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#HER RELIEF WHEN HE TELLS HER ITS HUMAN
seresinhangmanjake · 2 months
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The Favorite
dad!Jake "Hangman" Seresin x reader
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Summary: The Daggers meet your and Jake's baby girl for the first time and arguments over who will be her favorite aunt or uncle quickly follow.
Notes/Warnings: part of the Oh, Baby Universe, but can be read alone. Based on a suggestion from @tgmreader
Words: 1288
Between the ‘She’s like your clone, Jake,” from Nat, the ‘Is anyone else surprised Hangman beat us to the baby train?’ from Bob, and the offended ‘Wait, you two were hooking up and you didn’t tell me?’ from Javy, Jake is clearly exhausted. Not that he didn’t anticipate being worn out after introducing his daughter to his team, you both did, but the last forty-five minutes have far surpassed expectations.
Being confined in a room with the Daggers historically proves to have its drama—whether in the form of unnecessary argument or playful teasing—but with your new baby girl at the center of everyone's attention, drama has started to take on new meaning in the form of obsessively watching Eve as if she might start doing tricks or giving you both grief for not spilling every detail of your ‘sneaky, secret relationship’ before this moment. To your relief, though, they’ve steered clear of asking questions about your absence over the majority of the past year. They don’t push, knowing that information will be revealed with time.
“It’s just…” Mickey begins as his eyes snap back and forth from the baby to Jake, “...so weird.”
When you chuckle, Jake rolls his eyes. “It’s not weird,” he counters. 
“It’s pretty weird, man. You’re, like, a dad.”
“Lots of people are dads,” Jake says as he runs his knuckle down the cheek of the infant in your arms—his new little love. 
“Yea, but you’re the dad of Y/N’s baby.”
As Bradley snorts at the obvious, you look to Jake to check on the effect of Mickey’s unfiltered words. His eyes are on your face and you smile to soften the sudden twinge of uneasiness speckled amongst the various green flecks in his irises. 
Though Jake has expressed mental security in his place within the lives of you and your child, you fear what might occasionally be running through his mind. The last thing you want infecting his confidence is the consideration that maybe this situation is weird, that maybe he isn’t meant to be the father of your baby because he wasn’t intentionally chosen for that role. 
Eve wasn’t planned. You can’t change that. And the choices you made when you discovered your pregnancy are enough to have any man reasonably questioning himself. But there is no other man you want as your baby’s father. Jake is it. You’re pretty positive he was always meant to be it, because your brain refuses to picture another in his place. 
Jake’s stare breaks when Bradley starts to speak. “We all knew how these two felt about each other, even though they were doing nothing about it,” he says, shooting you and Jake a smirk so quick it’s barely acknowledged before he looks back to the group of pilots. “I promise you guys, once it fully sinks in, it won’t feel so wild that they accidentally made a tiny human.”
Nat’s head snaps up from Eve, but her finger remains wrapped in the infant’s smaller ones. “When, exactly, were you given enough time for it to sink in?” There is suspicion in her tone. Then her eyes go wide. “Did you already meet the baby?” she asks before turning to you and Jake. “Did Rooster meet her before the rest of us?”
As if sensing the shift in the room, Eve lets out a little whine and starts to wiggle in your hold. 
“Yes, Nat,” Bradley answers for you. You can feel the sass bubbling around him as his arms cross over his chest. “By a whole three days.”
“Three days matters,” she retorts. “It could be the difference that makes you Eve's favorite. The earlier the interaction, the better.”
“She’s only a few months old. You might still have a chance, Nat,” Reuben chimes from the sideline.
“Don’t bet on it,” Bradley snorts. His sass is so expertly conveyed you’re shocked his tongue doesn’t stick out to accompany his words. 
You’d scold him if not for the fact that these two often enjoy ruffling each other’s feathers when the opportunity arises. It’s all in good fun, but sometimes, depending on the topic, the teasing aspect goes over their heads. 
You suppose it’s flattering that being your child’s favorite is enough to cause a bit of an upset, but it’s wasted energy. Jake will be Eve’s favorite. The Father and The Favorite are not mutually exclusive, and you know in a room full of the people she loves most in the world, Eve will never fail to run straight into her father’s arms.
Nat, however, does not consider that inevitability as she carefully slips her finger from Eve’s to face the six-foot-tall brunet head-on. 
Jake mutters a curse, fingers rubbing across his forehead.
With his hands raised, Javy takes a step forward as if to prevent a physical altercation. “Alright, everybody take a breath,” he says. The winning, cocky grin that has tempted a woman or two or thirty is spread across his face. Then he points to himself. “I'm going to be the favorite. I'm her father's best friend.”
“I don't think that guarantees anything,” Bob says, only to receive a scowl in return.
It’s then that Mickey throws his own name onto the ballot. “You know, if we base this on entertainment value, she’ll obviously like me best. I’m the funniest.”
“Also the most irresponsible,” Reuben adds.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Um, everything,” Nat clarifies as Bob nods in agreement. “For one, you’ll never be the babysitter.”
“If you were the babysitter you’d need a babysitter,” Bradley chuckles, patting Mickey on the back. 
Bob clears his throat and pushes his glasses up his nose. “That is very true; it would be chaos. What baby Eve here could use is a calming presence, and that’s me, so–”
“I’m calm,” Reuben interjects, pulling a scoff out of Javy.
“You also come up with insane ideas that make everyone miserable,” Javy says. “What are you going to do, have the baby compete in challenges only to suffer through two hundred push-ups if she loses?” he asks. “I think that’s grounds for immediate disqualification.”
Reuben’s response is drowned out by the additions of each pilot arguing their case for favorite aunt or uncle, and you’re too drained from the last hour to attempt untangling voices.
Jake sighs and shakes his head before taking your hand in his and leading you out of the living room, up the stairs to where Eve sleeps. You’re thankful that, at some point, despite the noise filling the room where your friends remain, your little girl managed to fall asleep. As you place her in her crib, you glance at Jake. 
He’s sitting on the loveseat on the opposite side of the room, one hand running down his face, the other reaching out for you. When you take that hand, he pulls you onto his lap, shifting around until you’re comfortable with your back leaning against the armrest. A palm draws a lazy line of warmth up and down your leg.
“You’re a trouper, Honey,” he says, eyes unmoving from your knee.
You chuckle. “It could’ve been worse.”
“We should’ve done it one at a time; single-file line. The last thing I wanted was for you to be overwhelmed.”
Sitting a little straighter, you reach up to cup Jake’s cheek and guide his face toward yours. “Jake, I wasn’t overwhelmed. I’m fine and so is Eve,” you promise him. “Besides, they’re my friends, too. I knew what we were getting into.”
Jake leans into your touch before turning his head to kiss your palm. “They’re all crazy,” he says.
“Yes, but they’re ours,” you reply. Then you nudge your head in the direction of the crib. “And now hers.”
---
tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @sailor-aviator @penguin876 @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @emilyoflanternhill @wretchedmo @shanimallina87 @crowsreadsarahjmaas @mamachasesmayhem @sky2nd @jessicab1991 @rosedurin @averyhotchner @horseshoegirl @roosteraloha @b-bradshaw @memeorydotcom @ryiamarie @ateliefloresdaprimavera
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zapreportsblog · 9 months
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Eye Contact
➥ summary: earth 42!miles just wants to know why his girl avoids eye contact with him
➥ a/n: this one shot is based off of @the-dumpster-fire-of-life post “eye contact”
➥ fluffy one shot
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The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm glow over the room as Miles and his girlfriend (Y/n) settled into a comfortable conversation. Their faces were illuminated by a soft radiance, but Miles couldn't help but notice a subtle shift in (Y/n)'s demeanor. She seemed hesitant, avoiding his gaze as if there were unspoken words hanging in the air between them.
Concern etched into his features, Miles gently reached out and took (Y/n)'s hand, his touch reassuring. "Hey, is everything okay?" he asked, his voice laced with genuine care.
(Y/n)'s eyes flickered briefly to meet his before diverting to the floor, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her shirt. She bit her lip, her expression a mixture of vulnerability and discomfort.
"I... I'm sorry, Miles," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just find it hard to look you in the eye sometimes."
Surprised, Miles squeezed her hand gently. "You don't have to apologize, (Y/n). You can tell me anything. I'm here for you."
(Y/n) took a deep breath, summoning her courage. "It's not that I don't trust you or anything like that," she explained, her words hesitant but genuine. "It's just... sometimes, when I look into your eyes, it's like you can see right through me. It's overwhelming."
Miles listened intently, his gaze fixed on (Y/n) with an understanding that surpassed words. He knew the weight of vulnerability, the depth of emotions that could arise from the connection between two souls. He gently brushed his thumb over the back of her hand, silently encouraging her to continue.
(Y/n) continued, her voice growing stronger as she found her rhythm. "When I look into your eyes, it's like I'm laid bare. Every fear, every insecurity, they all feel magnified. I'm afraid you'll see me differently, that you'll realize I'm not as put together as I appear."
Miles's heart ached at (Y/n)'s confession. He had always admired her strength, her unwavering determination. Yet, he understood that beneath her resilient exterior lay a tender heart, susceptible to its own doubts and fears.
He tilted her chin gently, coaxing her to meet his gaze. "Listen, (Y/n)," he said softly, his voice filled with warmth. "When I look into your eyes, I see a beautiful soul, a person filled with passion, kindness, and so much strength. I see the love and care you pour into everything you do. Your vulnerabilities only make you more human, and they don't diminish the amazing person you are."
(Y/n)'s eyes met his, and for a moment, she saw the sincerity and love reflected in his gaze. It was a mirror that didn't judge or criticize, but rather embraced and cherished.
"I've had my own moments of doubt and vulnerability, (Y/n)," Miles continued, his voice gentle but resolute. "But being with you has taught me that we all have our struggles, and it's okay to let our guards down sometimes. In fact, it's in those vulnerable moments that we truly connect and find strength in each other."
Tears welled in (Y/n)'s eyes as she absorbed his words, feeling the weight of her insecurities begin to lift. She squeezed his hand, her voice filled with a mixture of gratitude and relief. "Thank you, Miles. Thank you for seeing me, for accepting me, vulnerabilities and all."
The room filled with a gentle silence as (Y/n) finished pouring out her heart to Miles, explaining the struggle she had with making eye contact. Vulnerability lingered in the air, but as (Y/n) looked into Miles' eyes, she noticed a mischievous glimmer dancing within them. She wondered what playful comment he had up his sleeve.
With a teasing smile playing on his lips, Miles leaned in closer, his voice filled with playful banter. "You know, I thought you didn't make eye contact with me because I'm too hot," he said, his tone infused with playful confidence.
(Y/n) blinked, caught off guard by Miles' unexpected remark. Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she looked at him blankly, her expression devoid of amusement. The room fell into an expectant silence.
"That's another reason why I don't," she responded matter-of-factly, her words cutting through the air like a knife.
Miles' jaw dropped, his confident façade crumbling in an instant. His cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson as he attempted to stammer out a coherent response. "You... you can't just say things like that, mami," he managed to utter, his voice a mix of embarrassment and amusement.
(Y/n) couldn't contain her laughter, a sound that filled the room with its infectious joy. She leaned back, clutching her stomach, the honesty and bluntness of her response sinking in. The sight of Miles, flustered and covering his face, only made her laugh harder.
Seeing her laughter, Miles couldn't help but join in, his own embarrassment melting away in the warmth of the moment. He peeked through his fingers, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of affection and playfulness. "You always know how to keep me on my toes, (Y/n)."
Their laughter subsided, leaving behind a comforting silence, a shared understanding between them. It was in these lighthearted moments, where vulnerabilities were exposed and teased, that their bond grew stronger. They had the ability to find humor even in their own flustered states, a testament to the depth of their connection.
As they sat there, their eyes locked, the room brimming with unspoken affection, Miles reached out and gently brushed his fingers against (Y/n)'s cheek, his touch tender and loving. "You know, (Y/n), your straightforwardness is one of the things I love about you.”
“And you’re big ass forehead is one of the reasons why I love you,” she says planting a kiss on his cheek.
“HEY!”
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ghouljams · 4 months
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Viking!Soap has consumed my entire being! Just imagining how unhinged he'd get if highland!reader got hurt or taken!!
Or or or! Him seeing her holding/caring for babies! They way he'd get sooo feral... 🥴
(Your writing > Me 🤰)
While the vikings aren't back home quite yet in the Soap story line, I did have an idea in my head and this is honestly the best ask to write it out in. Here's some of highland!reader being a healer and Soap being just... so dead over it
uuuuuh tw for descriptions of birth. I'm giving Gaz a baby.
Now this is a good use of your skills. You forget sometimes, that the vikings come from somewhere, that there must be people waiting on them, that they must have a home. This? You could never deny that Gaz is human after this. Not with the way he holds his wife's hand and frets over her as she grits her teeth and pushes. You know this, you've been midwife to enough of the people in your village to feel her dilation with your fingers, to cup the baby's head and ease its shoulders. You try to look reassuring as the mother sobs above you. That's what Gaz is for you suppose, he murmurs quiet affections to her, trying to keep her calm through the worst of it.
When the baby finally slips free and falls into your hands you can feel the relief that sobs through its mother. You're quick to dip your scissors in the boiled water nearby and snip the cord, tying it off with deft precision. You frown at the quiet infant, rub your fingers against its chest as Gaz comforts his wife. It scrunches its little face, opens its mouth on a silent cry and you turn it over to hit its little back hard. Then again, until it coughs and its cry finally pierces the air.
You sigh, and pass the baby off to be cleaned up by one of the mother's friends. "It's a boy," You tell the happy couple, taking their weary smiles as payment for a job well done. The only job you've ever done well.
The fire has burned low and the rest of the village has gone home to wait, but the 141 is vigilant. The crazy shepherd pops her head out of Gaz's house with good news after hours waiting. Soap lets out a breath and leans back to look at the rising sun. A new day for a new life.
He doesn't expect to see you holding the new wee one when they're actually allowed in. Sat next to the bed, fingers checking over the infant as your wrap and re-wrap its swaddle. His swaddle. Gaz said the baby was a boy.
You look tired, but you smile fondly down at the sleeping baby none the less. Again he finds himself staring at the rising sun, the warmth of you permeating every shallow corner of the room. The baby shift in its blankets and you shush it before it can start crying. Your fingers are so gentle as the skate over its little cheeks and nose. Every angle of you seems to gentle the infant, each soft touch to calm it. Soap's never seen anyone like you, never thought someone like you would step down from the realm of the gods to grace the earth.
Something warm melts over Soap's heart, the tender moment broken when you hand the baby back to his mother. Gaz and his wife laugh as Ghost and Price crowd close to give the congratulations, but Soap can't take his eyes off of you. He wants to see it again, wants to see you cradling an infant, looking content and proud.
Soap goes to stand next to you, brushes his fingers against your shoulder to try and catch some of the warmth breaking off of you. You stiffen and glare up at him. He takes his hand away, feels his fingers tighten, his smile hollow when he pastes it on. How differently would you look at him if it was his baby you cradled close to your chest? Would your gaze still cut into him like the bitter winds that carry snow down from the mountains? Would you soften for him, let him see the warmth in your eyes that now seems so far away? Would you look at him like you look at the baby?
As something human?
"Thank you," Gaz's wife give you a genuine smile, her eyes tired but shining with joy, "I know this isn't what you-"
"No," You stop her, the nordic tongue sounds so foreign to Soap's ears when it comes from your mouth, "I'm happy to help." Your accent is bad, it makes Soap smile a little fuller as he tries not to laugh. You seem to warm again watching the happy family. It's just him then.
Soap can see it when you give Gaz a weary smile, he's human in your eyes. He wonders what it would take to be granted the same honor. If you'd ever give him that, just that, he could live a lifetime on it.
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indigovigilance · 6 months
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Maggie is Possessed
This is my second meta! My first one is here.
I’m not the first fan to be suspicious of Maggie but I’m going to argue why she might be possessed (and I hypothesize that specifically she is possessed by an angel), rather than being eldritch herself, and will propose some reasons why the hitchhiker might be doing this.
First, a quick list of her early observable behaviors:
She cannot spell urgency
She signs “very faithfully yours”
She refuses to drink alcohol
Golden angel-wing earrings, anyone?
Have you seen those clothes?
All of those things are angelic, but why possession, specifically? Evidence is presented in order of chronology and not necessarily how strong it is, below the cut:
First: The timeline is weird. She’s eight months behind on rent, and suddenly decides she needs to speak to Mr. Fell “on a matter of some ugrency” and insists she can be out by next week. It’s inconsistent behavior that could indicate that a new decision-maker has taken over. First-point-five, she calls Aziraphale an angel: does she know?
Second: re-watch the first coffee shop scene, S2E1 at 13:20. Yes yes, it reads like a cute lesbian flirtation scene. That’s the cowrie shell. Pick it up. There’s a caraway seed underneath. When she arrives at the coffee shop for the first time, Maggie’s confused “ah, yes, coffee” might not be the flustered redirect you thought it was, but rather indicating that whoever is riding around in that body doesn’t actually know how a coffee shop works. But Nina (to Hitchhiker!Maggie’s relief) remembers her order. So Human!Maggie has been here before, in fact, Nina calls her a regular, to which Hitchhiker!Maggie says “oh right, yes, I’m that.” Not sus at all, sister.
Third: During the “herbal tea” exchange, Maggie says to Nina that “I didn’t go to parties” and she was “not that sort of teenager.” On it’s face it reads like she was a goody-two-shoes human teenager, but consider for a moment that whoever is speaking right now was never human; the statement isn’t a lie, but its very misleading. Who else do we know that does that?
Fourth: During the lock-in, Maggie tells the story of how her great grandmother’s store was in a corner of Mr. Fell’s bookshop, so he lets them stay on for old time’s sake. One possible interpretation of this phrasing is that Hitchhiker!Maggie knows that Aziraphale has owned that shop continuously for at least 100 years. Nina is the one that suggests that it was actually Aziraphale’s grandfather, and Maggie nods along.
Fifth: Maggie says it’s a “coincidence” that the power goes in and out when Crowley passes by; could read as a deliberate redirect from someone who actually knows that Crowley is a demon? But more on that later.
Sixth: I’m skipping a lot of intervening content BUT at the ball, during the dance, she says “this is just what we do, isn’t it?” to which Nina emphatically replies that no, it isn’t. So even though Nina has been effected by an emotion-suppressing aura, she hasn’t lost her memory of how society generally works in 2023, but somehow Maggie isn’t up to date. This is parallel to Point #2, not knowing how to order coffee.
Seventh: Aziraphale’s attempted miracle memory wipe doesn’t work on her. I’ve seen others suggest that it’s due to a miracle blocker but all of his other miracles work, so…
Eighth: Nina calls her “angel.” You thought it was cute. It’s not. It’s a double-bluff. She’s actually an angel.
Ninth: She tells Crowley that “we’re real people.” Okay, human police officer Inspector Constable, whatever you say.
The rest of this is wild speculation. Abandon hope all ye who read below the fold.
So of course this raises the question: why are is the hitchhiker here, and what was Human!Maggie’s motivation to give them permission to hitchhike?
I’ll start with Human!Maggie’s motivation. I believe that she is not just pretendy-good but a properly good person who feels a lot of anguish about her failing business, one that’s been in the family for 100 years, and guilt for not paying her rent. I think she prayed for help, and a “guardian angel” answered her prayers, and she gave that angel permission to possess her and fix the problem.
As for why the angel answered her prayers, I propose that the Metatron sent them to fuck around with Aziraphale. My evidence is that Maggie frequently meddles to Aziraphale’s detriment. In chronological order:
She puts him in a moral choice position: if he evicts her, he’s the bad guy. If he forgives her rent, he’s done something good. Both of these can be leveraged by the Metatron. Notably, after he forgives the rent, Maggie calls him an angel, perhaps to remind him whose side he’s really on *wink wink nudge nudge.*
She confides in her landlord about her crush on the business owner across the street, who’s already in a relationship?! How ridiculously inappropriate?? Maggie??!! But she does, and plants the idea in his head about love, which ultimately becomes the runaway train that makes him extremely vulnerable later.
She refuses to leave the shop during the attack (S2E5), I propose is for purposes of fucking over Aziraphale, as evidenced by…
For this part, I need you to go back and watch it. S2E6 at 3:28. During the pissing contest at the threshold, Maggie turns her head away, there is a sound effect, and that’s when she turns back to Shax and invites the demons in. Hitchhiker!Maggie has taken over and rolled out the carpet for the enemy invasion.
Maggie is the instigator of the “you have to talk about your feelings” conversation, dragging Nina from behind the counter across the street while she has a shop full of customers. Considering that the Metatron is at that very moment at the French restaurant next door, making a job offer to Aziraphale, the timing choice seems very suspect. Almost as if they coordinated to talk to each husband while they were separated.
So, it is possible that Hitchhiker!Maggie was sent by the Metatron as a spy and a saboteur to meddle with Aziraphale. To what end, specifically? Probably to get him to break up with Crowley and/or get him to return to Heaven, but ultimately, I just don’t know. I will admit that I don’t have a very strong conviction that this will become canon, but it was fun to write and I hope that it was fun to read! Leave a note if you enjoyed it!
edit: a link to another meta about why this was such an effective strategy against the husbands
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utahimeow · 6 months
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swan song — satoru gojo
summary — why work so hard when you could just be free?
pairing — satoru gojo x f!reader
warnings — major jjk spoilers, graphic depictions of violence, hurt/comfort, angst, happy endings, reader has a cursed technique (mentioned once), established relationship
word count — 1.3k
author’s note — based on swan song by lana del rey. this is the most self indulgent selfship coded thing i’ve ever written but i needed to give gojo the happy ending he deserved idc if its cheesy or out of character
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He’s dead.
Dead.
The strongest. Dead. 
Satoru Gojo is dead.
A flash, then his body becomes two — legs here, torso there. 
He’s not moving. Scarlet splatters the ground, blooms like a lily. 
The air is disgustingly thick, and it hangs like a noose, and it cuts your throat. Nobody is breathing. Everybody knows. 
This time, he’s not getting back up. 
A scream claws its way out of your throat, vicious as it pierces through the air. 
Someone else is stepping up to replace him already, a sorcerer with hair like seafoam. The King of Curses turns towards him, his stolen face twisting into a demonic grin, dripping with victory.
Right now there’s just one thing on your mind. Like instinct, like it’s your destiny. You don’t care about the politics, the consequences, the implications of his death. None of it matters.
You just want to be with Satoru.
Your feet are moving. They almost take off, but a steady grip pulls you back. 
“You should leave.” Shoko’s voice quivers as she speaks. You’ve seen her composure crack so rarely that when you do it feels like your first time witnessing it.
Your face is hot, and it’s wet now. Your eyes sting. You don’t try to stop the tears, or even wipe them.
If you were to look up, you’d find eyes full of sorrow and shock and pity—you’re the grieving widow. His students have lost a teacher, his friends have lost a friend. At least I’m not her, they all think, I haven’t lost the love of my life. 
Without another word, without even so much as one final glance at Satoru’s corpse, you leave. You can’t bear to be there any longer. 
The taxi driver does not question why you’re crying. He pretends he does not hear the way you sniffle and gasp for air. He drives you to your home and drives away when you’ve paid him.
You breathe out. Your shoulders sag with relief. You will yourself to stop crying.
He’s in the living room, a thick arm thrown over his eyes as he half-naps. As soon as he hears you enter however, he springs up, beaming like the sun. 
Satoru laughs a little at your puffy face and your glimmering eyes. He gathers you into a hug, his body hard and imposing and warm, and you cling to him. His heart pumps blood around his body and it’s loud in your ears.
“That was traumatic,” you say, but it gets muffled when you bury your face into his chest. He smells fresh, like the wind on a warm day. He must have showered since he teleported home. 
Satoru’s laughing again. You wish he’d never stop. “You knew it was fake the whole time, how bad could it be?”
“I had to watch you die, Satoru! It was horrible even if it was fake,” you admit, tightening your arms around his waist, where his torso meets his legs. 
He laughs, and it reverberates in his chest and rumbles through your body. You’re angry. You can’t climb inside of his skin and live there and you’re angry about it. His giant hands draw circles all over your back.
“I’m here, baby. I’m all yours now,” he tells you. For the first time, he means it without any exceptions.
“What if you faked your death?”
Satoru’s head whips over to look at you, scanning your face to find something that will tell him you’re not serious. But you are serious.
One word, he asks, “why?”
“So we can give up being sorcerers and leave Japan and never come back.”
Satoru grows quiet. There’s a pit in your stomach. He tells you constantly that he’d give you the world, and you believe him, and he loves you more than anything, yet he can’t bring himself to give up on humanity. Without him, the world doesn’t stand a chance. He’s the strongest, after all.
“Is that what you want?” he asks. It’s sincere.
“Yes,” you tell him, swallowing as you consider your next words. “I just got you back from the Prison Realm and now you have to fight Sukuna, who might actually kill you… You just give and give so much to the Jujutsu world and what do they give you back? Shit all. And I’m tired of watching you be wrung dry.” 
He’s silent again. All the years that you’ve known him make it easy for you to know what he’s thinking. More than likely he’s thinking of Yuuji and Megumi and Yuuta. Maybe he wonders what Nanami would tell him to do, or what Geto would say.
It’ll be selfish. He’ll be abandoning everyone at the worst possible moment. He turns your words over and over in his head. Then he thinks of a life with you, a peaceful one, where you’ve left behind your days of sorcery, where he doesn’t have to be some pseudo-god. 
Where he can grow old with you.
Perhaps, he thinks, it’s necessary for him to disappear. It’ll be a struggle without him, but he has faith. They’ll persevere. 
“What are you thinking?” he asks eventually.
“I’ll use cursed energy to create a clone of you. Since my clones can’t use cursed techniques it’ll have to be right when Sukuna is about to kill you. You switch out and teleport out of there.”
For a moment he stares at you, then he chuckles, shifting sideways so he can lay on his back and stare at the ceiling with resolve.
“You’ve been thinking about this,” he says. 
“I have,” you say. “For as long as I’ve loved you.”
He thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful. 
He’s convinced of it, actually. Life has filled your cheeks out and erased your dark circles away. Your eyes shine brighter. Fear no longer lives in them, nor does hopelessness.
Your fingers are gentle as you pluck fresh, plump tomatoes off the vine. Satoru’s heart swells because you’ve been so excited to harvest them.
“It’s just a handful for now,” you tell him, letting him peer inside the basket you have on your arm. There are a few bunches of rocket and basil leaves, and a small squash too. 
He reaches in, takes a tomato and pretends to take a bite out of it until you snatch it from his hand and scold him. 
“They just look too good, baby,” he says between laughs. You roll your eyes, but you don’t manage to bite back the smile that grows on your lips.
“Go finish building my chicken coop,” you tease, calling him by his last name, the one he took from you, then brushing past him to head back inside your home.
“I told you it’s almost finished!” he exclaims, trailing behind you as you make your way to the vintage renovated kitchen of your house. 
Satoru settles on a stool at the island at the centre, observing the way you rinse the vegetables in the sink. To him it’s fascinating—well, you’re fascinating. The way your brow scrunches slightly with concentration. He hopes you never run out of vegetables to harvest and wash. He’ll make sure you don’t.
“By the way, what do you think about getting some mini goats?”
“I don’t care as long as you take care of them,” you tell him. “Do you want salad or roasted vegetables for lunch?”
Satoru’s heart races. He’s transported back to 2006 for a moment, when for some reason he wanted to be around you all the time and thought it was weird that he liked it when you teased him. Before he realised.
“Roasted vegetables, please. I love you.”
Satoru doesn’t look much different now. He’s gotten a little more toned, put on some muscle from some of the heavy work he does on the farm. 
And when he smiles, he’s not pretending anymore. 
932 notes · View notes
gimmethatagustd · 10 months
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what the fire gave us (1) | jjk
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You were born with a Gift that the world wanted to turn into a weapon. All Jungkook wanted to do was show you that you could find love, even in the dark.
🔥 pairing: shadow elemental!jungkook x water elemental!(f)reader
🔥 rating/genre: BTS | 18+ | dystopian | supernatural | friends to lovers | angst | smut | fluff
🔥 part of a spring offering collab
🔥 wc/date: 9.7k | june 2023
🔥 warnings: major character death (doesn't occur until part 2 but i'm being nice by warning you now; not jk or reader), minor character death, referenced past murder, smut (doesn't occur until part 2), unrequited love (not between reader & jk), reference to human experimentation (nothing is described in detail), persecution of supernatural people, mentions past war, blood, injuries/violence, they all definitely have ptsd, jungkook is a precious baby boy but he'll also kick your ass, JESSI !!!!!! JESSI STANS RISE UP !! JESSI IS THE COMEDIC RELIEF !!! (at least, i find her funny)
🔥 notes: PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD READ THE WARNINGS. there is heavy angst, particularly in part 2. i hope that you enjoy this story, even with its cuts and bruises. think of it as stranger things meets avatar the last airbender 😂
🔥 more notes: i was supposed to finish this fic in may lmfao but y'all should know by now that there's no point in trusting me to do what i'm supposed to do. i'm sorry but i will probably never change 😭 ANYWAY. this fic is gonna be over 20k, so i decided to upload it in two parts in an attempt to maintain my sanity cuz this website is trash about handling long posts. i'm almost done with part 2, so it should be uploaded within a week (i swear to GOD i mean it). also, if you follow me on AO3 you'll see that i'm posting this fic in multiple chapters. that's cuz i like the formatting of AO3 chapters better than tumblr. the formatting fits the story better, too.
🔥 main masterlist / part two
🔥 what was jai listening to? cyberpunk - ateez
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moodboard credit: @btscontentenjoyer
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3 MONTHS
Lookout duty is hard on you. When it’s your turn to camp out on the roof and watch for potential threats, you complain that staying awake all night is hard. Most of the other runaways are night owls, but you aren’t. You need your beauty sleep, you joke. You can’t get comfortable on the roof, even if there’s a flat landing with pillows and blankets to keep you warm. 
These are a few of your excuses, but you can’t bring yourself to tell the others the truth: you are scared. 
It’s close to midnight when you hear the creak of the trapdoor opening. The likelihood of it being anyone other than the group of Gifted runaways you live with is low, but you can’t trust that the impossible wouldn’t happen. You’ve seen the impossible happen far too often.  
Hopping down from the old milk crate you’d been sitting on, you crouch behind a giant bean bag with your bow and arrow ready. The harness you wear strapped around your torso holds your spare arrows. It digs hard enough into your shoulder that you form blisters if you don’t wear a thick enough shirt. 
The fluffy pink hair poking out of the trapdoor makes you sigh in relief. 
“Hey, kid,” the pink-haired man whispers. 
He gently closes the trapdoor and walks with a hunched back toward you, careful not to expose too much of his body beyond the roof’s railing. The abandoned warehouse you live in is on the city's outskirts, with nothing for miles but empty concrete parking lots and overgrown plots of land. 
Still, you never know who might be out there. Although the Red Pins have only inflicted pain from within their research facilities, all the runaway Gifteds know that the government employs more than one type of evil to hunt them down. 
You try not to think about them, those scientists in long white coats that fall to their thighs and blood-red nametags pinned to their labels with names you often see painted on the walls of your nightmares. Lately, the frequency of the nightmares has lessened. It doesn’t feel like it, though, when you often wake in the middle of the night to your friends screaming in their sleep while they suffer through their own trauma. You wish the knowledge that the pain of being government lab rats is something you all share could be comforting. But, instead, it only makes you hurt more.  
“Yoongi,” you huff, returning to your perch on the milk crate. Now your hands are all sweaty. “You should be sleeping.” 
“Hi, Yoongi; nice to see you too! Thanks for coming to hang out with me!” Yoongi mocks your voice, clearly stating what he thinks you should have said. “Oh, no problem, Y/N. I just wanted to see how you were doing and hang out with my favorite kiddo.” 
You scrunch your nose at kiddo. 
“I’m not a kid.” 
Yoongi leans over to rub his knuckles into your head. “Nah, you definitely are.” 
Despite the lack of lighting outside, Yoongi practically glows. That’s always how it is with fire elementals. It’s like they absorb all the light and let it buzz inside them. Like fireflies, you’d once told Yoongi. He hadn’t found it cute to be compared to a bug. 
“If I’m a firefly, then you’re a fucking fish,” he’d teased. You’d promptly summoned water from a nearby puddle to throw in his face. 
For as long as you can remember, that’s how it has been between the two of you: fire and water. A push and pull. So different that you need each other to be whole. 
You watch Yoongi get comfortable in the bean bag, his skinny limbs spreading like a starfish and his eyes lifting to the sky. In quiet moments like this, you would give anything to hold him. And not out of fear like you had when the scary men came to take you away from your parents. And not out of anger like you had to when you stopped him from blowing up the research facility they’d held you in. 
No, you want to hold him and for it to be gentle, soft, and peaceful. 
Like now, when the world is silent except for the crickets calling to each other in the weeds and the rustle of wind in the trees. 
But he thinks you’re just a kid. 
You’re not that much younger than him. But, if you put in the effort to look at your relationship objectively, you’d see that Yoongi’s paternal nature comes out with you and the other runaway Gifteds. He cares for you as an older brother would. 
It’s not enough for you, though. It will never be enough.  
“Is everyone else asleep?” You rest your elbows on your knees and hold your chin in your hand. When you speak, you look out at the empty field. 
“Hobi sneezed and blasted a hole through the bathroom wall,” Yoongi says with a low chuckle. “So me and Joon found some supplies to patch it up the best we could. I think they’re all asleep now, though.” 
“How is it Hobi’s the one breaking shit and Namjoon’s fixing it?” You press your hand against your mouth to muffle the ugly snort bursting from you. There’s very little to find funny in this life, so you cherish how your chest burns with fond warmth. 
“The world’s all backwards.” Yoongi’s gummy smile lights up the night and tears into your heart. 
The two of you fall silent once again. Moving slowly, you reach out to hook your pinky finger with Yoongi’s, a small smile forming when you feel his pinky wrap tightly around yours. 
“Where are we gonna go, Yoong?” 
He watches you with eyes heavy with sleep, determined to stay up with you even though he doesn’t need to. Initially, you thought it was because he wanted to keep you company. Now, you often wonder if it’s because Yoongi is afraid to sleep, too. He never speaks about his experience at the Labs; the other runaways have learned the hard way not to ask. Singed eyebrows don’t look good on anyone. 
“I don’t know.” 
You already knew this would be the answer, but it scares you anyway. Yoongi always knows everything. 
Yoongi lets go of your hand to sit up in the bean bag. 
“Hey, kid,” he whispers. He gently presses his palm to your jaw, cupping your face. You hope he doesn’t hear your breath hitch in your throat. “As long as we’re together, you don’t gotta worry about anything, okay?” 
You stare at him for a long time, searching the bags under his eyes and the worry lines on his forehead. 
“You promise?” 
“I promise.” 
3 MONTHS, 1 WEEK
There’s a stream that cuts through the overgrown fields behind the warehouse. It’s man-made, flowing from a sewer tunnel beneath the cracked parking lot - and likely from somewhere else, perhaps connected to a lake beyond the woods at the property's edge. The separation between industrialization and the natural world of the unknown hurts your heart. You’d never felt longing until you found yourself inside a cage of cinderblock walls and concrete floors. 
A rope of water whips across your face, drawing you from your thoughts of the woods. It’s muddy and makes your skin and clothes smell sour. 
Though the air is still crisp and bites at the tip of your nose, spring came early this year. It takes minimal effort for Namjoon to draw more water from the soiled stream as it’s not frozen over like it should be. With a flick of his wrist, another rope of water hits you, this time across your chest. 
“Aghh!” 
“Pay attention.” 
You lift your arm in enough time to block his next assault. The liquid rope freezes in the air before shattering into a thousand glimmering pieces, scattering jagged ice across the pale yellow grass. 
“I’m tired of this, Grandpa.” 
Namjoon rolls his eyes at the pop culture reference; you’re pleased he understood. Posed to speak, mouth already opening, he barely gets a sound out before another voice bellows across the field. 
“WELL, THAT’S TOO DAMN BAD!” 
Hoseok isn’t afraid to be loud. He smiles, all teeth and pink tongue, and throws his head back as he cackles. Everywhere he goes, he carries the smell of spring with him - cherry blossoms and morning dew that makes newly-grown pieces of grass stick wet against ankles. 
You close your eyes and let spring overpower the sour smell of sewer water Namjoon has thrown at you for the past hour. It lets you forget how your skin aches with welts and bruises. 
As Hoseok bounds toward you and Namjoon, a dark tornado spins beside him. When he gets closer, you can see Hoseok occasionally blowing a small gust of air toward the tornado. It appears to be made of smoke, a gradient of grays and blacks. 
“Look at this,” your friend announces with a mischievous grin. “Me and JK learned a new trick.” 
With a quick snap of Hoseok’s fingers, you and Namjoon watch in patient silence as the tornado begins to slow its speed. Almost gently, the smoke curls tighter and tighter until the darkness turns into a solid mass. 
Jungkook stumbles a few times as he attempts to get his footing. His limbs continue to propel his body into a small spin. 
Hoseok quickly reaches out to grab the younger man. Secure hands squeeze his shoulders, and then it’s only Jungkook’s head lolling about. 
“Cool, right?” Jungkook’s voice is gruff, but his lips curl into a weak smile. 
Namjoon lets out a long sigh. “You look like you’re going to be sick.” 
Although Namjoon is right, Jungkook does look like the effort of his little party trick took a toll on his body; you can’t help but match his smile. Especially when his eyes flick toward yours. You told his gaze for half a second before Jungkook quickly looks away. His cheeks flush pink, but you’re sure it’s from the exertion of all that spinning. 
“I think it’s really cool,” you praise the two while elbowing Namjoon in the ribs. With a grumble, your sparring partner returns to his previous stance a few feet away. 
“We should go again. Just for a little while longer.” 
Every muscle in your body feels stiff when you turn away from Hoseok and Jungkook. 
“I hurt all over, Joonie.” 
“Let her rest!” Hoseok adds to your whining. “All we ever do is practice fighting.” 
“Sparring.” 
Hoseok waves a dismissive hand at the younger man. “Whatever you want to call it. I find it to be fri-” 
You stifle a laugh by pressing the back of your hand to your mouth as Hoseok is tackled to the ground by Jungkook. The two men roll around, all arms and legs, kicking up dead grass and dirt. A lot of howling and teasing laughter rings through the open air. 
It isn’t until Jungkook is launched into the sky by a gust of wind you know comes from Hoseok, and lands roughly on his back, that the playful fight ceases. How Jungkook lands knocks all the air out of his chest, but he laughs once his lungs start working again. 
“Ridiculous, all of you.” Hoseok brushes grass from his clothes. It’s futile; they’re dirty and ragged anyway. Try as you and Namjoon might to use your Gifts to clean the clothes; water does little when there’s no soap. 
“I let you win,” Jungkook teases.
Still, he stands a bit further from Hoseok than he had previously. Not far enough for anyone to notice, aside from you. You notice although you don’t mean to. It’s hard not to when Jungkook keeps stealing glances, only to look away when you try to return his gaze. 
“You did not.” 
“Did, too.” His insistence makes you giggle. 
“And how did that work out for you? Hmm? How does your back feel? I know you landed on that rock.” 
“I-It, it doesn’t hurt.” Jungkook glances your way. His cheeks are still pink. “Would take more than that to hurt me.” 
“Jungkook is impossible to beat.” 
You startle at the gentle voice, spinning on your heels to see Yoongi approaching the group. He’s got a leather satchel strapped across his chest and resting at his hip. It bulges with what you assume are plants and fruits scavenged from the woods. 
“Boy Scouts” is what Yoongi offered when you asked how he knew so much about surviving in nature. It was peculiar; nothing about Yoongi seemed like the type. He’s tougher, more steel than wood or earth. A bulletproof shield, you think. Broad and strong. 
“Impossible?” 
Your question is meant to be a tease, but Yoongi’s face remains stoic. Such a severe look only reveals itself when he assumes his position as your misfit group’s leader. It would be extremely attractive if it didn’t scare you.   
“How can you fight shadows?” Yoongi deadpans. He stares into your eyes long enough to make your face feel hot, but you don’t look away. 
“I…” 
Yoongi hums at your lack of an answer. Suddenly, you feel unbelievably small. 
“It’s not impossible,” Jungkook whispers. His head hangs low, long bangs hiding his face. The rest of his hair is tied into a bun at the nape of his neck. “I’m just as beatable as you, hyung.” 
Something about Yoongi’s expression softens at the honorific. Formalities died long ago, along with many other traditions that once made Korea what it was. So many things died during the war - tangible and cultural - lives and ways of being. Now, the Republic is something you know your friends no longer recognize. Although it is not your home country, your heart aches for what it once was - something you will never have the privilege to experience because you arrived during the Restoration of the Republic - a fallacy of an era since the country was never restored to how it was. 
That may be best. It is easier to mourn the loss of something you never knew.
In moments like this, you feel terribly inadequate - when you speak with broken Korean or struggle to understand the foreign politics behind why Gifteds are hunted, no matter how many times Namjoon patiently attempts to teach you. All you know is that, at least here, to be Gifted is not a death sentence, per se. Other countries’ governments have been far less lenient with their mutant population. 
You’re simply seen as a science experiment to be tested on, poked and prodded, pushed until you’re driven mad, and then warped into whatever shape the government has the need for. 
“You have no match,” Yoongi smiles softly at Jungkook with a shake of his head. “I do.” 
Holding out his hand, a small flame appears in the center of Yoongi’s palm. It floats just above the skin, though he isn’t burned. You’ve seen Yoongi summon fire a million times from the heat of the air around him, and he never ceases to amaze you.
With a nod in Namjoon’s direction, Yoongi waits for a small rope of dirty water to splash against his hand. Namjoon is much kinder in his attack against Yoongi, only summoning enough water to extinguish the flame. 
“Water will always win against me,” Yoongi admits. This time, he holds your gaze when he speaks. “It is my match.” 
You feel something stir in your belly that migrates up your chest until it eventually threatens to suffocate you, nearly getting lodged in your throat. 
“You would do well to continue sparring with Namjoon,” he says after a moment before turning to Hoseok and Jungkook, who have otherwise been silent. 
It’s an order, even if Yoongi is gentle with his words. 
With a sigh, you turn back to Namjoon. It’s difficult to stamp down the heat Yoongi always manages to trigger inside of you. You would compare him to fire even if it didn’t already run in his veins. 
Drawing from the murky stream, you weave a ball of water between your palms.
“Let’s go again.” 
While you spar with Namjoon, Yoongi leads Hoseok and Jungkook to the other end of the field.
You and Namjoon spar as though you are dancing. It’s a push and pull, your rhythms falling into harmony, even when one of you performs a surprise attack or a new move that hasn’t been practiced before. Perhaps it is because you both fight with water. There is a fluidity to it that the others don’t possess. 
Occasionally, your eyes stray to where Yoongi, Hoseok, and Jungkook have begun to spar. The three men do not dance. Instead, they are a fury of elements intertwining in chaos. The wind snuffs fire, Yoongi and Hoseok blasting each other incessantly. Shadows allow Jungkook to disappear before being hit by an attack, only to reappear right behind his opponent to go in for the kill. 
And it would be a kill if this was real. You know Jungkook keeps a rather terrifying knife strapped to his thigh. You all carry weapons, though you don’t really need them. Even Jungkook, with a Gift that’s misunderstood and exceptionally rare, is never found without his weapon. 
Out of all the Gifteds you’ve met on your way to safety, you have never encountered another who can manipulate shadows. So, there is truth to Yoongi’s statement. 
Jungkook is terrifying, even with the wide, starry eyes he always seems to stare at you with. He’s quiet and shy, typically sticking to Hoseok. You assume it’s likely because you found the two of them together. Both were kept in the same room at the research facility in Busan. As unassuming as Jungkook may be, you’ve seen him manipulate shadows to wrap around a Red Pin’s neck. Those shadows twisted and tightened until the man crumpled. 
You didn’t need to have the Gift of blood manipulation to know when his heart stopped. 
It was one of the scariest moments of your life, even beyond the suffering you’d endured having lived in the research facilities since you were a teen. Before then, you’d never seen someone die. Even when Yoongi and Namjoon helped you escape, they shielded you from the worst of it. It wasn’t until the three of you came upon the newest facility that such horrors were unleashed. 
Jungkook hates himself for it. You know he does; you typically make your bed beside his, and he cries in his sleep. Self-defense protects the body in the moment, but harms the mind and heart long-term. 
You probably would have done the same. 
For as tragic as his story is - or what little you know of it - Jungkook has an undeniably beautiful soul. Those horrors have yet to turn him cruel or his heart black. Even when he spars, you can tell that he’s being gentle. He holds back and doesn’t reach his full potential out of fear of hurting others, you’re sure. You can see it in how he bounces on the balls of his feet to keep his movements light and how his back muscles ripple beneath his shirt as it clings to his skin. A bead of sweat runs along his neck, over the vein that bulges from his exerting effort. 
Something prickles under your skin. When you look up, it’s into those wide eyes full of galaxies you’ll never understand, are somehow okay with not understanding if it means you can continue to gaze upon them. 
A small smile pulls the corners of Jungkook’s mouth up. His expression is short-lived, though, quickly falling as a bright orange flame licks at his ankles. 
“Don’t let my words get to your head, Jeon,” Yoongi teases. “Impossible to beat, but easy to hurt.” 
This time, you catch Yoongi’s eye. You duck your head when he winks at you, just in time to block another blast of water from Namjoon. 
“Why is everyone so off today?” Namjoon grumbles to himself. You haven’t managed to successfully hit him even once. 
“I’m tired,” you whine again, dropping a ball of water to the ground. Dead grass quickly soaks it up once it splashes. “We should check on Jessi.” 
Your group's sixth and final member is tucked away in the corner of the warehouse on the top floor. It’s dark up there, though Yoongi’s everlasting fire, paired with the windows Jessi managed to open, gives enough light for her to work. 
She has black grease smudged on her left cheek and across her forehead. Her long, thick hair is tied back into a ponytail, though strands have fallen out to frame her face. When you step closer, you hear her muttering, but you can’t make out what she’s saying. It’s not for you. She speaks, facing the black box placed in front of where she kneels on the floor. The floor can’t feel good on her knees with its bits of broken concrete and dirt. Everything hurts in this life; it hardly matters as long as you’re here and not there. 
“This piece of shit,” Jessi hisses, running her hands across her face. It smears more grease onto her skin, but she doesn’t care. 
“Not working?” 
“Beep beep boop beeping all over the fucking place, then static. White noise and shit. Like it’s telling me to fuck off even though I’m the one fixing it.” 
You hum, crouching down to stare at the box. It’s an old radio meant to transport messages back and forth. Perhaps left behind by the military after it had occupied this land while it bulldozed the vigilantes seeking to save Gifteds from the fate you all ended up sharing anyway. 
Jessi tweaks a few exposed wires. Every time they spark, you flinch. Mini white lightning, it’s deadly for anyone but Jessi. She grumbles and continues her work with deft fingers calloused from toiling away at the stupid thing for months. 
“I’m normally so fucking good at this, I swear to God.” 
Frustration colors her tone, even if her expression and cursing didn’t already give her feelings away. 
You don’t doubt her, though, and you tell her as much. Still, you know firsthand that it sucks when your powers don’t work how you want them to. As a technopath, fixing the radio should be easy work for her.
“There must be something wrong with it… Maybe the Red Pins did something to it?” 
You don’t know anything about technology. Even with the phone you’d stolen off one of the Red Pins, all you’d gotten to do was look at TikTok and try to find out where your parents were before Yoongi made you destroy the device. The government had ways to track you. Technology was as much your friend as a stranger on the street. 
With a sigh, Jessi leans back until she’s sitting flat on the grimy floor. 
“Maybe? Fuck if I know. I think I’m getting close, though. I’m getting some frequency when I concentrate really hard, but I wanna fix it so it’ll work even without me.” 
Your friend whispers the end of her statement. It goes without saying; each one of you knows the fragility of life on the run. 
“Thank you for working so hard.” Even in the dim lighting, you can see her watery eyes shine. It hurts your heart, but all you can offer is a light squeeze of her shoulder. 
Jessi shrugs. “It’s as much for me as it is for you.” 
You watch her stand and brush the dirt from her butt, her joints cracking from sitting down too long. When you first joined this mutant crew, you would have followed behind Jessi to comfort her. But, after months of running and fighting, you’ve learned that sometimes solitude is the best healing method. 
4 MONTHS, 2 DAYS
“What makes you think you’re ready? That any of us are ready?” 
Yoongi watches you with catlike eyes from where he sits at the kitchen table. The chairs circled around the battered wooden table are mismatched and in varying stages of deterioration from being abandoned for so long. The one Yoongi sits in is metal, and he leans on its two back legs, his right foot pressed to the floor to keep himself steady and his arms crossed against his chest. 
Although Yoongi isn’t raising his voice - he never does - you still feel like you’re being scolded. 
“I know we are,” you challenge him. Your voice is steady even as your fingers tremble. To stop them from shaking, you squeeze your hands into a fist, nails biting at the skin of your palms. 
You should sit down, but holding your energy in is hard. Instead, you pace the kitchen while Yoongi’s cat eyes and Jessi’s wide ones follow you. You feel like a lion looping its cage, the desire to run restricted and confined. 
“How?” 
“We can’t stay here, Yoong! We can’t. I can’t.” 
The front legs of Yoongi’s chair slam into the concrete floor. He allows the momentum to pull him forward, landing his elbows on the table’s surface. 
Looking at Yoongi hurts. You can tell from his face that the next thing he says won’t be pleasant. His lips are pressed into a fine line that curves downward slightly. It’s cute how he can pull off a straight-lipped frown, but not when it’s directed at you. 
It’s been at least an hour of back and forth between the three of you. Jessi tapped out a long time ago, resolved to watch the tennis match of an argument between you and Yoongi rather than exert energy on a fight she isn’t committed to. Yoongi and Jessi have the final say in all group decisions as the group's elders. It’s another reminder of how you think Yoongi sees you as someone to take care of rather than an equal. 
“Have you ever killed someone before, Y/N?” 
You pause your pacing to stand in front of the table. Yoongi is an exceptional cook, managing to create delicious meals out of what little you all have to work with from the forest. But now, at this moment, you feel like you’re going to be sick from the food churning in your stomach. 
“No.”  
“No,” Yoongi repeats. He speaks slowly, like he’s mulling your answer over, letting it twist around his tongue until he’s satisfied enough with its taste to swallow it down. 
Leaning forward, Yoongi presses his palms against the table’s surface. He spreads his fingers and stares at them. The two of you seem to trace over the scars that line his skin, little nicks, and slices that healed light pink or blazing white. You’ve never seen Yoongi naked, but you have seen a good expanse of his body when you’ve used your Gift to help the others get clean. From what you’ve seen, you know Yoongi’s entire body is littered with battle scars. 
“I have,” he admits what you already knew, and the gravelly sound of his voice makes you shudder. “Jungkook has.” 
You wince at the mention of the younger man, but Yoongi doesn’t give you a chance to speak. 
“Do you want to ask him what it’s like to squeeze the life out of another man? He may have done it with shadows, but I guarantee he still felt it in his hands.” 
Yoongi lifts his eyes to yours when the first tear rolls down your cheek. Concern wrinkles his forehead. 
“Yoongi,” you start, but the pink-haired man shakes his head. 
“I don’t mean to upset you, kiddo.” The pet name twists your gut tighter with frustration - even though Yoongi’s voice is filled with gentle adoration when he calls out to you. “But I’ll be damned if I let us walk into that forest without knowing where we’re going or whose claws we’re running into. The Gifted Commune is, at best, a rumor. At worst - a trap.”
You want to tell him that falling for a rumor or getting caught by the government is better than sitting in a concrete cage. The prospect of finding a community of other Gifted runaways who have managed to create a society safe from the evils you’ve grown up with means more to you than the fear of the unknown. 
There’s no use, though. Jessi is nodding along to Yoongi’s words; the blank expression she wears when she’s upset already masks her face.
“I will not put you in a situation where you must kill or be killed, Y/N. I won’t fucking do it.” Yoongi clears his throat suddenly, and he looks away from you. You’re unsure, but think he might be blinking back unshed tears.
You’re still pissed, but now your anger is mixed quite prettily with debilitating guilt. You’ve never seen Yoongi cry, and you realize with a sinking feeling that you really don’t want to. 
“It’s too fucking risky,” Jessi finally speaks. She presses her fingers against her forehead, massaging it slowly as she, too, looks for words. “The radio is almost fixed; I can feel that it’s close. Then we will have a clearer line of communication with the Commune. It doesn’t guarantee anything, obviously, but it’s better than going in without fucking knowing anything.” 
There’s nothing else to say. Yoongi doesn’t look at you or Jessi, instead staring at something in the opposite corner of the room.
Jessi gives you what you think is a smile laced with pity - or at least an apology. 
How can everyone be so content to stay in the warehouse? You’re a bunch of sitting ducks, hiding out in the same location for months, practically waiting for the government to send their agents to either corral you into laboratories again or exterminate you. You don’t understand how becoming a moving target is a bad thing. 
But, ultimately, you don’t understand why Yoongi can’t just trust you. 
With a frustrated huff, you twist around to hurry out of the kitchen. As you cross the threshold, Namjoon appears in the doorway. 
“Oh, I need to ask you-” 
You don’t mean to shove Namjoon with your shoulder as hard as you do, but you don’t have the patience to comply with whatever he expects you to do for him. Probably more sparring and training. 
On the one hand, sharing your identity as a water elemental with someone else in the group is an affirming experience. On the other, it’s infuriating because Namjoon sees your potential and pushes you toward it - even when you fight against him. 
Namjoon sputters something, and you hear Jessi convince him to drop it. Whatever else they have to say is lost on you; you’re no longer interested in entertaining the conversations of the “leaders” of the group. Part of you wants to find Hoseok or Jungkook to force them to commiserate with you, but something about dumping your sludge of emotions onto them feels wrong. 
So you do what you’ve always done best: you repress. 
It isn’t until a few hours later when you’re lounging on your makeshift bed with the only tattered book you kept from your facility (Fahrenheit 451, how fitting), that you give yourself over to the gnawing need to interact with other humans. 
Jungkook bounces on the balls of his feet, items that you can’t make out pressed against his chest. 
“Will you cut my hair for me, noona?” 
The out-of-use honorific flusters you, making your face burn under Jungkook’s attentive gaze. 
“You don’t have to be so formal with me,” you insist, embarrassment ravaging your twisted stomach and fluttering chest. Something about the attention Jungkook gives you makes you feel nervous and giddy. 
“It’s not very formal, really. It’s… respectful? I just… You are, it means,” Jungkook lets out a huff. He blows his bangs out of his face as his cheeks turn pink. “You are special to me.” 
You duck your head, shocked by Jungkook’s honesty. It warms you in a way you’re not sure you understand, letting the feeling sit inside your chest rather than exploring it any further. 
“Where I come from, we don’t have words like that.” 
Jungkook gives you a shrug. Neither of you mentions that in Korea, those words don’t really exist anymore, either. 
“But, okay,” you relent softly. 
Jungkook stands beside the mess of blankets that make up your bed, holding a pair of scissors and electric clippers Jessi enhanced to operate on their own. Jungkook nicked them from a Red Pin on their way out of the research facility he’d grown up in. Hairstyling tools didn’t seem high on your list of items to steal, but they’d come in handy. Like now, with Jungkook’s bangs falling entirely into his eyes and his hair sweeping across his shoulders. 
The pout Jungkook wears lessens slightly. He holds out the tools with an expectant look on his face. It’s cute how his bottom lip juts out, pink and chapped from nervously chewing on it. You’d overheard Namjoon scolding him for something earlier that morning before you went outside to patrol the grounds with Hoseok and Jessi.
Taking the items from Jungkook, you lead him out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. The lights sputter briefly before they fully brighten the small room. Jessi was excited to learn that her Gift extended to electricity as a whole, not just that within technology like computers and radios. With all your Gifts combined, the warehouse is liveable, almost comfortable. 
Jungkook sits on the closed lid of the toilet, making you tower over him. He parts his legs slightly so you can stand between them as you run your fingers through his hair. 
You spread your fingers and sweep his bangs up, exposing his forehead. It opens up his face more and makes him look older. Jungkook is handsome; there’s no denying that. You’re sure in another life, he could have been a regular college kid with a sweet girlfriend and a bright future. 
“What would you like me to do?” 
“Hmm?” Jungkook hums with his eyes closed, and his head tilted back slightly. 
You don’t miss how he leans into your touch, completely pliable in your hands, as you massage his scalp and continue to play with his hair. It’s thick and soft, even without the proper haircare products to maintain the health of the follicles. 
“How do you want me to cut it, silly?” 
You reach for the hairbrush you keep tucked away in the bathroom cabinet. It takes a few more moments of silence while you brush out Jungkook’s waves before he finally speaks. 
“Short. Cut it all off, please? It’s too hard to take care of now, and it gets in my face.” 
“Don’t get mad at me if it comes out bad.” 
Jungkook lets out a frustrated sound. “You always do a great job. You gave Yoongi hyung an undercut. It looks so good!” 
At the mention of Yoongi, you feel your heart drop. Somehow you know Jungkook is here to make you feel better even if he hasn’t said anything about the argument, and he’s the one seeking your help, not the other way around. He’s a distraction - one you wonder if Yoongi sent himself. 
It isn’t that Yoongi won’t apologize; you just never give him a chance to before you run off to lick your wounds on your own. 
It’s the healing quality of solitude, you think as you prepare to cut Jungkook’s hair. However, this time, you’re not alone. 
You can’t help but smile when Jungkook starts singing a song of his own creation as chunks of his hair fall to the floor. His song drowns out the static that buzzes in your brain like the fuzziness Jessi’s broken radio emits when anyone but her fiddles with it. 
“This way,” you speak softly, not wanting to disrupt his singing as you press your fingertips against his jaw and under his chin to lift his face toward you. Your finger presses against the little mole just below Jungkook’s bottom lip. The angle gives you a better view of your work so far. 
A small smile flickers on Jungkook’s face as though he’s trying to keep it down, but the corners of his mouth won’t listen to him. 
“It feels nice. We don’t touch.”
You hum and nod your head, but Jungkook’s eyes are still closed. It’s true; kind touches are rare. Hoseok is really the only one who gives out hugs. Everything is tough all the time. There’s little room for gentleness, even amongst friends. 
So you understand when Jungkook’s smile wins out, and he finally surrenders to the happiness your light touches along his jaw bring him. 
4 MONTHS, 5 DAYS
It takes Yoongi three days to apologize. 
Perhaps you should have apologized first, but you struggle to see how you could have done anything that warrants an apology. Yes, you feel bad for upsetting Yoongi, but his attitude toward you lately has rubbed you the wrong way. 
During the three days it takes him to apologize to you, he seems to do his best to avoid you. 
On the days you’re assigned to go on patrol with Yoongi, Jungkook accompanies you instead. You don’t mind having Jungkook by your side, you discover, even though you’re upset that Yoongi is behaving so childishly. 
Neither Jungkook nor Yoongi talks much, but you learn that their silence feels different. Whereas Yoongi’s silence stems from feeling confident and content with not needing to fill the air with incessant babbling, Jungkook’s silence is awkward and heavy. He fiddles with the loose strings of his shirt, his reddened cuticles, and everything else. You don’t mind the awkwardness, though. It’s nice to comb through the woods with someone as powerful as Jungkook; you know there’s nothing to fear with him around. 
The only weapon Jungkook carries is the knife strapped to his thigh. You, on the other hand, stay heavily armed. Your fingers tighten around your bow. When you twist your torso, the harness that holds your arrows digs into your shoulder. You also have a knife, though you are honestly afraid of close combat. A gun would be even better, but ammo is difficult to come by. It’s easier to collect your arrows after you’ve shot them, although you haven’t needed to yet. Since finding refuge at the warehouse, no one has discovered your group. 
Apparently, all your friends are willing to keep testing fate. You aren’t interested in pushing your luck. Jungkook doesn’t comment on the group’s plans for moving forward - or lack thereof. Something tells you that he’ll do whatever Yoongi and Jessi tell him to do. 
Still, going on patrol with Jungkook does a decent job of preventing your thoughts from straying toward your argument with Yoongi. Your hands brushed together a few times as you walked side by side, and you could practically feel Jungkook’s brain shortcircuit from the contact. 
Part of you thinks he has a crush on you, but the more logical part of you knows he’s probably shy. The kid has gone through a lot in life. Not everything is always about you; you try to remind yourself. Yoongi doesn’t even want you. Why would Jungkook?
On the third day, bright doe eyes don’t greet you at the edge of the woods, just as the sun is kissing the sky for the first time. Instead, sharp cat eyes hold your gaze when you lightly jog over. 
“Good morning, kiddo.” 
Yoongi wears dark shorts with tattered edges cut from a pair of old jeans and a plain t-shirt the color of the forest in spring. It’s not warm enough to wear what he’s wearing, but fire elementals run hot like you run cold. 
“Hi,” you say, voice a bit stunted as you hold your jacket tighter to your body. 
You’ve foregone your bow and arrows today; you may or may not have snapped your bow in a fit of frustration that may or may not have anything to do with Yoongi ignoring you at dinner the night before. A knife and your Gift will have to do, but you feel it is enough. Namjoon insists on learning how to use your Gifts and weapons in tandem. For double the defense, or so he says. 
Carrying a knife seems ridiculous when you know how to choke someone with their own spit without touching them. 
Once you’re within arm’s reach, Yoongi offers his hand to you. He holds it as though he’s going in for a handshake. Yellow-orange fire licks at his palm and swirls in tendrils around his fingers and wrist. 
After a few seconds of silence, he makes a slight grunting sound and wiggles his fingers, beckoning you. 
It’s impossible not to cave. A prickly feeling tingles down your arm, beginning somewhere in your chest and eventually settling in your fingertips. A tiny hurricane of water stolen from the moisture in the air circles around your hand just as the fire does Yoongi’s. 
He lets out a pleased sound when your palms glide across each other. You hook your thumbs together, using the momentum to spin your hands around until your fingers are interlaced and pressed into your palms. You both squeeze your hands once, twice, three times in a heartbeat before pulling away. By the end, the fire and water have disappeared. 
When you meet Yoongi’s eyes, the warmth of the fire in his palm has transferred to his gaze. There is an apology in how you release each other’s hands. The handshake holds secret words of friendship and reassurance between you. 
The two of you stand in silence for a bit until Yoongi tilts his head in the direction of the woods. You nod in response and follow Yoongi along one of the many patrol paths your group has established. 
There’s never anything in the woods besides small animals like squirrels and rabbits, but everyone feels better knowing there is a consistent patrol of the area, just in case. 
“So,” When you look at Yoongi, his lips twist into a light smirk you absolutely do not like. “You and Jungkook.” 
“Me and Jungkook what?” 
Yoongi shrugs. “Just seems like you two been hanging out a lot.” 
“Yeah, because you were fucking ignoring me all week.” 
His smirk drops into a stern frown, but Yoongi continues following the path. He walks slightly ahead of you with his hands clasped behind his back. It feels like he’s taking a leisurely stroll through a garden rather than going on patrol in the woods for government assassins. 
“It was immature and irresponsible of me, and I’m sorry for that.” 
Forgiving Yoongi is too easy. It’s the way the morning sun shines through the canopy of trees above you, casting streaks of light against his fading pink hair. The way he carries himself with confidence is gentle and comforting rather than arrogant or misplaced. It’s how he looks at you; you know he would do anything for you.
“It’s okay,” you finally concede. You scramble a bit to fall in line with Yoongi again. “I was being dramatic.” 
“Life is one big drama, isn’t it?” Yoongi muses with a chuckle. It’s a question he doesn’t expect an answer to, which is good, considering you’ve got something else buzzing around in your head. 
Well, fuck it. You’re just gonna say it.  
Heart pounding, you eventually find it in you to say, “I still think you’re wrong.” 
After a moment, Yoongi hums in acknowledgment of your admission but doesn’t offer anything else. It’s better than nothing, so you tell yourself to be content with all that he offers. 
“Anyway…” You don’t want to drop the subject, but Yoongi’s question is nagging in the back of your brain now - a nagging question you now have a gnawing desire to know the meaning behind. “Me and Jungkook can hang out without it meaning-” 
Before you can finish your statement, Yoongi slaps his hand against your mouth. The calluses on his palms are rough against your chapped lips, and his skin is sweaty. His free arm comes around to the front of your chest near your collarbones. He draws you against his chest so tightly you can’t move. 
“Don’t talk.” His breath is hot against your face, and his voice is almost indiscernible. 
You give a tiny nod before locking your body completely still. You hold your breath, straining to hear what Yoongi might hear or see what he might see. There’s nothing, just the usual sound of life in the woods - birds chirping, small animals scurrying in the brush. You don’t see anything either. 
You can only focus on the frantic pounding of your heart and the calm beat of Yoongi’s against your back. How he can be so relaxed when he thinks there might be danger in the woods that you can’t even see is unreal.
Slowly, Yoongi takes a step back away from you. He holds a finger to his lips and silently mouths for you to stay where you are. Everything inside you screams to disobey as you watch Yoongi disappear further into the woods, the thick trees swallowing him whole. 
But you don’t. You stay put, fear rooting you to the ground even though your body desperately wants to follow. 
What lies beyond the thicket of trees? What is dangerous enough that Yoongi wants you to stay put but not so dangerous that he believes he can take it on alone? 
Just when your resolve is about to crumble, something catches your attention out of the corner of your eye. Barely breathing, you turn your head to watch a dark spot glide across the forest floor. It’s two-dimensional, not an object but a presence creeping along the ground.
Suddenly, the spot grows. It spreads, turning its shape from a flat, uneven circle to a thing with tendrils sticking out of it, each new tendril moving independently. You gasp when one of the tendrils creeps up your leg. Despite being two-dimensional, you can feel the darkness. It’s firm and cold, like a snake slithering up your body. 
Every inch of you trembles as the strange darkness slowly spreads across your body. You squeeze your eyes and hold your breath. Perhaps this is the thing that Yoongi saw, a phantom stalking the trees. But now you’re left behind to be absorbed into its darkness, eaten alive. 
You’re startled when the cold disappears; instead, strong arms pull you against a firm chest. Warmth envelopes you, and when you open your eyes, you see familiar ones looking back at you.
“I got you,” Jungkook murmurs. He has you tucked under his chin, and he tilts his head down when he speaks to you. You shiver as his lips lightly brush against your forehead. 
“Where did you-”  
“Shhh.” 
Jungkook’s heart isn’t steady like Yoongi’s had been. On the contrary, it’s beating rather furiously. You can hear him attempting to regulate his emotions, taking in mindful breaths and exhaling in a way that tickles your skin.
You don’t know how long you stand there pulled against Jungkook’s chest. After a while, your breathing matches his until you fall into a gentle rhythm that makes you sleepy. The adrenaline is making you crash, your body hardly strong enough to hold yourself up after panicking so severely - still panicking. Luckily, when you lean into Jungkook, his hold on you tightens. 
In another situation, pressing your fronts together would have flooded your body with heat. You can feel all of Jungkook like this, from the bulging muscles of his chest to his thigh pressed slightly between your legs from how he holds you up. But fear of the unknown and Jungkook’s clearly distressed state prevent those other thoughts from materializing. 
Jungkook’s body doesn’t relax until Yoongi appears around the corner of a large tree. He keeps his arms wrapped around you, and for a second, Yoongi looks around at the clearing you're in as though he can’t see you. 
It isn’t until Jungkook lets go of you that recognition flashes in Yoongi’s eyes. 
“There you are,” Yoongi murmurs to the two of you. He looks like he rolled around on the ground, little pieces of leaves and sticks caught in his hair and stuck to his clothes. His left knee is bleeding from a few superficial scrapes. 
“What the fuck happened to you?” 
Yoongi looks at Jungkook before he answers your question, which irritates you. “I tripped when I rushed in, but it was nothing. Just a large fox I heard making noise back there.” 
A fox is likely the largest animal in the woods, with no bears or wolves in the area. Still, you don’t trust Yoongi. You can pick up on the charred smell coming off of him. He smells like a barbecue, which means only one thing… 
“Have you been practicing turning yourself invisible?” 
Jungkook ducks his head down but no longer has long bangs to hide his face. It takes a second for your brain to process Yoongi’s question - and the change in the topic - but Jungkook is already answering him by the time you figure it out. 
“It’s not really invisibility,” he says softly. “It’s more like… an illusion.”
Yoongi hums and motions for the two of you to start walking. You’re returning to the warehouse, you realize, even though you only just started the patrol route. 
“Yeah, I can… adjust the lighting, I guess? To make it seem like you can’t see me. Or, us, this time.” 
Jungkook gives you a small smile when you whip around to look at him.
“I didn’t know you could do that.” 
“Yeah,” Jungkook repeats. He draws his bottom lip between his teeth and wiggles it like he has more to say but doesn’t want to let it out just yet. 
The three of you walk in silence until you reach the warehouse. When Yoongi walks ahead of you, you can tell he’s limping, even as he does his best to walk normally. 
“He’s okay.” 
Jungkook stands beside you in the field behind the warehouse, watching Yoongi reach the backdoor. 
“He’s bleeding.” 
Jungkook’s ears are pink when he responds, “He’ll be okay.”
“He’s lying to us.” 
Jungkook absentmindedly runs his fingers along his bottom lip. It droops as he speaks through a pout. “Maybe. But I trust him, even if he is.” 
It’s a strange thing to trust someone who is lying. 
All you can do is nod. All you can do is accept that the people around you are doing what’s right because, aside from them, there is no one and nothing you can trust in the world. 
As you approach the warehouse, Jungkook curls his fingers around your wrist to stop you. He watches you with the same wide-eyed look he gives everyone, though something about this time feels different. His expression is more open and vulnerable. He looks at you like he’s waiting for you to hurt him. 
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he apologizes softly. 
“But you didn’t?” 
Your eyebrows crease your forehead, trying to recall what you may have done to make Jungkook feel like you feared him. Sure, his sudden appearance in the woods was startling, but he’d brought you a feeling of comfort and safety - not fear. 
Jungkook doesn’t correct you. Instead, he lets go of your wrist as shame warms his cheeks, but he doesn’t look away from you. The timidness is still there. You can see it in how he chews on his bottom lip. Still, his eyes take on a more guarded, hardened expression for a split second, and then… 
He’s gone. 
“What the fuck?” You mutter to yourself. 
Now that you’ve seen the darkness before, your eyes quickly notice the spot on the ground that creeps and grows into odd shapes, slinking along the grass before taking form up your legs, curling around your arms. 
It’s Jungkook. You knew it in the woods, somewhere deep down. Your fear for Yoongi’s safety - and your own - prevented you from processing the situation. But now, as the darkness envelopes you again, you know what to expect when you close your eyes and open them to see Jungkook’s broad chest as he crushes you against him. 
“You never showed me before.” 
Maybe it’s weird that you’re still clinging to each other, but Jungkook is warm and solid, and his heartbeat guides yours into a slower rhythm. 
“That’s because it’s creepy.” 
“Well, I think it’s cool. Even though, yeah, you kinda scared the shit outta me.” 
Jungkook lets out an embarrassed whine and squeezes you tighter. You knew he could command shadows but hadn’t realized he could become one or move within them. Sure, the tornado trick he’d done a few times with Hoseok had been cool, but you’d always thought he was merely swirling the darkness around himself. You hadn’t realized he was the darkness. 
Honestly, it made him all the more terrifying and equally as endearing. 
“I just had this… feeling something bad was happening…” Jungkook whispers into your hair. “I needed to check.”
“Good thing it was only a fox.”
Jungkook nods in agreement; you know he believes it more than you do. 
“I’m just happy you’re safe.” You can feel his cheek press against the top of your head for a moment before he finally releases you. 
There’s a feeling there as Jungkook leads you to the warehouse. He laces his fingers with yours, and you can’t help but hear Yoongi’s question on a loop in your head. 
You and Jungkook? 
4 MONTHS, 3 WEEKS
“What if they think we’re the feds and feed us false information?” 
“We’re too stupid to be the feds. It would be obvious.”
“I don’t know… we all escaped the government, so they must be pretty stupid.” 
“What if they’re the feds?” 
“Shit, I never thought about that.”
“They’re not the fucking feds.” 
“How do you know that?!” 
“Can all of you please just shut the fuck up?” 
The six of you crowd around the radio on the kitchen table. Jessi shows you how to operate it, which flip to switch to activate the microphone, and how to adjust the volume. You’re all muted for now. When Hoseok goes to flip the switch, Jessi smacks his hand out of the way. 
“Listen to me,” she says sternly, turning in her seat to get a good look at all of you. “No one talks.” 
“But-” 
“No one talks.” 
Five heads nod at her command, including Yoongi, which feels very satisfying to you for some reason. 
Details of the Gifted Commune somewhere beyond the woods traveled by word of mouth. Coordinates and radio frequencies were exchanged in hushed tones between the Gifteds who dared dream of a life beyond the Labs. You’re sad to admit that you were never one of those Gifteds. It wasn’t until Yoongi helped you escape that you even realized escaping was an option, so brainwashed into thinking the Labs were all you had. You were in a new country, stumbling through an unfamiliar language, taken from your family. Sure, you’d learned enough to get by over time - but missing your adolescent years made you feel hopeless. 
Jessi is the only one who had communicated with the Commune leaders in the past when she and another Gifted managed to break into a control room in the Labs she came from. 
That’s why she’s the one to speak into the radio that you find operates much like a long-distance walkie-talkie. You’re glad it’s not you. She introduces herself, her whereabouts, and her credentials with an even voice you know you could never replicate. 
Despite the distrust you’re all afraid of, Jessi’s previous connection to the Commune makes it easy for her to request to speak to the Commune leader, a healer named Kim Taehyung. 
Sitting with your fingers gripping the edge of the table so tightly your knuckles are beginning to ache, you lean forward as though you can get closer to the gentle voice that floats from the radio’s speakers. 
Taehyung doesn’t sound anything like you’d imagined, though you aren’t sure what you were expecting, to be honest. Maybe someone with a rougher voice made harsh by the trials of life as a fugitive of the Republic. Instead, he’s soft as he asks Jessi how many there are of you and what your coordinates are. This man, already larger than life even though none of you knows what he looks like, is patient as he gives Jessi instructions on how to reach the Commune. 
“I can assure you,” Taehyung speaks, and you don’t know what he’s about to say, but you find yourself already believing him, “You will be safe here. It won’t be a short trip.” That makes your gut twist, but you focus on his following words. “But there are abandoned shelters along the route to find refuge in. The nights get terribly cold.” 
Namjoon scribbles some notes down on a worn piece of paper. It’s been written on and erased to add more notes over the months you’ve been at the warehouse since there are only a few pieces of paper between the six of you. There’s a small hole in the middle of the page where someone erased too hard - or too many times, you suppose. 
“Thank you, Taehyung-ssi.” 
The line is quiet for a moment. Jessi’s gaze shoots up to glare at Jungkook’s interruption, but Taehyung speaks before she can chastise the younger man. 
“Anything for my dongsaeng,” the man on the other side of the radio states. 
You don’t know him, so there is no way to tell if the subtle lilt to his voice indicates affection, but it seems like it as the two men use polite terms no one ever uses anymore. It’s old-fashioned and reminiscent of a time lost to all of you. 
Jessi steers the conversation back to planning the group’s journey to the Commune. Excitement makes you jittery as you skip out of the kitchen, the men - aside from Yoongi - following after you. The boring stuff is what follows, and you’re all content to let the leaders discuss that stuff. 
“Do you think we’ll be able to do it?” Hoseok clasps his hands together, occasionally squeezing them. When he speaks, he keeps his eyes on the closed kitchen door. 
Namjoon shrugs at the same time you respond, “We have to.” 
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PART ONE - PART TWO
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yaut-jaknowit · 2 months
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How about a human womans gets pregnant with a yautja (They are probably in a lab). The male escapes and takes her back to his clan and hands her off to the females of the clan. And instead of falling in love with the male, the sire of the unborn pup. the human womans gets together with another female who is teaching the ways of the yautja. Maybe the male stops by here n there...
Lose Yourself
Pairings: Male Yautja x AFAB!Reader (Platonic)
Word Count: 4039
Summary: Four concrete walls have been your sight for the last year. Caregivers and doctors see you every day to ensure your heath. Then three months ago, they introduced you to him. A creature not from this world that you can tell. He does not speak but the two of you have an understanding and one another.
Author Note: When this popped up in my feed, I started to bounce off of the walls like a crazed animal. I love this idea so much. In the future, I would love to write out a whole story like this. For now, I'm just going to do at least two parts, maybe three for this.
Part 2
Masterlist
Ao3
Blaring sirens jolt you back into reality. Your heart instantly leaps into your throat and lodges itself there. The whites of your eyes clear even in the limited light of the dingy cell you dared to call home.
Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around your knees and carefully watched the only entrance and exit to this singular, minute room. The alarm meant something. Terrible things. Nothing ever good came from it. Your head was plastered to the tops of your knees as you observed for any incoming threat.
This wasn’t a horrible life. Three meals a day; seen by doctors – or at least what looked to be doctors – practically every day; clothing on your body. But the fact you weren’t allowed to leave the room unless they wanted you or you didn’t have anything to stimulate your brain. Just an animal on the verge of insanity, forced to be driven there with no relief.
The people who keep you locked in here are the only people you are able to interact with. It’s one sided. You lost your will to try and gain any words besides the casual ‘how are you feeling today?’ from them. They might mix it up after some time but it was always the same doctor-patient relationship.
Out of everything here though, what caught your attention was the thing they brought you to a few times before. Everything about him is locked down and sealed tight from both sides. Not even a name from the lumbering giant.
From the limited times you’ve got to interact with him, you’ve learned he wasn’t a nice character. At first, he had nearly torn you apart before he had jerked to a stop. Akin to a horrified look passed over his alien features and he backed away. After that day, he’s been reasonable to be around. For some reason, your ‘caregivers’ love to know how you interact with him or what he’ll do if… you were some sort of danger.
Not the most protective creature, he’ll snarl and growl if the guards are too rough with you. His chains prevent him from doing anything physical. Once you are completely alone with him though, the chains that keep him locked to the wall are slackened. He’s now allowed to move about the vicinity as he seems fit.
Move he does. He stalks, prowls around the room, searching for any way for escape. They way he moves gives you the hint he’s this predator, like a lion hunting its prey. When you watch him, you admire him and prowess.
Wishful thinking makes you pray for him to find a weakness and escape from this horrid place. The chains on his wrists are more than tight. It’s daily occurrence blood drips from cuts. He tries to hide it, obscure it from sight but the eyes are the window to the soul. You are able to read his pain, every wince when the chains rub just a hair too much. You worry about him, this creature that was no human.
The first time he allowed you to touch him was a miracle. When the session was over, you were immediately yanked from the premises and shoved into a different room. Your caregivers began to berate and demand answers on why he was allowing you such contact. As the clueless person you are, you just shrugged your shoulders.
That night, they left you with a few more bruises than usual.
The door swung open and revealed a guard and a caregiver. Same protocols as always. You were taken from your room and swiftly led further down to what you believed to be the lowest level of this complex. The entire way there, you were compliant and willing. You’ve done your fair share of fighting, everything in your power to leave this place.
But it never worked. It wasn’t truly accepting your fate but going along the motions. Your mind has long grown numb, completely stale to everything. It needed stimulation but no one offered that.
A quick shove had you toppling onto your hands and knees. A loud snarl and rattling chains, metal creaking from tremendous amount of weight thrown against echoed in the limited space. You hissed at the new wounds on your knees and whipped your head up.
Though weakened from lack of food and proper exercise, the alien was straining against the shortened chains. His blazing eyes were on you, taking in everything your caregivers did to you.
With a click, the thick steel door latched shut and trapped you in here with him. You sighed and stood back up while taking a glance behind you. The only entrance to the room sealed off until they choose to retrieve you. Until then, you calmly walked over to the ashen, grey alien and sat down close by. A respectful amount of space placed between the two of you.
Two more clicks entered the air. The chains that once locked him to the wall slackened and allowed the predator free range.
He instantly stalked over to you and knelt down. You picked up your head to find his eyes still on your sitting form. His gaze flicked down to your scrapped knees.
Those strange mandibles of his, or fangs could be a better word, didn’t offer any lips to form words. Not English at least. He seems to speak in his own but neither of you could truly understand one another in words. Instead, gestures got you farther in this strange friendship you’ve created with him. He was the only being in this forsaken place to offer niceties.
You reached to the fresh wound. Blood already dotted the scrapped skin. Nothing that cried for a bandage. Not that you would get in the end. “It’s alright,” you reassured him and threw a thumbs up at him. A sign he’s learned meant everything was fine.
He hovered still and stayed sat on his haunches at your side. A little unusual for the predator always on the move. When he was with you, ninety percent of the time he is prowling the given space and observing the door. You didn’t need to be told he was searching for his escape.
One animal, spirit lost to the solidarity. 
Another animal, always moving, always searching.
It didn’t take further than five more seconds for your gaze to drop and head to lean against the cool wall. It was colder in this room than even the halls that lead to here. You’ve pondered the reasons but have never come up with something concrete.
Warmth cupped your cheek and tilted your head back up to the only figure in this room. Your jaw dropped at the touch, eyes widening while you could only stare at the alien.
Once he found your eyes, he leaned in, diverted slightly to the side, and placed his alien mouth next to your ear. “I will get us out of here,” he whispered barely a fraction over his breath. You gasped in reaction, ready to spew questions when his thumb pressed against your lips. The words died in your throat before they could become sound.
Then, he nuzzled his mandibles to the crook of your neck and pulled back. The whole interaction had you puzzled but slightly scared shitless. Thise sharp fangs so close to your throat, knowing they could rip it out if he wanted. But instead, he promised your escape.
Escape.
It was like he offered you a sack of gold as a peasant.
“Please,” you murmured back and against the pad of his thumb. He grunted then stood up. The chains rattled at the movement and clacked against the ground. You saw the way his hands twitched at his sides when the sharp edge dug into his already sore flesh. Thick, raised scars would be left in its wake. That, you were sure of.
The alien moved away from you and began his pacing. It was the same pathing he always took. He looked high and low. You stayed there on the ground despite it hurting your lower back and watched him. As he moved, the hope that bubbled inside of your chest began to dwindle. Maybe he didn’t have a plan just yet or even the start of one.
You missed the feeling of the sun on your skin, the smell of fresh air. Freedom. That’s the base core you craved the most while in the pits of this place. You had no plans for escape. It didn’t look like he did either.
A hand ran through your knotted locks and started to work out the small rats' nests growing. He had spoken to you. Spoke English. After all the times you’ve been in contact with him, he finally speaks up and says that. But why did he say it so quietly?
Your eyes darted around the room, hiding behind your lashes. Four cameras. They left no space unseen. Did he not want anyone to know he could speak your language? I huffed and drew your knees while resting your chin on them.
Another click drew you from well of your thoughts. A sound you’ve heard before. The chains began to sucked back into the wall and dragged the struggling alien back to his original place. You watched with a sorrowful gaze, knowing every pull cut deeper into his forever bleeding cuts.
Before he could officially trapped back to the wall, he lunged at you and trapped your now quiver form to him. His body was a few degrees warmer than the room itself. The textured scales that covered him from head to toe rubbed against your back. You gave a yelp and struggled at first but stopped, hoping he wouldn’t harm you after all this time.
The first time you met flashing in your mind. What had stopped him?
His grasp on you wasn’t harsh or demanding, but firm, not allowing you slip away from him. The claws that tipped his fingers looked they could gut you like a fish. Yet, he ensured they didn’t dig into your skin.
The chains stopped once he was pulled to the wall but with you still in grasp. The door was ripped open and in poured seven heavily armed soldiers, guns directed at the two of you. You screamed and tucked into his chest and seek protection from the only friendly figure here. His arms tightened around in a secure manner. A deep rumbled beginning to grow from the depths of his chest.
In walked the main caregiver for you and him. You submissively bowed your head, afraid to look her in the eye and feel her wrath; or be knocked out and wake up in pain again.
The woman wearing a white coat looked down her nose at your meek form then gazed up at the predator trapping you. “You won’t hurt her,” she stated with a voice honeyed and sweet. How could she be so sure of something unknown? Even you didn’t know what his intentions were.
Warm, callused finger ensnared your throat. Your heart jumping and thumping against the digits holding your life. A whimper breaking free of your cracked, cry lips. The arm still wrapped around your torso  tightened but the hand rubbed the area behind your back. You inhaled sharply and slackened in his hold.
She marched forward and only left a space between her and you that dared him to take the lunge. “It’s against your honor code, isn’t it?” Your brows furrowed at the new information, unsure of what this ‘honor code’ entailed but hoped it truly meant he won’t kill you.
He growled and sent vibrations up your spine. Goosebumps were left in its wake. You shuttered and pressed yourself more into him.
Harsh, vile clicks and snarls sounded from his alien throat as he spat alien words at the doctor. An unamused gaze fell on her face while the grey creature said his piece.
When the sounds ceased and he breathed heavily, she used a finger to wipe spit off of her face and flicked back at him. “Are you done?” she huffed and rolled her eyes. “Your kind is so predictable. Quick to surge with rage and believe themselves to be high and mighty. Not for much longer.” You wanted to somehow shrink even more against him but there was not even a molecule of space to take up.
“Now, hand over the subject and we’ll still feed you tonight. And if you don’t… well, that’s for me know and you to find out.” You shuttered at her words, hand finding his arm and squeezing it. He returned the action with his arm still wrapped around your torso.
An action she saw. Her posture sagged then she spun around and walked behind the seven soldiers. They were used as a wall of protection.
“Retrieve the subject. Don’t kill either of them. Harm is okay,” she gave the order you knew was about to occur. Your eyes instinctively shut as you prepare for bullets to begin flying.
A deafening roar rattled your brain. Metal snapped. The heat you were once pressed against was gone. The pure instinct to search it out strong before your brain could register the scene unfolding in front of your trembling form. Your feet glued to the spot.
Even though he’s lost some of his muscular physique, this lethal giant showed off his strength and prowess. He had already thrown one of the soldiers into a wall, a dent left in its wake. Another was meeting the business end of this predator… and loosing not only the fight but their life as well.
Blood sprayed across the ground in a terrifying arch. The ruby red a sight you weren’t prepared to see. His claws causing the damage to be dealt and valuable life essence to be spilled at your feet. The same claws that had been wrapped around neck so softly moments before.
Bright pops of light and ear-bleeding claps left you dizzy in where you stood. You stumbled back and rested your shoulder against the cool concrete wall. The scene before you continuing to unfold as if you didn’t even exist.
It swiftly became a blood bath. The seven soldiers she brought into here were desecration into nothing more than piles of shredded meat and bleeding blood bags on the ground.
The horror that morphed over her usually neutral face was satisfying to say in the least. The fact she wasn’t going to be able to step out of this room dawned upon her. You watched as the color drained from her face with each step backwards.
Unlike you, she was trapped and at the will of the alien that bore his gaze down on her. You may be pressed against the wall like her, but you were safe, not afraid of him spinning around and mistaking you as one of them. You knew it in your heart he was following through with his promise. You’ll see the light of day again, breathe the fresh air of the day. Strangely enough, you felt giddy.
“You can’t do this! I’m unarmed!” she screamed at him and pointed a trembling finger at the grey alien. What’s with that? Does it have to do with this ‘honor code’ she spoke about before?
Oh, but he could. In a terrifying millisecond, your eyes couldn’t register what had truly happened. Her body laid motionless at the feet of the lumbering alien. Her back faced you, her head was turned towards you. The cold, lifeless blue eyes of hers stared blankly, unfocused.
Dead.
You released a shuttering breath and timidly looked at him. Said creature stood back to his full height and rolled his dense shoulders. The muscles that lined his shoulders and back rippling at the motion.
Then, the alien spun on his heel and marched over to you. For a scared shitless moment, you best believed you were about to receive the same treatment. What stopped him from doing so?
He came to a stop before you and offered you a hand. “We are getting out.” Words of English were rumbled at you. Your eyes flicked down to the open palm. The freedom you begged for since the day you arrived here was standing before you. Not in a form you were expecting.
You took his hand.
One moment, the ground was touching the bottom of your feet. The very next, your legs had to wrap around a wide frame, arms snug around his throat. His back to your chest. He patted your forearm. “Hold on tight. Do not let go,” he ordered then marched towards the door.
It was closed, still sealed. What was he going to do about that?
That had to a be stupid thought after watching him massacre the entire room. Clearly he had an idea, some plan to get you two out of here. As much as you hated to this, it gutted you, you trusted him fully to release you from this prison.
Carefully, he crouched down and grabbed a key card from a pocket of the doctor. Red from his hands smeared onto the thin piece of plastic. He held it up to a small area next to the door.
With a whoosh, the door opened. The moment it did. All the white lights suddenly flashed to red. A horrifying screech entered the air before going into a low pitch then back up. It continued to do this while he carried him and you into the hall.
His head whipped side to side, thoughts determining which way to go. You perked up at this and motioned for him to go left. “The stairs are next to the elevator,” you reasoned with him. He grunted and began to full on sprint in the given direction. This hundreds of pound of flesh barreled down the hallway like a semi-truck. Nothing could stop him unless he wanted to stop.
A ninety degree came up. The alien just slid and used an arm to keep himself from slamming into the wall. He continued on. You buried your face into his neck, ignoring the strange rubbery dreads that slapped against your head and face with each of his steps.
The hallway led him to the necessary door. He didn’t even try the handle when he full on kicked it down. The metal screeched as it was torn from the hinges and laid to rest at the bottom of the stairs. With that out of the way, he leaped easily over it and took three steps at a time.
The alarm still blared its horrible tune and forced a headache to pound inside of your skull. You whined and scrunched your nose, unable to relieve yourself of the noise.
Over the noise, you heard the tall tell sign of thundering footsteps. You tensed up, breath shuddering and catching in your throat. In reaction, you go to open your mouth and speak of the discovery. A single finger was held up in your line of sight. You closed your trap and hunkered back down.
He launched himself up a flight of stairs and crashed into something hard. Gunfire sounded less than ten feet away. A bullet never hits you as he powered through a sea of bodies. You kept yourself locked onto his back like a monkey for dear life. You don’t know if he would come back for you if you were to fall off. Or if a soldier may just kill you to solve half of their problems.
Warm, slightly substance latched onto your arms. You shuttered, already coming to the conclusion of what it is.
Dying, horrified screams echoed off the halls. They decreased in amount and volume until the last one was silenced.
A new quiet filled the air besides the heavy breathing from the beast you clung to. Ringing echoed inside of your ears and worsened your headache. You groaned and clenched your hands into a tight fist.
He moved on.
You were brought back to reality as the warmth tinglingly the back of your neck and arms. Confused, you picked up your head and opened your eyes.
Bright light first had you flinching but powering through the pain. Sunlight greeted you. Its light painful at first but warmth more than welcomed. Your jaw dropped at the sight now before you.
A vessel… No. A space craft. A UFO. And it had to be his.
The alien didn’t stop moving across the short field that took him less than ten seconds to clear reach the feet of the ship. He slammed his fist against the belly of it. A screeching hiss entered the air.
A slab of metal began to peel itself away from the belly of the craft and angle one end towards the ground. The sight something you would see from Star Wars. You could only watch in amazement as the alien marched up the ramp. He rushed his way through the insides and took expert turns until he reached the cockpit. His feet skidded to a stop at a console and hands flying across the panels.
You pulled yourself up higher and watched. He pressed buttons and started the engines.
They rumbled to life under his feet. The ship waking up from an unknown amount of rest.
Hanging off of his back, you spotted movement through the glass window before you. A hoard of soldiers poured from the facility you had broken out of. A cold sweat dripped down the length of your spine at the sight. You tapped rapidly on his shoulder to gain his attention. “We’ve got company,” you warned, voice wavering.
The creature scoffed and turned his head enough to meet your eyes. “Not for long,” he answered. A smirk that you didn’t need to see was evident in his voice. He reached over and grabbed a throttle. Pressure was added to the stick.
Power was fed into the engines. Their sounds gaining in volume. You felt it before you noticed the fact the craft was starting to lift off the ground. The people rushing towards the two of you doubled their efforts as they began to grow smaller.
Something hit the roof and prevented the vessel from gaining anymore height. The creature just scoffed and added extra power to the engines.
Metal groaned and gave way. The ship returned to its form ascent into the sky. You release a sob of relief while the two of you continued to climb into the sky. The prison left behind as everyone could only watch your escape.
Once blue skies transitioned to black and sparkles shining through, he released the tension in his shoulders then patted your forearm. “You can get down now,” he said and knelt down. The warm metal floor touching the bottom of your bare feet. You finally relented your hold on him and stretched out your muscles. Soreness sunk into your muscles after clinging to him for so long.
He turned around to look at you fully. The two of you taking the other in without the constant pressure of being under watch and locked into a room.
A smile broke across your dirtied features. It was slow, a small dribble of happiness filling your veins before it became a rush. You pumped your fists into the air and gave a lungful cheer that echoed back at you. Damn that headache, you could care less about it when freedom was returned to you at last.
Close to the end of your excitement, an ear-piercing roar sounded with your call. You stopped abruptly and looked at the alien. His head was tipped back, fangs fully widened. You let the smile return and gave a hearty call again. You deserved it after all the shit you’ve endured while at the prison.
The roar died off. You cut yours as well and returned to studying him again. Despite not knowing who or what he was, you could trust him completely. He had fought off the advances of the soldiers and kept you safe. It was impossible in the moment to wipe off the smile on your face. You didn’t even dare to try and knew it would be futile.
Freedom at last.
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starry-bi-sky · 3 months
Text
Becoming Phantom - Clone^2 (and by extension, clone danny)
I said I would make it, and so i did! Here's a little ficlet of how danny became Phantom - the human ghost-fighting vigilante in the clone^2 and clone Danny au. Since this does include themes of dissection/vivisection, i'll put in a minor trigger warning list down below.
TW: experimentation - implied torture and vivisection/dissection of ghosts TW: Non-graphic mentions of injuries and blood
TLDR: Danny's parents have been catching ghosts ever since the portal was opened after Danny's lab accident. Danny knows this because he can hear them screaming from the basement. After finally telling his friends about it, he resolves to free the ghosts - and he does. He ends up having a conversation with one of the ghosts, and comes to the decision that he will catch ghosts before his parents do to prevent this kind of harm from happening again.
word count check: 4.9k
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His parents caught another ghost.
Danny can tell because he can hear their screaming from the kitchen, even with the doors closed. It's horrific - the voice is doubled over itself like something out of one of Sam's demonic horror movies, and Danny's heart races like he's run a mile at the sound.
It warps and twists, and almost sounds like its saying 'please.'
He rubs his chest uncomfortably, and pushes his breakfast away from him. His appetite lost and his stomach churning with a deep sense of dread.
Across the table, Jazz notices, and her eyes narrow dangerously at his hand gripping his shirt - right over his heart. He just got out of the hospital last month, and he knows what she's thinking - they don't want to have to send him back.
"I'm fine." He blurts out immediately, dropping his hand. He's not fine, but it's because he feels ill as the lights above flicker and another terrified shriek echoes through the floorboards. He swallows, ill. "I- it's just-" his eyes flick to the door to the lab. "the lab."
Jazz's lips press into thin line, and she pushes her chair back and stands up. "I hate that they're doing this," she says, stomping towards the lab. "It's inhumane, Danny. They're people too, even if they don't look like us!"
Before the portal, Danny might've just shrugged his shoulders and not said anything. He never really cared about his parents' ghost hunting stuff, but figured that since they knew more about it, their rants about them being unfeeling were correct.
Now, though? When he's been woken up in the middle of the night by the house rattling and his ears ringing with the pained cries of one of the ghosts' in the basement? His heart beating so fast he thinks he's been transported back to the lab a month ago, lying on the floor after being electrocuted by the portal?
He's really not so sure anymore. And he thinks he's starting to agree with Jazz. This isn't right. He doesn't think so, at least.
An unsure 'hm' comes out of his throat, eyes tracking Jazz as she swings the heavy metal door open and breathes in deep. "HEY!" She yells, her voice miraculously sounding out over the ghost screaming. The screams stop. "MOM! DAD! CUT THAT OUT, YOU'RE SCARING DANNY!"
There's no sound, and Danny sighs a breath of relief. Not that it does much to slow his anxious heart, the shrieks are burned into his ears, and he's already thinking about leaving now rather than later. He can meet Tucker at his house.
His parents - his mom, actually - appears at the entrance to the lab, her hands drip bright, ectoplasm green, and there's splatters of it across the front of her suit and goggles like blood. Danny feels white in the face, and Jazz looks enraged.
Mom pulls off her goggles, frowning apologetically. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Your father and I just got carried away, we caught this one just this morning by the park." She says, as if that makes it any better. Danny's eyes are glued to the ectoplasm dripping onto the floor. "We'll wait until you get to school."
Danny wishes they wouldn't do this at all. But he just nods mutely, unable to make his lead-heavy tongue do anything. Jazz speaks for him, and whirls on mom like a tornado about to break loose. "At school? This shouldn't be happening at all - it's wrong, mom!"
Jazz has been the only one vocal about this whole thing ever since mom and dad came home with a ghost trapped in one of their nets - their thermos wasn't working - while Danny was on sick leave after he got out of the hospital. Danny still remembers the utter shock he was in after mom and dad came in dragging it behind them.
The ghost looked like a grown woman, but it - she - had the brightest blue eyes he'd ever seen, and ice-like skin. She'd been thrashing in the net, saying something in a hissy, whispering language that made static build behind his eyes. It had surprised him that he could somewhat make out what she was saying.
It had been fascinating. Up until the screaming started.
He watches Mom make a face that looks like endeared annoyance, and she turns to Jazz with a light sigh. "You're a kind girl, Jazz, but ghosts aren't human, sweetheart. We've told you this." And they have, multiple times. It's become a reoccurring argument.
"Does it matter?!" Jazz exclaims, her cheeks turning an inflamed red with indignancy. She looks appalled. "They're still in pain! You're hurting them!"
Danny silently nods, but they don't see. Jazz is glaring at mom with the burning anger of the sun and Mom just looks exasperated. "Your father and I know this already, Jazmine." Mom says, her arms crossing across her chest.
Jazz's mouth drops open.
Danny's almost does the same. The bone-chilling blood rush leaves him shivering, and his vision spots out in black, fuzzy dots for a few seconds. Maybe, he thinks, it's his heart stopping again with the cold horror.
They know this?
They know this?
And they're still doing it?
He thought he knew his parents - now he's second-guessing himself.
Jazz is just as much at a loss for words as Danny is. And then her expression shutters closed with a fury-kind of icy. "Danny," she says, still staring down their mom. "Go get your stuff, I'm driving you to school."
Normally, he hates how.. parent-y Jazz gets. She acts like a second mom, and like a helicopter one to boot. It drives him nuts on the worst of days. Right now though, he's already rising to his feet before he's even opening his mouth.
"Okay." He croaks, and beelines it up the stairs for his backpack. He doesn't look at mom when he comes back down, he doesn't think he can. He can see her still-dripping hands in the corner of his eye though.
------
"Man, you look like shit." Tucker says the moment Danny sits down in their homeroom class, he's frowning. Danny doesn't say anything to him, he just grunts and drops his head into his arms.
Sam, sitting behind Danny, leans across the aisle and smacks Tucker in the arm. He yelps in pain, and rubs the spot she hit with a glare. "He's right though," Sam says, leaning over his shoulder. "You looked like you were gonna yak over the front row when you walked in."
"It's good that you didn't," Tucker grumbles, "Dash would've killed you."
Danny, despite the shit morning, manages a smile and tilts his head so that his cheek is resting on his arm instead. "Mr. Lancer wouldn't've let him." Sam sniffs, and her fingers are in his hair already - it's been growing out for a while now. He meant to cut it but then the lab accident happened, and he was in the hospital, and then on sick leave, and -- long story short, he was growing it out.
Besides, Sam pulling it back for him was relaxing, and he feels the tension bleeding out of his shoulders already. His anxious heart slowing. "Yeah, he's been weirdly protective since the accident." He says. It was kinda nice, Dash was being forced to back off - finally, more than he was before.
"Probably because if you have a heart attack in class from Dash bullying you, he'll be liable." Tucker snorts, relaxing back into his chair. Up front, the three of them see Dash shoot them a glare from over his shoulder. He probably heard them -- and Tucker doesn't help by giving him an innocent, too-wide grin.
There's a tug, and Danny lifts his head slightly as Sam ties his hair back with whatever hairband she procured out of nowhere. And she says she's not a witch, honestly.
His smile falters, however, when Sam leans back around his shoulder with a frown still evident on her face. "Seriously though, what's up? You were really pale -- paler than normal, that is."
Danny doesn't really wanna tell them - he's kept the whole 'my parents are torturing ghosts' thing to himself ever since he first woke up to the house shaking. It wasn't any secret though that there were ghosts now actually 'infesting' Amity Park though, they'd been popping up ever since the portal turned on.
But Jazz says talking about things helps alleviate stress of what's burdening you, and Danny doesn't usually listen to her. She's his annoying older sister, of course he doesn't. But... this... wasn't really something he wanted to keep secret forever, either.
His teeth sink into his bottom lip, and he averts his eyes. It's like tearing off a band-aid, Danny, he thinks, just... blurt it out. "My parents are torturing ghosts in the basement." He says, only to immediately wince as both Sam and Tucker drop their jaws.
"What!?" They both yell in unison, and Danny ducks his head down as everyone else sitting around them turn their heads.
"Not so loud!" He hisses, peeking through his arms and glaring at the both of them. They both grimace, embarrassment dusting red across Sam's face and Tucker's darkening slightly, and duck their heads down towards him.
"Sorry, what!?" Tucker whispers back at him, his face all scrunched up in disbelief. Sam's redness has faded into pale horror and -- and yeah, yeah, Danny gets it. He feels that way too.
"They keep catching the ghosts and dissecting them." He whispers, and god, he feels sick just saying it. Tucker's face falls slack, and he looks about as ill as Danny feels. "I don't- I don't know what to do about it, I keep waking up to them screaming, and Jazz keeps getting into fights about it with them."
"Oh my god." Sam mutters, her hands pressing together and covering her mouth. Danny nods mutely, chewing on his lip.
"They know its hurting them." He adds, and its still dizzyingly terrifying to think about. He thought he knew his parents. He thought he knew them. He guesses that saying of people being multi-faceted was true. "They don't care."
Sam and Tucker both look green. Or as close to green as they can get. "That's- that's inhumane." Sam breathes, and Danny huffs sardonically - funny, that's what Jazz said this morning. That's what she keeps saying. "And there's really nothing you can do?"
"Not unless I go into the lab myself and release them," he mutters, hiding half his face in his arms. "And I haven't been back in there since I got electrocuted." His parents wouldn't allow it, and it's not like he he was chomping at the bits to go back inside anyways.
...Hm.
"I'm sorry, Danny." Tucker says, his voice low and horrified, "that's- that's awful."
Yeah. He knows.
--------
This is a bad idea. This is a bad idea. This is a bad idea.
Where was Danny you ask? Sneaking down into the lab at sometime past midnight, long after his parents have gone to bed. It's been a week since he said, sarcastically, that the only thing he could do was release the ghosts in the lab, and it hasn't left his head.
Even though he was utterly terrified as he took slow, sneaky steps down the stairs. The thought had been keeping him up at night. He could do it. He could go down into the lab and let them go. He could do something.
It's not like his parents had put a lock on the door. He hadn't even thought about it - if he thought about it, he'd back out. So when he heard his parents go to sleep that night, he waited an hour before sneaking out.
Every sound felt so loud, and his heart had raced in his ears as he creaked open the door to the lab, and closed it behind him for good measure. And his hands were shaking as he reached the bottom of the steps and stepped into the lab for the first time in two months.
And good god, did he almost regret it. There were ghosts in cages of all kinds, and ectoplasm seeping down onto the floor of their cages. They were clutching their chests, of which bled sluggishly through stitched up y-scars. They were moaning, and crying, curled up in the back like frightened animals. And there was a metal table in the center of a room that was stained green, green, green.
"Oh my god." He breathes, horror driving itself up into his throat with the churning of his gut. That's another thing he almost regrets - if only because half a dozen ghosts all snap their heads towards him, and it becomes pandemonium in an instant.
Rattling, yelling, crying, they're all screaming at him. Either to tell him to go away, to give them mercy, or to spew threats at him. It's in that same, hissy language that he's heard before. Whispery, echoing, and overlapping like multiple languages being played backwards and forwards at the same time. It gives him an immediate headache as his mind tries to comprehend and translate it.
Go away. Don't hurt us. Go away. I'll tear you apart. Leave. Leave. LEAVE.
It's all so much. Danny wants to throw himself up the stairs and back up to his room in a prey-driven instinct to flee, flee, flee. He doesn't. He covers his ears and digs his nails into his hair.
He yells. "I'M NOT LEAVING. BE QUIET!" and somehow, it silences everyone in an instant. He looks up, and everyone is staring at him, their multi-colored eyes burning into him.
Tentatively, he lowers his hands, they're shaking. He's still so scared. But courage isn't a lack of fear, its doing something despite it. He blinks back the terrified sting in his eyes, and twiddles with his hands. "I'm- I'm not here to hurt you." He stammers, "I promise. I'm not my parents."
It's silent for a long moment, and then there's an animalistic-like hiss from his left. He turns his head, and there's a ghost of a man curled up in a cage, staring him down with a thunderous look on his face. "Liar." He hisses, his voice warping in that hissy language. There are goat-like horns protruding from his head, and his eyes are yellow and slitted. He's dripping ectoplasm from his chest.
Danny swallows the bile in his throat.
And frowns. "I'm not lying." He says, and the ghost doesn't get hostile, much to his surprise. But there's a ripple of murmurs that spreads through the room like a wave at a ballgame. The ghost that spoke stares at him, then squints.
"You understand us, child?"
And - okay, Danny doesn't like the 'child' comment. He's fourteen for goodness sake, and he bristles silently like it's an insult, but he's no there to argue, he's here to help. So he swallows his pride and starts to walk towards the closed portal.
His legs are shaking, he's afraid they're gonna give out beneath him. The portal scares him, more than it did when he first saw it. But maybe that's because when he first saw it, he hadn't almost died from it.
His heart is pounding in his ears. Is it going to give out again, will he have to go to the hospital again? Despite his insistence that he's fine, Danny's heart hasn't beat right ever since the accident. He's checked. He spent an hour every night with his fingers pressed against the pulse point at his throat, at his wrist, terrified of the slow-beating he could feel thrumming against the skin.
Hearts aren't supposed to beat that slow - that much he knows. He's afraid he's going to drop dead if it drops any lower.
"Of course I do." He swallows, glancing back at the ghost. Everyone's eyes are on him, they burn into him, curious, wary, afraid. He's in front of the portal, in front of the keypad to open it. Shit, did dad put in a password? "Am I- am I not supposed to?"
He pauses to look at the ghost, and the man has moved to stare at him from a new angle in his cage - god he's gonna need to find the key. Mom and dad probably have it in their desk, right?
The ghost is silent. "...No. You're not." He says, and his head tilts to the side as Danny mentally translates in his head. he looks at Danny like he's trying to inspect him, like he's trying to look into him like his parents have looked into the ghost. "What is your name, child?"
"I'm not a child." He bites out, and immediately winces. Shit- he just said not to antagonize them. But the ghost doesn't look offended. In fact, he just grins a sharp, toothy grin like a shark, and raspy giggles and titters echo through the room.
...That's... probably a good sign. "Um," he continues, and turns his back to the keypad. Dad's birthday? He punches into the keys. "I'm- uh, Danny. Danny Fentom- Fanton- Fenton. My parents are- uh, the ones who took you guys." The keypad buzzes and the bar spots red. Wrong password. Dammit.
"Phantom." The ghost says, and the name crawls like a spider across the walls, sneaking up his spine and ringing in the air like the leftover taste of rain and thunder. the rest of the ghosts whisper it amongst themselves.
Danny shivers, it feels like a weight in his chest. It's Fenton, he thinks, but doesn't correct. He doesn't want to push his luck with the being that could tear him apart. "Uh, sure."
He punches in mom's birthday. Wrong. He puts in Jazz's. Wrong. "How come we haven't seen you down here, Phantom?" The ghost asks, and Danny shrugs helplessly. "You are the Danny that the unknown girl yells about?"
He tries his own birthday. Wrong. Fuck. What's the password? The tremor in his limbs worsens with his anxiety, and he tries to keep his breathing steady. What if he can't get this open? What if he can't get them out? He nearly forgets to answer the ghost, and licks his dry lips. "Um- yeah, that's me. The Danny guy." He says, turning to the cages again. "And uh, I don't come down here because my parents don't allow it."
The ghost, uh, goat-man? Tilts his head, there are whispers throughout the room that pick up. And Danny feels like the kid late to an all school assembly and now has to walk past the whole school to find a seat.
Goat-man smiles again, or bares his teeth? "You are the reason why the human doctors haven't cut into us more than they already have." And- that's- that's good? He thinks?
"That's- good, right? You- you don't want to be cut open, so it's good that I, uh, indirectly stopped it a few times?"
A round of titters goes through the room again. The man's grin widens inhumanly so, and Danny's heart spikes with fear. "Yes, it's a good thing, Phantom child." He says, "Why is it that your parents do not let you come down here?"
Danny stares, and swallows again, dry. The back of his neck tingles, and he tastes electricity on his tongue. "I had an accident down here, um, nearly two months ago." His eyes flick to the cable cord where the portal was plugged in, and his heart flutters with the images of green that got burned behind his eyes. He looks away. "The portal, it, ah, electrocuted me. I was in the hospital because it nearly killed me."
"It did kill you." The ghost says immediately, and terror fills up in Danny like water flooding a room. What? What? What? He was alive. His heart was beating, he was alive. "But only for a moment. You've been touched by death, Phantom."
That was so fucking ominous. And terrifying. And terrifyingly ominous. And also really horrifying. Danny does a swift pirouette and turns back to the keypad. Time to figure out the passcode and not think about that, ever again, actually.
"Wow." He rasps, his mind numb as he punches in a random code of numbers and gets a red screen. "How reassuring. Tell death I want a refund." He gets laughter again, and his shoulders scrunch up to his ears.
"It is the reason you can understand us, then." The ghost says behind him. "We are not speaking your language child - rather, you are speaking ours."
Again. Fucking ominous. Danny furrows his brows and stares hard at the keypad - if he was dad, and he wanted to put a password lock on his lifetime achievement in something that was easy to remember and equally important, what would it be?
Oh. Right.
He bites back a groan - how obvious. Danny's an idiot. Or maybe just so scared witless that his brain isn't working right. "Fudge." He grumbles, and punches it into the keypad. It dings green.
Of - fucking - course. Danny rolls his eyes.
He hears a hiss, and Danny rapidly scuttles back as the massive blast doors twisted open like something out of a scifi movie - he'd be geeking out if he wasn't aware of his own rapid heartbeat. Like a gun charging up, an unearthly green glow appears at the back of the tunnel an d then rapidly moves towards him, growing larger and larger.
Danny flinches, half-convinced its going to hit him. He was going to be vaporized, and he brings up his arms to protect himself. But nothing happens, and he peeks open an eye that he closed when the ghost from before murmurs for him to open them.
The portal is - is, well. Indescribable. It fills the dark room with its glow, swirling like a those weird, shimmering liquid dyes put into martini glasses in those aesthetic gifs on the internet. And the light it casts on the walls shimmers and moves like the aurora borealis.
Danny is speechless. It's... oddly beautiful. And terrifying. There's a whole new world in that dimension - if he steps through he won't be on earth anymore.
And... his parents wanted to eradicate the people on the other side of it?
He whirls on foot, his back to the portal - a thing that fills him with dread. his shaking - its worse. Danny almost thinks his feet will give out. "Do - do any of you know where mom and dad keep the keys to the cages?" He asks, but he's already stalking towards the desk on the other side of the room.
The people in the cages grow restless, and they've been silent for the most part - but with the portal open, and him going to find the keys, they'd begun to grow talkative. They were moving more in the cages, talking to each other, excitement filling the air with so much hope Danny could feel it resonating between his ribs.
A new voice, quiet and feminine, speaks up on the opposite side of the goat-man's cage. She's closer to the desk, and she has also been cut open. There are black tears staining her face, and her shock white hair floats like she's underwater. Immediately, on instinct, Danny's head supplies him with a word.
Banshee.
"In the bottom drawer, Phantom." She whispers, her voice lilting and melodic. Her pitch black eyes follow him across the room. "I've seen them put it there after putting us back into our cages."
He nods mutely, and again feels horrified by their treatment from his parents. His pace quickens to the desk, and just as the banshee woman said, there are keys in the bottom drawer sitting on top of a bunch of research papers that have a suspicious green stain on them.
Danny ignores the stain and grabs the keys, holding them up as he closes the drawer. When he turns back to the cages, all eyes are on him. "Um," he rasps, "I found the key." Who do I free first?
His eyes land on the banshee woman first, she's the closest to the desk. And in an arc he follows the lineup to the other side side of the room. He moves to the banshee woman's cage first, and she perks up as he kneels down to the door.
"I'll- I'll go in a circle, first." He announces, fingers fumbling with the key as he inserts it into the hole. The banshee woman had her fingers - clawed and knife-like, capable of tearing out his throat in an instant - around the bars of her confinement. She was staring at him intently.
He hesitates, and looks up. Her eyes are pitch black, he noticed this before, but this close its like its threatening to suck him in and send him swirling through a blackhole. "If- if I free you," he stammers, licking his lips, "will you attack me?"
The banshee woman bares her razor teeth at him, and reaches through the bars to touch his face. It takes all Danny's restraint not to flinch as her nails drag down his cheek softly. "No," she says, "you're freeing us, Phantom. We will not attack you."
Danny.. will just have to take her word for it. He nods, and with a sharp twist of his wrist unlocks the cage with one hand, and flings open the door with the other. In an instant, the banshee dives forward -- Danny thinks she's lunging at him, and flinches violently.
She goes through him instead, leaving him with a bone-deep chill and a heartbeat in his ears. He turns, and sees her dive through the portal like a swimmer diving into a pool.
There is silence throughout the room. And then everyone else begins to clamor once again, just like when Danny first walked in. Danny hurries to hush them - he said he was going around the room! He'll free them, but be quiet, or you'll wake his parents!
He rushes for the next cage, and one by one opens each and every cage. There are cheers, and thank yous, and cries of gratitude. He has to help the weaker ghosts out of their cage and limp them towards the portal. His shirt and hands are stained green with their blood.
(When he goes back up to his room later, he throws it off and throws it away. He can't stand the sight of it, and he scrubs his hands until they're raw.)
It's a lot for Danny to not burst into tears, or to throw up. Until finally he reaches goat-man's cage, and releases him. He is one of the ghosts too weak to fly on their own, and so Danny lets him lean against him and helps him to the portal.
"Will you be okay?" He asks once they are at the threshold, the portal hums softly this close to it. Almost like its trying to beckon Danny inside, like a siren song. Danny ignores it. "Will everyone else?"
"We will heal, Phantom." Goatman says, holding a hand to his chest. He looks tired, this close, and Danny can feel him looking at him, even without any pupils to show it. "Once back inside the Infinite Realms our bodies will heal on its own."
Danny nods silently, and his frown begins to wobble. The stress he's been under is finally starting to take its toll, and he is emotionally exhausted. There is still a lingering taste of fear in the air that doesn't belong to him - but the ghosts that have left. "I'm sorry." He croaks, his voice cracking. "I didn't - I didn't think you guys were human. I'm sorry."
The ghost's expression softens, but he still looks stern. "We aren't human." he says, and Danny frowns, confused. The ghost continues, and reaches out a long finger to tap against Danny's chest, where his heart is. "But do not think for a moment that humanity can be measured by the sound of a heartbeat, child. We are just as humane as you living can be, and we are just as sentient and sapient as you. Do not forget that, and you will not become your parents."
There's nothing for Danny to say to that, except nod once again. His tongue is heavy in his mouth, made of lead. "This will happen again," he continues, and his eyes prick, "they're gonna keep catching ghosts and bringing them down here." And hurting them.
Goatman nods curtly, and raises an eyebrow at Danny. "What will you do to stop them, Phantom?" He asks, "You could keep releasing them after they have been already caught, but that will not stop the pain they face under the hands of your parents."
He's right. He's right. And if Danny keeps releasing them afterwards, his parents will grow suspicious. They'll start sticking around trying to catch whoever is freeing the ghosts. And Danny doesn't want to face what will happen if his parents realize that he's the one freeing ghosts.
His eyes flicker rapidly around the room, trying to think of a solution - what could he do? What can he do?
His eyes land on the thermos sitting on the table.
"I... I could catch ghosts?" He says, unsure, and looks back to the ghost. He nods, beckoning for Danny to continue. "I can catch them in the thermos before my parents do, and then release them back to the Zone."
"That will work." The ghost says, "The thermos doesn't hurt to be in, it's merely cramped. Will you follow through on this?"
"Yes."
The ghost smiles at him a third and final time, his teeth glinting in the green portal light. "Then good luck, Danny Phantom."
He lets go, and disappears into the portal.
252 notes · View notes
pickmans-muse · 2 months
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TW: violence, gore, female reader, cursing
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When Muzan sniffs the wind, and catches the scent of human, he hisses softly, his lips peeling back from his pointed teeth.
He’s not pleased. He hasn’t seen or smelled a human in decades—and now that he’s managed to carve out a territory, there’s one coming back to the mountain? Hell no.
He jumps between the trees, gracefully leaping from branch to branch. He’s going down the mountain, down to the foothills where the scent’s coming from. There’s a house there, he remembers—humans used to live there, hunters, before he killed them all. So, some foolish human’s moved back in.
They’ll be a foolish, dead human soon, before they get near his kin.
He thinks of Rui, caught in an iron-toothed trap and crying like a fawn. He thinks of Gyutaro and Daki, starving and exhausted, driven from their forest to his. He thinks of Zohakuten, trying to carry his brother’s body through the snow, leaving a black trail of blood behind them.
No human will touch them again.
When he lands on the long bough of an oak that stands beside the small house, Muzan notices the gray car drawn up out front, and the boxes on the porch. His nose wrinkles. This isn’t good. The human’s planning to stay.
He doesn’t see one, so he drops down, and takes out his anger on several of the nearest boxes. His claws shred through cardboard, tape, and everything inside—which turns out to be pillows, blankets, and a few clothes. Irritated, he swipes at another box, intent on finding the traps or guns or nets—and his claws shatter glass. The pieces stick in his fingers, and he snarls in pained surprise. He leans over, and sees a small drawing in a frame. His claws broke the glass covering it, but they didn’t rip the drawing.
It’s simple, black lines on cream paper. He cocks his head, and the lines resolve into a forest, waterfall, and pool of water. It’s strangely beautiful, appreciative of the woods and the water in a way Muzan couldn’t imagine from a human.
“Yeah, I heard something outside. It’s probably just some small animal or something. Don’t they have tanukis here?”
Muzan, startled, scrambles up the side of the house and onto the roof. His hands ache and sting, the glass still stuck in the skin.
A human comes out, a phone pressed to her ear. He can tell she’s female, smell it on her. Usually, humans use phones to tell others to come, to join the hunt—but she’s saying, “No, no, I’m fine. Really. You don’t need to come, Aunt Reese, I’m serious. It’s perfect.”
She slips the phone into a pocket of her clothes, and then she notices the wreckage of the boxes.
“What the hell?” she murmurs, squatting to examine the scattered remnants of pillows and bedding and clothes. “Okay, that definitely wasn’t a tanuki.”
When she sees the other box, she gasps and tears it open, sagging with relief when she finds the drawing unharmed. And then she notices the broken glass, which, Muzan suddenly realizes, has his dark blood on it.
“Oh, wow,” she murmurs. “What are you?”
She starts sorting things into piles—unusable, and usable, Muzan thinks—and sighs a few times. She seems more attached to her belongings than he expected. Maybe if he rips up more boxes, she’ll leave.
But he’s going to pick the glass out of his skin first.
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You learned very quickly that whatever it was, it didn’t care for your presence in the house.
Every morning, you woke up to find something broken, scratched to ribbons, or just plain unrecognizable. At first, it was just your car—the tires ripped up, the glass smashed, huge divots torn out of the metal like butter—and then the house. Windows scratched, screens with gaping holes. It was like living in a haunted house, and it always happened at night.
But it hadn’t come inside the house. Until now.
The pen and ink drawing your mother made—the last one before she died, before her cancer got worse again, before everything—isn’t in its frame.
You slowly walk out onto the porch, your gut sinking. The sky is still dark, dawn too far off, and the front door is hanging open—and the drawing is on the wood, torn into so, so many pieces.
You sink down on your knees, and as you sift through the wreckage of the last part of your mother, you burst into tears.
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Muzan had tried everything to make the human leave, shy of attacking her. He’d demolished her car, her house—and she still wouldn’t leave. She’s a threat. She’ll bring others, hunt him and the others down.
Muzan can’t afford to let her stay.
She cares about that drawing, so he’s going to destroy that paper tonight. See if she’ll stay without it.
So, when the human’s gone to sleep, he creeps up to the house. He goes in the door, into the first room he comes to. And there it is, on the wall. He pulls it out of its frame.
The thing on the wall, the round white thing with black marks around the edge, suddenly makes a noise. A long, loud noise, like a bell.
Muzan jumps and runs, panicked, onto the porch. Movement inside tells him the human’s getting up, and so, hurrying, he shreds the paper and jumps onto the roof. The human won’t stay. He’s made sure of that.
And then she comes out, and she sees the scraps of paper, and she bursts into tears. Muzan pauses. Something in his chest tightens, oddly, when she cries, trying to gather up the pieces.
“Okay, okay, I get it!” she suddenly shouts, her face still wet. “You hate me! You want me to leave! But I—“ She gulps on a sob, voice breaking softly. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. And this is all I have left. So please, please, just leave me alone!”
He should be happy. He should. But he isn’t. Muzan’s chest clenches. He’s gotten used to her face, her smile, the way she whistles off-key while she does her chores. Seeing her break breaks something in him.
Does he care about her?
She goes inside, drooping, and comes back with something strange. Muzan, curious, watches, and she starts using clear things to put the drawing back together. It stays, so the clear strips must be sticky.
A loud ringing sound. Muzan knows it by now—she uses it to know when to get up. Sighing, she gets up, goes back inside.
Muzan drops silently onto the porch, and pulls a strip of clear stickiness off the plastic thing. And he starts sticking the paper back together. He remembers the drawing. It must have really mattered to the human, then.
He’s sorry, oddly. She doesn’t seem to have any guns or knives or traps, and he made her cry.
He doesn’t like to see her cry.
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You switch off your alarm clock, and stand beside the bed for a minute, sighing as it sinks in. You don’t have anywhere else to go, but the creature in the woods has made its opinion very clear. You can’t stay.
Slowly, you make your way back out to the porch, and when you see it, you stop.
The drawing’s fixed.
You hadn’t put more than half of it back together, and now it’s all there in one piece. The tape dispenser is scratched—by long, sharp claws you’re more than familiar with by now—but unharmed.
It feels like an apology.
So you take the drawing, and put it back in its place, and then you go through the fridge and bring out some eggs, some bacon. You fry the bacon, scramble the eggs and salt them, and plate the lot—and carry it outside.
“I think you can understand me, or at least some of what I say,” you tell the woods, the sun still out of sight. “You’re a predator, right? So you’ll probably like this. And, um—thank you.”
You leave it on the porch and shut the door. The creature likes its privacy, so you eat your own breakfast in the living room, humming quietly as you stare up at the repaired paper. The creature’s very intelligent—you can hardly tell the drawing was torn at all, from how well it was fixed.
When you check the plate, it’s been licked clean. Literally.
Maybe things are finally looking up.
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Muzan sits on the long, overlooking branch of the same oak, watching the human plant a small garden. He smelled the seeds yesterday, when she left them outside. Edible. Nothing dangerous.
He tells himself that if she ever proves dangerous, he’ll drive her off.
He knows perfectly well that he won’t.
She talks to him now, though he still hasn’t let her see him. When she’s outside, or when she has the windows open, she’ll say things like, “How are you?” Or, “That was a bad storm last night. Hope you didn’t get too wet.” Or even, “I wish I could show you this show I’ve been watching on Netflix. You probably have no idea what that means, do you? I think you’d like it.”
When the fall’s cold snap came, she started leaving blankets out for him. Muzan brought them back to the den, for Rui and Zohakuten and the others. They’ll be warm this winter. When he goes into sleep with them, they’ll be warm until spring.
So he left his human a few birds he hunted, on the porch. She’d laughed, and said, “I—have no idea what to do with these. How about you not hunt for me? I’ve got food, I promise. But thank you!”
Muzan had taken back the birds, and left something from his collection behind. Like all his kind, he’s drawn to bright things, and he keeps the best ones for himself, in his part of the nest. So he left her a silver button, and a red ribbon, from his hoard.
She liked those. Muzan’s seen her wearing the ribbon, using it to pull her hair back.
A few nights ago, he started coming to the house at the same time, around sunset, every day. He’s done it since. She’s noticed—she talks more when she knows he’s there.
Yesterday, she teased him, and he dropped a nut on her head. She laughed until she almost fell over.
Muzan thinks he might like this human.
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When your creature doesn’t come back all winter, you realize he’s probably hibernating. Some large predators do that. He’s probably one of them.
You were really worried the first week he didn’t turn up, though.
You’re not sure when he stopped being an it, when “the creature” became “your creature,” but you’ve gotten attached to him. You can tell when he’s there. He visits around sunset every day. Recently, he started interacting with you—dropping nuts and other things to make his point—even if you still haven’t seen him.
You spend the winter wondering what he looks like, if he’s warm enough. If he’s safe and comfortable and happy, while the snow falls outside and you turn up the heating.
When spring comes, you’re excited to have him back. And he comes back.
One night, you hear a knock at the door. It’s still a little cold at night, so you pull a blanket around yourself to answer it, not thinking about who the knock came from.
You pull the door open.
And there he is, letting you see him. Your creature. You let the blanket fall, unable to think of anything else.
He’s tall and thin, but lined with muscle—and he could almost pass for human, except for the dark tint on his forearms shading into black on his hands, or the deep red of his eyes, or the claws tipping his long, graceful fingers. He licks his lips, his eyes dropping nervously, and you catch a glimpse of sharp teeth and a long tongue.
His hair is long and black, but well-cared-for and clean, not draggled. His skin is porcelain pale, and he’s nude—but unlike a human, he doesn’t have any obvious genitals, just a smooth mound. (You immediately kick yourself for even looking.)
Very, very slowly, he holds out a hand toward you. It’s hesitant, almost fearful, so you meet him halfway with your own hand and squeeze his.
He jumps a little, startled, but then he leans closer, his eyelids fluttering. He has long lashes, you realize. Before you know what you’re doing, you lift your hand to his face, cupping his cheek. And he leans into it, turning to nuzzle against your palm.
“You—do you want to come in?” you ask.
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It takes some time, but eventually he grows comfortable enough to show himself more frequently. When you’re gardening, struggling to pull a particularly stubborn sweet potato, he’s suddenly there to nudge you aside and dig it up with clawed hands. When you’re making breakfast, he shows up at the kitchen window and hands a few berries though it. He’s always there these days, whenever you turn around.
The first time he speaks, you almost jump out of your skin.
You’re talking to him, telling him about something inane—something you saw on Netflix—without expecting anything to fill the silence.
So when he says, “What is Netflix?” in a low mellow voice, you start, spilling your morning tea all over yourself and your blanket in the chair on the porch.
“Did I scare you?” he says, worried, and your heart jumps.
“I—I’ve never heard you speak. I didn’t even know you could,” you say, shoving the blanket off and rubbing your legs. The tea was still hot, and your thighs are hurting.
He kneels down in front of you, looking at your legs intently.
“It hurts,” he says softly. “Did it burn?”
“I don’t think so,” you manage, almost tongue-tied from seeing him so close to you. “But you—how did you learn English?”
“You,” he says, still intently studying your legs. “I listened to you.”
You huff an incredulous laugh. “Well, I always knew you were clever, but this is—“
He chuckles, and it’s a wonderful sound that makes your heart feel light and warm and full.
“I think you should change your clothes,” he says gently. “And then you can show me your Netflix.”
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You do show him your Netflix, and other things around the house—the microwave, the fridge—and every time he sees something new and unexplained, he learns quickly. He adapts too; the television is not a threat, it’s entertainment. He doesn’t like the fridge, but he understands that the microwave makes food warm again, and he likes it better that way.
You learn too, more about him. His name is Muzan. He eats a lot of meat—preferably animals he hunts himself, though he seems to like eating with you—and has incredible senses. Smell seems particularly important to him; he can tell what you’ve eaten hours before, and find you unerringly with just your scent to go on.
After a little while, Muzan gets comfortable enough to visit every day, coming inside the house. He’s very intelligent, and spends a lot of time pouring over your books or discussing what he’s read with you. He likes documentaries or meaningful films, but generally doesn’t care for shows. If you want to watch one, he’ll settle himself beside you, reading silently.
And time passes like that, for weeks and months.
When summer is coming to a close at last, Muzan asks you to walk with him in the forest. He seems almost nervous when he asks, twisting his hands together. You often walk together on the paths, but this seems different somehow.
“What is it?” you ask gently. “Muzan, is something bothering you?”
He huffs a soft laugh.
“I want you to see my den,” he admits. “And meet my family.”
You can’t keep the smile off your face. You’re touched by the clear trust in that gesture. The two of you have come so far.
“Do they know I’m coming?” you check.
“Yes.” Muzan bites his lip. “They…may not trust you as I do right away.”
“I wouldn’t expect them to.” You slide your hand into his larger, dark-tinted one. “You’ve been hunted by humans, so you hunted them. I’m guessing they’ve experienced the same. Trust would be a big ask after that.”
Muzan pulls you into a fierce embrace, nuzzling into your neck.
“Thank you,” he says softly, his voice almost breaking.
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The den is a cave, the entrance fairly cramped. Muzan guides you very carefully through it, at one point using his hand to stop you from slamming your knee into a sharp rock. It’s much bigger on the inside, with a pile of very familiar blankets directly in front of you on the floor. There are a few ledges, which seem to be full of bright things—buttons feature prominently, but so do shiny rocks and strips of cloth.
Muzan’s a bit like a crow, actually. Now you know where your button and ribbon came from—you’re wearing the ribbon in your hair today.
Zohakuten emerges first. He has black hair, like Muzan, and they’re clearly the same species. But he’s small, about the size of an 8-year-old. He’s glaring at you.
Muzan slips a hand around your waist. You take a deep breath.
“You’re Zohakuten, right?” you ask, squatting down. “I brought something for you.”
Muzan had explained that for his kind, their collections were very important. New members of a family group usually gave each other gifts, so you’d brought a few things.
Carefully, you hold your hand out. In it is a wooden dinosaur. “My uncle was a whittler,” you tell Zohakuten. “And he made this when I was little.”
Zohakuten sniffs it before he takes it.
“Your uncle ate a lot of cheese,” he says. Your brows rise.
“You can smell that?” When Zohakuten nods, you say, “You must have a really good nose.”
He smiles. Just a little.
Gyutaro comes out next, with Daki behind him. His hair is black; hers is white.
“You’re the one who gave us the blankets,” Gyutaro says flatly.
“Yeah. I’ve got something else for you though. Muzan told me you like knives, Guytaro.” You hand him the little pocketknife your mother gave you when you turned sixteen. “You want this one?”
Gyutaro looks it over. Then he takes it. “Thanks,” he mutters.
“So, do I have something?” Daki asks.
“Yeah, you do.” You give her a piece of embroidered cloth. “My mom’s mom made this when she was little.”
“What’s it for?”
“Being pretty,” you say, and wink. “Just like you.”
Daki squeals and hugs you. As she and her brother go to curl up in the blanket mound, you hear Gyutaro say, “You smell gross now.” Daki swats him, and snaps, “Nice things aren’t gross and she was nice, so she doesn’t smell gross. You’re gross.”
“Your hair’s gross,” Gyutaro mutters.
Apparently kids are still kids, even when they’re creatures in the woods.
When the sun sinks, and Rui still doesn’t come out, Muzan asks if you should go home. He’s worried about you being outside in the dark.
“Muzan,” you tell him, hands on hips, “if it’s okay with everyone, I’d rather stay.”
Zohakuten laughs. When you both look at him, he shrugs.
“I like her.”
Daki runs over and pulls up and down on Muzan’s arm.
“Can she stay? Can she please?”
Muzan looks over at Gyutaro. The boy shrugs.
“She doesn’t smell that gross,” he says, his arms folded. “I guess.”
Muzan sighs. “All right.”
Daki squeals with delight and drags you over to the blanket mound, pulling you down beside her. She curls up next to you like a cat, and starts telling all about everything in her collection. Halfway through, she starts yawning. A bit later, she falls asleep.
Gyutaro plops down next to her, stares at you for a second, and shuts his eyes. Zohakuten leans his head against your knee, looking over his gift again. And very gently, Muzan tucks himself against your other side, smiling.
“You’re smiling,” Zohakuten says, surprised.
Muzan puts a finger to his lips. “Don’t wake your siblings,” he says softly. Zohakuten wrinkles his nose.
“You’re going soft, papa,” he whispers.
Muzan shows his teeth playfully. “Oh, am I?”
“Definitely,” Zohakuten says. “You like her. You like her a lot.” He stares at you in the dark. “You’re all mushy now. You didn’t used to be mushy.”
“I’ll show you mushy,” Muzan warns. “In the morning.”
As Zohakuten rolls over, still holding his new present, he mumbles quietly, “That’s just what a mushy person would say.”
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littlestpersimmon · 2 months
Text
Had this weird story idea about a big dragon with runes all over him, and he's like a paper accordion that could unwind for thousands of miles, and the only way you could defeat him was if you were able to read every single rune on the dragon's papery body, and discern the long riddle of the princess who turned her labyrinthine library into her living armor in the form of a colossal and endless dragon . So far every knight that tried to off the dragon with fire, rain, whatever, was met with *death by a thousand paper cuts*. But the dragon don't really kill them, bc dragon is actually squeamish Lol. But since the entire kingdom is enrobed by the pages of a large dragon, there are entire university branches dedicated to discerning the riddle of the princess, why, why did she turn into a dragon, why is this her curse. And their culture shifts around literature, books and academia being treated as the holiest, most venerable form of knowledge. But anyway a cringefail and autistic kitchen boy loves math. He had come from a long line of dedicated scholars of the book. Boring and trifling matters like arithmetic were considered ignoble when in comparison to the mystery of the paper dragon. And the boy disagreed, of course. He loved books and all but was easily frustrated by them, he cannot focus on it, he needs the abstract to become concrete in his mind, he is the kind of boy who looks at a bridge and marvels at the sheer architecture it took to build a bridge before he is astounded by the bas relief;
he loves the world as it is and wants to tease out the blueprints. Anyway, when he was a boy, his mama used to tell him the story of the paper dragon, with only the first two pages of the dragons body being successfully interpreted by scribes. It had been about a princess who loved looking towards the stars and recording the sun's positions through refracted telescopes. And how she had a library filled with endless knowledge.
And the boy read and read the two pages and was enchanted by the mystery of the princess' riddle. In his teenaged life the boy would see the dragon flying above him while he was climbing an almond tree, and he makes out one of the pages along its infinite body as having similar lyrics to the known pages.
And it bothers the boy, all day he'd think about it. And he thinks about the princess who locked herself in her tower, watching the sun through refracted telescopes, and made dedicated sketches and notes every day to discern where the sun had spots; and it sort of connects in his mind that those sunspot sketches helped form an image of the sun, in a way, so he does the same.
Every day he'd just watch the dragon, and waited for the repeating lyric, and noted it down, until he had a long and fucked up diorama of the dragon; It takes him 12 years to be able to reliably predict where on the dragon's body the lyric shows up again.
when folded a certain way, in accordance to where the lyric shows up, the dragon's papery accordion body, the dragon forms a star at its core.
written in a spiral, the story forms into an answer to the princess' riddle; "I want to be free, I want to be free, I want to be free, I want to be free,"
over and over and over. In all aspects the princess who was a prince all along had wanted to be free, and the only way he could think of escaping the confines of his life and the fear of misunderstanding, of everyone wanting to harm him or to treat him as unnuanced a person for wanting to be something else...... was to transform into a paper dragon, more unquestionable than a normal human boy who loved drawing pictures of the sun-
The boy who loved math looked at the folded piece of paper in his hands, now he held the answer to the riddle of the prince, and he'd look to the sky to see the dragon flying above him like an endless kite. And he'd smile up at the dragon, scrunching the paper star in his hands. And hed whisper, I love you, I know you. I see you .
And he could have sworn the dragon smiled back at him.
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buckrecs · 1 year
Note
hey! Hope you're having a good day!
i was wondering if you can mack a masterlist for bucky x female neighbor?
Neighbor!Bucky
masterlist | req masterlist
EVERYBODY should have a bucky barnes as their neighbor
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ONESHOT
Next door neighbor by @buckylattes
Your next door neighbor, Bucky, has been trying to get your attention for a while now, but he fears that he’s taken the whole situation the wrong way. Will you ever give him a chance?
cookies, kisses and such by @stevebabey
All This Time by @jobean12-blog
When you finally meet your new neighbor you can tell you’re going to have a difficult time staying away from him, even though you should.
Bribe the Super by @real-jane
You have a very hot neighbor. He happens to think the same of you.
What Are Friends For? by @gogolucky13
When you threaten to swear off men for good after your last bad date, your neighbor and friend offers to help change your mind.
Day After Tomorrow by @buckyarchives
enhanced hearing is both a blessing and a curse. eavesdropping, loud music, footsteps and when your sweet neighbor has been coughing her pretty head off all day.
do i even have a chance? by @noceurous
you’ve found him and he was sure he didn’t have a chance
just a dream by @itsmeatballworld
Bucky and reader are neighbors in Brooklyn. When reader has a spicy dream about the broody man, it sets off a series of events that ignites something in both of them.
mutual by @buckycuddlebuddy
the windows you were sharing were belong to your bedrooms, and ─okay, it was wrong, bucky knew this but he was only human ─ you sometimes left your curtains open.
valentine by @softlyspector
You're Bucky's neighbor, Bucky is your secret admirer. Valentine's day and a potential date forces him to act.
Foolish Heart by @jadedvibes
You thought Bucky would never want to settle down, but it turns out you were very wrong.
A Very Special Recipe by @straywords
You’re feeling adventurous in the kitchen and your sinfully attractive neighbor has just the ingredient you need for that unique experiment.
Secret Admirer by @bxcketbarnes
Sneaky by @imagine-docx
Being neighbours with a cute boy has some perks. Also, Sam is being the best wingman (no pun intended) he possibly could.
see through by @buckys-black-dress
where bucky's your inconsiderate neighbor, but he's a frequent flyer at the coffee shop where you work, and you're determined to get on his good side.
Gentle Giant by @touchstarvedirl
You and your neighbor Bucky have will we, won’t we thing going on and you devise a plan to get him to tell you how he feels. It doesn’t go according to plan, or does it?
Neighborly by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky
living in the apartment down the hall from Bucky Barnes is definitely not what you expected-and you definitely didn’t expect him to show up bleeding at your door.
blame it in the neighbors by @nev3rfound
having recently moved in next door, you and bucky become fast friends. however, there’s something looming between the two of you and it comes to light when it’s revealed you’re in the hospital.
Can’t Hurt Me by @sweetbbarnes
You're the one that takes care of Bucky after missions, only this time he asks for a different kind of relief.
SERIES
new neighbor by @alisonsfics
being bucky's next door neighbor and slowly getting to know each other and falling in love?
Paper Walls by @writingcroissant
 Your apartment happens to be right next to Bucky's, heads only separated by a paper-thin wall, leading to you witnessing every second of his nightmares. Although, bonding over your late night conversations, you seem to forget that you never even saw him before.
Time after Time by @justsomebucky
When the reader’s parents divorce, her mother moves her to a new town, right next door to Bucky Barnes. This is their love story.
Hey Neighbor by @moonbeambucky
You had a plan and then life came along with one of its own. With your future almost derailed you worked hard to get yourself back on track and finally everything seemed to be going right... that is, until your new neighbor moved in.
Teardrops on Lashes by @delicatelyherdreams
After the Chitauri invaded New York and nearly ended your life, you moved to Bucharest to get away from the superhero stuff. You simply wanted an uneventful, ordinary life. But when a stranger moves into the apartment next to yours, you begin to question those aspirations and choose to risk it all for love.
A Friendly Wager by @justsomebucky
Reader and Bucky Barnes are neighbors and best friends. After yet another bad date, reader comes home to find Bucky with his typical weekend target. They decide to make a wager about dating, but is there more on the line than reader cares to admit?
Come Over by @moonstruckbucky
You’re new to New York City. Fresh out of post-grad and wanting a change of pace, and this change comes in more ways than one. 
Keeping Me Up by @writing-for-marvel
When Bucky moves in next door, you seem to get much less sleep than when your previous neighbour lived in apartment 4a.
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fooled-around-and-fell · 10 months
Note
Hi, could I request Joel Miller and reader fighting A LOT, and then reader saves his life by risking her own, but Joel thought it was so reckless and started scolding her. And then she just shut him up with a kiss and IT WORKED. And now he doesn't know what to do.
Love your work!
a/n: of course! hope you enjoy this 🖤 i may have changed the part where he doesn't know what to do lol
Warnings: cursing, kissing, making out, suggestive.
Masterlist
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"That's 1 for me, and none for you." Joel smirks, watching as you kick your clicker aside.
The bet was 'who could kill a clicker first'. Winner gets... well, the title of a winner. You and Joel are just very competitive individuals, who for some reason need to prove yourself to the other person.
Normal people would call it flirting, but you and Joel curse out whoever dare accuse you of such heinous acts.
"God.. get a room." Tommy mutters.
"Shut up, Tommy." You glare.
Maria chuckles, leading the group back to the base. "Why do you always push their buttons?"
Tommy shrugs. "They look cute flustered like that. Look, Joel won't even know how to talk to her now."
It's true. Every time someone says something along the lines of "y'all look good together", Joel does not know how to act. Yes, he curses them out, but then gets quiet with you.
"So," Joel mutters. "Wanna wrap this up and grab a beer?"
You get on your horse. "Are you buying?"
"I make my own beer."
"Gah, no thanks then." You say, though you know damn well that you'll take that beer in a heartbeat.
He rolls his eyes. "You're impossible."
A smirk makes its way up to your lips when you see another abandoned cabin nearby. "Tell you what Joel, let's go for another round. Cabin at your 10."
"Yeah?" Joel looks at the cabin. "Are we bettin' for something real this time?"
"How 'bout you bet for a date?" Tommy chimes.
"Shut up, Tommy." Joel glares at his brother.
Maria chuckles at Tommy's little jabs towards the oblivious couple. "We're going to checkout that cabin tomorrow anyway, so go knock yourselves out. But be careful, it's getting dark out."
You raise your eyebrow at Joel, who looks doubtful.
"Scared you're gonna lose, Miller?"
Joel scoffs. "Careful there, sweetheart. You don't wanna tease me."
You and Joel take a turn towards the cabin, Tommy and Maria riding ahead. The cabin seems to be in pretty good shape, no sign of clickers. Until of course, you spot the ominous amount of blood seeping through the back door.
"That amount of blood," you whisper to Joel, "Gotta be a big animal. Maybe a horse."
"Or just a shit ton of humans." Joel adds.
As if things can't get worse.
And it does.
The sun's setting, but you can hear the sound of a clicker inside. You're sure it's just the one. You and Joel both agree that you should finish this quickly. Usually, a more silent approach is preferred, but since there's only one clicker, it can't hurt, right?
Joel kicks the door open and you make your way inside. The clicker's already running towards you, but with quick work, Joel shoots it down like nothing.
"That was easy." You comment.
"Too easy." Joel frowns. "Looks like it's two-nil, sweetheart."
You're about to roll your eyes when you catch a stalker unlatch itself from the wall and about to attack.
"Joel, watch out!"
You push Joel aside and let yourself get pushed down by it. Your arm is preventing it from getting close to you, and you shoot it dead. Joel kicks the stalker away from you and help you up.
"Fuck." He checks for any bite marks. "Tell me you didn't get bit. Or a-any scratches-"
"I'm fine, Joel-"
He checks again, and sighs in relief once he found nothing. "Why on earth would you do that?"
You frown. Still in shock, but Joel's comment shocks you more. "I just saved your life."
"No one asked you to." He quips. "You could've died- worse, it could've bit you."
"Yeah, it could've bit you, Joel." You say. "That's why I stopped it."
"You were reckless." Joel scolds.
You scoff. "You know what, let's just head back. I'm done having this conversation with you."
You try to stand up, only to almost fall. It seems like you've sprained your ankle when you taking the fall. Hoping Joel didn't notice, you slowly make your way to your horse.
But of course Joel notices.
"What's wrong with you?"
You glare at him, "I said, I don't want to-"
"No, what's wrong?" He frowns. "You're limping."
"..It's just a sprained ankle." You mutter.
And despite Joel's lack of hearing in his right ear, he picks that up perfectly clear. He hops off his horse and helps you get on yours before tying your lead to his.
He doesn't say anything else for the rest of the ride back home.
--
Once you've arrived at the stables, Joel picks you up and gets you down from your horse before you can do it yourself. The only problem is that he's not putting you down.
"Joel, I can walk by myself."
"The hell you can." He mutters.
You sigh. "Put me down, Joel."
"Can you quit fussin' around?" He frowns. "You're heavy."
You look at him in disbelief. "Put me down right now. No one asked you to carry me."
He fully ignores you. Once he's sure that the horses are good, he leaves with you in his arms, back to his place. All the while, you're still demanding him to put you down.
"Joel, honestly." You sigh again. "People are staring."
"You'd rather walk to your house with that sprained ankle?" He questions, "I know you're in pain."
"It's barely a sprained ankle." Lies.
"Probably just sore." More lies.
Joel sets you down on his couch and goes to get an ice pack. You took this chance to stand up and make your way towards the door - which, obviously, with your sprained ankle, you can't do very fast.
"Jesus Christ," Joel sighs. "Can you just sit down??"
You huff and sit back down. There's no winning against Joel now.
Joel kneels in front of you and takes off your boot. He examines your ankle and sighs. You won't be able to walk properly for the next 4 to 6 weeks.
You're in severe pain, but you're not about to let Joel know. You can see that your ankle is badly swollen, and when Joel tries to move it, you hiss in pain.
"You really shouldn't have been so reckless."
"Joel, please-"
"No, cause what if you'd gotten bit?" He looks at you. "I'd need to-" He doesn't even want to think of what he'd have to do.
"It's just a sprained ankle, Joel." You tell him. "I'm fine. I can handle it. I've been doing this just as long as you have."
He shakes his head. His face is all kinds of worry. Despite being so sour and sassy all the time, Joel actually has a soft heart. It's what draws you to him. He's very caring, he just hides it.
"All, I'm sayin' is, next time, just let me handle it, alright?" He says.
"Ugh, Joel-"
"No," He interrupts you. "I don't want to hear it. You keep doing this and I keep worryin' about you-" he rambles on and presses the ice pack on your ankle.
"Ow, ow, ow, ow!" You wince.
"See? This is why you-"
"Oh good God, just stop." You grab his face and kiss him before he can lecture you further.
Joel drops the ice pack and his hands find the back of your neck. Your legs spread and he places himself between them, pulling you closer to him.
There's a need of exploration and urgency. You don't even think about taking a breath because you don't want this to end.
"Joel." You moan softly when he pushes his tongue. His hands softly squeezes your waist and the other inching closer to your inner thigh.
You try to take charge, but Joel's having none of it. His hand travels up to your neck and gives it a gentle squeeze, reminding you who's in control. He smirks when a gasp escapes you.
You might've started this, but Joel is definitely winning.
"Too much for you, sweetheart?"
You're both left breathless. Touching Joel again feels electrifying, yet somehow the world surrounding you feels like a blur. It's making your head spin, and you want more.
Joel chuckles at your state and presses the ice pack on your ankle again. You moan out in pain, resting your head on his shoulder.
He smirks and whispers in your ear, "Save your moans, babygirl. You're gonna be doing a lot of that tonight."
.
.
.
a/n: I hate that I can't write smut :(
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imagine-darksiders · 1 year
Note
So, what do you think of this? Bowser sees Y/N in an extreme state of danger, like, I dunno, trying to be taken against her will by an arranged Prince suitor or something, and the state of her distress/fear get's him so mad he transforms into Giga Bowser.
Well, first of all, I have done nothing BUT think of this for the past week! Thanks so much for the inspiration! Here's a little drabble <3
TW: Physical abuse, Kidnapping, Captive Reader, Implied arranged marriage, Giga Bowser is kinda scary? Mentions of being eaten etc
----
Bowser's thunderous footsteps come grinding to a halt of their own accord, stilling the colossal Koopa in his tracks at the opposite end of the docks, his eyes bulging open at the sight that looms out of the mist to greet him.
He's found you, his little runaway, for which he's rendered breathless with palpable relief.
But to his mounting dismay, there's another human with you.
A stranger...
A man.
And not only is this man encroaching well into your personal space, but his hands have captured your wrists as well, keeping you anchored in place with his chest shoved firmly against yours.
The pair of you are so wrapped up in the presence of the other, that neither one of you notices the King lurking nearby.
For a single beat, Bowser almost can't tear his wild-eyed stare away from the fingertips squeezing into your supple skin.
But then, he hears your voice, laden with thick and palpable alarm that's badly disguised by the composure you're attempting to maintain.
“Falkner, please,” you're shakily telling the other human, “Whatever agreement you may have had with my father is null and void now that he's dead!”
“Bullshit!” the stranger is quick to contend, giving you a rough jostle that throws fuel on the fire already raging in Bowser's gut, “Your old man promised you to me! I didn't sail halfway around the world just to be told no!”
Neither of you register the Koopa, not even when he lowers his horned head and takes a heavy, dangerous step towards you, his hackles starting to rise just like his gorge.
Just who the Hell does this idiot think he is to speak to you so crassly?!
Another step sends the pebbles near his feet skittering across the ground.
Your jaw is set, but you continue to tug at your ensnared wrists as you retort, “Promises made in a drunken stupor are hardly binding agreements!”
The man's face is swiftly changing from sallow and pallid to a vivid crimson and he parts his lips to shout, “You are mine by rights! You're coming with me!”
“Let me GO!” At last, perhaps inevitably, your voice cracks.
Bowser's jaw aches with how tightly his fangs are wedged together.
He can feel a fireball trying to crawl its way up his throat, leaving a sting that burns like venom along the walls of his trachea, but he gulps it down. No matter how great and terrible his rage might grow, he'd be remiss to let an attack loose with you so close to the firing line.
But there's something else building in his chest. Something swollen and ugly that rumbles like a slumbering giant just underneath his scales when he sees the moisture glistening on your dainty eyelashes.
Bowser hasn't ever seen you cry. Not even when he informed you that you'd be a permanent guest at his castle. Not even when it dawned on you that you could never go back to your old home across the seas. Not even when you fell from your window during an escape attempt and sprained your ankle, and the pain was great enough that you actually clung to him as he lifted you gently into his arms, your lips stuffed together to refrain from whimpering.
So to see you this close to tears now instills an outrage in him that differs from his usual temper. This is tumultuous. Primal, even.
He wants you to notice him now, to glance over and see that he's here for you, that you'll be all right because Bowser would never let anything bad happen to you.
Heart aflame, his pace quickens to a lurching gallop.
With a wrench, you manage to free one of your hands from Falkner's grip and use it to pry his fingers from your remaining wrist. “I said, GET! OFF!”
The anger in Bowser's chest dims only slightly to make room for a burst of pride.
But that momentary delight is stamped out as swiftly as it comes.
In an awful, jarring instant, the man - evidently fed up with your continued resistance – reels his hand back into the air behind his head, fingers pressed together, open-palmed...
Bowser can see the disaster unfurling right in front of him, but his shame is in knowing that he was too slow to stop it from happening.
The hand hurtles forwards...
A harrowing 'CRACK' ruptures the air as calloused skin meets the vulnerable flesh of your cheek.
Your head is flung sideways and you cry out, eyes wide with shock, and it's only then that your startled gaze land upon your audience. Cheek humming, the tears finally spill over the walls of your eyelids, tumbling in ceaseless rivulets down your face.
You choke on a wet sob, unable to drag your gaze away from the Koopa.
You can't summon the will to be pleased for his interference, if anything, you're ashamed to have been caught by your captor in a moment of such vulnerability.
Perhaps it's the tears distorting your vision, or perhaps the slap had knocked something loose in your brain, but through blurred vision, you think you can see a change come over Bowser, and if you didn't know any better, you'd almost swear that he was growing.
A hiss from your side catches your attention, but you don't turn to look at Falkner, though you can see him flapping his hand about to rid it of the lingering sting. “Damn,” he sucks a breath through his teeth, “Now look what you made me do... If you hadn't been so difficult, I wouldn't've had to do-” He finally notices the ground trembling beneath his leather boots. "-that...?"
Whatever had been hiding under the surface of Bowser's scales is howling out with rage, stirred from its slumber by the vicious and unprovoked attack on his friend.
Muscles ripple and bulge as they expand, bones snap, twisting out of shape. The Koopa King's gums burn as his fangs grow longer, sharper, squeaking against one another whilst his rapidly changing jaw struggles to keep up with their rate of growth.
It's agony, this transformation, but it can't be helped.
His friend has been struck. Hurt. And everything in him, every last instinct and sinew and atom, is bellowing out at him that he needs to protect you.
He would swallow this agony over and over again if it keeps you from experiencing pain.
He may be monstrous in size and temperament, but he isn't a monster.
He can't be...
Anger feeds into his expanding body, giving itself more space to spread like a wildfire, or perhaps more like a wave of churning acid that washes through his veins and takes the place of his blood.
It must... Because his body feels as if it's corroding.
“What the HELL is that?!”
Falkner's shriek adequately echoes your own inner monologue.
And you thought Bowser was terrifying before.
The tyrant must be absolutely livid with you for managing to escape from your room. If only you hadn't run into Sir Falkner on the docks. You went looking for a rescue party, but the man who did come to 'rescue' you might be even worse than King Bowser. At least Bowser, for all his uninvited clinginess, had never raised a hand against you.
Now though, locked in his blood-red stare, you start to wonder if you've pushed your luck just a step too far.
Pounding footsteps take off behind you, slapping against the cobblestone as Falkner simply turns tail and runs, leaving you frozen in place with your limbs as rigid as petrified wood, like your body knows instinctively that to turn your back and run from something with teeth that sharp is a very bad idea.
Inevitably, Bowser's head shoots up almost the moment Falkner starts to flee, and you're helpless but to watch on in horror as a gigantic paw surges over your head and snatches your would-be suitor right off the ground, hoisting the man up into the air.
Falker's resulting scream chills you down to the marrow in your bones, so wracked with terror and urgency that it sets your teeth on edge.
The oversized Koopa draws the thrashing human up to his maw and peels back his thick, rubbery lips, giving Falkner an uninterrupted view of his fate.
A constant growl spills between gleaming fangs, each one about the length of your own forearm, and the sound itself is loud enough that it could be mistaken for an unending grumble of far-off thunder, easily drowning out the man's screams.
It's gruesome to see. Your imagination runs wild with awful possibilities that you pray don't come to pass. Trembling in your boots, you lower your gaze to stare unblinkingly at the ground instead whilst short, sharp breaths fall out of your lungs, coming fast enough to leave you feeling light-headed.
Slowly, carefully, you take a single step back.
This might be your only chance to escape.
But then, like a damning acknowledgement of your cowardice, Falkner screams your name.
“Y/N!” he screeches, his back arched against the pain of being crushed in Bowser's grip, “HELP ME! PLEASE!”
'...You don't have to help him,' logic whispers into your ear, set on self-preservation, 'Nobody but his mother would miss him. He's a bad person, and you're not a hero.'
No. You're not a hero. And it certainly wouldn't be heroic to save a man like Falkner, who does more harm than good most days.
Bowser's immense jaws part in reaction to the human's screams, and his growl explodes into a deafening roar that blasts the man's hair back and forces him to pinch his eyes firmly shut.
Similarly, you raise your hands and slap them over your ears, teeth grit until the sound starts to fade. You can only imagine what the volume had done to Falkner's eardrums.
Even through the cushioning of your palms, you still hear him crying out once more, “DO SOMETHING!”
… Your head twists slowly towards a little wooden boat that bobs invitingly on the nearby docks. You're strong enough to work the oars, you could very easily jump into it, raise the little, white sail and let the wind carry you far out to sea, away from this place.
Away from Bowser.
This could be your only shot of escaping imprisonment and going home.
“I beg of you!”
… You could...
“Y/N!”
… Oh, damn it all.
Your eyes snap back up to Falkner and you immediately start to feel the burning of your cheek, as if to remind you of what he did.
But already, your scruples are disintegrating. A direct cry for help is a tough thing to ignore, after all.
On shaking knees, you reclaim the step you'd made in retreat and instead move towards Bowser, tipping your head back and peeling your tongue from the roof of your bone-dry mouth. “B-!” You falter on the first syllable and have to swallow roughly before trying again. “Bowser!”
Almost as soon as it had begun, the thunderous roar falls silent, echoing off in the distance until it's lost over the crashing waves.
Falkner continues to gasp and whimper inside the colossal fist, but those haunting, blood-red eyes turn gradually in your direction, pinning you once again in their subtle glow.
Your legs threaten to buckle as you realise he's now focusing solely on you.
You've no idea if he can be reasoned with in this state, but you know you can't do much else but try. “Release him, Bowser!” you yelp without an ounce of any real authority, “I'm the one who ran from you! Not him! Put him down!”
The docks are still and disarmingly placid for a time, disturbed only by the sounds of Falkner struggling to free himself, and the breaths that enter and leave a set of gargantuan lungs.
The hulking Koopa continues to glower down at you, his nostrils flared wide to reveal a red-hot glow from within, like a burning core.
Just as you begin to fear that your plea will go unheeded, Bowser hisses through his fangs, and then, without much ceremony, he simply opens his fist and Falkner goes tumbling out of it, landing awkwardly on his ankle and eliciting a yelp of pain. Still, he wastes no time in whirling over onto his backside and kicking madly to push himself out from under the behemoth's shadow.
You follow his retreat from the corner of an eye, but you don't break Bowser's stare.
You daren't, even as he takes a lumbering step in your direction. The ground underneath your shudders with the impact, as though the island itself is afraid of his wrath.
Another step covers much of the distance between you, and the realisation that he's coming your way snaps you out of your trance. You've given Falkner a chance to escape. Now, you'll be taking yours.
Skirts flying, you whip yourself about and take off in a dead sprint. Behind you, the air quivers as Bowser releases an urgent chuff, the heat from his breath washing disconcertingly over the back of your neck and spurring you to kick up your heels.
However, you barely make it ten paces before a colossal palm suddenly descends from the sky and crashes into the ground just ahead of you. You let out a yelp and hit the brakes, but you've already come too close to his hand, and so, like a venus fly trap closes around a hapless insect, Bowser's fingers spring to action, sweeping you up off your feet and pinning you against the soft, warm leather of his palm.
“No, no, no!” you bleat, scrabbling desperately at thick scales as the ground falls away below you and you find yourself lifted up to Bowser's big, yellow muzzle.
All you can do is wait for the crunch. For the pain. To hear your bones grind together when he eventually clenches his fist.
You're ashamed to cry in front of him, but you're too afraid to stop. Nausea churns your stomach and you screw up your face in anticipation, eyes clamped tightly closed.
The agony of waiting is almost too much for you to bear.
You're too wrapped up in your fear to notice that Bowser has yet to even slightly tighten his grasp. If anything, his hold is shockingly gentle. The pad of an immense thumb is pressed against your belly, exerting just enough pressure to keep you safely tucked in the hollow of his palm.
Several, unbearable seconds tick by whilst you quiver and breathe as though you've just run a mile.
You nearly lose your composure, biting down on your tongue to stop yourself from demanding that he just get your punishment over with.
And then, you feel it.
A gentle pressure, so light that you'd think a butterfly must have landed on your neck, but when your eyes burst open and you catch sight of a monolithic finger all but filling your field of view, you realise what a fool you were to close your eyes at all.
Bowser, it seems, has raised his unoccupied hand towards you, and the very tip of a single claw has come to rest in the hollow of your throat. You can feel it's ghosting presence as you swallow thickly and your larynx presses a little more solidly against it for all of a second.
You're too stunned to make a move.
With a gentleness that doesn't at all befit his size, Bowser slowly lifts his claw, and in doing so, your head is pushed up, then turned slightly to one side, exposing your cheek.
The cheek that had been viciously struck.
Why is he...?
Pinned under the weight of his scrutiny, you fall utterly motionless, your mouth stuck open as if you're emitting a silent scream.
A lonely tear escapes the confines of your lashes and trickles down to your chin when it dangles precariously for a before it falls, plopping down onto Bowser's fingertip.
The behemoth's muzzle shifts close, and those dark and dangerous eyes narrow to thin slits as he inspects your cheek. You'd almost entirely forgotten about the throbbing ache lancing across your face, and even now, adrenaline is doing wonders at keeping most of the discomfort at bay.
All of a sudden, Bowser's pupils shrink and a thrum of aggression starts up in his chest like the engine of some ancient and powerful machine. Drawing his head away from you, he twists it over his bulging shoulder and aims a vicious snarl in the direction that Falkner had fled.
You can't help but flinch when his fingers twitch around you, but he must have noticed the movement, because not a second later, the growl is cut off and he swings his nose around to peer down at you again, his slitted pupils expanding like ink in water once they land on you.
Your pulse is jackhammering against your skin. Nothing about this is adding up. He seems more agitated about Falkner than about you. But... you're the escaped prisoner...
You don't have much time to ponder over his strange behaviour though. Just as carefully as it had appeared, the Koopa's forefinger slides gradually from beneath your chin and you can finally gulp down a greedy breath of air, realising belatedly that you'd stopped breathing the moment he touched you.
All around you, the behemoth starts to move, pulling you close and tucking you against his chest as he takes step after impossibly lengthy step, turning his immense bulk about to head back across the island to your gloomy, familiar prison.
--------------
You used to wonder if it was simply Bowser's ostentatious taste in décor that made him choose such grand, wide doorways to separate the rooms of his castle. Now however, as the gargantuan Koopa squeezes himself through the entrance to your given chambers, his shell scraping noisily against the wooden doorframes, you realise the design might lend more to practicality than aesthetic, especially if this... transformation happens on a regular basis around here.
God, you hope not...
You've remained stiff as a board in Bowser's unwavering grasp all the way back, fearful of provoking a violent reaction out of him like you had when you tried to struggle out of Falkner's grip.
Shoulders sagging as he releases a massive sigh, the Koopa trundles to a stop at the foot of your bed and at long, long last, he peels you away from his chest. Your ears ring after so much time spent having to listen to a mighty heart thudding rhythmically right next to your head.
Again, with a care that you certainly never would have expected him to possess, Bowser cups you in his palms and lowers you onto the plush sheets, sliding his hands out from underneath you as if he's placing down a fragile, porcelain doll.
As soon as you're out of his grasp, he deflates, heaving a billowing breath and all but dropping onto all fours in front of you. Alarmed, you scramble backwards until your spine hits the bed's headboard, blurting out a yelp when Bowser's chin drops down to thwack on the sheets in front of you. The weight of his skull alone causes the bed to buckle and groan in protest, but to your astonishment, it somehow manages to support him as he gets himself settled, peering down the length of his snout and ensnaring you in that ruby-red gaze once more.
Your fingers flex into the sheets around you, bunching them up and wrinkling the fine cotton.
'Now what's he doing?'
His eyes are glued to your cheek again, his intense stare broken by the occasional, languid blink.
You're not expecting it when he suddenly moves.
He only extends his neck a little to bring his head closer to you, but he's so massive, the motion it far more jarring from your perspective. With a shriek, you slam your eyes shut and instinctively throw up your hands, pressing them hard against the soft muzzle, as if they alone are enough to keep him from advancing on you any further. To your immense shock however, the moment your fingers meet the warm surface of his nose, Bowser falls still.
You risk prying open an eyelid to peep up at him.
Judging by the impossibly wide smile that now stretches across his face, he's apparently delighted by this new development.
This is the first time you've touched his face.
Your palm is almost lost to a vast expanse of yellow skin, sitting right on the ridge of his nose between his flaring nostrils.
The Koopa's own gaze is heavy-lidded, each pupil angled to keep you within his sights whilst a pleased hum travels through his throat and causes the bed to quake underneath you.
His fangs remain safely tucked behind his lips, and as the seconds tick by without your hand getting snapped off, the tension in your fingers gradually begins to dissipate.
With your heartbeat receding as well, you allow yourself to lightly stroke just the tips of your fingers down his snout until they pause on the cusp of his upper lip, drawing a reverent shudder from the almighty juggernaut.
Pressing your teeth together, you inhale slowly through your nose, and murmur, “...Bowser?”
It's as if you've just broken him from some kind of trance.
The King's face suddenly twists up and he emits a throaty groan, like he's in pain.
Quick as a flash, you tear your hand from his muzzle and press yourself back as far away as you can when he peels his chin from the bed and brings both of his gargantuan paws up to clutch at his head, staggering to his feet.
“Bowser!” you cry again, this time in alarm, “What's happening!?”
A disconcerting notion occurs to you - that he could be on the verge of going bezerk - and you hurriedly throw back the covers with a view to scramble off the bed and make a break for the doors. But as soon as you move, the Koopa's eyes spring open again and zero in on you, trapping you in a stare so full of frantic desperation that you stop at once, though more from confusion than fear.
And so, you're left to do nothing but watch as the jagged behemoth undergoes another, painful transformation.
The heavy shell on his back grows smaller, losing the serrated quality of its spikes. His tail shortens, his jutting fangs soften around their edges. The sweeping horns on his head recede back inside his rapidly shrinking skull until only their tips remain poking out from between his mess of a mane.
You almost choke on a gushing sigh of relief when at last, the King is back to his regular, brutish self, knelt on the ground at the foot of your bed - though it strikes you quite abruptly that you shouldn't be feeling reassured by Bowser's presence, no matter which form he takes.
Despite your misgivings, you still find yourself croaking out, “A-are you okay?”
Arduously, he braces a palm on the end of the bed and uses it to push himself up onto his feet again, eventually dragging his eyes over to you. He gives you a brief, searching glance, focusing for an uncomfortable minute on your face, then, without a word, the Koopa spins around and staggers purposefully towards the adjoining bathroom, disappearing through the door.
Plagued by uncertainty, you allow your fists to tentatively unclench around the bedsheets, lowering them into your lap as the squeak of a tap filters out from beyond the ensuite door, followed by the unmistakable rush of running water.
Another squeak... and a few moments later, the Koopa comes stomping back into the room, this time with a wet flannel clutched inside his meaty paw.
“You should've let me pulverise 'im,” he grumbles, stalking around the bed until he comes to the side you're sitting on.
Gobsmacked, you let your mouth fall open, close it, then open it once more to ask, “I... I beg your pardon?”
“That GUY!” he snaps, “You shouldn't'a stopped me. He deserved the worst!”
You blink stupidly, lifting your eyebrows in tandem until they sit high on your forehead. “I'm sorry.. Are we... not going to talk about what just happened to you!?”
“What's there to talk about?” he grunts, flicking his tail up onto the bed before sinking his hefty backside down after it, fidgeting with the sodden flannel between his claws, “You got hurt. I got mad.”
“You got mad!?” Scoffing at the absurd understatement, you continue, “Bowser - you turned into a gigantic, terrifying monster who looked like he was three seconds away from chewing me up and spitting me back out! All because somebody slapped me!?”
You expect an uproarious retort, which would definitely be in keeping with your usual repartee with him, so it comes as a shock when Bowser glares heatedly at you for a few moments, then merely turns his nose away from you, hiding his expression.
It's... notably uncharacteristic of the hot-tempered Koopa. So much so that it prompts you to tilt your head and call, “Bowser?”
You can't see his face beyond the shell that covers his back, but motion on the covers draws your gaze down to see his tail. Slowly, the appendage curls inwards, tucking itself up against his thigh. Dejected.
“You didn't deserve what he did...”
You look up at Bowser again, blinking owlishly to find his arm reaching back towards you, though the King keeps his face stubbornly pointed in the opposite direction. The little, white flannel is draped across his proffered palm.
Keeping a dubious eye on the Koopa, you hesitantly stretch your hand out to his, pinching the fabric between your thumb and forefinger and pausing for a second to marvel over how cold it is. Drawing it into your grasp, you waste no time in bringing it up to your face and gently pressing the cool material against your cheek, unable to keep back the tiny smile that grows on your face with that slight modicum of relief.
You recognise his gesture is meant to be a peace offering, and you are grateful for the flannel... But you're also still bitter.
“So,” you hum pensively, eyeing his robust arm as it drops down to rest on the bed beside him, “I didn't deserve that. But I do deserve to be locked up and held prisoner in your castle?”
“I keep you safe.” His head twitches in your direction with a cursory show of teeth that are hardly very frightening anymore, not now that you've seen what they can become, “I keep you fed and warm and happy. I'd never hurt you.”
“No. You keep me fed and warm, and that's it,” you tell him sharply, “I don't feel safe here. And I am far from happy.”
You're more than aware that you're antagonising him, but you think you're damn well within your rights to do so. It isn't enough that he keeps you locked up in this castle and forbids you your freedom, but now he expects you to act as if you're happy about it too?
Another, disgruntled noise leaves him as he lurches off the bed, landing on his feet with a thud.
"Where are you going?" you demand.
"I'm-!" Bowser heaves a sigh, running a clawed hand through his thick, fiery mane. “I'm goin' to get you a proper ice-pack...” Trailing off, the King tromps heavily across your room, making his agitation known with every, deliberate step until he reaches the door.
Your teeth tug at a piece of loose skin on your lower lip. “... Bowser.”
He pauses, his hulking frame suddenly looking so small and vulnerable in the gargantuan doorway, with one of his hands sitting poised upon the handle.
Even from the bed, you can see the flash of his crimson iris swivelling in your direction.
You try to regard him passively, but the ice in your gaze is starting to melt fraction by fraction, and you don't know whether he can see it or not. “... Thanks,” you call gently anyway, lifting your shoulder into a shrug, “For... you know, for scaring Falkner off.”
You watch his eyelid widen, as if he's surprised to hear a word of thanks, from you of all people.
There's even the minutest quiver in his lip as it tries to tug itself up into the ghost of a smile. But then, he gives his head a rough shake, and the smile is gone.
“Just protectin' what's mine,” he rumbles, pushing the door open and slipping through the gap. The door closes again a second later, and your ears catch the sound of a heavy key sliding into the lock and turning, sending the tumblers clunking home.
… What's his...
Right.
A hollow space expands between your ribs, the familiar hole that disappointment often leaves behind.
Drawing your knees up against your chest, you wrap an arm around yourself for comfort, keeping the flannel pressed to your cheek as you wait for him to return with that ice pack.
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vulpes-fennec · 10 months
Text
Meddle About
Summary: A birchin sounded like a good idea to Elain...that is, until she finds Lucien Vanserra already occupying it in nothing but a towel.
This was inspired after seeing @krem-does-stuff's amazingly HOT art of Lucien (NSFW version here) | Read on AO3
WARNINGS: SMUT
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“Achoo!” A loud sneeze tore out of Elain’s lithe body. Being sick had reverted her back to human-level senses, which was absolutely abysmal. At least her particularly violent sneeze cleared her nose a bit. Elain sniffled, wiping her nose with a handkerchief.  
Elain had been fine, two days ago, when she and her sisters visited their father’s headstone. Now, she felt like she was at death’s door. She couldn’t smell anything. Her ears felt clogged. She sneezed every other minute, and had curled up into a ball under thick blankets in hopes of feeling warm again.
Gods, she had carried Nyx for a good portion of the outing. Elain was nearly in tears when she informed Feyre and Rhys of her illness, so afraid was she of passing the sickness unto her newborn nephew. 
“Don’t you worry, Elain. Nyx will be fine,” Feyre had repeatedly told her. “Fae children are far more resilient than human babies.” After Feyre’s assurances calmed her down, Elain only hoped she would recover in time for Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony next week. 
Aside from her sickness, another reason Elain was holed up in her room was because Lucien Vanserra was visiting with new reports. The Winter Solstice had been the last time her mate had visited Velaris. What was Lucien up to outside of emissary duties? Elain could hardly say. If her mate inquired about her, Elain wasn’t aware of it either. Every other day, she half-wondered if Lucien’s prolonged distance was because he knew of what happened between her and Azriel during Solstice. 
Not that it mattered. She had barely acknowledged the shadowsinger in the months since, the hurt of being called “a mistake” still raw in her heart. Graysen had offered her his hand, then rejected her. Azriel had given her a beautiful necklace, then rescinded his kiss. 
Two rejections in a row. 
Men—males—truly sucked. Elain didn’t have much faith in “third time being the charm” with Lucien…no matter how many times her thoughts lingered on the handsome cut of his jaw, the striking slash of his scar, and the brilliance of his long hair over the last few months. She reminded herself that she barely knew Lucien, and he seemed content to keep it that way given how far away he stayed. 
Elain shivered more violently, her body racked with chills. At that moment, her eye caught the newly-built birchin in the budding River House garden. The wooden structure beckoned her, promising hot air that would clear her congestion and warm her up in no time. 
Chills were her body’s way of fighting fever, but Elain’s muscles and joints were aching so, so painfully. She glanced out the window again. A brief respite from the suffering wouldn’t hurt her, right? Elain clambered out of bed, wrapping a shawl around herself.
Surely Lucien would have left already—it had been two hours. The River House was utterly silent when she opened the bedroom door. She ventured down the hall on tip-toes, avoiding the route that would take her past Rhys and Feyre’s study. Elain exhaled a sigh of relief when she made it to the garden without seeing that tell-tale flash of red hair. 
With its quaint size, thick wooden panels, and steam drifting from the small chimney in its thatched roof, the birchin was the most inviting thing she had ever seen. Elain stepped through and she sighed contentedly, the warm embrace of the air already working magic on her chills.
It was dim inside, for the only light came in from small glazed windows on the roof. There wasn’t much she could see in front of her. Elain had never been inside a birchin before, but vaguely recalled Feyre saying nudity was necessary for the optimal experience. So she took off her shoes, placed her wool shawl on the bench, and fumbled with the buttons of her linen dress in the low light. 
Elain turned her head around furtively, a casual act that was second nature before taking off her undergarments, and froze. Her sharp gasp came half a second later. 
Lucien Vanserra was in the birchin, utterly naked save for a towel draped over his lap. 
Elain whirled around fully, her eyes adjusting well enough to take in tousled Lucien’s hair. How could she have missed it earlier? Shoulder length strands hung loose, glowing orange like hot coals. Lucien sat on the stone bench at the opposite wall, his broad shoulders elegantly slanted as he leaned back on one hand. Another noise of surprise slipped out of Elain’s mouth when she glimpsed the sculpted lines of Lucien’s chest on full display. 
A corner of Lucien’s full mouth curved upwards slowly, his mismatched eyes shamelessly drinking in what was in front of him. 
“Please, don’t stop on my account,” her mate chuckled lowly. 
“Y-you!” Elain sputtered, backing up until the backs of her knees hit her bench. Her heart pounded. “How long have you been in here?” 
Lucien shrugged irreverently, his foxy smile deepening. 
“Only a couple minutes. How kind of you to join me today.” He’d always spoken to her in a reserved tone, but today, his voice had taken on a sarcastic edge. Was this Lucien’s true personality? 
“You need to leave.” Elain crossed her arms across her chest. She was still wearing a plain white pair of panties, and a strappy undershirt over her lilac bra, but she might as well be naked. Lucien was actually naked. She felt faint, like she couldn’t quite catch her breath at how much of his alluring brown skin was exposed. 
“I don’t recall this being your house,” Lucien raised an eyebrow. His arrogant expression grew more infuriatingly beautiful with each passing second. “Besides, I was here first.” 
“I am sick,” Elain shot back, “and I require some time in the birchin to recuperate.” 
A brief expression of concern flashed across her mate’s handsome face, before being replaced by a gleaming smile. It was all teeth, no friendliness to be found. It was a struggle to maintain eye contact with the male, especially when his form invited attention elsewhere. 
“Well, maybe you need to learn to share,” Lucien retorted, gesturing with his free hand. “There’s plenty of space in here. Make yourself comfortable.”
Elain glared at him with all the heat she could muster in her sickly state. To put her clothes on and walk out would be admitting defeat. She needed the birchin, and would not be made to leave! Besides, part of her was intrigued by the brazen attitude that seemed so far removed from the reserved, polite courtier she knew. So Elain stubbornly sat down. 
Lucien’s eyes gleamed with no small satisfaction. 
“You are a pervert,” Elain accused, “watching a lady undress from the shadows. You wouldn’t have said anything until I caught you.” 
Lucien snorted. “When you walked in, you looked directly at me and began to undress, no? You also should have been able to scent me before you even entered the birchin. All signs pointed to your enthusiasm—” 
“Do not put this on me,” Elain snapped. “It is dark in here, and you know it. And must I remind you again that I am sick? My senses are dulled…besides. How vain of you to assume I would know your scent—because I don’t.”
That was a lie. She knew Lucien’s scent like the back of her hand, with the notes of crisp apple and sun-warmed skin that lingered in her memory long after they faded from the jacket he’d given her. 
Lucien smirked, “if you’re unfamiliar with it, you could come closer to find out.”
Elain’s heart skipped a beat. No male had ever been so forwardly flirtatious with her before. Perhaps Lucien had fallen ill himself, if he was acting like this. 
“I am perfectly fine where I’m at,” she muttered, scooching until her back leaned against the warm panels. 
“Suit yourself.” Lucien stretched his arms up slowly, breathing in deeply. Elain’s wide brown eyes followed his every movement, entranced by the fluidity of muscles and brown skin. 
Lucien shifted to the side and propped a leg up on the bench, revealing a chiseled calf and length of muscled thigh. Elain held her breath when the towel over his lap moved accordingly.
It was a dangerously small towel. The edge of it had slipped slightly, revealing a thin trail of hair that extended from his navel past the hem. If she had just sat one more foot to the right, she might be able to see…to see—Elain’s blood thundered in her ears. She realized a split second later she was holding her breath in anticipation. 
Lucien laughed softly, and Elain tore her eyes up from his lap to meet his mirthful gaze. The roaring in her head only grew louder when she realized he had adjusted his position on purpose. Cauldron boil and fry her.
“Lech.”
“You seem to enjoy it.” Her mate inclined his head, russet and gold eyes glittering with amusement. Elain met his gaze with equal parts challenge and indignation. Unfortunately, it became the perfect opportunity to notice how the scars running down the left side of his face were a shade paler than his brown skin. The raised marks were so brutally beautiful that Elain’s breath hitched slightly. 
It was only now that Elain realized her chills had evaporated, thanks to a combination of the birchin’s temperature and the growing tension between her and Lucien. For her mate sat across the all-too-small birchin with the casual grace of a god, all sharp lines and powerful stillness. 
Having never seen Lucien shirtless before, Elain absent-mindedly chewed her bottom lip as she drank in the rounded biceps, corded forearms, and chiseled abdomen. To think those muscles had been hiding under fine clothes the entire time!
She wondered if Lucien had ever considered unbuttoning the top three buttons of his shirts come summer. The style would expose a nice patch of his chest for her appreciation. And he had to be training regularly to maintain such a physique…her mouth watered at the thought of his powerful thighs flexing and pumping as he exercised. 
Elain’s attention was drawn to Lucien’s chest rising and falling more deeply, his nostrils flaring. Her arousal. He could scent it. Fuck. Her cheeks grew hot. 
“Do you mind?” he grinned at her again, sharp teeth gleaming. “Who’s the pervert now?” 
“I think you need to get your nose checked,” Elain bit back, feigning nonchalance even though all she wanted to do was run her hands across his bare chest. “Because I don’t feel anything for you.”
From the moment she stepped into the birchin, Lucien sought to fluster her. Two could play this game: Elain was determined to gain the upper hand. Her fingers shook slightly—this time from nerves—as she tugged her strappy undershirt off. Would Lucien like what he saw? Her pale stomach, her small breasts? 
From the way his russet eye darkened, he certainly did. 
“Is that so?” Lucien murmured, his eyes trailing down her body with blatant hunger. “The removal of clothing usually precedes…other…activities.” 
“Don’t be silly. I’ve just b-been feeling a bit—a bit h-h-hot,” Elain stuttered as Lucien spread his thighs a tad wider. Gods, when was that towel going to fall off? 
It was half-true. Small beads of perspiration were now forming at her temples, mugging her exposed skin. The air was also visibly shimmered from the heat. Perhaps staying in the birchin for a prolonged period of time was messing with her good sense.  
Elain leaned back, quietly observing her mate. He mirrored her as well, blinking slowly with a satisfied twitch of his lips. The flame of desire in his eyes tingled her skin with anticipatory goosebumps as his gaze traveled down her body.
With a discreet sniffle, Elain’s nasal passages finally cleared up. Lucien’s arousal hit her like a tidal wave. Oh fuck. The musky scent, mixed with his signature warmth, brought forth a series of reprehensible urges. How the hell did Lucien still sit there, all nonchalant, even after scenting her arousal? Elain was ready to jump his bones after one whiff of his. Wanted to lick the gleaming rivulet of sweat on the side of his throat, wrap her legs around his sculpted waist, and nip the tip of his pointed ear. 
The Mother herself would blush at Elain’s unholy thoughts.
She needed to see Lucien more visibly affected. Perhaps more drastic measures were needed to elicit a stronger reaction from him. Elain had never been particularly skilled in the arts of seduction, having relied on proper courting behaviors with Graysen and the other human men. But she had to try.
Praying she didn’t look like a fool, Elain slipped a bra strap off her shoulder. 
Lucien blinked rapidly, straightening with renewed alertness. 
Elain slowly moved the other strap down, fluttering her eyelashes for an added measure. She paused her fingers before she unclasped the hook. 
Lucien growled, almost inaudibly. 
Elain unhooked her bra but didn’t remove it yet. 
“Don’t be a tease.” His voice was nearly guttural. 
“You think that’s teasing?” It was Elain’s turn to smile as she dropped the garment. Lucien’s loud groan at the sight of her bare breasts thrilled her with its brazenness. “Just wait.”
She had lifted those lines straight from a smutty book, but if Lucien found them cheesy, he did not show it. Elain trailed a hand up her stomach, up the valley of her breasts, around their curves. She squeezed the soft mounds and sighed, like she always did in the privacy of her own room. Except now, she was putting on a show for Lucien. 
A male she hardly knew. Yet, the sheer reverence in his eyes and the sensual parting of his mouth made it seem as if they’d been intimate many times before. Elain felt no oily shame in expressing herself like this—in fact, his smoldering expression only emboldened her to show all the parts she’d hid away before.
“Yes.” Lucien’s voice was little more than a low rumble. “Touch yourself for me.” 
Elain tipped her head back, exposing her smooth throat slightly, and let out a moan. Lucien’s golden eye turned molten at the sound. He ran his tongue over his lips. 
“Fuck,” Lucien growled. “How rude of me, to only watch and not offer anything in return.” He reached for the towel in his lap, slow enough for Elain to deny him if she wanted. Elain’s heart cracked a little at how Lucien held himself back. As if he did so because of all the times she’d spurned him before. 
So she reached deep within her, to where that golden thread lay coiled around her, and sent a small pulse of encouragement. A willing signal to her mate.  
The towel was fully off now.
Elain’s doe eyes widened into saucers. The v-shaped grooves of Lucien’s hips narrowed into a trimmed thatch of red hair, and then a fully erect cock. Her mate leaned back, running his thumb over his cock’s rounded head, swiping the glistening precum. 
Her mouth parted slightly, when she realized his already large hand did not quite cover the entire length of his shaft as he moved his fist up and down. Gods…he was truly beautiful. 
It was hard to believe that this wasn’t a dream. hHer mate, sitting mere feet away from her, was stroking his cock while watching her. Slowly, luxuriously, as if he had all the time in the world to do this. And she was the reason for his arousal. Wetness pooled at Elain’s core, dampening her underwear.
She’d gotten Lucien to groan and swear. Had seen him entirely naked. Had him pleasuring himself to her. But Elain still selfishly wanted one thing: to hear her name on his lips. Elain shoved down her pride and got up, quickly crossing the distance between them before she could change her mind. 
Lucien’s brows raised in surprise when she stopped a half-step away from him, brown curls cascading over her breasts, her cheeks flushed prettily. Elain glanced down at his cock and swallowed nervously. Later. She could touch him later. Right now, she wanted Lucien to say her name. 
“Come here,” Lucien murmured, his voice soft. Elain didn’t move, so he reached out, his large hands encircling her waist. She shivered at her mate’s solid touch, the small circles he rubbed with his thumbs making her impossibly heady. 
“This could be part of my grand plan to get you sick,” she said breathily, her knees weak.
“Mmmm, well aren’t you being cruel?” Lucien’s fingers hooked her panties at the hip and gently tugged her closer. “I don’t think I would mind.” His finger brushed her slit through the fabric of her underwear. 
“You’re so wet for me.” Lucien sounded a bit dazed now, as if he couldn’t believe he was touching her. Elain blushed. “Come here, Elain,” Lucien said again.
That was the final straw. Elain obligingly lowered herself then, spreading her legs to straddle Lucien’s muscular thighs. Lucien’s erect cock rested against her bare stomach, precum smearing across her skin. But she didn’t mind, instead, she snaked her arms around his neck to pull closer.
Elain found herself having to look up at Lucien’s chiseled features, the charged mix of emotions in his russet eye. “I want to kiss you,” she breathed, her rosebud mouth just inches away from his. “I want to kiss you, Lucien.”
Her mate shuddered underneath Elain when she uttered his name. 
“Who am I to deny you, my lady?” 
Their kiss, fraught with years’ worth of longing and built-up tension, was the release Elain never knew she needed until now. It was like coming home at last. She let out a small noise—a mixture between a sob and a moan—and pushed up against him for another one. 
“Shit, Elain,” Lucien groaned. “Your mouth...gods help me.” He pulled her closer by wrapping an arm around her, fingers grazing the underside of her breast. His other hand supported the back of her head, tilting her up to kiss him better. 
Elain only threaded her fingers through his silky locks, shifting her hips rhythmically to grind against his thigh in response. The noise Lucien made was unapologetically obscene. 
She felt like she was burning up now, the birchin’s steam and the little breaths they shared blurring the passage of time. How many times did she kiss him, did his hands brush her body sweetly? Elain couldn’t remember. She arched her back, brushing her peaked nipples against his broad chest. They both groaned. 
Her core tightened deliciously, like a band ready to snap. 
“Elain,” Lucien rasped, pulling away. Elain ignored him, trying to meld herself to the heat of his body. 
“I want you, Lucien,” she mumbled, rolling her hips against him. “Please…I’m so close.” Elain craned her neck up and made a disappointed noise when her lips failed to find his.
“Elain, Elain,” Lucien repeated, his hands tightening around her waist with some urgency.
The fact that he wasn’t kissing her anymore was like a splash of cold water on her face. “I’m sorry.” Elain stopped, disentangling her arms from his neck. She braced herself for rejection again.
“No, don’t be.” Lucien’s face was pained, his breathing still a bit ragged. Color had stained his high cheekbones, his mouth now swollen from her kisses. He still held her in his lap, a bit possessively, and Elain took some comfort in that fact. 
“Believe me…I want to keep going. But our first time shouldn’t be in a birchin.” 
Elain’s heart quickened, the reality of their situation sinking in. Gods, what was she doing? She had stripped until nearly naked, and proceeded to ride Lucien’s thigh in the River House birchin, of all places. 
His cock grazing her navel was considerably larger than Graysen’s, yet…Lucien seemed to have full confidence that it would fit. Her core tightened again at the possibility of what he intended to do with her. 
“I was so close,” was all Elain could say ruefully, still staring down at her mate’s cock. 
Lucien tilted her chin up. “I know, Elain,” he replied, voice laced with remorse. “But…soon.” His long fingers absent-mindedly trailed up and down her waist, sending tingles down Elain’s spine. 
“You’re not helping,” she said faintly. Lucien’s hands regretfully stopped moving. 
“Sorry, sweet pea.” Sweet pea. Her heart swelled at Lucien’s pet name for her.  
“Will…will you be at Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony?” Elain asked after a moment’s hesitation. “What…what about then?” 
“Is my lady inviting me to her bed?” Lucien teased with a roguish grin. “Or do you wish for me to take you in a more unconventional location?” 
“Don’t be so scandalous.” Elain scrunched her nose at him.
“And riding me in a birchin isn’t? My, my, I look forward to seeing what you consider scandalous.” Elain grumbled with annoyance and tried to shove his shoulder, but Lucien quickly caught her hand and pressed a chaste kiss against her inner wrist. His soft smile was like the sun breaking through rain clouds. “I’m a flexible male. We’ll continue our fun next week.” 
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moorishflower · 7 months
Text
A Fridge Full of Jam
Having a bad memory day today and so I wrote it out w/Dream
Sorry fav blorbo you get to experience the Horrors
He is walking back home from the park when he gets the text from Hob.
Cottage pie for din love
Could u pick up 1 large onion + sum garlic on way home? ta
Dream looks at the message. There is a corner market between where he currently stands, stock still on the kerb, and the New Inn, where Hob currently is. He could, quite reasonably, stop there and purchase the items that Hob has requested of him.
Another message comes through as he is contemplating.
Sum tomato paste too pls
I love you!
He finds himself smiling at this last text. Hob has had many, many years to perfect shorthand of all varieties, but he has never once shortened 'I love you.' It is always the full declamatory sentence, complete with full stop or exclamation. There is something heart-rendingly lovely about it.
Dream stops at the corner market on his way back. Hob has furnished him with an identity of his own, now that he is human, complete with debit card, and money to make purchases, and a driver's license that he still hesitates to make use of.
(He once knew how to operate a car in theory, but that, along with billions of years' worth of other knowledge, is one of the things lost to him now that he is human.)
The market is not busy this time of day. Summer has come upon London, blanketing the great city in a smog of humidity and incipient rain. It is the sort of weather to drive most people indoors, where they might at least seek the relief of a fan, but Dream is not bothered. He is cold, almost always, and it is during weather such as this that he is allowed the luxury of short sleeves. During weather like this, he takes long walks in solitude, and goes to the park to feed the birds, and sometimes there are other travelers to accompany him, but more often than not he is alone.
He prefers that, some days. The crush of humanity is not nearly so pressing now that he no longer contains all of its dreams and nightmares within his own head, but it is sometimes, still, overwhelming.
Dream checks his phone. One large onion, garlic, and tomato paste. Is there anything else that they need while he is here? Strawberry jam, perhaps. He eats it on his toast each morning, so they are bound to be almost out. There is a specific garlic-parmesan salad dressing that Hob likes, and which this market happens to carry. He picks up a bottle and puts it in his basket, along with a jar of jam. Do they have crisps at home? He thinks they do, but is it the sort that he likes, or is it the sort that Hob likes? Hob prefers sharp flavours. Tomato. Salt and cider vinegar. Dream enjoys simple fare. He picks up a bag of Walkers 'roast chicken' crisps and studies it, then drops it into the bag.
He moves down the aisle.
The clouds have broken by the time he leaves the market, though not for the better. Rain patters in the gutters, dampens his hair and sticks it to his skull as Dream hurries home, a shopping bag in each hand. The New Inn is not far, but it is far enough that he is wet through when he ascends the steps to its front door, stamping his feet to knock loose any mud or debris that might cling to his boots.
"Welcome to the–oh, hullo, Dream," the hostess says. She is a petite, smart young woman named Anne. Once, he would have known her greatest fantasies. Now Dream knows that she attends university at King's, and that she had Hob for one of her professors last term, and that she is somewhere in her early twenties...and that is all. "Out doing a bit of shopping?"
"Hob is making cottage pie," he tells her. She smiles. Hob's employees – they are not technically his employees, but they all refer to themselves as such – observe his relationship with the Inn's proprietor as though they are a much-beloved television show. It is strange, to be the subject of a story in which his own opinion is entirely unwanted.
"Enjoy," Anne says, and Dream nods at her, and ascends the stairs to the second floor, which Hob has claimed as his own. The front door is unlocked, and so Dream lets himself in.
"That you, love?" he hears, floating from the kitchen. Dream follows the sound of it, stopping in the doorway. Hob is there, standing over the stovetop, a pot of water boiling and the pale, oblong shapes of several peeled potatoes bobbing about within. When he looks up, he smiles. "'Course it is, you never answer right away."
"I will endeavor to do so in future," Dream says. He sets the bags on the table and begins to unpack them, laying the items he purchased in a neat row so that he may put them away with utmost expedience. Hob temporarily disengages from the stovetop to look over his shoulder.
"Jam?" he asks, reaching around Dream's hip in order pick up the jar. "We've already got jam."
Dream peers at it. He uses it so often. Every day. He tries to think of how much had been in the jar when he had taken it out of the fridge that morning, but draws a blank. "But...I eat it every day," he says. His voice, even to his own ears, has the unpleasant texture of a whine. Plaintive. Hob takes him by the hand and leads him to the fridge.
"See?" he says, and there, in the fridge door, is not only one, but two jars of strawberry jam. One is not even opened. "Remember? You bought more a week ago."
He does not remember. It had happened a week ago. Dream stares at the jars. His hands feel very loose; he is suddenly glad that it is Hob who is holding the new (the third) jar, because he thinks if it were him he would have dropped it by now.
"I...forgot," he says. In that moment, in the aisle, it had seemed impossible that they should have enough. He uses it every day. It had not even crossed his mind that he might have already bought some earlier.
"Hey," Hob says. "Come here. It's all right, yeah? We'll find a recipe to use jam. It's fine." He puts the jar down on the counter, and Dream finds himself being drawn into a hug. The kitchen is steam-warm, and Hob smells like raw potatoes and fresh herbs. Dream presses his nose to the curve of Hob's neck and blinks back useless tears.
"I forgot," he says again. Hob runs a soothing palm up and down his spine.
"You know," Hob says, "I read something the NHS published a bit ago...about how depression affects memory? Basically, how prolonged periods of, ah, stress and anxiety can stunt how your brain makes new short term memories?"
Dream tries to tug away, but finds himself held fast. Hob's hand splays flat against the small of his back.
"It's all right," he says. "It is. You were...I mean, my memories of after Robyn died are like Swiss cheese. And you had all that great big Endlessness to rely on before, but now...it makes sense, is all I'm saying. And it's all right."
Dream makes a sound – he is not wholly certain it is a dignified sound, nor good-tempered – and this time does not try to pull away, but buries his face into Hob's clavicle.
"How do you stand it?" he asks. He means the wild swing of moods. He means the instability. He means the being human of it all. But there is no easy answer to any of these questions. The shortest, of course, is 'you just do.'
"Lists help," Hob says. "Alarms. Things like that. And sometimes you just roll with the punches." He sways to the side, hooking his fingers around the jar of strawberry jam and making room for it in the fridge door. "Sometimes you've got three jars of jam."
(Later, when they are eating their cottage pie sans tomato paste, because Dream had remembered he liked roast chicken crisps but not the final thing that Hob had asked of him, he will try to reflect on the wisdom of this. Love, he will think, is an unlocked front door, a sentence with a full stop, and a fridge full of jam.)
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miss-dollette · 5 months
Text
Vladimir Makarov x Reader - 18+
TW: rape + murder + victim blaming + Makarov (need I say any more?)
I fully believe Makarov is not capable of true love. I believe he's a psychopath with no regard for human life, and he only sees lovers as possessions.
Note: Just because I write about Rape, doesn't mean I believe it's moral. This is dedicated to @bloodyrussianraven P.S: Sorry if it's a little short, I came up with this quickly.
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Tomorrow is Saturday, and it's been three long months since Vladimir disappeared to God knows where. That's just how he was - he never cared to give her a heads-up about his departure, and sometimes she'd wake up to a frigid, desolate bed and an even icier void in her chest.
But today was entirely new, in the worst way possible. While her life still had its share of troubles, nothing could match the agony coursing through her body. The memory of her violation rolling over and over in her mind.
Her forehead remained streaked with dried, crusted blood, her neck bore the telltale bruises of his violent grip, and her face still burned from its rough contact with the carpet.
As she reminisced, her memory painted a vivid scene of being thrust into her apartment from behind, her face brutally colliding with the coat hanger, staining her white coat with warm crimson trickles.
Fingernails scratched her waist as her pants and underwear were snatched down to her knees, and her insides burned when he pushed his penis into her unwilling womb.
Pinned down and vulnerable, she found herself at the mercy of his predatory intentions, trapped in a horrifying ordeal.
The fact that he didn't attempt to kiss her was a small relief. She knew she'd snap out of her shocked trance and resort to extreme measures if he dared, even if it meant biting off his lips.
It was as if all her will to resist had drained away, and she lay there in disarray, attempting to blink away the blood clouding her vision.
Her cognitive functions shut down, and she stared at the broken eggs on the carpet. She wasn't sure how to react at that moment.
After he finished, hastily zipping up his trousers before bolting from the apartment, even pushing past her startled neighbor, she remained sprawled at the heart of the crime scene, her hand tenderly tracing her battered face as she struggled to regain her composure.
Disgusting sperm ran down her leg.
The groceries were strewn across the front door, their contents scattered on the floor. She remained seated at the kitchen table, gazing out the window as cars passed by, children engaged in snowball fights, and the sun dipped below the horizon. Her appetite for dinner had vanished.
A shadowy figure crossed the street and entered her apartment building, his measured stride betraying his identity. She silently wished he'd returned sooner, knowing he could have protected her. He could've.
The front door clattered against the fallen groceries, and she heard his steps muffle as he examined the telltale signs of the struggle - her blood-stained carpet, the chaos of the groceries, and her beanie abandoned on the floor. She was certain he knew this wasn't her typical mess.
Turning her head towards him as he entered the dining room, she watched as he lowered his gun, the barrel aimed in her direction.
"What happened?" He inquired with a tone that lacked emotion, a dangerous sign she knew all too well.
"I was walking home… i didn't see him," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "He hurt me." As she spoke, tears finally streamed down her cheeks, the realization hitting her that she hadn't shed a tear until now.
Vladimir moved swiftly, covering the distance in long strides, until he occupied the chair opposite her. In a rough and unforgiving manner, he seized her chin, his different colored eyes dissecting her battered forehead and blood-soaked countenance.
"Tell me what he looked like," he demanded, his tone blunt and sharp.
"I don't know," she whispered, her voice trembling. "It happened too fast, and I couldn't—"
"I told you to stop being so mindless, wandering around like an idiot. Now look at you." He interrupted her sentence, causing her to shrink further into her seat, his calloused fingers digging into her chin.
"Vladimir..." she began, but her words faltered, a sense of futility enveloping her.
They spent that night together, with her recalling the day before the attack. He meticulously questioned her, forcing her to repeat various details numerous times, where she'd been, who she talked to that day until she squeezed out details that managed to escape her until that moment.
When he came to visit her, she would dutifully stand over the stove, preparing their meals (usually consisting of meat), and then share the food with him before he laid her down on the bed, and pushed himself inside her.
It appeared that he had lost his appetite for both food and that carnal desire that was attached to him when he visited her.
At nearly midnight, he dismissed her, and she left him alone in the dimly lit dining room. She found solace in the bathtub, immersing herself in the lukewarm water, which gradually turned a disconcerting shade of red. The stinging sensation from the cut on her forehead intensified.
Her entire body ached, and without the concealing cloak of clothing, she was confronted with her bruised flesh in its full spectrum of colors: purple, yellow, green, and angry red.
In an attempt to cleanse herself of the ordeal, she vigorously brushed her teeth until her gums bled, then meticulously dressed, yet the feeling of being tainted lingered. Despite scrubbing her skin raw, she couldn't shake the sensation that an oily darkness clung to her.
She reclined on her bed without much regard for comfort, her gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling. Her eyes, glazed over with a haunting emptiness, stared into the void above.
She eventually closed her eyes and surrendered to sleep's embrace.
When she awoke, Vladimir's absence was glaringly apparent. His side of the bed remained cold, a stark reminder of his cold nature. His clothes from the previous day lay in disarray on the floor, and a lone sleeve dangled from an open drawer where he stored his belongings.
Once more, she vigorously scrubbed her skin raw in the morning, as if attempting to rid herself of the memories etched into her flesh.
It had been three long weeks since she last saw Vladimir, and it had also been three weeks since she was raped by that stranger. In that span of twenty-one days, she moved through the town with a distant, glazed-over expression, avoiding any meaningful eye contact with men and speaking in hushed tones. It seemed as though her very soul had been snatched away, leaving behind only a hollow shell of the person she once was.
She fixated her gaze upon her worn boots, every step they took echoing loudly on the icy concrete beneath, determined to drown out the relentless cacophony of traffic and the incessant chatter of the people bustling around her.
In the early morning's embrace, the first light of dawn meticulously brushed the streets with a vibrant palette, painting them in exquisite hues of pink, purple, and a myriad of other melodramatic colors.
Her stomach emitted another mournful growl, a reminder of her empty mornings – just like the one before, and the one preceding it. She struggled to recollect the last time she had savored a meal.
Engulfed in her contemplations, she collided unceremoniously with a stranger's back. With a gentle "Pardon" escaping her lips, she reluctantly tore her focus away from her ruminations. A gathering of nearly a hundred people held collective fixation on something in the road.
She wondered if there had been a car accident that morning.
Compelled to forge a path through the throng, her heart raced wildly in her chest. As she finally emerged from the crowd, her heart plummeted into the depths of her being, her eyes locked on a man whose face suddenly seemed so familiar. He was suspended between two lampposts in the middle of the road, a grotesque marionette covered head to toe in a gruesome tapestry of blood and bruises.
His wrists, where wires had mercilessly bitten into his flesh, oozed crimson rivulets that painted his arms and body in a grotesque shade of red, an agonizing tableau of suffering before her very eyes.
She was forcibly reminded, once more, of the chilling reasons Vladimir struck terror into the hearts of the masses, understanding why his name blared across newspapers in stark letters, detailing the monstrous carnage he'd ruthlessly orchestrated, all in the relentless pursuit of collective fear, and a motivation that'd been explained to her, but never understood.
The lifeless form of her attacker hung eerily above the street, expertly suspended by wires, resembling a grotesque work of art that defied the boundaries of the macabre.
With her mouth parched and her chest feeling like an empty void, she turned away, her mind haunted by the scene before her. The sheer reality of the experience weighed heavily on her, leaving her unable to carry out even the simplest of daily tasks. Resolute, she made the decision to set aside the day's chores. Today, she knew she needed to retreat to her bed, seeking refuge from the relentless torment of her thoughts.
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