can start to get an inkling of understanding.”

“My gods you’re so boring even now.” Xisuma groans. “We dont need the whole story, and Lairyon doesn’t have time. What did you learn and how can we use it to defeat Dolios?”

“Well…” Ex bits his lip. “We didn’t learn how they defeated the dark magic all those times before. But we did find the location of one of their lost cities. Tris and I believe it could even be the ancient capital of theirs.”

The hermits groan, some even dramatically flopping back in their chairs. It seems all they ever have are breadcrumbs, leading them around in circles all across Lairyon. TFC speaks up first, though even he seems exhausted. “It’s better than nothing. It’s our only hope at this point. So where is it?”

“Tris had pinpointed the general location of the lost city in the Ashioll Fjords, but together we were able to determine the exact location.” Ex plucks a quill from the table, dipping the tip in the ink and marking one of the many divots and crests of the northernmost part of Lairyon. All the hermits lean in, peering at the location. It looks no different from any other part of the fjords, or even the rest of Lairyon.

“If anyone knows how to defeat Dolios’s dark magic, it has to be the ancient ones.” Etho states. “They did it before, we just have to do it again.”

It gives the hermits hope to know this isn’t the first time, they aren’t the only ones in all of history to face dark magic. Ex looks up at the hermits, a question that’s been dancing in his mind finding its way to his tongue before he can stop it. “Why did you guys ever decide to do this? What in the world made you guys think you could take on a dark wizard? Be the chosen few like the ancient ones?”

The hermits look at one another, as if they’d find an answer in the stares and faces of their peers. But no one has the answer. Though Joe is more than willing to come up with his own. “Perhaps, in this story, there are no chosen ones. No destiny or prophesied heroes. Perhaps it is just by the choice of normal man, who chooses to make a difference, who chooses to stand up and fight, that is really what makes a hero?”

“Is this what I missed when I left?” Ex questions Xisuma, who nods solemnly.

“What will we find in the lost city?” Grian questions.

“I dunno, it’s lost.” Tris quips, causing Grian to blush when he realizes his question. “But if it’s anything like Addows, you should be prepared for ancient ones magic and the stone buildings they made their cities from. Apart from that- you just gotta look in the right place.”

The hermits realize they’re going in on this blind. Once again, they have little more than a hope, a thread of a lead, taking them somewhere in search of answers. Whether it was Gildara, or the Champion’s Cup, or even the Forest of Memories, they’ve always been chasing the same specter of knowledge. Hoping to find something more.

“But you won’t be alone this time.” Ex points out. The hermits turn to face him, his face so familiar, yet so vastly different. “King Sormena volunteered to go along with you, to give aid on your search.”

Tris averts his gaze, his jaw set tight at the mention of his brother joining the hermits. Doc raises his hand, almost condescending. “Won’t Dolios notice the king is gone?”

“He’s not in Milliara right now. The Wanderers informed me of that- where he is, I don’t know, but this is a rare opportunity that we can’t waste. You’ll need every mind and magic to figure out the puzzles and clues that the lost city may have. I’d best get packing if i were you guys.”

Groups disperse off, back to their homes, caves, ships, and clouds. Once again preparing, as a whole guild, to go off on another adventure. Even Tris disappears, either to go find and argue with his brother, or get a pint of beer from Cleo. But one person stays behind.

Xisuma doesn’t ever look directly at his brother, but he always turns his head just slightly to be able to see Ex shuffling papers. His body is aimed out from the guild hall, looking over, across the island of Eremita. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, X speaks up. “Will you be able to take care of Apatia while we’re gone? I don’t think he can go back to Milliara with you.”

Ex raises an eyebrow. It almost sounds like an invitation to stay on the island. Almost. “I guess if no one else will, I can offer my help. And glean information from him about the magistrate. Perhaps I can talk to Ian about engineering a prosthesis… Kiplings aren’t really meant to live without their fins.”

The void mage shakes his head, listening to his brother continue to ramble on under his breath. So many years apart, and yet the same old Ex. For the first time in years, after so long hating his twin, refusing to talk to him, removing every sign he ever existed on this island, now he’s standing in their guild hall. And for the first time in years, Xisuma feels like he can let go of the anger and tension from that fight so long ago.

Ex steps up beside Xisuma, and the two gaze over Eremita. They watch as Keralis and Zedaph round up sheep for their midday meal, Iskall, Mumbo, and Grian arguing over what kind of redstone they could possibly need on their journey, Wels and False sharpening the blades of their own weapons and others.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but Eremita looks more alive than it ever was when it was just the two of them. The colors of all different wizards, from all walks of life. All a part of this guild that Xisuma has found. All this, that Ex was afraid of. “You’ve done a good job building yourself a home. Finding yourself a family. Guess you didn’t really need me.”

Xisuma turns, and removes his mask. For the first time in years, Ex can see his brother's face. They can both see the scars they left on each other. On their skin and in their hearts. Xisuma’s fingers run along the scratched out marking in the metal. Wishing he could take that fit of anger back and fix it. “I didn’t do this without you, though. When I wasn’t sure what to do, it was always your annoying voice that guided me to the right decision.”

“We have the same voice.” Ex points out.

“Exactly. No matter what, no matter what I did, you were still with me, a part of me. But when I didn't know what to do, I thought about what you would choose. And it always led me in the right direction. Even though you weren’t here, I still needed you. I still needed my brother.”

To hear that word come from Xisuma’s mouth, to hear him call Ex that- brother. All these years, all he ever wanted was his brother back. To have a family again. Ex can feel tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, but he doesn’t want his brother to see him crying over such a simple thing. “I think it’ll be nice to have a family again. It...it feels good to be home.”

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft au #light of lairyon #wizard hermits #wizard au #hermitcraft fanfic #wizard xisuma #wizard ex #xisuma #evil xisuma #wizard tfc #wizard etho #tinfoilchef #ethoslab

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corvidshipping · 3 years

Text

Because I Couldn’t Stand to Lose You

Summary: Red has something important to tell Milo after work. Pairing: Bryelle “Red” Harness/Milo Th/atch Warnings: coming out, a very brief moment of misgendering Rating: G/T Word count: 1.5k A/N: once again this was written with 0 outline and very little editing. i wrote this in one sitting between like 2/3 am and 5am. yee haw pardners

Is it possible for a person to pinpoint the exact moment they fall in love? To take the record on which all of life is written, to unscroll the papyrus and point to a sentence, a word, a moment, a breath, where it all started? Is it possible to know the exact words which made you realize that you never wanted to be apart from a person?

A lone figure stands outside the Smithsonian offices, a crowd pushing and heaving against it. Enshrouded in a black coat and a wide-brimmed hat, its eyes are cast in shadow, but it stands watching, waiting at the doors for a man who is always prompt. Somewhere, a church bell chimes for evening mass, and the doors open.

The man who steps out is simultaneously immediately recognizeable and forgettable, a concerningly thin body wrapped in a tan overcoat and topped with a sandy mop of hair. He hurries in the chill of the October evening, tucking a sheaf of papers and books under his arm protectively. Only on the steps does he look up from his rushing feet to see the figure waiting, and at that moment on the rain-wet stone his balance fails him, leaving him to tumble down four more stairs and come sliding to a halt at the figure's feet. Silently, the figure reaches down for his upper arm.

"I didn't think you were coming today," the man says as he allows them to help him to his feet. He checks his papers, counting once and then twice, ensuring they are all present. Once he is on his feet, it's clear the difference between the two; despite an unimpressive stature, the man in the tan coat towers over the one in black.

The figure reaches over to brush off the back of the man's coat, and finally speaks. "I wanted to walk you home. Fluffy missed you." Their voice is soft, higher than the man's yet lower than most women's, and their sentences stay clipped short.

"You checked in on him?" A grin, crooked and bright, grows on his face, glowing in the grey mugginess.

"You asked me to, Milo." A wry smile grows on the lips under the black hat, small and dollike set in the pale white face of the speaker. "I couldn't let him stay lonely all day. I think I like him more than I like you."

"What would I do without you, Red?" The man named Milo says, ignoring the former's comments to placing a guiding hand on his petite companion's shoulder. The two of them set off down the street, lit yellow under the street lamps.

The duo reaches a row of apartments, and Milo separates from his friend. "This is me," he says, looking back at the silent silhouette as he approaches a door. "Or, eh- would you like to come inside? I can brew some coffee, and..." his sentence trailed as his companion remained silent for some time.

"I would, thank you." The figure steps forward, over the threshold behind Milo.

A mewl greets the two of them in a darkened room, and as Milo fumbles with a box of matches, his friend steps forward to the coatrack and relieves themself of their outerwear. The gas light takes to flame as their coat falls from their shoulders, and he turns to glance at them.

From under the black hat, red hair comes untucked. Milo's brow furrows as he notices that there's not enough - in fact, it's about a foot shorter than it should be, clipped short at the base of their head and revealing a pale, swanlike neck. Rather than turning around, they stay with their back to him, holding their hat and fidgeting with the brim.

"You... cut your hair?" For some reason, Milo finds himself swallowing hard with a dry throat. Fluffy winds around his companion's legs as they take a sharp breath.

"Milo, I have to tell you something."

The man steps forward to place a hand on their shoulder, and they release a breath. "Can you tell me on the couch?" As soon as the sentence has left his mouth, he's rethinking it. That was too harsh, he thinks to himself. She's clearly upset. But rather than arguing, they simply allow themself to be guided to the living room. When Milo takes a seat on the couch, they stay standing, head bowed and eyes focused on a stray thread on their sleeve.

"I don't want you..." they hesitate, and chew on their lip for a moment. "I don't want you to see me the way you see me, anymore."

This revelation only serves to confuse Milo further. "The way I see you?" He's fumbling, floundering. Does she not like me anymore? Did I do something?

"As a woman." As soon as the words leave their throat, they breathe in sharply again, as if they wished they could gasp the words back from the air. Milo blinks twice, and the room is silent except for the cat's incessant purring.

Finally, they continue, breathlessly. "I know it's strange, but I'm not the only one. There are others like me. I can show you- I have books, newspaper clippings. There was a surgeon, he identified himself as a man, and there's more, but I forgot their names. I'll show you. I mean, I'm not a man, I don't think, but I'm not a woman either. I think I'm something else. It's all very strange, I know, and you don't have to understand. Just don't be mad, please, Milo."

Milo stared at his friend, glasses slipped to the very tip of his nose, breath from his open mouth fogging his glasses. He swallowed once more, trying to find words, and stood. "Why... why would I be mad?"

His compatriot finally lifted their gaze to meet his. "I don't know. Because it's different. Because maybe if I stop going by my name, if I were to stop being a 'she', you might not think of me as myself anymore." Their next words were quiet, spoken barely on a sigh, not meant to be heard. "I couldn't stand to lose you."

Their eyes bored into Milo's now, searching desperately for words that he had not yet spoken. Milo gazed back into them, tracing a line between two points in his mind. He took a step forward, not breaking his line of sight, inhaling as if he were about to speak, but his voice died in his throat. Strands of copper strayed over his friend's - Bry's, Red's - forehead, appearance forgotten in their confession. Their eyes darted back and forth still, and as the two points connected in Milo's mind, he began to see them, and understand them. Two black pools returning his gaze, reflecting the lamp very much like pools of water reflecting a starlit sky. In the yellow flicker, they became nearly the color of honey, set like citrines in a pale face, porcelain marked only by the occasional sunkissed freckle sprinkled over flushed cheeks and a pointed nose. Their lips began to tremble slightly, barely hinting at tears.

Is it possible for a person to pinpoint the exact moment they fall in love? During a conversation, a walk down a foggy road in October, a silent moment after a confession? Is it possible to know the exact words which made you realize that you never wanted to be apart from a person?

It was Red. It had always been Red. And they hadn't changed. By any name, by any face, they were always the same Red, the same unfaltering friend. The Red who, on their first meeting, Fluffy had jumped into the lap of right away, purring. The Red who had spent hours helping him copy ruined papers after they had been knocked into a rain puddle. The Red who mended his vests, visited his cat, brought him lunch, and all at the simplest mention by Milo without being asked. Even if they changed how they looked, how they wanted to be seen, they would stay the same Red, and Milo knew he must support this. They were too valuable to lose for this, in a way that couldn't be measured or described.

It was one of two things Milo was sure about without hesitation.

He smiled. "You want to dress like this now?"

"I do." Red's eyes kept searching his face, trying to find the hint of disapproval.

"You don't want me to call you 'she' anymore?"

"It's interesting that you mention that," they began on another tangent. "You see, the singular 'they' has been in use since Shakespeare's poetry, I can give examples, and if you-" As they looked at Milo, their sentence cut off. "Yes." They concluded.

Milo's smile simply grew. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. I can give you some of my old clothes, if you'll need them. I mean... They won't fit you, but you can hem them, right?" Milo finally stepped back, his awkwardness returning as he considered the implications of exactly what he had just realized.

"I... Thank you." Red's eyes become glassy with tears that threaten to spill over as they speak.

"Yeah. I mean, don't worry about it. I l- I care about you." He began to fumble with his words. "Why don't I make that coffee like I promised?"

Red smiled. "That would be nice."

#paper_heart.txt #self ship fic #self shipping community #screams and yells. i wrote this in one night i was up till 5am finishing it but it was WORTH IT!!!! WORTH IT!!!!!!!!#s: i didn't say it's the smart thing. but it is the right thing #lucky stars

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spookyswhore · 4 years

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Happy Halloween (Oscar Diaz)

Summary: You convince Oscar to celebrate Halloween with you, which may end up with you being punished for your cheeky ways.

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: slight smut and when I say slight, I mean slight.

(credit to @merakiaes for the gif ❤)

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“Bebita..no, I’m not going..” Oscar groaned.

It was a rather chilly night before Halloween in Freeridge. You and Oscar were snuggled up with a blanket and a movie at his place. For the past half hour, you were trying to convince him to come with you to an event the city was holding for Halloween and he was absolutely refusing to go. For the most part, everyone on the block had put up decorations in spirit and it was only right that you did the same. Traditionally, when you were younger, your mom would always take you Trick-or-Treating, with the feeling that that sort of celebration would be the safest route to go, especially with mama bear at your side at all times. Anything else would’ve been disastrous and unsafe, according to your mother. But now that you were a little bit older with a little bit of freedom, you went ahead and decided to book some tickets for a Halloween themed event going on in town. For as long as you’ve known Oscar, which was a good 7 years, you have never pegged him as the type to not like scary stuff, at least to your knowledge. You didn’t really feel like staying inside, especially with your excitement with all of the ghosts and goblins roaming the streets late at night and now at this point, it was just a matter of convincing Oscar to come with you to enjoy the night together.

“Oscar please…” Your hand rose to intertwine with that of his that was draped over your shoulder as your back laid against his chest. Knowing that whining and dragging out your words wasn’t going to convince him, you decided to tap into the protective side of him.

“It’s going to be cold and dark. Besides, who else is gonna be there to protect me from all the scary stuff?” You peered up at him to be met with his eyes already on you, his protectiveness and jealousy darkening his pupils. He let out a breath and mumbled out a low “fine.”

“But you owe me..” He said. There was a serious yet lustful tone with his voice. You lifted the covers over your head and lowered myself down to where the bulge was starting to grow in his pants.

"How about this?" You whispered as you freed his member from the restraints of his sweats and ran your tongue gue along the veiny underside of his member. “Is this okay?” You continued.

“Yeah..” He sighed and threw his head back in content. For the rest of the time, he picked you up and took you into his bedroom where you went on to ‘make it up’ to him in the best ways you knew you could.

Hours had gone by and you couldn’t be anymore excited. In fact, excited was an understatement and only downplayed the pure joy you felt for the day. Today was Halloween and you felt like a kid in a candy store. Halloween during the day was okay but the real stuff you came to love only happened at night. You were ecstatic to see everyone dressed up and practically begging people for candy. Excited to see decorations up and music blaring from the parties everywhere you went. Halloween was fun for you but, if anything, the one thing you were most excited to experience was the event being held tonight. You weren’t one to dress up for Halloween, especially after the over-the-top costumes your mom used to put you into, but still felt the emotions behind it nonetheless. After you put on the finishing touches on your outfit for the night, you found Oscar on the side of your bed sulking over the fact that he has to come with you to the annual event. Unbeknownst to you, Oscar was really scared of anything paranormal. Mortified, really. But he couldn’t tell you that. He was ‘Spooky’, leader of The Santos. Everyone feared him. He had to uphold his ‘Santo’ exterior and anything related to him being scared or afraid in the slightest served as a liability to his facade, just like this event you were so damn intent on attending.

You sat beside him on the bed and gently rested your hand on his shoulder and asked “You okay?”

“Yeah.." He trailed off. Something was off. You couldn't really pinpoint the exact cause of his quietness but a little inkling was telling you that his delay was because of what you guys were about to experience in a few minutes. You bit your lip and looked up at the ceiling to prevent yourself from laughing, hoping that whatever your gut was telling you proved to be wrong. The big, bad Spooky can not be afraid of a ghost or two.

“Baby…” You started. “Are you scared?”

He whipped his head to look at you and raised an eyebrow. “Me? Scared? Nah..”

Not believing him and trusting the little inkling, you decided to put his words to the true test. “Alright well, c’mon. Let’s hop in the car. I don’t want to be late.”

“Huh?” He said, letting his fear take over and drain the color from his face.

“If you can ‘huh’ you can hear me. Get in the car.” You demanded. You sported a smirk on your face as you walked to his bright, cherry red Impala and sat in the passenger seat. Starting to get goosebumps that indicated you were cold, you grabbed your sweater that you threw in the back seat one day and totally forgot to get it back out afterwards. Not too long, Oscar let out a deep breath as he sat down in the driver’s seat.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah babe I’m good.” He grumbled. Oscar started the car and drove as he put his hand on your thigh, squeezing occasionally. As the time went by, you felt yourself starting to grow more excited in anticipation of the night to come the closer you guys got, if it even was possible to surpass your initial excitement from the day. When you both finally arrived, you were in awe. Everything you loved about Halloween, from the atmosphere down to the detail and dedication put into every person’s costume, was thriving right before your eyes. Both you and Oscar stepped out of the car and you immediately pulled him towards all of the stuff you wanted to accomplish before you guys left for the night.

Your final stop was the Haunted House. This was the one thing you were waiting for as you explored the event with Oscar attached at your hip, complaining about wanting to go back to his place earlier than you would’ve liked. You stood in front of Oscar with his arms wrapped around you, practically jumping up and down while waiting in line. One by one, you saw people exiting with some of the most terrified expressions on their faces. Some even came out sobbing while being consoled by their loved ones, which only fueled your eagerness even more. But, Oscar’s tight grip on your waist tightened even further. Eventually, you looked up at him.

“Oscar, you’re hurting me.”

“Shit,” he loosened his arms around your waist while maintaining eye contact at the building in front of him. “I’m sorry mamita.”

“Is my Oscar scared?” You laughed. The way Oscar was acting at this very moment basically confirmed any hunches that supernatural things weren’t his cup of tea.

“No, your Oscar isn’t scared. He’s just...being alert. Besides, he doesn’t want to get a ghost.” Oscar mocked.

“Alert, right… you know Oscar it’s okay to be scared. It’s okay for your nickname to ‘Spooky’ but still be afraid of Casper the friendly ghost.” You turned and before Oscar was given a chance to give you a rebuttal, you heard the woman that was running the station yell out a ‘next’ and you held Oscar’s hand tightly and jogged your way inside. As you two began to make your way through each hallway, you felt a rush of adrenaline as one of the actors jumped out in your face with some of them opting to yell out expletives. Normally, in these kinds of scenarios, the female would be the one to hold on to their significant other in search of protection but instead, at least in your case, it was the complete opposite. The whole time, Oscar clung to you like a wet sock. You almost had to stop him a couple of times from punching a few of them in face and catching a lawsuit. As someone who's a gang leader with two strikes against them already, that wasn’t going to serve him well.

With you guys now finally out of the haunted house, you were just getting done catching your breath from laughing and a very tired Oscar sat down in a table that was set in front of you. With his head laid tiredly in his hands, you got the bright idea to spook him, just a little bit before you guys headed home. So, at a moment you felt where he was completely indulged into taking his break, you slowly crept up behind him and put your mouth to his ear.

“Boo.” You whispered.

“Fuck!” Oscar yelled. Noticing his hand rapidly coming up to swat away whatever was giving him a fright, you backed away and held your stomach with tears coming out of your eyes in gut wrenching laughter.

Feeling the embarrassment from onlookers, he simply said “That shit’s not funny. Let’s go.” He put some force into grabbing your arm and dragging you to the car, being careful not to hurt you too much but still wanting you to feel his embarrassment through his strength. He was a grown ass man and he did not need his lady compromising that by scaring him in front of a bunch of strangers. Once you both got in the car, he turned and gave you a stern look. All the words he wanted to say but didn’t were evident by the dark look in his eyes. You, putting your head down to prevent further laughter, let out a small “sorry.” You had also let him know that it was just an innocent prank.

“Yeah your ass gonna be sorry when we get home. You won’t be crying then…” He grumbled angrily, pulling the lever in front of him to start the car. You knew by the tone of his voice that when you both got home, you were probably going to bent over the bed or you may have your legs behind your head, begging for mercy as he pounded into you relentlessly. Whatever your upcoming punishment was for his embarrassment, you had a feeling that it wasn’t to be a "rainbows and lollipops" kind of moment, at least on your end.

#oscar diaz x reader #spookydiaz #spooky x reader #oscar diaz smut #halloween #spookygif #onmyblock #oscar diaz #oscar diaz imagine

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

Text

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3

Chapter 44: Tim

Tim can pinpoint the exact moment he knows he’s screwed. Later, when he takes the time to think about it, he’ll be able to trace the progress of things and see all the signs, from his fear for them to his instinctive desire to reach out for them when he’s scared to the quiet comfort he feels when they’re together. He’ll remember that weird knot of jealousy he felt the very first morning when he saw the Primes cuddling and realize that it wasn’t a general I-wish-I-had-someone-to-love-me thing, it was specific to who was involved. He’ll figure out that he’s been quietly in love with Martin probably since the moment he saw him trying to apologize and look contrite with an armful of spaniel doing its level best to lick his face off with its tail going like a windmill, and that if there’s a moment he can point to later and say is the one where he completely fell for Jon it’s probably the soft look on his face as he tucked a quilt around Martin’s sleeping form.

But that’s all going to be in retrospect. The moment he knows comes a lot later and is a lot easier to detect.

After an exceptionally extended lunch that only ends when the afternoon crowd starts shuffling in, they part, Melanie with a promise to come by the Archives on Monday, Georgie with an offer to stop by and tell her story after she’s put her next episode of “What the Ghost?” to bed, Sasha with a cryptic reference to some sort of appointment and a promise to see them later. They discover what she means later that night when the doorbell rings and Tim opens it to find her and the Primes on their doorstep. Neither of them seem surprised to learn that Elias is forcing Jon on his grand tour, but they don’t seem pleased about it either. Jon Prime warns Jon, over and over again, to be careful. Tim would almost expect Jon to get exasperated, but he doesn’t. They actually have a pretty pleasant evening; Jon Prime cooks for them while they take turns telling him about dealing with Elias. He does seem pleased to hear Jon has reconnected with Georgie, and he and Martin Prime make the others laugh by sharing stories of dealing with their Melanie and Georgie. They pull out some board games after dinner, and while they all agree that with at minimum three people at the table who can literally access the sum total of human knowledge at a whim, Trivial Pursuit is right out, Monopoly is fair game.

Charlie comes over Saturday while his grandmother hosts one of her bridge nights. He’s extremely distressed to learn that Jon is going away again already, to the point that he throws himself into Jon’s arms and starts to cry. It takes all three of them the better part of an hour to get him calmed down, and it ends with Charlie curled on Jon’s lap, the two of them sandwiched between Martin and Tim. Tim looks at Charlie’s tear-streaked face and the heartsick look in Jon’s eyes and the tender concern in Martin’s, and he tightens his arms around them and tucks his chin over Jon’s head and hopes.

It rains pretty much all day on Sunday. Martin makes breakfast and brings it into the bedroom on a tray, and they sit close together and eat quietly and don’t talk about what’s bothering them. Finally, in desperation, Tim reaches under the nightstand on his side of the bed and fishes out a book he’s been meaning to read for years. He wraps his arm around Jon and manages to get a hand on Martin’s shoulder; Martin, evidently taking the hint, scoots closer and does the same, and Tim begins reading out loud. It transpires that the book is one of Martin’s childhood favorites, but Jon’s never read it before and is both delighted at the novelty and enraptured by the story. They spend the whole day curled up together, rain lashing at the windows, underneath the apple-leaf quilt Tim’s grandmother made him, heads touching as they take turns reading aloud. It’s a stolen moment of peace in a world gone crazy and Tim tucks it away in his memory to cherish later when he needs it.

He wakes up in the middle of the night and rolls onto his side, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. The first thing he’s able to make out is Martin, doing the exact same thing he is—just watching. Jon, curled into a knot between them, is still asleep, but from the twisted, pained look on his face, it’s not an easy slumber.

Tim meets Martin’s eyes over Jon’s head and reads there the same worries and fears he has himself. Jon’s nightmares are bad. They’ve known that from the beginning, when Martin was recovering from the worms and they were all camping out in Tim’s living room, and they’ve only grown worse as time goes on. The screaming terrors from reliving what he went through with Orsinov have stopped…for now…but Tim knows in his heart of hearts that what’s making it easier these days is him and Martin bracketing Jon and doing their best to physically shield Jon from the Eye. There’s no real stopping it, but they can at least help.

But now Jon is going to Beijing, and God knows where after that, and he’s going alone. They won’t be able to help him with the nightmares if he’s not there to protect. And that’s besides the fact that Tim knows they’re both trying not to consider the possibility of some other monster trying to take Jon away from them when they’re not there to protect him. It doesn’t even have to be a supernatural one. As easy as it is to blame every horrible thing that happens on one of the Fears, there are ordinary people that are perfectly capable of being horrible on their own, and it would be just Jon’s luck to be caught up in something at random and get hurt, or worse. And they won’t be there to help. Again.

“I guess we could just…go with him,” Tim says, keeping his voice low. “Whether Elias wants us to or not.”

Martin shakes his head slowly. “I still don’t have a passport. And…I don’t think we can leave Sasha alone in the Archives. You can go, maybe.”

“I’m not leaving you behind.” Tim sighs and gently tucks a strand of hair back from Jon’s forehead. His skin is damp and clammy. “It’s a mess. He might be safer away from the Archives than we are, but…I worry, you know?”

“I know. I do, too.” Martin closes his eyes for a moment. “We just got him back. And we’ve got months to the Unknowing.”

Tim hesitates. He’s been thinking about that. “I don’t know that we do, actually. I—I don’t think it’s time-sensitive. I mean, I don’t think they have to wait for a certain time or anything. I think they just have to be…ready.”

“How will we know when they’re ready?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what they’re waiting for.” Tim stares down at Jon’s face. “I can’t decide if I’m afraid they’ll be ready before he gets back—”

“Or hoping,” Martin completes. “Because if the Unknowing happens while he’s overseas…at least he won’t be caught up in it. At least they’ll leave him alone.” He’s quiet for a moment. “At least it’s one thing we can protect him from.”

“God. I just…want to wrap him in bubble wrap and a blanket and fight off the world with a stick. Or at least keep him right here with us. I wish we could just stay here and let the world sort itself out for a change. Why do we have to be the ones doing all this?”

Martin reaches over and brushes Tim’s cheek with his fingertips, ever so lightly. “Anything worth having is worth fighting for,” he says softly.

Tim reaches across Jon’s sleeping form and pulls Martin closer, but he doesn’t say anything further.

The alarm goes off not long after; Jon is taking an early-morning flight by virtue of it being the cheapest available option, and he’s got to be there close to three hours early to check in. It’s too early for any of them to be properly hungry, but Martin makes tea while Jon takes a shower and Tim…sits around feeling useless.

As if sensing that, Martin glances over his shoulder at Tim. “Does he have any statements with him?”

“Oh, God, yeah, let me check.” Tim heads over to where Jon’s bag is. It’s a simple messenger bag he’s probably had since university, if not longer, frayed in spots and festooned with patches and pins. Jon never brought this to the Institute, instead using a professional faux-leather laptop bag, which isn’t surprising; it’d be pretty hard for him to sell the “serious academic” persona if he’s walking around advertising that he listens to Sinner’s Gin.

He opens the bag and looks through it. Jon’s packed a couple changes of clothes, some toiletries, a couple of paperback books, and of course the tape recorder, his personal one. But no statements.

Quietly, Tim goes over to the end table and opens the drawer. Inside are two tapes and a slim folder. He takes a deep breath and relaxes his hold on his powers, bracing for the colors to pop up. It’s surprisingly easier to filter out the Eye and see the beneath colors than usual—whatever’s in the folder glows orange around the edges but green in the middle, and one of the tapes just seems to have indigo stripes through the green rather than them being layered on top of each other. Like the Eye isn’t hiding the truth from him anymore, like it’s letting him really See.

He files that information away to deal with after he’s got some caffeine in him and nudges the Stranger tape out of the way; it’s probably the one he and Martin listened to, so it’s no good, it’s already been used. The other one is pure, blinding green—an Eye statement that Gertrude recorded, which is unusual. Tim seals off his ability and reaches for the tape. It takes him three tries to pick it up without dropping it—his hands are shaking, he guesses because he’s upset about Jon leaving—but he finally carries it and the folder over to tuck them into Jon’s bag, then seal it up again.

“He didn’t,” he tells Martin, heading back into the kitchen. Martin sighs and hands him a cup of tea. “But you never took back the ones you brought home after that whole thing with the Not-Diana, so I put them in his bag.”

“God, I can’t believe I forgot about that,” Martin murmurs. “Still, it’s been a hell of a week.”

Tim pauses, cup halfway to his lips. “God, how has it only been a week?”

Jon comes into the kitchen, hair still damp from the shower; it’s down to about his collar now and takes a while to dry. Martin silently hands him a cup of tea, too. None of them speak while they drink. It’s as if these last few minutes at home are too precious, or too heavy, for words. At last, though, Jon glances at the kitchen clock and swallows hard. “Time to go.”

Pure devastation flashes through Martin’s eyes, but he simply nods and takes the cups from him and Tim to put them in the sink. Tim worries at his lip as he studies Jon. “You’ve got everything? Passport, wallet, phone?”

A faint smile tugs at Jon’s lips briefly. He reaches into his pockets and produces the requisite items—a burgundy passport in near-pristine condition, a black billfold that’s seen better days, and the new phone they picked up for him Saturday morning that he’s gone to a lot of trouble to set up. “Charger’s in my bag.”

“Okay. Okay.” Tim takes a deep breath. “I guess that’s it, then.”

They take Tim’s car, not because Jon minds them driving his car but because Tim’s has a column shift and a bench seat in the front, which means Jon can sit between Tim and Martin for the journey. Traffic isn’t too bad this early in the morning, at least not until they get closer to the airport, but Jon is apparently far from the only person traveling today, so there’s a bit of a snarl before Tim is able to navigate up to Terminal Three.

He hesitates at an intersection and looks at Jon. “Do you want me to drop the two of you off at the door or—”

“No. There’s time,” Jon says softly. “You can park first. Then you’ll both know where it is.”

There’s more to that than what Jon is saying, but Tim doesn’t question it. Instead he finds a space in the short-term lot for Terminal Three, and if it’s one of the farthest spots from the terminal doors, well, there might not be a lot of people here dropping off or picking up at this time of day, but who knows what the situation will be by the time they go to leave? Jon slides out of the car and doesn’t take Tim’s arm or Martin’s, but they walk close enough together that it doesn’t really matter.

The doors open up into an enormous space. Martin, who’s clearly never flown before, looks around him with wide eyes, and Jon shrinks back slightly. Tim gently ushers them to one side of the door, where there are a couple of benches, and heads off to the departure boards to make sure they’re in the right terminal. Once he’s located Jon’s flight on the boards (on time, unsurprising for an early-morning flight), he makes his way back to where he left them. Jon has edged closer to Martin and Martin has an arm wrapped around Jon’s shoulders, and both of them look both terrified and heartsick. Tim looks at them, unobserved for the moment, and he’s struck by the urge to drag them both home, shut the door of their bedroom, draw the curtains, and stay there until the Unknowing collapses on its own. As badly as he wants revenge, as much as he wants to hit back at the thing that murdered his brother, he’ll give that up in a heartbeat if it’s the only way to keep Jon and Martin safe.

The penny drops then, bounces off just the right pegs, lands squarely in the right cup and oh.

Tim stands stock-still for a moment, stunned by the swift and sudden revelation. In retrospect, he doesn’t know why it surprises him so much; it’s not like he hasn’t known he’s polyamorous since he was fifteen, and God knows he’s wanted to kiss both of them more times than he can count. But, somehow, he’s been convincing himself they’re just friends, as close as brothers maybe, but nothing more than that. And, well, maybe they are. It’s more than that on Tim’s end, though.

He’s in love with Jon and Martin both, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he loses either of them. And Jon’s about to go haring off across the world alone, and Martin keeps accidentally coming to the attention of things that want to hurt or kill him, and oh, God, Tim is so incredibly screwed.

He shakes himself out of the stupor. He can deal with this later. Or never, as the case may be, but he promises himself he’ll deal with it later and heads over to the other two. Jon sees him and pulls, with obvious effort, away from Martin. “Is this the right terminal, or—?”

“No, you’re good. Your check-in counter is down this way.” Tim indicates the large sign for the airline Jon will be flying on the first leg of his journey—he’ll apparently be changing planes in Copenhagen.

They stay at Jon’s side all the way up to the check-in counter, where he provides his identification and credit card to the rather stiff old man behind the counter, who keeps sneering at the three of them in a way that makes Tim very much want to hit him. The man asks rather more questions than Tim is used to, even for an international flight, and he’s about to step in and explode when the man finally, finally hands Jon his boarding pass and moves on to the next person waiting.

“How did he manage to make ‘have a good trip’ sound like a curse?” Jon says under his breath as they turn towards the security checkpoint.

Martin snorts. “It’s like ‘may you live in interesting times.’”

“I’ll pass. After this, I would like my times to be as un-interesting and quiet as possible, thank you.” Jon smiles, but it melts away almost instantly.

There’s virtually no wait at the security checkpoint, Tim notices, or at least not compared to how it would be later in the day. Jon will be able to breeze through it in a matter of minutes. And according to the signs posted everywhere in huge letters, Tim and Martin won’t be able to accompany him. Martin stares at one of the signs boldly declaring TICKETED PASSENGERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT for a long minute. His face is implacable, but Tim knows what’s behind it, because he’s feeling it too.

Jon looks at the queue, and the security gates, and the signs telling him to remove his shoes and have his ticket and passport ready. He turns to face Tim and Martin, opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, then suddenly gives a small, choked sob and lunges forward, clutching them both by the front of their shirts and burying his face in the narrow dip where their shoulders touch.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he whispers.

Tim wraps one arm around Jon and the other around Martin; Martin does the same, and the three of them cling to one another tightly. He can feel Jon trembling and hear Martin’s breath hitching in his chest and he almost dares to let himself hope, but he pushes the thought out of his mind. He can’t let himself think that, not now, or he’ll drive himself crazy with wanting and fear. And if he’s wrong, if they don’t…it’s better to assume they don’t and possibly be surprised later than believe they do and almost certainly be crushed.

There’s soft music coming from somewhere, a gentle and soothing melody in a choked and broken voice, and it takes Tim a second to realize that it’s Martin, singing quietly so that just Tim and Jon can hear him. It’s a plaintive melody and the lyrics are a little melancholy, but the line when I return united we will be does at least warm Tim’s chest, just a little.

Jon gives a deep, shuddering breath and pulls back, almost reluctantly. “I—I’d best—I shouldn’t miss the flight.”

“We’ll wait,” Tim says, his voice unexpectedly hoarse. “Until—until you’re through.”

Jon nods. “I’ll let you know when I get to the gate, and when I board.”

“And when you land,” Martin insists. “I don’t care what time it is.”

“I will. I promise. I—” Jon swallows hard, looking from Tim to Martin and back, then steps forward and hugs Martin tightly. Martin hugs him back, and they murmur something to one another before Jon eases back, turns, and hugs Tim just as fiercely.

Tim hugs him back. He’s still too thin, feels too frail, somehow. He’s barely recovered from the hell Orsinov put him through and now they’re sending him off on his own, and Tim wants to keep him here, but he knows he can’t.

“Please look after him,” he whispers in Tim’s ear.

“I will,” Tim promises. “You be careful, you hear me?”

“I hear you. And I’ll be as careful as I can. I promise.” Jon squeezes him briefly, then slowly, almost reluctantly, lets go. He takes a deep breath, slips out of his shoes, and heads over to join the queue.

He doesn’t say goodbye. Tim’s strangely relieved by that.

True to their promise, Tim and Martin stay where they are, side by side, watching as Jon inches ever closer to the metal detectors and security checkpoint. When Jon places bag and shoes in a bin to go on the conveyor belt, Martin reaches over without looking and grabs Tim’s hand. Tim grips his tightly in return, and they only…watch.

They can barely see him on the other side of the security gate, but for a brief moment, Tim sees Jon hesitate and look over his shoulder. Tim waves, Martin does too, and Jon raises his hand in farewell before slowly turning and walking away.

Martin lets go of Tim’s hand, but before Tim has time to regret its absence, he puts his arm around Tim’s shoulders and pull him closer. Tim slides his arm around Martin’s waist. They don’t need to say anything; they just turn and walk away.

People mostly ignore them, although one or two give them inscrutable looks. Tim doesn’t know if they think they’re a couple and disapprove or think they’re mourning something or what, but he decides he doesn’t care as long as they leave him alone. They make their way slowly back to Tim’s car, but don’t get in; Tim leans against the back of it, and Martin joins him, arms folded as they look up at the still-black sky.

“What song was that?” Tim finally asks. “That you were—before he left.”

Martin rubs a hand over his face. “It’s called ‘The Leaving of Liverpool.’ I think. It’s—it’s the song my dad always sang the night before he left, when he was putting me to bed.” He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then adds softly, “I fell asleep.”

“What?” Tim turns to look at Martin, frowning.

“The night he—we had this whole routine at bedtime when he was about to leave for the fishing run, and one of them was him singing that song to me. I sang along on the chorus, once I learned it, which didn’t take long.” Martin isn’t looking at Tim, his eyes still on the sky, but Tim can see the glint of tears in them. “Normally I’d settle down and close my eyes after he left, but that last time…I was tired. I don’t remember why, but I fell asleep before he got to the last verse, so I wasn’t awake for the whole song.” He turns to look at Tim. “And then he never came back. I thought it was my fault. I thought—it’s stupid, I know it’s stupid, but at first I thought it was like a-a magic charm or something, and I broke the ritual and that’s why he didn’t come back. I thought something had happened to him and—”

“Oh, Martin.” Tim reaches over and pulls Martin into a tight hug. Martin hugs him back, and Tim can feel the tears spilling over. “It’s not your fault. And—and Jon’s going to be okay. He will. He’ll be back soon.”

“I know,” Martin says softly. “It’s just…”

Tim doesn’t need Martin to finish. “I know.”

They don’t go anywhere. They probably should, probably don’t need to sit in the parking lot, but they do. They lean against Tim’s car and watch the stars, occasionally punctuated by the lights of planes taking off or landing. Jon texts them both to let them know he’s through customs, and then that he’s at his gate. Still they don’t leave, and still they don’t speak.

Finally, finally, the text comes to both of their phones. [Just took my seat on the plane. Have to turn my phone off now. Will text you when I arrive.]

Martin’s hands shake as he sends the reply. Tim waits for it to pop up on his own phone. [Have a safe flight.]

Jon’s next text comes almost at the same instant; he must have been typing it to send while Martin was trying to reply himself. Three simple words. Their meaning can’t be clearer. Still, Tim has to stare at them for a long moment.

[Miss you already.]

Slowly, Tim raises his head to look at Martin and finds Martin staring back with a look that’s probably identical to the one on Tim’s face. He’s pale, his eyes red-rimmed, but he’s not crying. They’re probably both past tears at this point. It’s just fear and longing and the ache of missing a part of themselves.

Tim fishes out his keys and holds them up; Martin nods, and they both climb into the car. When Tim turns the ignition on, the entire dashboard flashes for a moment—there’s a short in the electrical system somewhere; he’s been meaning to get it looked at, but he doesn’t drive much these days and this doesn’t happen every time, just occasionally—and the radio kicks on of its own volition. A reedy American tenor belts out the last line of the first verse. Already I’m so lonesome I could die…

Tim scowls at the radio. “It should be illegal to play this song within ten miles of a major airport.”

Martin gives a soft, slightly broken laugh. “Breakfast?”

“I don’t know that I can eat, but we can give it a shot.”

“Yeah, but…” Martin gives Tim a sideways look. “I promised I’d look after you.”

Tim grins and tries, once again, to kill the sudden flare of hope in his chest. “Same.”

“God, he’s such a worrywart.” Martin holds up a hand. “I know, I know, pot, kettle, et cetera. Want to call Sasha and see if she’s up?”

“No, I don’t want to die today.” Tim puts the car in gear and backs out of the space. “Come on. There have to be a few places open this early that won’t be too expensive for us to not eat at.”

Martin reaches over and puts his hand over Tim’s, not squeezing or holding, just resting it there. Tim slips his thumb over the back of Martin’s hand and rubs it gently, feeling it catch against the very, very slight roughness of Martin’s skin. The scars from the worms have faded as much as they ever will, mere pale circles against his skin, but there’s one on his right pinkie finger where the worm very nearly went all the way through, and there’s an ever-so-faint ridging there that Tim keeps rubbing at, over and over, as if he can erase the hurt and the marks from Martin’s skin.

It’s not until they get to the café that it occurs to Tim that what they’ve just done is exactly what the Primes did in those early days when they were still trying to conceal their relationship. It seems too dangerous to consider the ramifications of that, though, so Tim settles for sliding into the same side of the booth as Martin and leaning against his shoulder, needing some of his strength and warmth and softness.

Martin lets him.

#leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#ollie writes fanfic #tma #the magnus archives #jonmartim #WE'VE GOT TWO OUT OF THREE REALIZATIONS FOLKS #angst #pining #heartbreak #look Jon's leaving for America and Tim has just figured out he's in love #what did you expect to happen

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cannot-handle-steve-randle · 4 years

Text

Dresses and Confessions | Steve Randle x Reader

this is my first time writing anything!!! it’s just a fluffy steve one shot. I hope you guys like it!! <3

summary: steve loves (y/n), and (y/n) loves steve. neither has confessed their feelings to the other, but when steve hears that (y/n) has her eyes on someone, he knows he needs to speak up before he misses his chance with her.

word count: 1652

It was a warm July night, and you and your best friend decided to go out and dress up. Even though there weren’t many fancy places in Tulsa, you decided it would be fun to throw on some dresses and heels and go out on the town for the night.

You had been friends with the Curtis family for forever, having grown up on the same block as them. You became very close upon entering your high school years and they pretty much considered you part of the gang. In fact, you had been introduced to the rest of the guys a couple years back and you loved each of them. They were always there for you when you needed them, and they loved having you around as well.

Overtime, you took a particular liking to Steve Randle. Steve always made you laugh. Whenever you were upset, you’d talk to Steve because he’d never fail to make you smile. In return, you’d always be there for him when his Dad upset him. He’s a very caring person, and he can be quite emotional, which you realized as he slowly opened up to you more and more. You can’t pinpoint the exact moment you realized you had feelings for Steve, you just knew they’ve been around for a while. It seemed as if Steve felt the same way about you, but he hadn’t made any serious moves yet. You wanted him to make the first real move and ask you out, but you weren’t sure how much longer you could wait before you said something yourself. You didn’t speak of your feelings to any of the guys, because you didn’t want Steve to hear from anyone but you anyways.

After your girls night out, you found yourself driving over to the Curtis household, because after all you spent most nights hanging out with the guys anyway.

“Hey guys” you spoke as you entered the house. And as the guys looked up to address you, their jaws dropped in the process. For a moment, it seemed as if none of your favorite greasers could speak. “What’s going on? Why are you all looking at me like that?” you questioned after a moment of silence.

Dally was the first to speak up, and of course he got straight to the point. “Damn (y/n)! You look hot as hell! Where have you been all dressed up like that?” he said as you instantly started blushing. “I went out with a couple friends for the night and we thought it’d be fun to dress up”, you spoke as you glanced down at your wine red colored cocktail dress and your strappy gold heels. You had your makeup done naturally, and your (y/h/c) hair was curled into loose waves. “You look great, (y/n)” Johnny said and Ponyboy agreed. “Aw stop that, you guys are making me blush” you said as you giggled a little bit. You fully walked into the house to greet all of the boys, and when you got to Steve he was looking at you in complete awe. “What’s up, buttercup” you said playfully as you hugged him. He chuckled and said “you look incredible, (y/n)”. You felt your face get red as you gave him a quick thank you. Once you hugged everyone you sat down at the table to watch the guys play their game of poker. You sat at the only open seat, which was between Dally and Darry, across from Steve. The entire time, Steve seemed a little distracted. Every time you glanced in his direction, you caught him looking at you with a look in his eye you have never seen before. And each time you made eye contact, you’d throw a small, bashful smile his way. “So (y/n)”, Two-Bit spoke from the living room, “did you pick up any guys while you were out tonight? because I’d find it hard to believe that no guy would approach you while you’re looking like that.” You immediately felt a little nervous, because the truth was one guy did ask for your number, but you politely declined. However, you ultimately decided to tell the guys what happened, in hopes of maybe getting Steve‘s attention. “Actually, yes one very nice guy did ask for my number, but I told him I wasn’t interested” you responded. You quickly looked at Steve to see if his expression had changed at all. He looked a little curious, but then your thoughts were interrupted by another question. “If he was nice, why’d you turn the guy down?” Soda asked. You thought to yourself “what the hell”, and threw all caution to the wind while preparing for the interrogation that was bound to be thrown your way after your response. “Well, if you all must know, I told him that I have my eye on someone at the moment.” And of course, as you predicted each of the guys immediately started questioning “who’s the mystery guy???” and “is he in this room??” This went on for a good five minutes. They were so loud (as always), so you had to yell over all of them to be heard. “GUYS I WILL UPDATE YOU ON MY LOVE LIFE ONCE I’VE GOT IT FIGURED OUT MYSELF, I PROMISE.” And with that promise, they let you be. Of course, one of them would occasionally throw out a name that would be incorrect. Even Pony and Johnny, who had been quiet most of the night, threw in the names of a few guys which were all incredibly wrong. You were surprised that none of them could see you had feelings for Steve. You thought it was obvious, but you were a little glad it wasn’t so apparent to them.

As the night ended and all the guys shuffled out of the Curtis house one by one, you also got ready to leave. You said your goodbyes and made your way to the door, but a hand grabbed your arm before you could make it out of the house. You turned around, and you suddenly found yourself face to face with none other than Steve himself. “Hey, could I talk to you before you go?” He asked. “Yeah of course, is everything alright?” You questioned as you both headed outside towards your car. “Yeah everything’s fine, I just have to tell you something that’s been on my mind for what feels like an eternity, at this point.” He responded. “Steve you’re kind of starting to scare me, what’s going on?” You questioned as you internally hoped this was the moment you’ve been waiting for for months on end. “I’m just going to go on and say it” he started, “I love you, (y/n). I think a part of me always did, and as time went on that part grew bigger and bigger until I completely fell for you. No one has ever cared for me as much as you do. I’ve never been able to open up to anyone as quickly as I did you. My days feel off if I don’t see you. I think about you constantly and I think you’re the most beautiful girl on this dang planet. And when you told Two and Soda that you have feelings for someone else tonight, I knew I needed to speak up before it was too late. Heck, it might already be too late, but I just had to try.” He finished his little speech and you were shocked. You weren’t expecting him to feel as strongly as you did. I mean, Steve Randle just told you he’s in love with you. You had planned this moment out in your head so many times, but you never really got around to the part where you responded to his confession. “(y/n) please say something, say anything...” he continued when a moment of silence passed between the two of you. You weren’t really sure what to say, you were so overwhelmed with so many emotions so you did the first thing that came to mind: you leaned up, grabbed the back of Steve’s neck, and you kissed him. He was shocked at first, you could tell, but after a brief moment he kissed back. It was a kiss full of love and passion, one that took your breath away. Once you both pulled away to breathe, you leaned your forehead against his. “The guy I’ve been pining after is you, Steve. It was always you. I feel the same way. I love you. I always have, and I think I always will.” His face lit up with that big smile of his that you loved. He leaned in to kiss you again, and this time you both smiled into it. You couldn’t remember a time you felt this happy. You were knocked out of your trance when he pulled away from the kiss and spoke again. “Let me take you on a date tomorrow night. We can go to the drive in after my shift at the DX” he said. “I would love that. More than anything” you said. “Alright then it’s settled, I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 7” said Steve, as he pushed a piece of hair out of your face. You looked at your watch and realized how late it was. “Oh sugar! I have to get home before my parents start worrying, but I’ll see you tomorrow at 7”, you said just before you gave him one last goodnight kiss. “Goodnight darlin’, drive safe” he said as you got in your car. You waved goodbye to him before you drove off to your house. You were smiling the entire way home and you could not stop thinking. You loved Steve Randle. And he loved you just as much. You knew one thing for sure: tomorrow was going to be a good night.

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hannie-dul-set · 4 years

Text

saturday came rolling by quicker than you'd expected.

standing near the entrance of the rather expensive restaurant (you swore that even the plants by the door are worth more than everything you were wearing combined) you opened your phone, double checking to make sure you were at the right place that jaehyun's mother messaged you.

admittedly, it was a bit weird that you were hanging our with your new friend's mother whithout the knowledge of that said friend, but even if you wanted to back out, you couldn't because it would be rude to do so.

you returned your phone back into your white sling bag after confirming that this was indeed the place and made your way into the entrance, the restaurant's guard opening the door for you.

the moment you stepped in, you started to feel a bit self conscious. you were only wearing a simple navy blue wrap dress underneath a cream cardigan and a pair of sandals to match— deeming you absolutely out of place inside the fancy interior of the establishment.

to the eyes of the occupants of the restaurant, you probably looked like a lost puppy considering your attire and the fact that you had no idea where the hell mrs. jung was.

"miss, can i help you?"

your search was interrupted by one of the waiters, you assumed.

"oh, um, i'm looking for mrs. jung..?"

were you supposed to say that? at that point you didn't even care— you just wanted this whole lunch thing over and done with.

"ah, then you must be y/n l/n, correct?" you were slightly confused, but you nodded anyway.

"follow me, miss."

and so you did, carefully treading along the restaurant floor. you were afraid if you even breathe in the wrong direction, you'd end up breaking one of the many expensive decorations littered all around the place.

the waiter lead you to a secluded part of the restaurant. sunlight was beaming into the large arch windows that were adorning the walls and there were only three tables set up, all of which were unoccupied save for the one at the very end.

as you moved further inside, the two people that were sitting at the last table had noticed you and the waiter walking in. their heads turned towards your direction and you stopped in your tracks.

one of them was mrs. jung, obviously, but the other one you weren't quite expecting.

"miss y/n?"

"jaehyun?"

amidst your shock, the waiter had already left, leaving the three of you alone. your eyes were frozen stuck on jaehyun dozens of question marks floating around his head.

you were confused, but then you remembered that this was her son, of course he'd be here. but couldn't she at least have told you?

"y/n, dear, it's good that you've finally joined us! i was worried that you wouldn't come."

jaehyun was the first to snap back into reality. he diverted his attention from you to his mother.

"mother," you couldn't pinpoint the exact emotion he was carrying in his voice. "care to explain why miss y/n is here?"

"i invited her, of course," mrs. jung seemed to be completely unbothered by not so pleasant demeanor that her son was baring.

"sorry, i can just leave if you'd like," the atmosphere was unbearably uncomfortable and you'd much rather just leave if you could. you gave them a small bow before turning your heels, hand clutching your bag as you were about to leave.

"no, it's alright—" the screeching of a chair was heard and you felt a hand grab onto your arm, preventing you from moving forward. you turned around and you were met with a rather frantic looking jaehyun. "you can stay."

eyes wide from the sudden close proximity, your gaze moved back and forth from jaehyun's very very close face to his hand that was holding onto you— you could feel the heat slowly rising to your cheeks.

jaehyun must've noticed the situation that you two were in and he let go of you hurriedly, a coughing out a small sorry in the process. from the corner of your eye you could see his mother looking at the both of you with an amusement in her face. mostly because of his son's absolutely uncharacteristic behavior but you weren't aware of that.

"i apologize if my words sounded rude," jaehyun started, finally managing to get himself back together. "it wasn't my intention to send you away— i was just surprised to see you again."

"no it's okay," you gave him a smile of assurance and he visibly relaxed.

you nearly forgot that his mother was actually here (not to mention she was the one who invited you) until you heard her speak up.

"maybe i'm the one who should be leaving?" she teased, jaehyun giving her a disapproving look.

"you're staying. i believe you still have some explaining to do, mother."

much to your surprise, lunch went a lot better that you'd expected, especially taking into account the prior events that took place. mrs. jung eventually told jaehyun everything— the fact that she contacted you last time as well as her reasonings. jaehyun wasn't really upset that his mother was trying to set you two up, he was absolutely flustered to the highest point— cheeks flaring and avoiding eye contact from you as much as possible, you couldn't help but laugh at him, furthering his embarrassment.

"i apologize for my mother's behavior," he tells you (although, his eyes were looking everywhere else except for you).

the evident unease that was present earlier was replaced with comfortable air to which you were surprised, but nevertheless you were thankful. the conversation went on until the topic eventually landed on you.

"y/n," jaehyun's mom started, taking a sip from her peach-colored drink before continuing. "i realized i never got to ask your age."

"ah, i'm turning twenty-one this year," you replied, earning a hum from the older woman.

jaehyun places down his fork, diverting his attention towards you instead. "you must be in school then. do you mind me asking what your major is?"

"oh, no i'm not, actually,"

you continued to eat your food (you asked jaehyun what it was called but it your ears failed to understand the rich language) while the two of your companions promptly stopped, expecting you to continue. the sudden attention directed on you was a bit discomforting, so you placed your utensils down and wiped your lips with the napkin available.

"i can't really afford college so i'm still trying to save."

"what about your parents?" jaehyun asked, concern lacing his voice. "shouldn't they be the one's supporting you?"

"they sort of abandoned me after i graduated high school," you reply, staring at the untouched drink in front of you. "so i had to do things on my own from there."

you didn't really have a problem talking about your situation— you'd always been one to believe that all things happen for a reason, so you don't hold anything against your parents. you were never one to dwell on things; you'd rather choose to just keep on moving forward no matter how many setbacks you encounter. but of course, even though you had moved, emotions from the past sometimes resurface.

"i'm so sorry to hear that, sweetie," mrs. jung tried to sympathize with you. "i hope you're not too uncomfortable talking about this."

"no, it's okay, i've moved on," you pressed your lips together into a smile. "and although i'm not exactly in the best place financially, i'm pretty happy with my life right now. the experiences i've gathered and all of the wonderful people i've met— i'm very thankful for all of that."

after your mini speech, you looked over to jaehyun, who was looking at you with an expression that you weren't able to pinpoint.

"you really are an amazing person, miss y/n."

the words that left jaehyun's lips left you stunned, unable to think of a response. he might've said this to you through chat but this time he was looking at you— looking at you so so intently that you lost your entire train of thought.

"oh— um, thanks," you managed to sputter out before going back to your food.

"you know, dear, i'd be more than willing to help you with your financial situation right now," jaehyun's mother says and you politely decline.

"no, no, it's okay! i've saved up quite a bit already, and on top of my many part time jobs, my art has been doing pretty well recently," you explain. "i don't think it would be right for me to take money from you."

mrs. jung thinks momentarily before speaking up. "art? are you an artist, y/n?"

"i remember her mentioning it to me at one point," jaehyun joins in the conversation.

"well... i'm not exactly well known but i do a bit of freelance work here and there," you meekly mumbled. "i also do commissions."

until now, you couldn't tell what exactly was going on in jaehyun's head, but mrs. jung seems to be elated from your words.

"that sounds wonderful, dear!" jaehyun's mother beamed. "if you aren't too busy, i'd like to commission you, as well."

"really?"

you perked up from hearing her suggestion. you still had a few paintings lined up to be finished, but you'd be a fool to pass up on this opportunity.

"i still have some things to work on," you began. "but if you could wait until those are finished, then i see no problem!"

"there's no rush, dear! work on it as you see fit— we can discuss the details privately in a later time."

"alright, thank you so much, mrs. jung! i'll be sure not to disappoint you."

the day went on and the lunch you spent with the two jung's was over. after bidding then goodbye and thanking them for the nice meal, jaehyun had insistently offered to drive you home, but you politely declined, saying that you can just take the bus instead.

sitting on one of the benches at the bus stop, you pulled out your ear buds, deciding to listen to music as you waited. today wasn't as bad as you expected. jungwoo and haechan were wrong about mrs. jung— she may be a bit excessive and a bit too evasive regarding her son's affairs, she seemed like a genuine and sweet lady, none the less.

amidst your thoughts, you felt someone sitting beside you so you instinctively scooted away. you heard a cough from the said person, so you looked over to them. surprised, you pulled your ear buds away.

"jaehyun?"

"miss y/n," he looked at you. "i would like to formally apologize for my mother's behavior— she tends to cross boundaries without meaning to, i hope you don't take anything against her."

to be honest, you never expected jaehyun to run after you. it appears that the tables have turned seeing that he looks extremely out of place in his expensive looking coat inside the vicinity of the run-down bus stop. jaehyun still looked a bit embarrassed talking about it seeing that his face was painted a light dust of pink, causing a mirthful laugh to bubble in your throat.

"it's okay," you smiled at him in assurance. "i was definitely caught off guard, but i can see that your mother doesn't have any ill intentions."

jaehyun let out a sigh, visibly easing up upon your response.

"thank you for understanding," he gave a you smile and you were taken aback— jung jaehyun smiled at you for the first time that day and holy shit he has dimples.

before you can conjure up a response, the bus came into view and you stood up in haste, moving closer into the street. as the vehicle neared, you looked behind to see that jaehyun was now on his feet but he was yet to leave. the both of you made eye contact and you grinned at him.

"i'll be going now, jaehyun. thank you for today!"

his expression mirrored yours, hands snugly tucked into the pockets of his coat.

"likewise, miss y/n."

you curtly nodded before finally entering the bus. as you sat down, you looked outside the window only to see jaehyun still in the same position as before but he had his phone in his hand, fingers tapping away at the screen. he noticed you looking at him, giving you a small wave before walking away.

your phone buzzed from inside your back and you quickly took it out. a laugh escaped your lips and a wide smile blossomed into your face.

gold painted canvas

the classic rich boy and poor girl love story but with less prejudice and more happiness

13 // safe ride home

a/n: written part!! :D pls enjoy hehet <3

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that-one--book-nerd · 4 years

Text

because i believe in you (zukka)

this was originally posted to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25519252

here’s a zukka thing I wrote! enjoy! :)

Sokka can’t pinpoint the exact moment he started feeling nervous around Zuko. Which is weird, and Sokka can’t figure out what his deal is.

Why would I feel nervous around Zuko? He just went on an insanely dangerous prison-break rescue mission with me? He’s clearly changed and is making actual efforts to be a better person. So why does my stomach start to twist in a not-awful way whenever I’m around him?

Sokka contemplates this the night after the Boiling Rock rescue. Everyone else is asleep, and he’s on his side, watching the fire slowly die out. On the opposite side of the fire lies Zuko, who has started to sleep in the main outdoor area with everyone else rather than hole himself up in his room on warm nights. Sokka shifts onto his other side, so he’s facing out into the forest. When he glances up, he sees the moon. He always thinks of Yue when he looks at the moon. It used to hurt; he wasn’t able to stand the permanent reminder of one of his all-time worst failures. But over the past few months, as the wound in his heart slowly healed, he found the moon a comforting sight. Sokka was drifting off when suddenly, the weird feeling in his stomach made sense.

Oh, shit, he thinks to himself as his eyes snap open. He quickly turns back around to face Zuko, as if daring his heart to prove him wrong. When his heart speeds up at the sight of Zuko looking more peaceful and young than Sokka had ever seen him—spirits, we’re nearly the same age, aren’t we?—Sokka feels his stomach drop into the center of the earth and his heart leap into his throat.

••••••••••

“You never loved me, huh, Zuko?” Mai asks, her voice so much more emotionless and cold than normal that it sends a chill running up and down Zuko’s spine.

“Mai, no, I’m sorry, I just—it’s not—”

“Not what? Not my fault? Yeah, no shit, Zuko,” Mai snaps. Her arms are crossed. She’s standing over him, he’s tied up in the chair in the interrogation room in the Boiling Rock. He pushes down the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Of course it’s not your fault, Mai. I just…I couldn’t be there any more.” Zuko does his damnedest to not sound like he’s about to cry.

“First your uncle, now me. Which loved one are you going to turn against next, Zuko? Is there even anyone left who would care enough about you?”

“Mai,” Zuko starts, the pit of dread eating through his stomach so slowly yet as fast as Azula’s wit and lightning.

“I doubt it. After all the horrible shit you’ve done, I’m surprised your father ever wanted you back.” She leaned down and looked at Zuko right in the eyes as she continued, “He probably didn’t and just had you return to give off a merciful facade.”

Mai’s words feel like hundreds of thousands of knives cutting into his face and chest. He’s crying in earnest now, gasping for breath against the ropes that seem to tighten around him every second. He’s shaking his head, trying to tell Mai that he’s so, so sorry.

Mai leans down so her face is mere inches away from his. He can feel her breath. He can’t help but look into her eyes. Her eyes, which are full of pain and betrayal and rage.

“Ozai regrets giving you that scar Zuko,” Mai whispers. She grabs a handful of his hair from the back of his head and somehow tugs Zuko and the chair above the ground. She stands up straight and holds Zuko at eye-level. She pulls him close so that she speaks into Zuko’s ear.

“I wish I killed you that day, three years ago. The only decision I’ve ever regretted was letting you live.”

But Mai’s not Mai any more. When she stood, she grew taller. Her facial features grotesquely morphed into that of his father’s. Zuko can feel every single particle in his body shaking with terror.

“How dare you even consider the possibility that I could ever love you? That I could ever care about you? You’re a damned disgrace to your nation and to firebending as a concept. I should have just ended your pathetic and worthless life when you surrendered like the coward you are.”

Suddenly, the room is on fire. The ropes are digging deep into his skin. He can’t escape. And an enormous hand made of flames begins rushing towards his face—

••••••••••

Zuko wakes up crying. He sits up at an unnatural speed, and for a moment, he forgets where he is. He feels like he’s falling into an endless abyss. He shakes his head and lets his eyes adjust to the brightness. Seeing the number of concerned people rush up to him, he remembers where he is.

“Zuko!” Aang calls out, running up to him. “Are you okay?”

Katara, Toph, Suki, and Sokka aren’t far behind. Despite her evident distrust of him, Zuko thinks he sees something that looks like worry etched across Katara’s face. Suki runs at a faster pace as she approaches him.

They were probably all training, Zuko thinks to himself. He doesn’t have the mental space or energy to beat himself up over not being there training with them and helping Aang with firebending, or oversleeping and not gathering supplies they might need.

Zuko furiously wipes his eyes. “I’m fine,” he manages to get out.

“I don’t need my powers to know that you’re lying,” Toph says, kneeling down next to him.

Zuko takes a shaky breath. “It’s just nightmares,” he says. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Aang asks. “It sounded like a really bad one.”

Sokka and Suki kneels down next to him on his other side. Out of the corner of his good eye, Zuko can see Suki slowly raise her hand to place on his shoulder. Instinctively, he tenses up, and Suki’s hand stops before she places it in her lap.

“…It was,” Zuko quietly admits. “They happen all the time. I’m fine. Go back to doing whatever you guys were doing.”

After a few seconds of scanning him with her steely eyes, Katara quietly sighs. In another universe, she’d be an incredible firebender.

“I have some clean water if you need it. You know, to drink, splash on your face, whatever.” She sets her canteen next to him.

“No, thank you,” Zuko says. He’s trying to learn how to accept gifts and kind offers, but he feels like he can’t ask any more of his…friends, he supposes.

Yeah, these people are my friends, he tells himself. He knows it’s true, but it still doesn’t feel real.

“Well, it’ll be on my sleeping bag if you want it.” Katara picks up her canteen and gently tosses it on her makeshift pillow. She doesn’t look back at him. Suki gives him a sympathetic smile before rejoining Katara.

“Well, we’re here for you if you need anything, Zuko,” Aang offers. He follows after Katara, but he keeps glancing back over his shoulder, like he’s worried that if he looks away for too long then Zuko will freak out again. Zuko closes his eyes and counts to ten as he breathes. He tries the calming techniques that Uncle had taught him, but he couldn’t remember if if was inhale for four seconds and exhale for three, or the other way around, or—

“You coming, Sokka?” Aang calls out.

Zuko opens his eyes to find that Sokka didn’t leave with the others; rather he was still sitting next to Zuko, leaning back on his arms and his head tilted slightly to the side, as if he was studying Zuko. When Zuko meets Sokka’s eyes, Sokka blinks and startles and nearly falls over.

“What? Oh, uh, I’m good. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Katara narrows her eyebrows at Sokka, but Aang just smiles and says “Okay! See ya later, Sokka!” as he cheerfully glides past Katara. Katara finally rejoins the rest of the group after glaring at her brother and the banished prince for what feels like weeks.

For a moment, it’s just Zuko and Sokka. They’re both quiet, both a bit unsure of what they’re doing, until Sokka clears his throat.

“I, uh, I found a clearing not far from the other side of the temple,” Sokka starts as he fidgets with his boomerang holster. “Wanna go practice sword-bending?”

Zuko raises his eyebrows.

“There’s a stream that flows through it, and there’s a small freshwater pond with koi,” Sokka continues.

Is he blushing? Zuko thinks to himself, squinting, trying to get a better look at the exact color of Sokka’s face.

“Okay,” Zuko replies—and immediately mentally kicks himself.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Say something nice, like ‘thank you,’ or…Oh! how about—

“I mean, uh, thank you for the offer. I’d…I’d love to join you. For…sword-bending.”

Sokka’s face lights up and it reminds Zuko of the sun. He feels himself blush and immediately turns away to get his dual-swords. As he’s readying the straps on his sheaths, he forces himself to push down the rising feelings of butterfly-birds in his stomach.

I shouldn’t—no, I can’t—put someone through that again. All I did to Mai was hurt her, I can’t do that to Sokka. He deserves someone better for him…he deserves someone who deserves him.

Zuko tried to nail these ideas into every part of his brain, but the beating of his heart kept causing them to fall and break.

••••••••••

“Okay…can we…take a breather…please?!” Sokka gasps in between his exhausted breathing.

Zuko nods and they collapse onto their backs next to each other, both staring up at the sky. The sun had already made its arc over them and it was just starting to set. They had been training for hours, and they finally decided to rest next to the small pond.

“We should probably start heading back soon,” Zuko suggests. “You sister will get mad.”

“Eh, let her be mad. We were training our bending abilities!”

Zuko raises a single eyebrow.

“‘We’?” he asks

“We’re all sort of benders in a way,” Sokka jokes, turning on his side to face Zuko. “Katara has her waterbending, Aang has his airbending, Toph has her earthbending, you have your firebending, and I—” Sokka pulls out his favorite weapon “—have my boomerang-bending!”

“I thought you said ‘sword-bending’ earlier?” Zuko replies, his mouth curling into a small smile.

“Well, this is my boomerang, and I like the sound of ‘boomerang-bending’ more than I like ‘sword-bending,’” Sokka smirks.

“Nah,” Zuko gently nudges his foot against Sokka’s. “‘Sword-bending’ is catchier.”

“Well, maybe it is, but I like ‘boomerang-bending’ better! Besides, I’m better at boomerang-bending than you’ll ever be,” Sokka says as he nudge’s Zuko’s arm. “I’m a boomerang-bending master!”

Both of them pretend like their casual touches don’t feel like a small electric shock of warmth. Zuko and Sokka both chuckle.

“Well, you’re right about that,” Zuko replies, easing himself up. Sokka also sits up properly, and the two boys face each other.

Zuko looks into Sokka’s eyes for what feels like hours, and Sokka looks into Zuko’s eyes intently, studying them as if they’re the last thing he’ll ever see.

They’ve been subconsciously moving towards each other before Zuko blinks, stops, and clears his throat. Sokka blinks and gives Zuko a quizzical look.

“What’s wrong?” Sokka asks.

“Nothing,” Zuko replies, quickly looking down at his lap and fidgeting with his fingers.

Sokka looks down at the ground and begins drawing swirls in the dirt. He draws (what Zuko can only assume are) boomerangs, waves, and flames.

“I, uh…” Zuko starts, not meeting Sokka’s eyes as the other boy’s head shot up to look at Zuko. “I want to thank you.”

“Oh, no problem. We all need to be training for when the comet arrives. Gotta be on our A-game for taking down the Fire Lord!”

Zuko can’t keep himself from chuckling a little bit.

“That’s not what I wanted to thank you for. And you do realize that when—if—you defeat my father, that either I or my sister will take the throne next?”

Sokka doesn’t miss how Zuko’s voice grows slightly more unsteady as he speaks about the possible future.

“Why wouldn’t you take the throne?”

“Have you met my sister?”

“Fair enough.”

“And even if there was no succession crisis, you guys realize that I’ll be the new Fire Lord, right?”

“Yeah, and what about it?”

Zuko’s ember-golden eyes meets Sokka’s ocean blue ones.

“What do you mean ‘what about it?,’ Sokka?! I can’t be the Fire Lord! I don’t know how to lead an entire nation! Let alone one whose current legacy is that of imperialism, destruction, and genocide! And ending the war that my great-grandfather started? The war that the Fire Nation is currently winning—”

“Well, I’d say we’re almost tied—”

Zuko rolls his eyes.

“The war that’s been going on for a whole century that my whole nation has been in support of for its entire duration! How will it look to my subjects when I end the war that’s been providing them with their entire livelihoods?! I know that they should get new livelihoods—that sounds like something you’d say—” (Sokka nods) “but it’s not that easy! And what about the conquered territories? How can I help them? Will they even want my help? And what about—”

“Hey!”

Sokka interrupts a clearly overwhelmed Zuko by placing his left hand on Zuko’s cheek and his right hand on Zuko’s shoulder. The touch came naturally to Sokka, who’s used to grabbing Katara by the face whenever she gets overworked and needs a clear head. He’s able to tell his right hand to not touch Zuko’s scar, thankfully. He doesn’t fear it, but he doesn’t want to find out from experience if Zuko reacts negatively to other people touching his scar. Sokka stares deep into Zuko’s eyes, which are starting to tear up. Sokka feels his heart crack and it takes every remaining ounce of self control he has to not physically wince at the pain of Zuko crying. Sokka begins rubbing tiny circles into Zuko’s cheek, and Zuko practically leans into the touch as he closes his eyes. Zuko brings his hand up to Sokka’s and places his other hand on Sokka’s knee. He’s not sure if he feels Sokka shiver or his own hands shaking. (It’s both.)

“Hey,” Sokka says again, quieter. Zuko opens his eyes and finds Sokka intently staring at him.

“Look, Zuko, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re, like, already a better Fire Lord than your dad. You clearly care about your people as people and not as a means to an end—that end being like power or whatever. If you carry that attitude with you throughout your reign, you’re going to be the best spirits-damned Fire Lord in the history of all the nations. I know it, Zuko.” Sokka’s voice quiets as he takes a deep breath and finishes with: “I believe in you.”

Zuko thinks about how easy it would be to get lost in Sokka’s eyes, and then realizes that he is lost in Sokka’s eyes.

Sokka isn’t sure what brings him to pull Zuko more towards him, and Zuko doesn’t know why he simply lets himself be pulled, but they both know that this is exactly where they’re supposed to be—together.

Sokka closes the remaining distance between them by pressing his lips against Zuko’s.

Zuko feels himself falling, but this time it’s a good feeling.

Because he knows that somehow, Sokka will catch him.

#zukka #atla #avatar: the last airbender #zuko x sokka #sokka x zuko #zuko #sokka #zukka fanfic #zukka fic #fluff #hurt/comfort #caroline makes a post about things

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calmcilstoybox · 3 years

Text

Retribution (MCambion/FChangeling)

slightly NSFW for murder crime scene.

This is part of a Cambion detective/ Changeling Femme fatale story from a dnd campaign I’m part of.

Reblogs greatly appreciated

(I also love reading comments I promise you’re not bothering me I’m asking for feedback)

Around 1700 words

It had been a maid that reported in the murder on a cold rainy morning. Mary De Silva said she arrived early in the morning for work, and went upstairs to start cleaning. Then found her employer dead. Screamed, and called 911. However it was the name of the deceased that truly got Borden’s attention.

Duragon.

This sent a cold chill down his spine as it had been yesterday afternoon since he’d heard from Mercedes. She had spent the night at Adramar’s, and hadn’t come into work or called in either.

“Boss? Everything alright?” Detective Aldrich’s voice pulled Borden out of his thoughts.

“Everything’s fine, for me anyway. I can’t say as much for the recently deceased. I’m going to the crime scene.Put a fresh pot of coffee on you know how I like it.” Detective Whitechapel was aware of his vocal tone and pitch as he spoke. Luckily, Aldrich didn’t push. He hummed in acknowledgement of what Borden had said before heading to the break room.

Calmly walking out of the station and to his car was an exhausting exercise in self control. Once he had the keys in the ignition Detective Whitechapel called Mercedes’ phone and closed his eyes praying she’d pick up.

But the other end of the line was dead. Panic was setting in now. He shifted gears out of park and drove the exact speed limit over to Duragon’s. This was perhaps not the best idea given the rain. At the moment however Borden did not care.

The sooner he found out what had happened last night the better. Then, he could go directly to Mercedes’ last known location to check on her.

As expected there were other cops on the scene. The exterior had been taped off as officers from other departments waited on homicide. Detective Whitechapel parked on the street and went through the yellow tape up to Duragon’s front door. He used his eldritch sight to look around, but so far there was nothing. Nor was there any obvious sign of breaking and entering. So the detective examined the door itself.

Even on closer inspection he didn’t see anything that gave away how they got in. So, Detective Whitechapel walked around the house looking at the other windows, and the back patio. Yet still there were no signs of a forced entry.

Borden knew that the maid had a key to get in. But it seemed almost impossible to him that she had something to do with the crime. There weren’t many things that could kill a Mafia Don Especially an orc, who were notoriously tough to begin with. As Borden made his way back to the front of the house he approached Officer Anderson.

“I’m assuming you already checked for prints?” The homicide detective inquired, feeling like he already knew the answer.

“Only finger prints we found matched Mary Da Silva, she’s the maid.” Detective Anderson replied, shaking his head.

“I’ll need to examine Duragon, depending on how long he’s been cold I can determine how much time our perpetrators had to clean up. This could be a difficult case to solve.” Borden groaned and rubbed at his wrist. He walked up the front steps again and turned the door knob stepping into the house.

The decor struck him as something Mercedes would call tacky. Not that the detective really had an eye for interior design. To him it looked decently wealthy. But he couldn’t pinpoint what about the place made it tacky.

He glanced over his shoulder and closed the door behind him. Ms. De Silva had told them already that Duragon’s corpse was upstairs. But Detective Whitechapel wanted to take a look around on the first floor.

Again, his eldritch sight wasn’t showing anything magical. On this floor at least, when Borden looked up that changed. He could tell two things were magical on the second floor.

The detective went from room to room on the first floor looking for anything he missed. But, there was simply nothing out of place. Not even any fingerprints. The entire place almost seemed too clean. He would have to question Ms. Da Silva about that to see if this was the normal standard of cleanliness her employer expected. Or if a different kind of professional was behind this. Still, part of Borden did admire how polished and pristine things were. Even if it would make figuring out who got to Duragon first even more of a challenge.

Detective Whitechapel made his way up the stairs. He dusted the banisters for fingerprints, there was one set. Borden lifted the prints, though he was already expecting them to match with Ms. Da Silva.

But he didn’t want to make any assumptions just in case. The detective went right to the room where he’d detected magic. He was hit with the heavy stench of Chlorine.

“There goes the blood trail.” Borden mumbled looking around the room. One thing that stood out to him immediately was that Duragon’s arms were restrained behind his back. He recognized the restraints as the same handcuffs they used to hold dragons. Whoever the perpetrator was; they weren’t taking any chances with Duragon getting loose.

The second most obvious thing to the Cambion was that there were patches of wall paper missing. The bare wall underneath smelled heavily of bleach.

“One way to remove blood splatters from the walls…” Borden looked up at the ceiling and saw that it had been touched up as well. While the crime scene had been professionally cleaned, Duragon’s death had all the hallmarks of a crime of passion. It wasn’t a clean kill, and it hadn’t been quick.

As Borden examined Duragon’s body he determined that the mob lord had been bound and tortured until he succumbed to his injuries. The body was also in rigor mortis.

He had been dead a while.

“I wish I had gotten to you first. But we won’t tell the others about that will we?” Borden snarled sticking his hands in his pockets as he leered down at the deposed mob lord. The detective walked away from Duragon and over to a set of drawers. He took the top drawer out and felt around on the bottom of the compartment it fit into. There was nothing there, despite him seeing illusion magic coming from the oak furniture. So he tried the second drawer.

Then finally the third underneath this drawer was a playing card. Borden recognized the geometric black and gold leaf pattern on the back of the card as an in-house set used by a casino frequented by high rollers.

Detective Whitechapel flipped the card over. It was the King of Clubs, where the club was a King Cobra coiling its body in the shape of one. Borden’s hand was already shaking and he nearly dropped the card before a message appeared hovering slightly above it.

In the finest example of cursive penmanship Borden had ever seen. Were the words Hello Whitechapel in shimmering gold ink. The Cambion’s sunset colored orbs didn’t blink or look away from the card until the illusion faded. Then he slipped the card into his pocket.

Back outside Borden walked over to Officer Anderson and held out the prints he took.

“These were the only prints I could lift from anything in that house. Professional hit, Duragon was tortured to death. Everything scrubbed down. Barely any magic used to cover their tracks. Just a pair of our dragon restraints used to keep the victim from fighting back.” Borden paused for a moment to let Anderson take the prints.

“Should check inventory back at the station, see if any are missing or if another precinct is missing any. Need to find a key for those because I don’t think bolt cutters are going to work to get them off Duragon. I need to go write up my report.” Borden glanced toward his car.

“Shit…thanks for the help, uhh good luck with that. We’ll finish up here.” Officer Anderson said, looking over the prints before continuing, “These are Ms. Da Silva’s.”

With that, Detective Whitechapel crossed the threshold of the yellow tape once more and returned to his car. He dialed Mercedes’ number again to no avail. He tossed his phone in his passenger seat frustrated before driving to Adramar’s.

Borden parked in the driveway this time before climbing out of his car and going up to the door. He knocked three times quickly. Then waited, Borden noticed the curtains move to the left of the door. Then it opened a few moments later.

Mercedes’ eyes were red, her hair was a mess and she was uneasy on her feet leaning heavily on the door for support.

“Borden? But I wasn’t…” Mercedes stopped herself, and backed out of the doorway holding it open for Borden.

“Get inside before anyone sees you” From her tone of voice, Borden knew she wasn’t asking. He stepped inside and Mercedes quickly closed the door behind him, locking it back.

“Baby what happened?” Borden took one of his gloves off and caressed the side of her face. While his eyes lingered on the king cobra pendant on her necklace.

“Hitmen came from Adramar last night. I heard them come in, and managed to pull them off of him. But if I’d gone to our place…” Mercedes started tearing up.

“How is he doing?” Borden wiped them away as they fell without thinking about it. His mind was on the playing card he’d found, or rather it had been left for him.

“Adramar’s going to be okay, orcs are tough. He’s just asleep right now. I stayed here to keep an eye on him in case anyone came back.” Mercedes stepped forward and promptly tried to bury herself in Borden’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone? I tried calling you when you didn’t show for work.” “I’m sorry Borden I couldn’t find it; fell on the floor in the scuffle. I’m not strong enough to lift the couch and other stuff to look underneath.” Mercedes almost whispered she didn’t look up either.

Borden’s gaze softened underneath the mask, “I’ll help you find your phone.”

What he wasn’t going to do was tell her that Duragon was dead, or that he knew exactly who was behind it at least, not yet. Now Borden was expecting an extremely busy day at homicide as more of Duragon’s men were reported dead. He wasn’t making any assumptions. It was clear as day that this was a synchronized strike to take Duragon’s entire operation out at once.

The fact that any one man had the kind of power to pull this off both impressed, and horrified him.

#noir fantasy #noir fiction #monster love #monster lover #demon exophilia

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bellamyblake · 4 years

Note

Hi! I was thinking about Bell escaping, but he's injured. Something happened when they probed his brain, and now he can't stop hallucinating things. Eventually his mind settles on Clarke. And she insists that he needs to survive. He's close to the anomaly when he collapses. and he hears her voice again. He begs the hallucination to let him die. But this time it's really Clarke who gets to him. She sits with his head in her lap, brushing his hair back and calling for the others.

Oh MAN, DO YOU GOTTA BREAK MY MOFO HURT/COMFORT HEART LIKE THAT??? But I can totally see that! You probably didn’t want anything written but I got inspired so-

After torturing him for days (or was it weeks?), he finally finds a way to get free of his restraints.

He has kept notice of when the masked doctor comes in to inject him with the serum and decides that he has to be smart about this, so he never tries anything the first few times but he knows he has to be fast.

They usually untied him for a brief moment to take care of the lacerations on his wrists that bled constantly even through the bandages because he never stopped fighting.

They got so bad, he sliced through his skin that one time, slashed the veins on his right wrist and bled for a few hours before they noticed the red puddle on the floor.

That’s when the idea came to him-he could do this again, he could pretend to be weak and wounded from the loss of blood, from the tortures, the constant nightmares or dream-like illusions they projected in his mind and then he’d attack.

It’s exactly what he did.

He almost felt bad because they send this poor younger doctor to deal with him that night, after getting probably too sick and tired of his struggling and needing a rest.

It’s easy enough for him to punch the boy in the face, then easily release his other hand and sit up.

He hadn’t estimated the simple fact that he’d spent weeks in that damn chair, he had lost weight because he refused to eat, he was dizzy from the blood loss and the world spun so fast before his eyes when he tried to stand that he staggered.

And that had been his great mistake because the young doctor wasn’t, couldn’t be as innocent as he looked.

Clarke would’ve laughed at him for being so stupid but he doesn’t have time to think about that because before he knows what he’s doing, the doctor has a gun pointed at him and he shoots.

He gets him somewhere on his right side, just below his heart, right under the place Clarke so tenderly covered once all those years ago with her small sweaty palm, telling him to use his heart and his head.

He tackles the doctor and pushes him off his way, though. Somehow he has the strength for that because he’s mad and tired and he just wants to get the fuck away from here.

The door is surprisingly unlocked and he makes it down a narrow white hallway. His hand wraps around his side and he feels the blood seep through.

Good.

He deserved it.

He’s always known he deserves to die, ever since O was discovered and he had to watch his mom being floated. He just...knew. That was the moment it all went wrong for him, that was the moment he started losing his family.

Until he found it again.

He never thought he would, least of all in a beautiful blond princess with fierce blue eyes who fought for his life in more ways than he’s ever had, who saw him for a person and not an attribute to something or someone else.

He wasn’t just a brother or a son for her.

He was Bellamy.

An entity of his own.

A shoulder not just to lean on but to fight alongside with. A friend.

And then maybe something more.

Something he’d never get to tell her now because he knows the bullet’s still stuck inside, he’s had enough injuries to last a lifetime to know when he’s doomed and he can feel it shift inside him, bury deeper in that wrecked cursed body that stumbled down the narrow hallway to a door, and then another, a turn to the left, then-the right.

He had no idea what was happening, where he was even going but he just pushed through-there had to be a way out, an exit.

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment she appeared before his eyes. She was a constant sight this days because the people who tortured him figured out almost right away that she was the key to him.

Conjure her image enough times and he’d start getting delusional, maybe talk even though he wouldn’t want to, even though he’d fight not to, though his lips never uttered more than simply her name and a few “Come back”s even though he was the one who left her now.

And then again before when she burned like a candle in the midst of a firestorm.

He left her then.

He let himself be taken now too.

Somehow he stumbles outside.

The fresh air is so strong it hits him harder than the bullet.

This planet’s angry, as angry as he had once been back when they first landed-pure raw untamed anger that could only be quieted down to a slow murmur of his fast beating heart by a beautiful blond haired stubborn princess.

He knows he leaves a trail of blood behind him for them to follow, he can see it even now as it drips on the leaves crumpled in ugly brown forms, almost turning to dust to get scattered by the wind like he’d be soon enough.

The thought makes him smile-he could be free soon.

The pain, the misery, the constant beating up and nightmares, the dull throbbing of his heart that has now slowed down because of the blood loss, it’d all be gone and he’d be free, floating around in this universe, maybe up among the stars just like his mom’s body did when she was floated.

He wondered now if it hurt her. When he was a guard he’d use to hear stories from the other cadets about what it was like getting floated in space, how the oxygen leaves your lungs and you float through a big vast nothingness, eyes rolling to the back of your head, your brain exploding from the lack of gravity.

It seemed scary for him then.

Now he asked himself if it was less painless than getting shot in the side and slowly bleeding out.

Then again he shouldn’t complain.

He deserves the pain. He always had.

When his eyes spot something green with his periphery vision he feels his heart pick up again and he gasps when he looks straight ahead because it is the Anomaly and he knows...he knows he’ll get his one last wish come true.

He’ll see her.

That’s what keeps him walking even though he feels himself gradually getting weaker, his feet stumbling, tripping over but somehow, despite it all, he keeps pushing.

And then there she is right before him, half smiling, half serious. Her hair’s short again and she’s dressed in the ugly green suits they used back before Praimyfaya.

He smiles and reaches out to touch her.

“Clarke-” his voice breaks and just then does his body finally decide to give up on him. He trips over and falls to his knees but he tries to keep his head looking straight up at her.

The hallucination’s fast, faster than in any of his nightmares or hallucinations.

“Bellamy!” there’s something in her voice...it’s too broken too real but he knows it can’t be so he just smiles and let’s her kneel before him and grab his bloody hand.

“You’re here!” he whispers, barely keeping himself awake. “You’re here...”

“Of course I’m here! I’m so sorry it took me so long to find you!” she apologizes and he feels himself slump forward to her, thinking how he’d probably crash in the ground because she’s not real, except he doesn’t.

He ends up in her warm and strong embrace and he lets himself be held.

“Bellamy, you’re hurt-” small hands pepper all over him and she quickly finds his wound. It feels real when her small cold fingers wrap over his and color with blood. He looks down just to see how the red liquid tries to make it’s way through their fingers.

And it does.

Death always found a way. It was unforgiving, it was inevitable.

“What happened to you? What did they do?” she demands but he simply shakes his head and let’s himself fall further in her arms.

His body slumps forward and she carefully wraps an arm around his back and pushes him to her chest, voice growing significantly more panicked.

He closes his eyes for a moment, hears other voices too of people he’s never seen in his mind before-Raven...was that Miller too? They mix with hers and he lets himself drown in them for a short moment.

There’s panic, shuffling, fear-it almost feels like an honest to god perfect hallucination but he doesn’t understand how the warmth of her hand over his chest is so real, how he can hear the beating of her heart with his head pressed to her chest like that, how her ragged worried breath can fan his face.

“We need bandages! I have to wrap this up, he’s bled too much!”

“It’s okay...” he mumbles opening up his eyes and looking at Clarke’s hallucination.

She seems too...real, there’s not that tinge of white light that usually surrounds her like a halo as it was before in the light room. She’s all too perfect...too her-her cheeks are flushed red, her eyes are piercing angry blue like an ocean he’d love to drown in, her hair is a mess that moves like a hurricane with her every order.

“It’s okay, this is good. You don’t have to fight...I’m okay.” he mumbles and feels blood filling his mouth. She looks down at him, eyes filling with tears falling down her cheeks and ending up on his face.

That is his first cue that something’s wrong...because he can feel it.

He can feel her pain as much as he can feel his own.

“It’s good, you can let me go..” he adds and lets his hand fall from his wound.

“NO!” she screams and it’s gutteral, it’s horrifying, making him wince. “NO! You’re not dying, Bellamy!”

He closes his eyes for a brief moment then and thinks this over-he can feel her fingers wrapped tightly around his arm, holding him half up, he can tell the places her tears burned down his skin like acid rain, he can tell how stubbornly she is covering the bullet wound,but most of all-

He can hear her.

His Clarke.

It was her voice. It must be her voice, right?

He opens up his eyes again and reaches to cup her cheek, leaving a bloody strain on her cheek, cursing himself internally.

“Clarke?” he asks breathlessly “Is it really you?” she nods, letting her tears go as she bows her head down to his chest and soaking his shirt.

“You’ll be okay.” she promises when she looks at him again, his hand falls from her face, feeling too heavy, too tired and he smiles. “You’ll be fine.”

He doesn’t say anything, refuses to cause her any more pain than he already is-if this is real and...he knows now that it is, he just needs her, nothing else.

It takes him everything to make his hand move again only to wrap around hers that’s covering his wound. He gently picks it up and puts it on his cheek. She cries out once more and lets her head fall closer to his face, her hair shielding them from the rest of the world, her nose brushing against his.

“Just-” he speaks up but he coughs blood and a few of the drops land on her face, he feels it tickle down his chin and she stubbornly wipes it off with her sleeve “Just hold me.”

“Don’t go!” she begs “Please, don’t go! You can’t-”

“It’s fine.”

“IT’S NOT! Stop saying that!” she bursts out and he smiles as he feels her hand move to his hair, roaming through his curls, leaving a trail of red from his own blood. “You’re not leaving me again, you hear me?”

He just leans his head closer to her heart, letting the beat lull him, calm him down.

“Do you hear me, Bellamy? You fight for me,okay?”

“Okay” he says but it comes out resigned, slow, almost way too broken and desperate. “Alright, princess.” he doesn’t open his eyes again as much as he wants to but he does feel her fingers move to brush his tears and her hand ending up on his wound again, trying to stop the blood from spilling even more out of his body.

He hears her bark orders, ask for help, bandages, but he feels his body arch with the pain and he commands himself not to yell so he doesn’t scare her anymore.

Instead he flails his poor shaky hand in the air, looking for hers.

He doesn’t expect her to catch him. After all, maybe this was still a hallucination, maybe it was yet another evil dream fabricated by the people of Bardo.

And then he feels cold bony fingers wrap around his.

He smiles to himself.

Even if he dies, he knows he’ll be okay.

He was home.

#bellarke fanfiction #bellarke #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #hurt/comfort #season 7 #canon divergent fic #elora-lane #answered #sorry idk if you wanted me to write anything LOL #i just ended up doing so #it totally sucks and i am so sorry #god i need to stop trying this writing thing #im so horrible at it

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thoughtfullyyoungduck · 4 years

Text

don’t stop turn it up

Summary: hii can u do a losers club x reader where they’re teens and at a party trying to take care of drunk Richie and reader except they’re acting crazy?

warnings: they’re in their first your of college so they’re older then eighteen which is perfectly legal in my country but just for readers from the US: underage drinking

‘I’m hungry, can we go to McDonalds, please’, you whine, draping yourself over Stanley as he huffs, trying to slip from under you.

‘M-m-McDonalds is a half an hour away Y/N, we’ll go next time’, Bill placates, switching places with Stan, wrapping your arms around his neck in a facsimile of a piggy back ride.

‘No I wanna go now’, you drag out, your head lolling forward to rest on Bill’s shoulders. Your stomach grumbles in agreement, and you giggle at the sound it produces.

‘See, my tummy agrees.’

‘We’re not going anywhere except home.’ Stan’s angrily wiping his sleeve with a napkin he found at the bar, the stain a result of Richie spitting the beverage, water that Ben lied was vodka to sober Richie up, at Stan because of a dare. He’s pissed, and rightfully so, but in your highly intoxicated state, all it does is make you chortle.

The end of the first semester in college has arrived, and to celebrate the losers and you agreed to go to a party a classmate set up, far away enough from your campus that there were no regulation to abide by.

Now, you weren’t a heavy drinker by any means. As a sixteen year old your dad let you take a sip from his coffee laced with some sort of alcohol in it, and your taste buds did not like it, the heavy undertones of extreme sweetness soaked in your tongue, so sweet you feared for cavities in your teeth. However, after hearing the stories Richie and Bev animatedly spilled after a night out, you were willing to take a change and find out just what exactly it was that attracted people to drinking alcohol, and you got buzzed.

The music crackled in the air, deafening your eardrum with the most generic pop music, sweating body polluting the air with their bodily smells and inappropriate touches that by all means should make the receiver confining, and you disliked the scene right away and asked to leave within the first hour of you being there.

A drink offered to by Richie loosened you up, and his antics overleaped to you, following his path to act erratically and with no care in the world. After that, the party was a lot of fun. You were definitely a lightweight, as you only drunk two gin tonic’s before flying off the world and into the unknown, the room swirling around you faster and faster, gripping the bar to steady your wobbling legs.

Richie was no better off, but he had chugged significantly more beers and booze than you had. The two of you took on the role of comedy relief of all the losers, the dances you performed appalling and off beat, or the moment you forgot to take the cap of before guzzling down your next liquid, only to be terminated by the lid, comedy gold.

The little shits also exploited your state to extract all the secret you harbored from them, the time in fifth grade when you accidently wet yourself no longer confidential, but that was okay, because these people were your best friends and for all you cared they could understand you inside and out, and you still wouldn’t feel intimidated by it.

‘Come on’, Bill grinds, hoisting you half over his shoulders. ‘We should get g-g-oing.’

‘I don’t want to’, you complain, levitating your legs off the ground so all your weight land on Bill who, not prepared for this, loosing his footing and pitches to the ground. It’s thanks to Mike’s quick reflexes and his core muscles strength that stops your downfall, towing the both of you up.

‘Be careful Y/N.’

‘You’re not my mother’, you say, sticking out your tongue in Mike’s direction, though your blurry eyesight makes it harder to pinpoint his exact location.

The alcohol is thrumming through your veins, transforming every word and sentences into the funniest things you’ve ever heard, so overly warm as the liquor builds momentum and stuffs your head full of cotton.

‘They’re both going to be so fucking hangover after this.’ Eddie sounds heated, fretting over Richie who smiles to him as if he’s seen the gates of heaven for the very first time. How those two manage to keep the way they’re in love with each other under wraps, you’ll never know.

‘Oh shucks Eds, I guess I’ll have to let your mom down then huh? Shame, she was really looking forward to another one of our escapades.’

‘Shut up asshole, that doesn’t even make any sense.’

‘It doesn’t’? Richie asks genuinely confused, scratching the top of his head.

You cackle with laughter, untangling from Bill and mike in order to sink down onto your knees and then your back, the soft carpet softening the spot designated for you to lay on.

The party is still in full swing, a few people making out in the far end of your eye sight, while others gyrating too fast for your mind to keep up. The colorful lights spin over the ceiling, a magnificent lightshow for only to see. You’re getting tired, but the night as brought noting but wonderful things and you don’t want it to end just yet.

Richie ducks up out of nowhere, cushioning his head on your stomach and gazing at the same light you are. ‘My bodies has never released endorphins so fast before, not even after seeing Eddie,’ Richie blanks out, mind reeling with the implications of what he confessed. After a moment of truthfulness between the two of you he concludes that everyone is able to hear him, so he adds, ‘’s mom’, Richie awes, his hand outstretching to feel the light, as if that’s in any way possible. Regardless of whether or not it was meant as a joke, you begin to howl in joy, the giggles beginning to cramp up your belly.

Stan’s face appears in front of the lights, bend over at an uncomfortable angle to force eye contact. ‘Get up’, he states coolly, not even offering his hand to help you do so.

Rolling his eyes, Eddie takes Richie’s hand, wrenching Richie up and maneuvering him with his arm around Eddie’s shoulder, distributing Richie’s weight.

Ben is the one to aid you, stealing himself after seeing what happened to Bill. The sudden movement cramps your stomach up in a not so pleasant way, the blood rushing back to your face, forcing the bile back.

‘Do not’, Stan’s tone sharp is as the edge of a knife, ‘throw up on me or so help you I will kill you in the most horrendous way possible.’ Richie laughs like a drain, doubling over and clapping on his knee in pure hilarity.

‘Same goes for you’, Eddie confirms, jabbing his elbow in Richie’s stomach. The movement shoves Richie off balance, his arms fluttering in the air birdlike to regain his balance.

‘Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No it’s Richie fucking Tozier’, you cantillate off pitch, egging him on.

‘Fear not, for Super Richie’s swooping in to save the day’, he recites in his best Christopher Reese impression, surprisingly well done. ‘What do you say Eds? You wanna be the Lois Lane to my superman?

‘I’m not some fucking damsel in distress Richard.’

‘But you’d let me kiss you?’

‘Yeah Eddie you mmph.’ Beverly’s hand bites of your phrase, the unspoken words formulating and preventing a train wreck waiting to happen. The meaning of why goes unclear to you, lost in the haze of foggy interpretations of incentives picked up by your senses.

In retaliation, you lick Bev’s palm, and she retracts her hand, but not without chuckling about it first. ‘Can I please do one more dance on the table? Please? I’ll even let Mike stop me from falling over this time, just please?’ You pout, bottom lip sticking out, begging wordlessly.

‘No, the uber is right in front and we need to leave n-n-now,’ Bill states resolutely, no room for disagreements or debates, your best interests at heart.

‘Alright fine’, you complain, though you tear up at the sight of all of your friends present around you, all in their element and perfect in their own way. Are you looking forward to going home? No. But if the others do, you’ll blissfully follow them, for they are your happiness. You shouldn’t have started thinking that, because the alcohol made you twice as emotional.

‘Are you crying right now?’

‘I’m sorry, I just love you all so much,’ you slobber a kiss over at the two people loitering around you, first Stan ,with a kiss to half of his cheek and ear, the coordination letting you down big time, and then Mike, who unlike Stan happily receives the affection.

‘We love you too’, Ben emphasizes, spooked as a girl walks past him and trips over her own to feet. ‘But I want to leave now.’

Mike throws you around in a fireman position, bracketing your legs so you don’t tumble over the other side. With a whistle, you sag down Mike’s back, giddy with it, seeing the world from a different perspective now.

‘Wow, Stan’s upside down’, you claim fully believing it, and that breaks the last of Stan’s resistance, the edges of his lip twisting up in amusement and a crow galming the room.

Personally the most amusing thing of going out, Stan think to himself, is the reaction to the mind-numbing ache a hangover conjures, as he finds out in the morning.

#richie tozier #richie tozier imagine #Richie x Eddie #sort off #it's hinted at #the loser club imagines #the losers x reader #My writing #it imagines #I swear I'm working on the other request too #one I'll upload tonight

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