#There were twenty four hours where all I ate was a can of soup and twelve oreos | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

katsukikitten · 2 years

Text

Please see synopsis and warnings for this apocalyptic bnha au on the master list here

Chapter 3! That almost got forgotten to get posted and in which things heat up 👀

Three days passed and it felt as if your time was quickly slipping through the hourglass. Each afternoon is disrupted with spit to your cheek or a yank of your hair to press your face to the bars. He asks you the same questions every day.

“What compound ya from?”

“How many people were there?”

“Are you infected?” Even though he knows you aren’t, you would have had symptoms the first time he woke you up. It takes a twenty-four to seventy two hour period to incubate before a person was consumed by something else entirely and all that thing wanted was flesh and blood.

And your least favorite question of them all,

“Cat got ya tongue still rat?”

“Come on, Princess.” He pulls so hard he takes a chunk of hair with him before he regrips, tears well in your eyes. He looked at your state, you were starting to get to a point where the doctor would suggest an IV of fluids to keep you alive. Your skin had lost its shine, the ridges of the rebar stayed imprinted on your cheeks longer than before and your glassy eyes paired with chapped lips said it all.

No rat was worth an IV bag. They were hard to come by. Still he was surprised you hadn’t started begging yet.

Most people did and he didn’t smell rot on your breath which meant you hadn’t drank from the stagnant soup that festered in the sun day in and day out. He narrows his eyes and wonders if you’ve got a strong will or if you’re just too fucking stubborn for your own good.

“Hoards a comin’ ya know.” You go rigid beneath his touch and he smiles wickedly, “Guess you are scared of something.”

“Sir, lunch is ready.” The young woman, who’s name you learn is Eri, bows as she stays on the patio. You swallow thickly, knowing that he’d be sitting right in your view so you could watch him eat and drink.

“Perfect.” He drags you by your hair until you can rest on your knees, quickly grabbing your wrist with his free hand while he keeps your head turned away from him. The bite wound on his arm from you is healing and he learned quickly. He chains your wrist before removing his arm, turning your head again and chaining your other wrist. Now you kneel before him, hands forcibly above your head.

“Eyes on me, rat.” Reluctantly you look up at him as he lounges in an old pool chair, taking a huge bite out of his buttered bread before getting a mouthful of juicy chicken. Brutus drools by his side and he rips off pieces of chicken to feed him. Pouring some water into his bowl that is outside as you hear the giant pit lap at the water.

Funny how people only needed five years to forget their humanity, the mountainous man behind him makes no motion to stop the brute.

But it wasn’t the food that made your mouth water, it was the clear liquid that he drank in excess. Sure to waste it as he let it dribble down his chin and onto his shirt.

“Fuck that’s good.” He stands at the edge of the pool with half of the glass of water left, “Maybe if you opened your mouth nice and wide, I could give you some.”

This was a trick, this had to be a trick, what little drool is left is only making you thirstier as you swallow. Watching his Adam's apple bob as water replenishes his throat. Your lower lip quivers and you’re about to do it, about to open your mouth wide for this utter asshole but you stop yourself last second. A man who ate full meals in front of you wasn’t going to give you a drop.

“You’re just no fuckin fun huh?” He pulls water into his mouth from the cup before he spits a stream of the water onto your face. It gets in your hair and soaks your sweat stained shirt, “Now thank me for my generosity.”

He laughs before he sets his glass down by the pitcher of water on the table by the half-broken lounge.

He leaves it there for you to stare at as he makes his way back inside to do god knows what.

All you can think about is how you could suck the water out of your shirt and hair once your hands were free, it would be safe to do in front of the red head, at least he wouldn’t mock you. With the way he looks at you lately you’re beginning to wonder if he’s regretting bringing you back here.

You were going to have to work with what you had, dirty shirt water was going to be what you needed to escape tonight.

At least that’s what you tell yourself as your last two nights of escape attempts only showed just how much of your strength was depleting. The water pitcher sweats in the hot sun, when the fuck was Kirishima going to let your arms down? They were starting to numb.

As if he heard your thoughts he comes over and unlocks you from the cuffs and you turn away from him, shoving your salty shirt into your mouth to suck out the water.

“Stop.” He says softly, this time the pitcher is hovering just above the six inch space, you look up at him with wide eyes.

“Take it.” He says lowering it towards you and you take it with both hands, gulping down harsh pulls of water, fighting with your instincts to tip the pitcher all the way back and let it fall down your face and chin.

You stop half way through, wanting to save the water but Kirishima shakes his head no. Fighting the initial burn of tears in your eyes you slowly finish the pitcher. Gently raising it back up for Kirishima to take. You bow your head in thanks and he just stares down at you.

“Kirishima, word from your scout, Jiro.” Eri says, bowing her head slightly and garnet eyes flicker from you to the young woman's.

Night can’t come fast enough and if you’re being honest, you’re having trouble staying awake. Your throat is already dry and still you force yourself to use the bars like monkey bars. Weak arms pulling you across the jail cell as the full moon rises high in the sky.

It's now or never, pick and tension wrench in your teeth as you pull yourself to the lock, hooking your shaking arm to hold your body weight as you move the lock around. Turning it over as best you can before you thank the stars for being right. The lock was an old master, and would be nothing to pick due to the manufacturer's fatal flaw. Placing the tension wrench in just right, giving it a test wiggle before jabbing the pick straight down. The lock responds delightfully with a light click and the arm pops up.

Now you just had to figure out how the hell you were going to get enough momentum or force to get the bars to swing up. With labored breath you swing your feet up, climbing backward just a bit and give it a test push.

At this point your arms are burning and this was the issue the other few nights. It didn’t help that you didn’t prepare for your journey to this damned compound like you should have.

Like you knew you fucking should have but you weren’t expecting Kirishima to keep up with your pace either. Normally you could outrun or out smart guards, so you hadn't bothered to bring rations or eat much on the way.

A rookie fucking mistake that was about to cost you EVERYTHING.

You push just enough that the bars go up and fall away from the opening with a bang. Without looking for lights to come on in the house, you hoist yourself up and out, pulling at the grass and pushing your tired body to its limits.

You still had to run and run far enough to get to the wall, not to mention to lose whoever would be sent to chase you down like the rat you were. Rising to your feet you push it all away from your mind, focusing on breathing and what it feels like to run.

Strong arms wrap around your weakened body, pulling you away from the edge of the hellish cage as he drags you towards the brick wall of the old pool house, your back to his chest.

“You think you can get away from me, rat?” His voice is deep and you were sure you’d start to hear it in your dreams, “Shitty woman I’m not done punishing you yet.”

He takes one of his hands and moves it towards your throat. Choking you with intent, watching in the light of the full moon as your eyes flutter, thrashing against him in hopes to loosen his grip. It was like watching poor game thrashing against the teeth of a lion, only for the big cat to sink its canines deeper. Your arms become heavy, numb even as you still peel off ribbons of his skin with your sharpened nails, vision turning black and just as you’re about to pass out he lets up on his grip.

He lets you take in gasping breaths for only a moment, letting the air burn your lungs before his vice grip is back. His large hand engulfed your throat as it bruises against his touch. He enjoys the cycle of you gasping for air and the soft desperate pulls you take through your nose only for the air to stop as he crushes your windpipe. This was it, this was how you were going to die.

Your only regret, not getting the satisfaction of killing this asshole first and for your hoard to go to such a fucking waste.

And of course, not being about to make it back to him.

“I could crush your larynx ya know?” He laughs again, letting up just enough for your focus to come back although blurred with black dots, “Not that you fuckin talk anyway, rat.”

“Fuckin, asshole.” Is all you can rasp out, and you see the gleam in his eyes.

“So ya can talk?” He squeezes too hard again and you’re starting to pass out sooner and sooner. Teetering on the edge of nothingness about to fall only for him to pull you back into balance.

Or at least enough to keep from falling completely off.

“Fuck.” You inhale deeply, “You.”

He squeezes again but this time all it does is cut the blood flow from your head, your body goes limp, head falling back onto his shoulders as your arms fall to your sides. Still somehow conscious.

“You’re so lucky ya know?” Bakugou growls in your ear, “I wanted to kill you, I wanted to watch you die for trying to steal out of the mouths of my people but Kirishima got to liking your rat ass for some reason.”

He holds up your emancipated body, he turns your chin harshly with the fingers on your throat so that you’re facing him. For once your harsh features are softened from lack of oxygen and your eyes are doe wide, the fire in them hazy.

“He started looking into you, found your little markers that could lead you back to us or better yet us back to you.

“No.” You rasp, genuine fear clouding your eyes, a bit of fight comes back to you. Your nails come back to claw at his skin weakly. Bakugou is delighted that he’s finally found your weak spot.

“Oh yes.” He smirks, pressing his face closer to yours making sure you see him in your blurring vision, “We found your little hideout rat. Your hoard.”

For a fleeting moment you think he got away, that stubborn nineteen-year-old must have finally listened to you. It only took him five fucking years.

“And that boy.” A surge of rage takes over your tired body, a last second wind as you thrash so harshly against him he almost loses his grip.

Almost lets go of your thinning waist and throat before he bares his teeth. Bruising in his grip as he readjusts, his nourished body serves him well as he uses his power to his advantage.

��Careful, one wrong move from you and it lights out for him.” Again, he forces you to face him as he squeezes so hard, your vision quickly clouding with black and you barely hear him add.

“And I’ll make it worse for him than I ever did for you.”

#bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bnha x reader #bnha au #bakugou katsuki x reader #bnha imagine #katsuki x reader #bnha apocalyptic au

228 notes · View notes

jean-does-not-have-a-horseface · 3 years

Note

hi can i please request one where levi's s/o is sort of like him in personality but just melts whenever theres a baby. like she'll see a baby in town and will go from silent and moody to the heart eyes emoji but a person, or she'll babysit her neice or nephew or cousin and will be just so loving and bubbly? like its obvious that she wants to be a mum but she never brings it up because she doesnt think he wants kids and eventually they get pregnant + his reaction? sorry if this is too much (1/2)

ΑΝΟΟΟΟΝ IM BLUSHING THANK YOU SO MUCH. I really loved this request and it inspired me so I pushed before others because I had to get it out of my system. I hope you like this. It's super duper long also👉👈

Warnings: uhh pregnancy, mentions of anxiety

Tags: fluff, domestic Levi, pregnancy, modern au

Pairing: Levi/ Reader

Baby Fever

Your heartbeat grew louder with each passing second as Mike abused the door with one too many knocks. You didn't know if you could talk, or breath or do anything other than vomiting though this time from the anxiety building at the pits of your stomach and not due to your very recent event of morning sickness.

"Are you alright in there?"

You choke on your own voice as you try to huff a single response. It's not really up to your judgement of you're alright or not but rather in the small white object's that rests between the thumbs and pointer fingers of each of your hands. You contemplate if there's a way to not raise any more suspicion to the blond male, you're at his house for all that matters. Nanaba called you to take care of their their twins and you happily complied to your half sister's pleas because Mike had a very important job interview. Life had taken a toll on him lately, they couldn't afford a babysitter and he was just recently fired due to his company having to cut down expenses thanks to the pandemic. Amidst this pandemonium he had to find a way to provide for his family and help Nanaba with at least a short monthly salary. So babysitting your beloved niece and nephew wasn't much of a problem. Not until now.

At first it hadn't bothered you that your period was late, you had accepted the pcos lifestyle the hard way ever since you first got it. You would track down your period in hopes you could ever predict when it would come again but it always seemed to surprise you. Sometimes it would come in a months notice only to take four months to do a full circle. At twenty three, this was the most positive outturn as a resolution to your problem. Levi was pushing you to eat healthy and exercise to get a better grip of your situation, even though you knew it was in vain. And thus, overall it didn't bother you that you hadn't had your period still, fatigue and breast inflammation were also common problems due to hormonal abnormalities so you chose not to pay any attention to those early signs either.

What had driven you to urge Levi to drop you off to the drugstore next to Nanaba's house though was that you've been having symptoms of morning sickness for almost a week now, that you had tried to push aside for Levi not to notice. He would quarantine you on your on your own and go stay with Erwin and Hange had he any suspicion of you being down with the stomach flu. The stomach flu though didn't feel like that and you knew, you had been through it one too many times, this was something different and yet you cursed at yourself for overthinking it. You had bought the pregnancy test as something that was supposed to turn out negative, as a positive resolution that you weren't pregnant and that you should quest for whatever it was that was making your stomach turn and twist every morning.

Upon finally opening the door in an attempt not to delay Mike who wanted to attend his interview, the blond male inspected your form with a harsh gaze. "You shouldn't push yourself if you're sick. We could call my mother to watch over Eli and Blaire."

"No." You pushed it off. "I'm fine Mike, it's probably that weird mushroom soup I ate yesterday, Levi insisted on not buying it but I didn't listen."

"I see." Mike said scrunching his nose at the process. Sometimes you hated that he knew you so well that he could even smell you lying, but he was Nanaba's childhood friend before her mother married your father and had you; you had practically grown up with the blond duo so for all you knew, even if he was certainly aware that you were lying he didn't push things further. He simply placed a hand on your shoulder, the brother like nature of his touch as assuring as one can be. "If you need anything call me, I'll answer as soon as possible, drink lots of water and don't wear yourself down."

You bore your eyes into his and nodded simply. Mike greeted the twins with reluctance and let out a sigh before fixing his suit perfectly on his shoulders. The small kids smiled bubbly in return and waved at their father enthusiastically. As soon as the door closed and their father got out of sight both children jumped on you with loud giggles. The act alone was enough to curl your lips into an upward position.

By noon you had fed and lulled the kids to sleep, earning some significant time to sink into the crevices of the feathery soft sofa before Nanaba came back from her shift. As tiring as Eli and Blaire were you enjoyed their teeny company. You didn't mind their lack of ability to form full understandable sentences yet, you loved how they didn't even try to spare a second thought on what they bubbled on about and you did your best to provoke them to speak correctly. They would open their arms for you, their tiny palms signaling you to take them into long affectionate hugs as they called a baby spoken version of your nickname and you would melt at it every single time. Everyone knew you much you loved the chubby cheeked sweethearts, as much as it contrasted with your usual demeanor. There was something that truly made you feel like the best version of yourself when you were around them.

Babies seemed to be a hot topic in your group of friends for a couple of months now, ever since you started helping Nanaba in the house before Mike got fired. Levi seemed very unbothered by the subject in a way that saddened you almost; sure, you might have talked about it in the past, being that he was a little older than you and he might have understood that you longed to be a mother one day, but that was as far as that one conversation had gone. He still had that bored, stoic gaze that slipped off of yours when you would encounter a baby in the street, whereas you would basically make heart eyes and weird grimaces to any infant he would just click his tongue and avert his gaze away, to any other direction as if he disapproved off your fondness.

That memory alone left you hollowing inside as you recalled of the two very much pink lines on the screen of the test this morning. Naturally you would check with a doctor before jumping to conclusions, there still was a chance that the test was at fault and you wanted to bet on simply that. If the case was that you were actually pregnant though things were more complicated than you wanted them to be. For instance you were still in University, for your last year at that, but you had excessive amounts of studying to get your hands on your degree and Levi was cornered and ready to be squished by his job for being a vice president, which was unfair as he worked for Erwin. You understood the situation though as Erwin was struggling to keep the company going especially through these rough rough times. There was also the fact that you were terrified of Levi asking you to put the baby down, with pcos wearing your system down you were panicking that you wouldn't have a chance to conceive a baby later on. What if this was your only chance? You've always longed to be a mother so it didn't matter that it came to you this early right?

The sound of the front door clicking open shook you off your thoughts immediately. For better or for worse it was Nanaba that had finally returned, eager to strip herself of her clothes and face mask and run to the bathroom. She offered you small greeting to which you only nodded, your tired mind ordering your eyes to find comfort at small shapes in the ceiling. You didn't know how long your sister took in the bathroom, but judging by the lack of giggling coming from the babies' room you supposed it wasn't for long.

"You want to wait for Levi to come pick you up or should I give you a ride home when Mike's back? He should be home soon!" She spoke as she poured water in a red metallic boiler.

"I'll just walk. I need some air."

Nanaba emitted a soft hum in response "Are you alright? You seem off."

"Oh no." You brushed her off "I was just thinking about what I should wear at Erwin and Hange's anniversary dinner next week, and what gift to buy Levi now that his birthday is coming."

"Good, I see, just don't stress alright?"

___

The way home was longer than you had initially remembered, whether it was for your inability to walk with a steady pace or mostly because it was already getting dark and cold. You wondered if Levi would be getting home by now as you neared the apartment complex the two of you resided in. By the looks of your illuminated window he was already home as expected of him this certain hour. It probably was one of those days when he didn't have a strict deadline to attend to, which, under normal circumstances, only meant more cuddles and kisses for you. Yet, tonight was different.

"Hey Levs" Your voice lingered in his brain the moment you stepped inside.

"Hey brat, welcome home." The kiss you left on his cheek as you hurriedly headed to the bathroom was different, off almost, and he picked up on it immediately. "Did Nanaba drop you off? I had asked Mike to come by tonight, he said he'd bring some tea leaves he bought for me."

He leaned at the frame of the door as he watched you wash every crevice of your face thoroughly, paying enough attention to the insides of your outer nasal cavity. He was pretty meticulous about hygiene and especially at times like these with a hole pandemic going on he wasn't taking any chances, you knew, plus you were kind of disgusted of germs lately yourself, you thought you finally understood where he was coming from. He took a few steps ahead, away from your body in search of a clean face towel to hand out to you when you were done. You have it to him, even if he seemed cold as stone that domestic lifestyle was mesmerizing to you.

"Thanks baby, you're the best." You half smiled.

"You good?"

At this point you wondered if you seriously we're so easy to read. You supposed you were off, but you were always off and unresponsive to many things so what exactly was it about today that made everyone know you had a conflict in your mind.

"Yeah I'm just tired, I walked here."

Levi clicked his tongue at that "Nanaba's home is very far away from here, have a shower and I'll rub your legs and feet." With eyes that never left yours Levi watched as your face lit up a little more, he gave you a tiny of a smile on return.

"You prooomise Levs?" You knew teasing with him could only lead to one thing, yet you did it shamelessly.

"Tch, of course, hurry up, I'm making pancakes with eggs and bacon."

Normally at the very sound of this particular food your eyes would water and your mouth would drool but the unresponsive nature of your expression only sent a new wave of worry through Levi's chest. As much as he had wanted to convince himself you were just tired, he couldn't, not after this reaction to your favorite snack. He decided not to push you into saying anything you didn't want to though. Maybe it was that enormous amount of notes you had to memorize for your next exams in addition to your fatigue and any hormonal altercations.

"Yeah" you trailed off "babe, about that, can we have cocktail shrimp? And maybe fried rice and fries? Pretty pretty please?"

Ah, there it was. Although it was a rare occasion for you not to be in the mood of his infamous pancakes, you could still have a few different cravings from time to time. Levi let out a sigh of relief as he proceeded your order trying to figure of where he should order from, last night's mushroom soup had messed your stomach up, that he knew, but you seemed to be fine now so in theory that should be enough to prevent him from whining out his concerns.

As he closed the door to the bathroom he hummed his favorite tune to himself, softly enough as not to disturb you with your bath. He picked up his phone from the kitchen table with ease before collapsing on the couch, there was a limit to what his body could take and he had surpassed that by far these past few months. Endless deadlines that took turns one after another and extra hours at the office had been killing him, mentally and physically, making him a little more grumpy than usual. In great addition his back ached, his fingers were sore and his mind felt like canned alphabet soup every single night. Perhaps, seeing him in this state was taking a toll on you as well; you were always so protective over him, almost like a mother to her child, despite being younger, and he if he had to, he'd admit he enjoyed it a little too much than he should have.

When you came out of the bathroom he gazed over you briefly, you were sitting before the end of the dresser, standing in front of the full body mirror, examining your form. He seemed to be puzzled by your demeanor once again. Normally, or up until yesterday, you would have immediately shot out to where he was seated at to plough into his arms with wet hair, only to slightly irritate him for getting him wet, not that he didn't enjoy to smell your fresh scent anyway, but it was a game of routine for you by now. It was almost as if you were seeking to be scolded at for not rushing to dry your hair. He always wanted you as healthy as ever.

You couldn't shake off your head how soft Levi's chest is. There probably wasn't a reason as to why he's sleeping shirtless tonight, your apartment was very warm, given that it was the start of December already, but you didn't complain. The feeling of creamy, milky soft skin, perfectly excused by any coarse hair was slowly putting you to sleep. You loved how Levi was so soft everywhere you touched, it was so unlike what the world perceived of him, maybe your baby's skin was going to be as smooth and perfect as his and not as dry and oily as yours. Of course the baby's skin was going to be soft, ugh and those little arms and legs, you couldn't lie to your self, deep down you were just a tad excited to have a baby, if it meant that it would look like Levi you wouldn't want to give up on it for the world.

"Levi, does Kenny keep baby pictures of you?"

"What?" The onyx haired male raised a brow at your inquiry but didn't give you enough time to repeat yourself before he answered. "My mother had so many pictures of me so I guess that it's natural that he has some and well there probably are a few pictures from after my mother's death, I'm not that sure."

In response, he only earned a hum.

"Tch, can I lay on your chest? I want you to play with my hair." His eyes pleaded with you in the darkness. Of course you could never say no to such thing, you loved it even more when he was the one sleeping on you. Another sentence left his lips, this time with a yawn as he shifted himself on you, cooing like a small child. "I'll call Kenny tomorrow, sleep now I know you need it."

____

Under any other circumstance you would have loved seeing everyone's dumbfounded faces stating at you as if they had seen the dead rise from their graves. You had to pinch your arms to remind yourself this was indeed serious and you shouldn't let out a single chuckle.

"Please tell me you're joking" Nanaba pleaded, placing her hand on yours in disbelief.

"I'm going to screeeeeam! Shorty can't even hold it in, ghaaaa!"

"Hange he will hear you through the restroom."

Hange blinked her eyes rapidly at the sound of that. "You haven't told him?" She immediately seemed to lose her enthusiasm, something you hadn't intended to happen, especially at such a night, but you knew you didn't have a say in other people's emotions.

"Hange he never seemed too fond of the idea, why would I complicated things for him?"

Mike's eyes widened in disbelief. There was no way in hell he was having this. You were practically his little sister, seeing you so tormented as you were in the moment when you spoke those words ravaged his last nerve, causing anger to clench his hands into fists. He watched as you took a small bite of your food giving the rest to Eli who was comfortably sitting on your lap, tapping his little hands on the rim of your plate. Other than the fact you broke out such news to him, Nanaba Hange and Erwin and had expressed your fears on informing your significant other, you seemed quite bubbly. Children really did bring out such a soft side of you, he knew that was for sure.

"Hange" you spoke, unphased as ever "Levi's coming please stop screaming at me, i love you but it's only making me dizzy."

It felt as if a thousand pairs of eyes were burning holes through his whole body, his head, and everywhere around his personal space bubble. Levi could feel his pulse tense just a tad, Hange's unnerving gaze and her crippling smile were fixated especially on him, making his nose itchy. There was something very different in the atmosphere around him; Nanaba wasn't eating anymore, she was more fixated on her daughter than anyone else, Erwin was nervously staring between him and you and you and Mike were trying to clean Eli's hands from the food he had just touched. When the scenery wasn't something irregular, none of you dared look eachother in the eyes, beat it that Hange was staring only at him.

"Oi, what the fuck is wrong-"

"Levi, shorty! Does Eli look like he's enjoying himself in (y/n)'s arms?" Hange turned her sweetened gaze on you, making you choke on your words, you shot her an atrociously strict glare. "Remember when Nanaba gave birth? What do you think about babies? Maybe you think they smell a lot? But what about ackerbabies?"

"Way to be discreet Han, thank you!" Your lips puckered in anger as you brought your arms to cross under your chest.

"Wait what's going on shitty glasses?"

"Yada Yada shorty, you're not getting a word from me, my lips are sealed" Hange spoke and shut her eyes to emphasize the significance of her words.

You sighed in a pathetic attempt to relieve some tention of your chest. A tight knot had formed due to anxiety, fog had clouded over your brain and you were feeling so faint and exhausted that you just wanted to get it over with. You didn't mind standing there like a fish out of water after breaking the news to him, the tention in the air was in fact what was making you suffocate in your seat. With wobbly hands you pushed Eli off your lap, not caring about the moan of disagreement he made and you shot up from your seat, announcing you had to take some fresh air. Levi had to stop Nanaba mid tracks to be able to come after you, fast enough to be there when you got out.

Naturally, you stood seated at a bench that neared the restaurant. Your hands were covering your face scratching softly through your hair, probably in attempts to calm your self down. He approached you without any second thought, this time determined to know what was it with you. Your behavior these past week had been unnerving and overly concerning to say the least. Carefully he sat himself down next to you, his right arm come around your frame comfortingly while the left one came to caress underneath your cheek.

"You should probably talk to me."

Your voice came muffled from between your palms as you still hadn't dared to look him in the eye. "Levi, I'm, I'm so sorry it's just... I'm very anxious."

"I think I figured that, brat." His voice was so soothing, it felt as if he was speaking to you in the comfort of your private room, not on a bench outside a semi fancy restaurant

"You know when Hange talked about ackerbabies she uhm, she might have had a particular baby in mind."

Levi blinked erratically for a single second before his mouth, unable to compel to his brain's orders, formed the shape of an oh. Of course, in the moment it was hard to click with any other even but he attributed that to his lack of knowledge over the situation. Had he any clue or suspicion that you could be pregnant he would have been able to realise that it wasn't that your stress had been messing with your stomach every morning and that your extreme fatigue couldn't possible align with the erratically swift rhythm of your palms. Of course, of course it wasn't a thermometer that you had disposed of in the toilet, he wanted to slap himself for being so naive as to believe that. He was strict with recycling rules, you wouldn't have just straight up there s thermometer in the trash. Fuck now's not the time to think about recycling.

With the soft, chaste kiss at the top of your hair you finally decided to turn your gaze to him. Watery eyes met with an adoring grey gaze, a gaze you've never seen at this extreme before. "I love you, you know." Another kiss meant your head got to lift a little more, just to get closer to him. "I don't say it often but you don't have to worry, I'll try to tell our kid more often."

Your eyes shimmered with adoration at his words, despite the cold weather you couldn't bring yourself to feel not even a little tingle, Levi was keeping you so warm with his words. "Really? You want this?"

"Tch why wouldn't I, you thought I'd ever let you go and leave me lonely? I've always thought you knew we're sharing the same future."

Your lips attacked his in fiery passion. It was a natural reaction to his words, an ice melting kiss, a promise for the future. There were many reasons as to why you lived Levi but maybe the fact that you would have a little stoic faced baby running around your feet made you love him a little bit more.

#aot #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #snk x reader #levi #aot x reader #shingeki no kyojin #levi ackerman #attack on titan #snk #Captain levi #modern au #levi x reader imagine #ahhhh brrr #wufff #daddy levi makes me go wuf #barkkk #eye-

432 notes · View notes

cyhyr · 3 years

Text

Summer of Whump Day 15: Sleep Deprived

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: G

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi & Umino Iruka; Umino Iruka & Uzumaki Naruto

WC: ~3320

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Notes: AU backstory for the purposes of I Wanted To.

A/N: This is just. I don't even know guys. I started writing and then it got bigger and bigger and I couldn't stop. It's just. A Lot.

Kakashi has not been able to take care of his sensei’s child the way he should, the way the boy admittedly deserves; and yes, absolutely, he takes that fault personally but also doesn’t do anything about it because really… what can he provide for this child besides instability? He’s hardly in the village anymore, though Sandaime has hinted that, if Kakashi asked, he could be assigned missions closer to home. Instead, Kakashi does what he can without bothering Naruto or letting the boy realize that he even exists. He ensures the bills are paid up in six-month increments, and has the utility companies know to charge to his personal account anything he misses due to being out on mission. He provides non-perishable groceries, placed in the pantry late at night every month or so: oats, rice, dried or tinned meats, beans and legumes. He’ll bring a small selection of vegetables with him at the same time, (no more than three or four items, so they don’t rot before Naruto feels obligated to eat them) usually pilfered from Gai’s garden so he knows they’re not poisoned.

And whenever he’s in the village, he makes a stop at Naruto’s apartment at least once to check in on the wards wrapped into the walls and window frames.

This is how he learns about Umino Iruka and the interest he’s taken in the village jinchūriki.

The wards when he gets to Minato’s son’s apartment this time are different. Odd. Not… well, actually, they might be stronger; Kakashi glances at the walls with the sharingan and finds himself mildly impressed. Whoever placed these wards knew about the ones Kakashi put up, and modified their own to augment and strengthen Kakashi’s.

Kakashi says modified because he’s seen these styles of wards before, but never used like this. The key in the front door jingles a bit, like the person unlocking the door knows Kakashi’s in here and is giving him time to leave. Kakashi takes the out for what it is and slips out the window, closing it quietly behind him. He stays plastered against the wall beside the window for a moment, however, wanting to get a glimpse of who’s taking care of his sensei’s kid in Kakashi’s stead.

The door opens and Naruto—gods, how old is he, seven? Eight?—barrels by the figure in the doorway with a grin and shoots straight for the pantry.

“Naruto-kun, take your sandals off first. I mopped for you just earlier this week, I’m not doing it again so soon.”

One arm balancing a paper bag of fresh groceries, a leather school bag over the same shoulder; hitai-ate and vest both neat, but his sleeves and pants legs are scuffed; and his fingers carry the faint dusting of chalk that hours of holding ingrains and a quick wash won’t wipe away. A teacher.

“Iruka-sensei, I can mop later; I’m hungry now!”

“I won’t ask you twice.” The man—this Iruka-sensei—walks barefoot through the apartment and sets the grocery bag down on the kitchen table. Naruto hangs his head and goes back to the door, and once he’s out of the room, Iruka looks at the window Kakashi is peeking in, scowling initially. The scowl lessens when he sees the Konoha ANBU mask, and he nods, but makes a slight shoo gesture.

“What’re we making tonight, sensei?” Naruto bounds back into the room, barefoot as his sensei.

“I’m thinking of teaching you breakfast for dinner,” Iruka says. “Miso soup, tamagoyaki, steamed salmon; how’s that sound?”

“Sounds great!”

“And if we make enough, you’ll have enough for the morning, too,” Iruka ruffles Naruto’s hair. “Go grab out the rice and we’ll get started, okay?”

Kakashi leaves. Iruka-sensei seems to have only good intentions.

Iruka is a new teacher, one that (if the very quiet rumors are to be believed) didn’t initially want to be the jinchūriki’s homeroom teacher. Something changed his mind, clearly, and now he’s spending every moment outside of class with the kid.

Every. Moment.

Kakashi notices the third time he’s in the village after meeting Iruka—notices how tired the man seems. He follows the teacher from just before dawn when he wakes up and heads out to Naruto’s apartment and fixes him breakfast. Kakashi watches Iruka herd Naruto around the apartment, brushing teeth, getting changed, gods Naruto where’s your homework I told you to put it right back in your bag last night after I helped you with it. Then they’re out the door and one of them locks the deadbolt while the other activates the wards (Iruka always double-checks the wards if Naruto does them) and they walk to the Academy together.

Iruka spends the day in the Academy staunchly refusing to play favorites. If Kakashi didn’t know that the man had made Naruto eat breakfast while searching for a clean shirt for the child to wear, he’d swear Naruto was Iruka’s least favorite student—based solely on the amount of yelling.

But the two of them have lunch together, talk and hang out during recess unless Iruka shoos him away to play, and then they walk together to either Iruka’s or Naruto’s apartment after school. Sometimes they’ll go out for ramen, or to one of the training grounds to work on a technique they started in class which Naruto needs more time to fully grasp. Iruka is a patient teacher, especially one-on-one, and even though Minato-sensei’s son doesn’t perform well on the tests in school he learns the techniques after class and gains the appropriate muscle memory.

Which is admittedly much more important than the grades Naruto earns. Iruka won’t say as much, but it’s obvious that he agrees when his teaching style puts emphasis on practicals rather than paper tests. Kakashi approves.

After a day of minding twenty-five ankle-biters, an afternoon of extra training for the village jinchūriki, and an evening of making sure Naruto is fed and happy and his homework is completed to the best of his ability, Iruka then helps Naruto get ready for bed. Against the kid’s token protests, they’ll read a story together (Kakashi suspects Iruka does this because Naruto’s reading skills are lacking, but he could also very well just be doing it because he enjoys it—the man’s motives are enigma to him) and Iruka will tuck Naruto in. He stays at the apartment until he knows Naruto is asleep, tidying up here and there or even just leaning in the bedroom doorway watching the jinchūriki’s chest rise and fall.

Only when Naruto’s asleep will Iruka leave, activating the wards and locking up after himself.

It took only two times of Kakashi watching these kinds of days go by before he realized that Iruka knew he had been watched all day. As he passes the tree outside of Naruto’s building, the only one that reaches high enough to afford a glance into his apartment, Iruka looks right up into the limbs where Kakashi is crouched, waves, and continues back to his own home.

(He had been underestimating Umino Iruka’s awareness. He’s intrigued.)

(But anyway.)

Once he’s home, Iruka rushes through grading and lesson plans and adjustments. He makes lunch for himself and Naruto for tomorrow. Cleans, if he remembers; showers, if he has any energy left. Then, Umino-sensei crashes hard around one or two in the morning.

All to start over again at five-thirty the next morning.

It can’t be sustainable. Kakashi is morbidly interested in how long Iruka planned to keep up this kind of schedule.

It starts out with checking out during lunch. Kakashi is lounging in the trees on the Academy grounds, pretending to read but listening intently to Naruto ramble on about some new topping Ichiraku is introducing on Friday and please Iruka-sensei can we go? Then the soft click of dropped chopsticks against a bento box made Kakashi look down to the pair sitting at the base of his tree.

“Iruka-sensei? Are you—?”

“Oh, I’m. I’m alright.” Iruka laughs it off, fumbling for his chopsticks. “I was just thinking too hard there.”

“You shouldn’t do that!”

“Hu—?”

“You tell me not to think too hard all the time,” Naruto pouts. “That I’ll hurt myself.”

Iruka’s laugh crinkles his eyes and he tips his head back. “Gods, Naruto, I’m sorry—no, not—um. Listen, forget it, okay? Ramen, on Friday, right?”

“YES!”

And it was forgotten. Except, Iruka is unconsciously rubbing his fingers together beside his hip and Kakashi can see it. Something happened to force the drop—likely, he lost feeling in his hand briefly.

Kakashi’s out of the village as it gets worse, but he hears all about it from Shikaku and Inoichi when he gets back. They’re in the hallway outside the Hokage’s office, talking in low tones like they were discussing an attack on the village.

“What could cause such a serious mood shift?”

“Genjutsu; one of the other teachers sabotaging him; another student practicing poorly.”

“Iruka-sensei?” Kakashi asks.

Both men look at him as he approaches. He’s still in his ANBU armor, but the mask is in his locker. It’s an open secret he’s in ANBU; only his codename is high-clearance.

Shikaku nods. “Shikamaru’s complaining about the man’s temper being shorter than usual.”

“My Ino confirmed this behavior shift. We’re understandably worried, if someone if trying to use an Academy teacher to attack the kids—”

Kakashi shakes his head. “It’s not that.”

“And you would know?” Shikaku prompts.

“He’s taking care of Naruto,” Kakashi shrugs. “It’s probably catching up with him, finally.”

“What is?” Inoichi looks honestly confused.

Kakashi tilts his head and then realizes. “Ah. That’s right. You’re both married. You have a way to share the responsibilities.”

Sakumo hadn’t ever been irate with him, but Kakashi can remember him being tired. He lifts his hand and walks away. “I’ll see if I can’t have a talk with Iruka-sensei,” he says, as though he speaks with the man on a regular basis instead of just waving back from his shadowed space in the tree at night when Iruka leaves Naruto.

He doesn’t get a chance to talk to Iruka for weeks. When he gets back, it finally comes to a head.

Kakashi is perched outside Iruka’s apartment where he and Naruto are preparing their dinner. Naruto, still talking a mile a minute, hardly notices that Iruka is dazed at the counter, his hands going through the motions of peeling carrots and separating pieces of broccoli without being fully cognizant. He’s much paler than the last time Kakashi peeked in on them—all except for the bags under his eyes; those couldn’t get much darker if they were black.

He flinches forward as Iruka drifts to the side. Naruto catches his teacher before Kakashi can take a step, and the clang of a knife hitting the floor is more than a little startling. Together, they stick Iruka’s hand under running water from the tap, and then Naruto disappears further into the apartment and returns a few seconds later with a first aid kit.

“What was that about, Iruka-sensei?”

Iruka takes a bit to answer. “I haven’t been sleeping well,” he says. “I’m a bit tired, that’s all. Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Naruto says. He finishes caring for his sensei and then says, “How about I go get some take-out, and then we can clean up and you can go to bed?”

Iruka smiles tiredly. “We can bring the take-out to your place, okay? I’ll clean up when I come back home.”

“But—”

“It’s okay, Naruto,” Iruka puts his unbandaged hand in Naruto’s hair. “I’d rather make sure you’re fed and well-rested for school tomorrow. That’s what's important.”

“You’re important, too, sensei,” Naruto says.

Kakashi can’t help but agree.

“Let’s go get some ramen, and we can argue about this later.”

Kakashi flashes away to Ichiraku to put in their order and pay. It’s the least he can do, right?

Later that night, Iruka leaves Naruto’s apartment and like always, lifts his head to wave up at Kakashi in the tree. Only, his eyes roll back with the movement of lifting his head and his knees collapse under him and Kakashi makes it just in time to keep the sensei’s head from hitting the ground. He catches Iruka with one hand under his back and the other cupped behind his head and eases him down against his raised knee.

As soon as Iruka is horizontal, his eyes flutter back open. “Oh, ANBU-san,” he mutters. He’s dazed and foggy, but tries to stand up on his own anyway.

“Sensei, are you well?” Kakashi asks, knowing the answer but needing Iruka to admit it.

Iruka waves him away. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

It’s more than that if you’re slipping into micro-sleep, Kakashi thinks, but lets the man stubbornly stand up. He’s still holding his hands out, ready to catch him again, when after five paces Iruka tips sideways and falls again. Kakashi keeps him upright this time, arms tight around his waist and back.

Iruka stays under for a few seconds this time, and when he wakes he leans more heavily into Kakashi’s armor and groans. “What’s happening?” he murmurs.

Normally, he would stay and look after Naruto all night, but this seems more important. “Umino-sensei, I’m going to see you to the hospital now,” he says.

“But… Naruto?”

Because of course Iruka figured out that Kakashi—his ANBU persona at least—stays close to Naruto at all times. “Together, our wards are top-notch, sensei,” Kakashi says. “He’ll be okay for a night.” He slips Iruka onto his back, pulling his arms over his shoulders. Iruka’s light breath huffs past his ear as he says, “Hold on.” Then, they’re gone.

Iruka wakes up much later, Naruto tipped against his hospital bed, snoring. He feels so much better after however many hours of sleep he’s gotten. He wonders briefly why he’s here, and where the ANBU that brought him here is. If Naruto is here, that ANBU is likely closeby. Iruka lets out a jaw-cracking yawn and settles back down on the pillow to sleep some more.

When he wakes up the second time, it’s because he has to pee so bad oh gods. It’s night time and Naruto is gone—Iruka tries not to feel disappointed. His legs shake under him when he tries to stand to get to the restroom; whatever’s wrong with him, it’s making him weak as a newborn but he will not embarrass himself by not making it to the toilet. He pushes chakra through his legs, and, finally, blissfully, makes it.

He gets a good look at himself in the mirror as he’s washing his hands. His eyes are puffy and red, but he has some color back in his skin. His hair could use a wash and some heavy conditioning—he hadn’t had time for that in awhile. All in all, it’s not bad; but he’s still wondering why he’s here.

Iruka leaves the restroom and is halfway across the room to his bed when his chakra flares unexpectedly. He stumbles, collapses, and feels his eyes blur and begin to roll back.

Before his head can hit the tile, he’s caught and cushioned by Naruto’s ANBU. The ANBU gently picks him up, one arm under his knees and the other around his back, and it’s like Iruka weighs nothing as the ANBU stands and carries him back to bed.

“Thank-you, ANBU-san,” Iruka says, flushed. “I promise I’m not usually so weak.”

The ANBU fusses with the blanket and covers Iruka back up. He (Iruka assumes they’re a he, the voice and height lead him to believe it but he’s been wrong before) seems frustrated, in the way that ANBU show frustration: by being busy, and then by being absolutely still. He’ll make sure the water pitcher is full, and then stand silently by the window for a few seconds. Pace the width of the room from window to door and back, and then stand at the end of the bed.

“What’s going on, ANBU-san? Is Naruto—?”

“Uzumaki-kun is safe, healthy, and well-cared for,” the ANBU says, cutting him off. “You are a godsend to this village, if only to care for the uncared for.”

Iruka glowers. “Someone had to do it. He’s seven years old and living alone and has lived alone his entire life. I couldn’t—”

“I’m aware,” the ANBU holds up a hand to stop his rant. “Believe me, if I could have done more, I would have. But an ANBU is no role model, especially not me. I’m glad he’s had you. That said.” The ANBU somehow matched Iruka’s glower through the mask; he was suddenly glad for all the time spent in Sandaime’s office around the ANBU that he can pick up on these micro-aggressions for what they are.

Iruka folds his arms and waits for the ANBU to continue.

After a heavy sigh, the ANBU says, “Sleep deprivation.”

“I—what?”

“What you’re here for. You’ve been running yourself into the ground, sensei. You slept for twenty-two hours, and you’re still not fully recovered. The medics say it could take up to a week of proper sleep for you to feel normal again.”

Iruka flushes and ducks his head. “I… But, that doesn’t…”

“How much sleep have you been getting? Three, Four hours a night? And then you’re exhausting yourself all day looking after pre-genin and then Naruto.” The ANBU folds his arms. “This isn’t sustainable.”

“I know that. I just.” Iruka groans. “I don’t have time for—” He scrubs both hands across his eyes. Now that he’s actually gotten some sleep he’s really tired. “No one else takes care of him, not the way he needs it; he’s just a kid! It bothers me enough that he lives by himself—”

“Your immune system was compromised when you arrived, sensei.” The ANBU snapped, quieting Iruka’s tirade. “Who’s going to take care of Naruto the way he deserves if you’re stuck on your back with a perfectly, normally treatable form of the flu? What will happen to him if you critically injure yourself due to a micro-sleep at an inopportune time and find yourself off-roster for weeks? What then, sensei?”

The silence is heavy. Iruka picks at a stray thread in the blanket on his lap.

“I don’t know,” he answers, his voice small. “I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking that far ahead, I guess.”

The ANBU nods. “At least you’re aware now.”

There’s a long, awkward pause as Iruka wonders what else there is to say.

“You have a spare room in your apartment, yes?” the ANBU breaks the silence.

Iruka nods, slowly, not sure where this is going.

“Maybe…” the ANBU continues slowly, “maybe changes in Naruto’s living arrangements can be made. If Naruto were living with you, could you agree to a better sleep schedule—one with which you can better take care of yourself and Naruto?”

Iruka could kiss this man.

“Yes! Yes, please, I’ll—yes! I’ll take him, even if it means I have to lose him as a student, I’d take him as a foster.”

The ANBU chuckles. “I’ll speak with the Hokage. If he says no, well… There’s nothing saying that Naruto himself can’t choose where he lives, is there?” Then his micro-aggression is back, leaning over the foot of the bed with his arms wide. “My only stipulation is that you take better care of yourself. A sick guardian can’t very well keep up with any child, let alone a jinchūriki.”

Iruka nods. “Deal.” He covers a yawn with his palm and asks, “Can this taking care of myself clause start now, with me asking you to leave so I can go back to sleep?”

“I’m not leaving,” the ANBU says, standing back up straight. “If you’re to be the guardian of our jinchūriki, you’ll need to get used to the ANBU guard, sensei. But please, get some sleep.” He chuckles lightly, “I think I’ve caught you enough in the last thirty-six hours, don’t you?”

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump15 #sleep deprived #fanfic #hatake kakashi #umino iruka #uzumaki naruto #my writing

33 notes · View notes

dontcare77ghj · 3 years

Text

Leisure Sickness

Natasha x reader x Tony x Steve

Leisure sickness is defined as a psychological condition in which people, read workaholics, can become ill when given time off.

Leisure sickness's symptoms can include headaches, nausea, insomnia, and vomiting.

These symptoms quickly became synonymous with Steve, Natasha, Y/N, and Tony whenever they went on vacation.

The four of you had decided that you'd had enough with the media and the general public for this season. It seemed as if everyone had an opinion on the team, and you were all sick of it.

So Steve had pitched the idea of the four of you going on vacation for a couple of weeks.

It had been a lot of back and forth before the four of you came to a decision that you were all happy with.

The four of you would take three weeks off from the world unless it was about to end and stay at a house on Tony's private island.

"This place is massive. I'm pretty sure I've been lost for the last hour." You said, entering the kitchen where Natasha and Steve were putting groceries away.

"You've been gone ten minutes, doll." Steve chuckled, stocking the fridge full of drinks.

"Are you sure? Because I'm pretty sure it's been an hour." You commented, taking a seat on the counter. "Are we sure time doesn't work differently here?"

"How much coffee have you had?" Natasha asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"I had two cups on the plane." You told her honestly.

"You mean the cups that were basically soup bowls?" Steve clarified.

"I drank whatever was served to me." You shrugged.

"We're going to talk about that later," Natasha said, pointing a finger at you. "But first, can you find Tony? We haven't seen him since we got here."

"Sure. I've explored a lot of this place. I should be able to find him." You shrugged, jumping off the counter.

"Alright, we'll see you in an hour," Steve said, receiving the middle finger from you.

To be fair, Steve might have been pretty spot on. To explore just the ground floor took you about twenty minutes, and there were still two floors, both with dozens of rooms each, to search.

"What's behind door number nineteen?" You mumbled, pulling open your nineteenth door, you'd been counting, to reveal another bathroom.

Except this one held your Tony. A Tony who wasn't looking so good.

"Tones?" You asked quietly, moving to kneel beside the empty bathtub Tony was occupying. "What's wrong, hon?"

"Just a bit of a headache," Tony mumbled.

"And you're in the bathtub because?"

"It's nice and cool," Tony told you, keeping his eyes closed.

"Okay, how about you stay here, and I'll get you something for your head?" You suggested, gently brushing hair off his forehead.

"Thank you," Tony mumbled, leaning his head back once more.

"Couldn't you find him?" Steve asked when you reentered the kitchen.

"No, I found him." You told him, beginning to look through the cupboards. "Hauled up in a bathtub with a raging headache. Did we pack any Tylenol?"

"Here," Natasha said, throwing it to you. "I thought he looked a little pale on the plane." She commented.

"He was fine before we got on the plane, though," Steve mentioned. "You think it's an extreme form of jetlag?"

"Could be. It could also be the fact that Tony's not looked after himself at all the past week." You said. "He's been working himself to the bone. His body probably doesn't understand what's going on."

"So we should expect him to feel worse." Natasha deduced. "I'll make something to settle his stomach." She nodded to herself.

"And I'll deliver this." You said, shaking the pills.

"I'll come with you. I imagine the bathtub's not that comfortable, and Tony might not want to walk to the bedroom." Steve said, moving to follow you.

"Has death finally come for me?" Tony asked when the two of you made your way back to him.

"Not yet, Tones." You told him, kneeling in the same place as before.

"And not for a long time," Steve added, bending beside you.

"Ugh, I really thought it was him that time." Tony sighed before cracking his eyes open. "Did you bring the good stuff?"

"I did." You nodded, dosing out two of the tablets and handing them to him. "Give me a second, and I'll get you some water." You said, rising to stand, but Tony took the two dry. "That's disgusting."

"Water's for bitches." Tony grunted before closing his eyes again.

"Come on, Tony, let's get you to bed," Steve said to him.

"Too much work." Tony denied before Steve picked him up. "Woah! Give a man a little warning." Tony grumbled as Steve chuckled quietly.

"Asking's for bitches." You teased, walking in front of the two and opening doors.

"Get some rest, Tony," Steve said, putting onto the bed and pulling the covers over him.

"I'll shut my eyes for a few minutes, and I'll be fine," Tony mumbled, rolling over onto his side.

It didn't even take Tony another minute before he was fast asleep.

The next time the four of you decided to go on vacation, you'd decided to go a bit more touristy.

The four of you were in London for two weeks and would be spending your days visiting every popular tourist attraction. It was your second day in London, the first dedicated to sleeping off the jetlag, and you would soon be leaving the house.

At least you would be if you could settle your stomach.

Your stomach had been churning all night, and no matter what, you couldn't stop it. You'd managed to crawl into the bathroom and not wake anyone, but now you were stuck on the floor.

"Sweetheart? Y/N?" You could hear your name being called. "Y/N, where are you?"

The bathroom door opened, but you couldn't lift your head from its position.

"Found her," Natasha called before walking over to you. "You look like shit, med," Natasha said, placing a hand on your back.

"Nice, real nice." You groaned, lifting your head slightly. "Just give me a minute to get up and get dressed, and we can get going."

"The only place you're going is back to bed," Natasha told you as Steve and Tony entered the bathroom.

"Doll, are you okay?" Steve questioned you.

"I'm fine. I just need help getting up. And maybe getting dressed." You told him.

"Y/N, you are sick," Natasha said firmly.

"Nu-uh, I haven't thrown up yet." You denied.

"You don't look too far off from it, babe," Tony informed you. "How long have you been here?"

"I don't know. It was still dark when I came in." You grunted before dry heaving, but nothing would come up.

"Okay, Steve, would you please get some ginger ale?" Natasha asked, pulling your hair off your face. "Y/N, when was the last time you ate?"

"Not sure."

"Okay, add some saltines to that order too, Steve," Natasha told him.

"Do you honestly not remember the last time you ate?" Tony asked, coming to sit next to Natasha.

"I was working on that paperwork for Nick until the minute we left." You mumbled. "Forgot to eat."

"And that's most likely why you're feeling like crap now." Natasha hummed. "Do you think you'll be okay if we get you back to bed?"

"Just leave me here to perish." You groaned.

"No can do, you're stuck with us," Tony said as he helped Natasha pull you to your feet.

"Sorry I ruined vacation." You whimpered as you were laid in bed.

"You didn't ruin anything, med," Natasha promised, brushing hair from your forehead. "Not at all."

"We still have time before we have to go home." Tony soothed your guilty conscience. "There's plenty of time to do all the touristy bullshit your little heart desires."

"Yay." You moaned, curling into a ball.

It was a long time before the four of you were able to go on another vacation.

Missions had begun to become back to back and would last weeks, Tony was forced to travel for SI, and Fury seemed to have an unhealthy attachment to long meetings.

It was after Natasha had been on a mission for two months, Tony had been in Japan for one month, and you and Steve had endured countless hours in the hands of Fury that Steve declared you all needed a vacation.

Steve had literally googled relaxing vacations before deciding upon Brittany, France.

Though Steve had argued with Fury, for what felt like days, Steve was only able to barter a week off for the four of you.

"Tony, why do you have more bags than me?" You asked as Steve attempted to play Tetris with your luggage.

"I like to have options, dear," Tony said, pulling his sunglasses on. "Never know when one of those parasites are going to spot me."

"Don't call reporters parasites." Steve chided.

"Are we ready to go yet?" Natasha asked, pulling on a jacket despite it being a warm day. "The plane is going to leave soon."

"Just one more bag, and we can get going," Steve told her, picking up a small suitcase.

"Can I once again point out how ridiculous that is? I own the plane. It should wait for me." Tony scoffed, climbing into the car with Natasha right behind him.

The four of you faced no more problems until halfway through the flight. Natasha had jumped from her seat, startling the three of you from your half-asleep states, and bolted into the plane's bathroom.

It was seconds before the sounds of retching filled the plane.

"Tash?" Steve asked as the three of you stood up.

"I'm good." Natasha choked out. "Get away from the door, Steven."

"How'd she know it was only me?" Steve grumbled, walking back over to you and Tony.

"Spy, Steven!"

Natasha stayed in the bathroom for another seven minutes exactly. When she exited, her skin was flushed, she was covered in a thick layer of sweat, and she was shivering violently.

"FRI give me Nat's temperature," Tony demanded as you rushed to pull Natasha to a chair.

"101.3, boss," FRIDAY informed you all.

"Shit, Nat," Steve swore. "How long have you been running a fever?"

"Not running a fever." Natasha denied, lounging back in the chair and pulling her jacket closer.

"101.3 is a fever, Tash." You said, pulling her jacket off. "We might have to get you to a hospital."

"How long until we land, FRI?"

"Three hours, boss."

"We're going to have to bring her temperature down ourselves," Steve said, grabbing a towel and dumping his iced water on it.

By the time the plane landed, the three of you had successfully managed to bring Natasha's temperature down.

The four of you emerged from the plane, Natasha cradled in Steve's arms.

"That was probably the most stressful start to a vacation," Tony commented as you all entered a waiting car. "Let's get you to a hospital, hey, Nat?"

The four of you stayed away from vacations for a long time after that incident. Not because you were all slightly traumatized but because life seemed to pick up its pace once more.

It had been a year and a half since Natasha had a raging fever, and now the four of you were on yet another getaway.

Except for this time, it was for new reasons.

The four of you had had a commitment ceremony just two days ago, the Asgardian equivalent of a polyamorous wedding.

It had been a long time coming and a lot of planning, but it was worth it. And it had meant everything to you all.

Now the four of you were on your honeymoon in Tony's rebuilt Malibu home.

"Do you think we'd get in trouble if we moved here?" Natasha asked, pulling her sunglasses down.

"From who? We're all adults. Who would we get in trouble with?" Tony asked her.

"Fury. The government. The news. The world." You listed off.

"At the end of the day, how much do they really matter?" Tony shrugged, pulling you onto his lap.

"You would avoid Nick?" Natasha asked, quirking a brow.

"The pirate doesn't scare me." Tony shook his head as you and Natasha grinned. "Don't tell him I said that."

Before either of you could respond, the sound of footsteps coming closer caused you all to look up.

Steve was staggering over to the poolside, looking very much worse for wear.

"Jesus, Stevie, how many laps did you do?" Natasha asked as Steve stole her water and gulped it down.

"One." Steve gasped. "I felt like I was going to pass out, so I quit."

"Jesus Christ, sit down, Steve." You ordered, standing and moving over to the blonde. "You are really pale." You tsked, holding his head in your hands.

"That's the Irish in him." Tony joked, now standing behind you with Natasha at his side.

"When was the last time you slept?" You asked, running your finger over the prominent dark circles.

"The wedding night." Steve sighed. "I haven't been able to sleep since."

"You're exhausted, Steve." Natasha pointed out. "You can't run on willpower alone."

"I know that, but I physically can't make myself sleep," Steve told her. "I don't know what it is, but I can't."

"Maybe it's because you're trying to force yourself to sleep instead of allowing yourself to." Tony reasoned.

"Why did you get all philosophical?" Steve asked him.

"Always have been. Let's get you to bed, Cap." Tony said, helping Steve to his feet. With a bit of maneuvering, the three of you were able to move the bulky super soldier to your large bed and put him under the covers.

"Stay, please," Steve mumbled, already half asleep.

"Always, Stevie." You said as the three of you crawled in beside your Steve.

Vacations could always be stressful, but it seemed for the four of you it was always amplified. Especially when someone always managed to get sick.

Remember all Taglists are open as are requests.

Taglist

@rvgrsbrns @smilexcaptainx @hopingforbarnes @starlingelliot @piper-koko-barnes-rogers @jelly-fishy-babie @skeletoresinthebasement @agent-barnes40 @reann-shitposting @skadikh @summergeezburr @buckybarton03 @sunshinepower17 @bindythedemon @natasharomanoffismywife @keenmarvellover @bbybarness @storiesbystarlight @buckybarnesplumwhore @bromieeeomieee @marvelmenarebeautiful @niki-is-a-thing @pauloonig @abyssiniapleasant @beautybyfire @officalmarvelbaby @acertainredhead @reapersan @adoreyou976 @casperlikej @songbirdcannabe

Natasha Romanoff Taglist

@natasha-danvers @5aftermidnightdaily-blog @ohfuckno

All women Taglist

@imnotasuperhero

#natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #steve rogers #steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #tony stark #tony x reader #tony stark x reader #avengers x reader

107 notes · View notes

shreddedparchment · 4 years

Text

Pseudo Princess Pt.13

Amends Through Timber

10/29/2019

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader Word Count: 6,020

Warnings: language, angst

A/N: This one actually got away from me. It was supposed to have more but this is where it went. Next chapter we’ll know the answer to everyone’s burning question. I hope you enjoy this one. Let me know what you like! If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Tags are CLOSED for this story!

“Are you hungry?” Nat sighs, leaning in your usual light blue seat to try and look at you.

The unending stress that you’ve been in since you got back to the castle is bad for you. You know this.

You breathe in slowly, letting the soft breeze from your open window soothe your clammy skin, stomach churning.

“Please stop talking about food, I beg you.”

Nat huffs a laugh. You peek at her and find her staring at you, sitting in a very relaxed pose with her arm draped over the back of her seat. You’d believe it was her throne if she told you it was, she the queen and you the lady’s maid. She’s so much better than you.

“Why are you laughing at my discomfort?” You pout, turning back towards the outside. The night is late, and the fire is still blazing.

You’re grateful for it. It’s quite chilly out and you’re cold despite the cold sweat on your skin. About three hours ago your stomach began to swirl, flipping upside down and then twisting uncomfortably fast until you rushed to a basin that Nat had brought in on instinct for you.

You’d brought up your dinner and now you’re waiting for the wooziness to pass.

“I’m not laughing at your discomfort. I’m laughing because you’ll be asking for food in twenty minutes. I guarantee it.” She claims confidently.

You can’t see how you’ll ever want to eat again with this nausea.

You groan and Nat’s expression shifts instantly from amusement to deep concern.

“Are you okay?” She hurries to her feet, moving towards you to place her hand on your lower back and the other on your arm.

“I’m fine. Just wish this would pass.” You sigh.

She glances towards the shut door—securely locked just as you’d requested—before she speaks. “This may not pass, Y/N. If you’re pregnant, then this might be something you’ll have to deal with for a few weeks. Maybe months.”

“How do you know?” You ask, curious as to how she knows when she clearly has no children.

“I’ve been around. One of my closest friends has a wife and three children. I was there to help her through all three pregnancies and births.” Nat explains and you’re so relieved.

Knowing that she’s been there for someone through something like this, three times no less, gives you such comfort.

“The midwife you sent for,” She begins, keeping her voice nice and low so that only your ear will catch the sound. It almost seems to blend in with the cool breeze, long curtains ruffling with movement. “…why her?”

“She’s not just a midwife.” You lick your lips, feeling your stomach begin to settle. “There were rumors that she was a witch but that’s not what she is.”

“Is she just an old woman?” Nat asks.

“No. She’s not just that either. I know that this might sound weird and…will you keep her secret? I will share it with you only so that you might understand why she is important.” You probe, checking to see if Nat is trustworthy.

You know she is. But with something like this? There’s a reason the idiots in your village referred to the old woman as a witch. Ignorance mostly, but there you are.

“Y/N, I will never betray your confidence unless I think your life is in danger.” Nat assures you, rubbing your back more energetically.

You relax again. “She’s always been able to feel things. What I was feeling but not just emotionally. She can tell when I’m ill and she was part of the reason that the warning for the plague went out so quickly when I was a child.

“See, she was with my parents when they passed, and she’d sent a man to deliver message to the King that there was plague in our village. If she hadn’t sent that man to deliver her message, we would have had to wait until my parents died to realize it was the plague and by then even more people would have become ill.

“Malibia owes her a great debt, though they do not know it.” You reach out to shut the window and move back to bed, hiking up your nightdress as you knee-walk to the center and drop down before pulling your blanket up around you.

Nat follows, helping you tuck yourself in.

“You mean she has special abilities?” Nat clarifies.

“You won’t hold it against her?” You worry, leaning to look at her face, taking her hand in your own. “She’s a good woman. I know her by sight and my one interaction with her right before I was pulled into this life. She’s been nothing but kind to me. She never judged me or hated me the way some of the others did when I was orphaned.”

“I thought you said she nursed your parents?” Nat checks confused by your words.

“She did. If she and I interacted, I do not remember it. I was too young, I think.” The old woman had watched over you. You’re sure of it.

Sometimes you’d come home after working on one of the farms all day without eating to find a portion of bread and some cold soup in a small cauldron.

You’d warm it up and dip your bread in the thick broth. Your stomach was happiest on those days when the old woman took pity on you as a child. The meals grew fewer and fewer the older you became and were able to fend for yourself better but sometimes, on particularly hard days you’d still come home to find a small cauldron of soup and the same slightly chewy bread.

It was a blessing.

“I won’t speak of it.” Nat promises and goes back to tucking you in.

“When will she arrive?” You wonder, eager to have your suspicions confirmed.

You’d been on the move with Thor when he’d asked you an intriguing question.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Have you bled recently, little bird? Here, I found these for you when I bought your dress.” Thor holds out his hand and offers you several long strips of cotton fabric.

“Why-?” You begin, staring at the rags with confusion.

“I also spotted some blood moss through those trees we just passed. Perhaps you should take some?” He points behind him and you realize what he’s saying.

“Oh, right.” You move around him but as you go, he drops his cloak around your shoulders and carefully turns you to face him so that he can fasten it around your shoulders.

“Take this too. The red will help.” He reasons. “And it’s still a little cold.”

“Why are you so nice to me?” You wonder up at him as he smiles, his blue eyes twinkling happily. “And how do you know so much about women?”

Thor chuckles. “I am a God of fertility, little bird. Also, my mother was very wise and thought all men of the Kingdom should have basic knowledge of female anatomy. Some took it more seriously than others. I’m glad I paid attention. We’ve been out here for nearly four weeks.”

You know what he’s saying. He finishes with his cloak then reaches up to run his thumb along your cheekbone, caressing the bump before he turns back towards the spot he’d begun clearing for camp.

You turn towards the trees he’d pointed to before and squat down to gather the moss and carefully place it between two strips of the fabric Thor had given you and then shove it into your small satchel. You make several of them before stowing the extras and then wander back as Thor gets the fire going.

As you watch him work, his cloak wrapped around you, you try to remember the last time you bled. It’s been a while. Normally you wouldn’t bleed seeing as you hardly ate good foods back home, but you’ve been with his Majesty for half a year.

In that time, since you ate much more and became much healthier, your body had begun regular bleeds…maybe it’s just the stress of this whole situation?

When you look up, you find Thor smiling at you from across a roaring fire, a knowing look in his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~

“She’ll be here tomorrow morning.” Nat moves to take the basin you’d thrown up in, carefully placing a lid over it.

“Nat?”

She stops and turns to look at you.

“I don’t want to see him.” You watch her face, waiting for her to acknowledge your desire.

After watching you for a bit, she puts the basin back down and moves to sit beside you.

“I know that you don’t want to hear about her. I’m not trying to make excuses for him or…taking his side?” You can see her mind racing, she’s so desperate to tell you what she needs to in a way that won’t hurt you.

You give in and allow yourself to listen. For Nat. Because you love her.

Settling in against your pillows, you wait patiently.

“But when Thor brought you to us, you were unconscious. You’d fallen and hit your head and he was…”

“I didn’t fall off of a horse though.” You offer. “And I have no scratches.”

“How-?” Nat begins.

“He told me that day he gave me a tour of the castle. I asked him and he told me and then he grew angry because I brought her up.” You sigh. “Maybe I should feel worse that my injury will remind him of her, but I don’t. I don’t care that it will make him think of her. He cares naught for me so-”

“Y/N,” Nat says, a little sterner. “Steve isn’t thinking of Margaret right now. I mean, he is but he’s worried about you. His only thought since you left us has been for you.”

“I don’t believe you.” You tell her simply. “How can he be indifferent to me one day and suddenly care the next?”

“What about the flower he gave you?” Nat wonders.

“The flower he crushed underneath his boot? I think he made it very clear that he doesn’t want me in his life, Nat. He dragged me from his study. He told me that he shouldn’t have married me. That it was all a mistake.

“His Majesty doesn’t love me. I know that now. I can accept it now. If I am pregnant, then I will give birth to his heir. I will take the child with me somewhere away from here so that he won’t have to put up with me and I will hire the best scholars and raise my child to rule his kingdom with compassion and wisdom.

“He will never have to see me again and I will never have to feel like someone’s mistake, ever again.” You finish passionately.

During your little speech you’d sat up, rising off your pillows and now that you’re done, you fall back.

Nat blinks, weighing your words.

“You think Steve doesn’t love you?” Nat asks.

“I know he does not. Nat, I really don’t want to speak about his Majesty. Or Margaret. Please don’t make me speak of them again. Even my patience wears thin. My heart can only take so much disappointment.” You sigh, feeling closer to heartbroken again after saying your piece.

“Fine.” Nat sigh, getting up to pick up the basin again. “I’m sorry. I will keep Steve out for as long as I can.”

That doesn’t sound promising.

“Nat?” You sit up again as she stops at the door as Peter opens it, turning to look at you.

“Yes?”

“I’m hungry.”

Nat smiles, all tension from your disagreement vanishing as she nods. “I’ll see what I can find for you.”

Peter smiles at you as he closes the door. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t get in, your Majesty.”

His promise is resolute.

~~~~~~~~~~

Earlier That Evening

They lapse into silence, both thinking about Hydra until Steve remembers that there was something else Thor wanted to say.

“What was the second thing?” He asks.

“What?” Thor seems confused for a moment.

Steve raises both eyebrows, waiting.

“Oh!” Thor shakes his head. “Right. The other thing.”

Steve waits, heart pounding.

Thor considers his friend for a long moment, then smiles. “It’s nothing. I’m sure my little bird will tell you in time.”

“Your little bird?” Steve asks, incredulous.

“Yes.” Thor nods. “My little bird. Do you not have a term of endearment for her yet? You’ve been married six months.”

Steve’s heart falls. He’s never called you anything other than your name and even that he’s only said when absolutely necessary.

“Oh, that’s right. You’ve been busy pushing her away. Making her feel unloved.”

“Alright.” Steve says, frustrated.

“Unwanted.” Thor continues.

“Okay.” He sighs.

“Like she doesn’t deserve to be here. Telling her that marrying her was a mistake.”

“Alright, Thor, I get it! I understand that I have been an utter bastard when it comes to Y/N.” He gets up and moves around towards Margaret’s corner, staring at the book that you’d touched. Looked at. The cushion you’d sat on.

You’d gravitated towards the corner, a shrine if he’s honest to his long dead wife. And then he takes in the view. Margaret’s pavilion with red daisies the clear focal point. All of this he did to make Margaret happy.

He hasn’t done anything for you.

“What if she doesn’t believe me?” Steve worries. “I’ve been horrible to her. She won’t know that I mean it when I tell her that I love her.”

“Do you love her?” Thor asks, leaning back in his chair again.

“At first it was just…she’s like a magnet. I wanted to be around her. It scared me. I haven’t felt like that since Margaret. Then as I got to know her, saw her with our friends, I saw her goodness. I became grateful that she married me. She made this castle feel like home again though…I brought up Margaret too often. Compared them.

“I didn’t realize I was doing it. I just…I miss her so much.” Steve confesses, looking at Maggie’s seat again.

“And you will always long for you first wife, my friend. That sort of love does not disappear.”

Steve is silent, reaching down to flip open the book that you’d touched. Maggie’s book on the economy. Outdated.

“I love the way Y/N takes everything in stride. She doesn’t pretend that things are not difficult, but she doesn’t shy away from them. She dives headfirst into whatever challenge she’s facing.” He smiles. “I hate that she neglects herself. I know why she does it and it kills me to think that she’s been depriving herself of things to make me happy.”

“You’ve been depriving her too.” Thor points out.

“Not on purpose. I…when Maggie and I were newly married I made her a promise that I would always be hers. That I wouldn’t stray. That it would be her until the day we died. I would never sleep with anyone else and I’ve broken that promise.” Steve sighs, dropping the book’s cover so that it falls with a puff of dust.

“No, you haven’t.” Thor argues.

Steve turns to look at him, curious.

“You promised her, what? That it would only be her until the day you both died?” Thor asks. “Margaret has died, Steve. Do you think she would hold you back from being happy? Do you suppose her spirit will return to punish you for loving your new wife? For giving into her?”

“You sound like Bucky.” Steve sighs, looking back out towards the pavilion.

“For good reason, dear friend. You are being an utter fool and your wife…the current one…love you.”

“How do you know?” Steve has seen it or, he thinks he’s seen it. What if it’s all just duty for you? You’d shouted it at him just before you’d run away but what if it had been yelled in the moment? Or maybe it was a figure of speech?

“Because she told me. And anyone with eyes can see it. She’s completely smitten by you and I can’t fathom as to why. I expect her attachment will only grow once you start treating her right.” Thor grumbles, bitter.

Steve turns to look at him, brow furrowed at the Thunder God’s frustration.

“You’d really take her from me?”

“If she would come. Yes.” Thor sighs. “As it is, she will not. Maybe once she leaves you, I’ll take her on as a lover? We may not be able to marry but she might bear my children?”

The image of stabbing Thor through the chest returns to Steve’s mind and only lets up when Thor’s booming laugh fills the study.

“I am joking, stop murdering me in your head.” Thor chuckles. “If you feel this way then why do you leave her in any doubt? What is stopping you? And don’t say Margaret because it’s not Margaret. Perhaps at first it was, but it isn’t anymore.”

Steve moves to sit back down, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“What if I lose her? What if…I let myself really love her and she dies, like Maggie? I don’t—I think I’d jump from the West tower. I can’t allow myself to love her if it means that I’ll lose her.” He shakes his head, imagining a life without you now and it scares him. His castle empty again.

No one to brighten it with soft smiles and your beaming laugh when you and Nat have your heads together, whispering amongst yourselves.

“Nothing lasts forever, my friend. In our line of work…you’ve struggled to overcome Margaret’s death because you didn’t expect it to be as mundane as it was. You expected to either lose in her the fight or die yourself, leaving her a widow, did you not?”

Steve shuts his eyes, reliving the memory of coming home to find Maggie sick in bed, dying from infection. So stupid. After everything they’d lived through, she’d been taken during a time of peace. From a small scratch.

His heart suddenly tightens, and he gets to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Thor asks, getting to his feet too.

“I need to check on Y/N.” Steve declares.

Thor reaches out and grabs his elbow to stop him.

“Not yet. We’re not finished, and I am fairly certain she may not want to see you.” Thor confesses.

Steve hates that he knows Thor is right. You probably hate him now.

Why does that thought terrify him? You can’t hate him. You’re his wife. He needs you.

Slowly he sits back down, and Thor does too.

“She will die, Steve. Someday, she will. As will you. You cannot let that fear keep you from living your life. That woman…your wife…deserves to be loved. If you will not give it to her, someone else will.” Thor promises.

Steve glares at him.

“I didn’t say it would be me.” Thor smiles.

“How do I fix this, Thor?” Steve wonders, wringing his hands between his knees as he struggles to devise a plan for this special kind of assault.

“First, why don’t you try and apologize?” Thor suggests. “Then, if she accepts your apology, you better make damn sure you show her what she means to you and leave her in no doubt of it. Our little bird is patient, but I think she’s just about done with you.”

Steve’s heart breaks.

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a scuffle outside your door.

You hear muted grunts. A strange whisp sound. Like something flying through the air very quickly. Faster than you can imagine.

Your doors are suddenly pushed inwards and then you hear more grunting.

“Fine!” His Majesty shouts, and you jump, clutching your blanket closer to your chest as you try and recover from the sudden awakening.

Your mind is still fuzzy, but it quickly surmises that his Majesty was probably trying to get in and Peter was keeping him away.

“I said I’ll stop. Alright? Cut me out of this.” His Majesty says, muffled through your doorway but still clear enough to understand.

“I don’t trust you.” Peter says.

“Peter…” His Majesty growls.

“Fine. But if you try and go in again, I’ll web you to the ceiling.” Peter threatens.

You feel a surge of gratitude for him and make your way out of bed. Your fire is going out.

You quickly stoke it, poker in hand as your toes curl and uncurl against the large woven rug beneath your feet.

“Y/N?” His Majesty’s voice probes. It’s much clearer. His lips probably pressed as close to the seam between the two doors without actually being on it.

Your heart freezes and restarts, pounding fast and painful.

The last time he’d spoken to you he’d told you that marrying you was a mistake.

“I know what I said before you left…why you left.” He begins, and it’s so jarring that it feels like he’s reading your mind.

You sit slowly on one of your comfy light blue chairs, both angled towards the fire. You shift so that you can sit facing the doorway, hands clinging onto the arm of the chair.

“I’m sorry.” He sighs. “I have no right to ask for your forgiveness but I—You scare me.”

You scoff.

“No, Y/N…” Oh, shit! He can hear you. “I’m—this would be much better if I could speak with you face to face.”

“She doesn’t wanna see you.” Peter says firmly, insistent, and threatening.

“I know that.” His Majesty gripes. “But…”

He turns back towards the door.

“Can’t I come in to see you?” He pleads, agony in his deep soothing tone.

“No.” You reply, firm and angry. Since he can hear you, no point in denying him an answer.

He sighs.

“When I said that it was a mistake to marry you, I didn’t mean that I don’t want you to be my wife.” He begins, and you have the urge to scoff again.

Everything that he’s done until now has given you the clear indication that he truly and deeply regrets marrying you.

“I only meant that if I had not married you…I would not have made you feel so…the way I’ve been…the way you’ve been…I only meant that…”

“Say something!” You nearly shout, gasping with frustration at his inability to make sense.

You hear a thump as he clearly bangs his head against the door firm enough to ache but not to hurt himself.

“I love you.” He says.

Your heart is leaping. Your stomach is twirling, and you can’t believe your ears. You’re dreaming. You have to be.

“I never meant to compare you to Maggie. I didn’t realize I was doing it until you yelled at me and I’ve been trying to find a way to make up for the things I’ve said. I never meant to make you feel as if you aren’t good enough because you are. You are so good. Too good for me.”

Stupid idiot that you are, you cry. Soft quiet tears that you keep to yourself.

“You and Margaret are different people. She was the love of my life. The woman that I’d chosen to spend the rest of my life with.”

“I’m not Margaret, your Majesty.” You tell him, your voice slightly strained.

“Are you crying?!” He suddenly asks, another loud thump, this time a fist. “Please, please don’t cry anymore. I’m sorry. Please let me in.”

“Stop asking.” Peter growls.

You hear handle of your door wobble and then another scuffle.

Rising to your feet, you move towards the door and place your hands on the handle. Squeezing it tight so that your knuckles hurt.

Something hits the door and it rattles.

Startled you make to open it but then Steve grunts.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I won’t try again. Peter, let me go.”

“No.” Peter says. “I don’t trust you.”

“I promise. Okay? I promise I won’t try and open it again. I’m sorry. Y/N, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t believe you.” You tell him, ignoring their fight as your mind reels with his previous confession.

You hear more shifting on the other side of the door and a final grunt before his Majesty’s voice is right beside you, clear as day through the seam between the doors.

“What don’t you believe?” He asks, voice soft, gentle. You haven’t heard him like this ever. Not with you.

“You don’t love me.” You say.

“I do.” You hear him run his hand against the door, caressing the wood. “I do love you. It may not be the exact same way that I loved Maggie-”

“I never wanted to take her place!” You say, raising your voice in frustration. “Did I ever say that I wanted to replace her?!”

“No. Of course, not my sweet. You didn’t. That was entirely of my own doing. I was the one that saw you as a threat to the love that Margaret and I had once shared. I never wanted to get married again, Y/N.

“Damn it, I wish you would let me explain this to you face to face, but I-I was forced to marry. My advisory council gave me an ultimatum. They told me that I had a year in which to get married.” He begins.

“I already know that.”

“Yes, I know. But what you don’t know is that I had hoped to marry Morgana because she was young.”

“What?!” You lean away in slight disgust.

“No! Fuck, this isn’t coming out at all the way I intended.” He rubs the door again. “I wasn’t ready to remarry. Even after two years, my heart was still resolutely pinned to Margaret’s and the idea of marrying anyone was detestable.

“I figured that if I married Morgana, young as she was, it would give me time to get used to the idea of having a new wife. She could grow into a young woman and if she decided to remain married to me then we could consummate our marriage when she was of age. Old enough to make her own choices. If not, then I could release her back to your parents, and I could marry someone more suitable then.”

“Oh.” You reply lamely. That does make more sense though.

He’d been betting on having years to work through his grief. To get used to the idea of living his life without his beloved wife. As much as you hate him right now, you can’t help but feel a little sorry for him.

“When I told the council of my intended bride, they explained further that I would also be expected to produce an heir within the year following my marriage. Morgana was too young. I…I couldn’t do that to her, so I wrote to your father to tell him that I could not marry her. I explained why and he wrote back rather quickly to tell me that he had another daughter. An older daughter that had been kept away from the castle.

“I accepted. I needed to keep my Kingdom safe and I was willing to do anything to do so.

“When I met you—I admit that I didn’t look at your portrait. So, when I found you standing in our throne room, in your blue dress, eyes full of hope and excitement I wasn’t prepared to be as drawn to you as I was.

“I wanted you. I hadn’t expected that. The more I watched you the deeper I fell for you.” He continues.

“You’re lying.” You frown.

“I will never lie to you.” He swears. “I fought my attraction to you with every fiber of my being. I clung even harder to my memories of Maggie and I pushed you away as hard as I could. The night we consummated our marriage—I felt as if I was betraying her. Breaking our vows to love and belong to only each other.

“And when I saw what I’d done…I never meant to hurt you. I wish I could take that first night back, but it is seared into my very heart and since that night I live in fear that I will hurt you again.” He whispers.

“But you haven’t been hurting me. Not in bed.” You assure him.

“No, but I haven’t been a good husband either. Can you ever forgive me for…Thor told me that-”

No!

“-That you were curious. That you were angry at me…that he…” His voice drops even further so that you have to press your ear to the seam of the door to hear him. “…he said you tasted…”

There’s a sudden BANG! against the door. A fist, you realize as you jump back a little.

“I should have made you feel that way.” He growls.

You never wanted Steve to know about what happened. You feel dirty suddenly. Like you’ve betrayed your own vows.

“I…I was curious. But I didn’t ask him to-”

“Did he force you?!” His Majesty suddenly asks, fury in his voice.

“No.” You shake your head. “No, I-I let him. I should have stopped him sooner but I-”

Another thump. His forehead this time.

“Let’s not talk about it.” He pleads. “I don’t want to picture it again.”

The two of you fall into silence, you lower yourself onto the floor slowly, sitting and waiting for him to speak again. When he doesn’t, you find your strength.

“I was going to leave you.” You say quietly.

“What?” He asks, shock in his voice. You hear him slide down so that he may be level with you on the other side of the doors.

“I’d already decided that I would stay until I became pregnant and once I had o-our child that I would take him and live somewhere away from you. I’d raise him myself and when he’s of age, I would send him to you. To take his rightful place. But at least this way I wouldn’t be here, bothering you the way I have.”

“You are not a bother, Y/N. And I am truly furious that I have made you feel as if you are. I wasn’t ready for you, that’s true, but you have been the best part of my day for months.” He rubs the door again. “And I will start showing you because you deserve to see how much I love you.”

Your tummy flips again and as much as you want to believe him, you’re not sure you can.

“I don’t know if I can believe you.” You admit, sighing in defeat.

“Somehow,” his Majesty begins. “Some way. I will prove it to you. Tell me how I can begin to prove it to you, my…”

He goes silent.

“Your Majesty?” You check, in case he left.

“Thor calls you his little bird.” He suddenly says. “What endearments might I use for you? You are my Queen, but you are so much more than that, despite how I might have behaved in the past.”

You’re startled, at a loss by what he means by asking you to choose your own nickname.

“Y/N?”

You swallow, “I uh…I don’t know.” You admit.

“Perhaps you might be my dove?” He checks, trying the name on.

You picture the bird, elegant lines, slender necks, regal stances. Still a little clumsy but pretty and beloved.

“No.” You realize, “That’s not me.”

“What then?” His Majesty asks.

And it comes to you, like someone has planted the idea in your head, but really, it’s a simple leap from dove.

“Pigeon.” You offer. Decided.

“Pigeon?” His Majesty checks, trying the name on. “But a dove is much more appropriate for a Queen. Pigeons are so common. That’s also what Bucky calls Samuel sometimes.”

“Yes.” You agree, with their grays and dull browns. The pest of the bird world. Hated by everyone but the ones who cook them to eat. “They are a common bird.”

“Very well, my pigeon.” He says, listening to how it sounds and then he actually chuckles. “For some reason, that sounds just right.”

“Stay away from me.” You tell him, turning around to sit with your back against the door.

“What?!” His Majesty panics.

“You asked me how you might prove to me that you love me. That I can trust you.” You explain. “I want you to stay away from me. For a while. Until I come to you.”

Silence follows your request and you can almost feel him warring with himself through the wood.

“I’ve been very angry, your Majesty-”

“Steve.” He cuts you off. “Please call me by my name.”

“I can’t.” You sigh. “It’s one of the reasons I’m so angry. I…I hear you. I know what it is you’re telling me now but after six months of not being able to say your name and feeling like a pebble in your shoe-”

“Y/N…” He groans, hating your words because they’re true.

“I can’t just change from behaving one way to behaving another. I will try and see it through your eyes. I promise, but I’m so tired. My heart…is spent. I have lived as a disappointment for you—even if that’s not how you truly saw me,” You add a bit more loudly so that he can’t interrupt. “It is how I felt, and it will take time for me to move past that.

“So, I need you to do me the favor of staying away.” You sigh, sleepy again. Emotionally exhausted.

“Is there no way that I might reach out to you?” He asks, “While I keep my distance?”

You think for a moment, considering your options. This door thing is too hard. Even talking with a barrier between you, you’re tempted just a little to open the door so that you can see him.

“You may send word through someone else. But I don’t want to speak with you directly or see you in person.” You clarify. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” He admits.

Silence again, for only a minute this time before he clears his throat, fighting a lump it sounds like.

“Before I leave you, can I give you something? You need only stick out your hand enough for me to hand it to you. I will not try to see you. I promise.” He swears, and after your heart thrums wildly for a few seconds, you shift so that you’re hiding behind the same door he’s sitting in front of.

You reach up and twist the handle, moving a little to allow it to open. You stick your hand out through the opening and wait with our palm up.

You almost jump when his hand comes into view and he places it over your own. He leaves it there, placing what he wants to give you within it, but then curls his fingers around your own, stroking your skin with his.

It’s intoxicating, his heated hand, rough with callous but gentle in its caress. Like a missing piece, with his touch, he completes your return home. Even if his declarations of love turn out to be a ruse, you know that this is where you belong. This is where you’re meant to be.

“I’m so grateful that you’re safe,” He sighs, relishing in your touch it seems as much as you are.

As if to prove that he means everything he’s said, he takes his hand back first and you quickly pull yours back in, shutting the door tight.

“Good night, my pigeon.” He’s smiling as he says it, amused with the name.

You hear him rise and leave. You wait a few minutes, clutching your hand to your chest as you urge your heart to calm.

“P-Peter?” You check.

“He’s gone, your Majesty. He’ll keep his word. He’s…Steve doesn’t break his promises.” He assures you.

Finally you turn your eyes back to your hand and stare down at your locket, a new silver chain, inside a new portrait of Tony, Pepper, and Morgana, and on the other a new one with you in your blue dress and Steve in his formal tunic, smiling as if it’s a promise of things to come.

#king!steve x reader #king!steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #medieval au #king!steve x reader fic #king!steve x reader fanfic #marvel fanfiction #medieval fantasy au #avengers x reader #pseudo princess #pseudo princess pt13 #shreddedparchment #steve x you #king!steve x you

2K notes · View notes

ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

The Night Oliver Branch Died

CW: Drowning, threats with a gun, discussed/referenced noncon of a minor, discussed pet whump/dehumanization, oliver branch is gross but hey he dies in this one so, related note: character death

Tagging Chris’s crew just because I feel like you’ll all appreciate this: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @stxckfxck , @slaintetowhump

READERS: Tell me if you guessed it before reading this!

TIMELINE: Takes place in the future of Chris’s timeline, when he has been free for years and has enrolled in college.

The night Oliver Branch died was absolutely ordinary.

He spent some time going over the notes for the trial, sitting in his nicely appointed but perfectly modest three-bedroom home, scanning his handwritten planned remarks for the press while he ate a light dinner of soup and salad. The cook left for the night, and Oliver was the only one in the house.

Well, or so he thought.

It used to bother him, but honestly he didn’t mind the solitude any longer. Years spent with a full staff, worries he had to constantly consider at all hours of the day and night, natural disasters and economic downturns and everything else. It was nice just to take a deep breath, smell the candle burning in the center of the table, a soft sweet magnolia smell that reminded him of his childhood home.

After the trial, perhaps he would move back home. He’d lived in this state for twenty-four years, was its governor for eight of them, but he felt… a bit tired of it all. He wanted to go back to a place where people moved more slowly, wandered the streets after church in pale linen suits in the summer with the ocean air a constant truth of everyday life.

They would know, of course, about his disgrace. But they would be polite about it, keep it to themselves. He had the sense that while the scandal would follow him, it would be easier to ignore in a place where people keep their secrets safely behind closed, locked doors.

Oliver had done the same, once upon a time, only to have the secret simply walk away when someone else opened the door.

He sighed, sitting back, looking at his half-finished soup with a wistful sort of sadness.

Honestly, he couldn’t complain. He was just grateful to be out of prison, living in his own house with his own cook and the cleaning woman who comes by twice per week. Almost back to normal. Once this trial was over, of course, he’d sell the house and move back home, and it would all be just fine.

He took a deep breath and picked up his notes, handwritten in a series of different ink colors to differentiate which part of the speech he was in. It helped him to memorize if he thought of the colors. The only one he didn’t like, but used, anyway, was a deep teal ink in the paragraph where he admitted to what he did to his beautiful boy.

His beautiful boy, who had ruined himself with freedom, just as Oliver had always known he would. Some people were meant to be kept, they could not be trusted to keep themselves. His Baldur had been one of those, he had known the moment he’d been shown the intake photo, of the pretty boy curled up in a corner of a plain white room, hands up over his face in some attempt to protect himself.

We believe this will suit your specifications, the email from Ms. Renfod had stated in flat, clean prose that could never have encompassed the perfect leap in Oliver’s heart at the sight, the excitement that ran through him from scalp to toes at the fear and tears in big green eyes. We have recently acquired this individual as a result of a deal involving a family member. No inconvenient missing persons report, Mr. Branch. Perfect confidentiality, no complications. We believe he will require three and one-half months of training, plus two weeks extra for final preparations. I have attached a price list for added fees.

God, what a sight, the pretty thing before they’d taken him from himself, before he’d been delivered smiling and silent and still in the dead of night to Oliver’s door.

Honestly, what a loss that he was roaming around like some wild animal now.

Some people needed a keeper, and every time he had seen his beautiful boy since his liberation it had only emphasized to Oliver how badly Baldur needed the right sort of keeper. This new one, the tall young man with his threats and curses, clearly wasn’t doing a very good job.

Well. That was fine. Not his problem any longer, and soon enough Oliver would stand up at a podium before the press, looking at all their little recorders, and he would tell everyone exactly who Christopher Stanton was and what he had been. Oliver’s disgrace would be total, but if he played this right, Baldur would never go anywhere again without no longer being able to hide behind his earrings and awful hair and the patch of scarred skin where his barcode once had been.

Baldur might have gotten away from him, all those years ago, but Oliver intended to ensure he could not get away from what he had been made to do, to be. One did not stop being a pet, once they were made into a thing to be used for pleasure, there was nothing else for them to be.

Baldur might have delusions otherwise, but Oliver could ruin those, for him, just like his boy had ruined himself.

Kicked out of his fancy little college for his fake identity, maybe even charged with it. All his new little friends would know who he was. It was the last bit of pettiness Oliver intended to allow himself to indulge in before he returned back to his hometown and let Baldur’s fragile new life come down around his ears.

Oliver smiled, trailing fingertips over the teal ink, the exact shade of Baldur’s hideous dye job. He still had a PI on retainer, taking pictures of his pretty boy out living his life. Oliver liked to keep tabs on his old flames, just to ensure they were keeping quiet, keeping to themselves, living nice respectable lives.

Lately, with his reduced income, he’d had to cut that down to tracking Baldur alone.

Christopher Stanton. Oliver snorted. Awful name. Hardly did any justice to the perfect line of his cheekbones, the still-gentle curve of his jaw, the nicely full lips that would no doubt still part just so with a press of the right fingertips-

“Daydreamin’, are we?” A strange male voice asked, and Oliver looked up to stare down the barrel of a gun.

His heart stopped, eyes caught by that circle of infinite black surrounded by unfeeling metal, and then he raised his eyes to see a man he had never seen before. He wasn’t very tall, draped in heavy clothing that disguised his body type, though he seemed a bit on the muscular side. Perfectly average face, difficult to describe to any law enforcement, blondish-red hair cut in a flattop, narrowed eyes, smattering of freckles. Too far to see the eye color.

Robbers, really? Tonight, of all nights?

Oliver put both palms carefully down on the table as his heart began to pound. “Can I help you?”

His voice was admirably steady, and he was more than a bit proud of himself for that. He did not visibly tremble or shake, but he was deeply, deeply aware of that gun. He could see the safety was off, the man’s finger resting lightly around the trigger.

“You can,” The man said, with a hint of amusement in the blocky lines of his face. It came out more like ye can, an accent Oliver couldn’t quite place. Irish, maybe? “Hearing some rumors, about someone planning to testify next week. I was hoping’ you’d be able to disabuse me of such a disturbin’ notion.”

Oliver blinked, caught off-guard by the man’s friendly, personable tone even as the gun never faltered but it’s position held pointed directly at him. “If you work for WRU-”

“Oh, I don’t. No, as heartbreaking as it is, lad, Rossi’s group got the WRU rejects pipeline all sewn up, don’t he? Clever fuck. And I am a good many things, but I’m not a man stupid enough to cross Giovanni Rossi. You don’t put that man in a bad mood and walk out alive, do you?” Once again, the word slipped into ye, and Oliver was sure now that the accent was Irish. Faded, with the local accent flattening the vowels and roughing up the consonants, but the Irish was there nonetheless.

It occurred to him that it didn’t really matter if he identified his accent, because he almost certainly wasn’t going to walk out of this alive if the man was so easily dropping names.

“I wouldn’t know. If you’re not with WRU, I don’t see why there’s-... there needs to be a problem,” Oliver said, without moving, barely even letting his lips form the wounds. His heart still pounded in his chest. His dreams of moving back home by the coast, to Charleston’s beauty and grandeur and age, were rapidly feeling like scraps of tissue paper dissolving in water.

“You’re not just testifyin’ about the company, now, are you?” The man sighed, pulling a chair out on the other end of the table, sitting down without lowering the gun, keeping it trained on Oliver, just shifting it slightly to aim directly into his chest.

Oliver had taken a few courses in self-defense, back in the day. Aim for the center mass, the easiest thing to hit. People in movies can nail an arm or a leg with accuracy but in real life it’s rarely so easy. Aim for something lethal.

“The trial is about the company,” Oliver said, voice shaking, his own genteel accent thickening the more the fear settled in.

“It is, at that,” The man said, nodding. “But it’s not only about that, either, is it?” He snapped the fingers on his other hand, and Oliver jumped nearly a foot in the air as he realized there were two other men standing behind him he hadn’t even noticed. They appeared on either side of him, one of them picking up the papers on the table and moving them over to the man, who gave a soft, polite thanks and looked them over.

Suddenly, Oliver’s different ink colors for different aspects of his speech seemed… superfluous. He was never going to give that speech.

“What else is it about?” Oliver asked, breathy. He was going to die, and he’d always hoped for one more chance to visit his parents’ graves. Spit on them once or twice, leave flowers, and go. He’d always hoped…

Something occurred to him.

“Is this about my Baldur?”

The man’s face twisted in an expression of utter, absolute disgust.

“Is that it? Did his new keeper send you to-”

“No. Oh no, fucknuts, no.” The man laughed, looking over the papers, flipping through them idly with one hand as his associate stepped back, one of them lurking on either side of Oliver, hands pressing steadily into his shoulders to keep him right where he was. “No, no. I’ve nothin’ to do with that young lib boy. Know of ‘im, though. We keep an eye out, on our own. It’s been a long, long time, but… I owe a debt.”

“A… A debt?” Oliver’s voice caught in his throat.

“Indeed.” The man set the papers down, and for a moment, Oliver could have sworn there were tears in his eyes, emotions that played openly across the man’s utterly nondescript face. Grief, anger, sadness all warred there.

The hands on his shoulders tightened.

“Long time ago now, but I don’t forget, do I? Ah, look, here ‘tis.” The man tapped his finger in the teal paragraph so carefully written on the third page of the speech. “Here’s our lad. Tristan.”

“Tristan-... are you talking about Baldur?”

The man snarled, and Oliver flinched back against the back of his chair, waiting for the burst of sound and the bullet and his own death. Nothing came, and after a moment he opened his eyes. The man had settled his expression, but it was with effort - the anger was still clearly visible. “I’m not talkin’ about your bullshite pet name in the slightest, you sack of shit. No, I’m talkin’ about my friend’s boy Tristan.”

Oliver swallowed, and offered, “I believe… I believe he goes by Christopher now. I could give you his address-”

“We know where he lives, gobshite.”

“Then why are you here-”

“I told you, my debt. You’re an awful thick, aren’t you? We’re not the type to abduct a wean, although that never gave your like a pause, did it?” The man tapped his gun on the table, the first time it had truly lowered since Oliver had first realized he was here. Oliver let out a breath of relief.

“What is your debt, exactly?” His voice was still airy, but he tried to sound calm, in control. Never moved his hands. “I still have some funds the courts are not aware of, perhaps we could work out a deal-.. I have a safe upstairs-”

“Not that kind of debt. I had to stand by when my mucker and his wife got his face shot in by our own boss, no less, but I’m the boss, now. Took a while, took too long. I’ve had to wait and wait and wait, but me and my lads here, we’ve all owed Paul Higgs a debt since, Lord, has it been nearly a decade now? And I intend to pay it tonight.”

The man smiled, briefly, at Oliver.

“Couldn’t stop Paul’s boy from the sufferin’ already inflicted, but I can ensure you don’t say a word about him ever again, can’t I? Ah, no, we can’t have that. He’s got a good life now. Nice boy, all grown up. Hair’s a bit bollocked but who are we to judge, hm? He’s got himself a nice life goin’ and I intend to ensure he does his da proud, just like he would’ve if he weren’t forced to fuck you, you depraved bit of dogshit on my shoe. Fucking a child. A boy. What’ve you got to say for yourself?”

Oliver didn’t even bother to open his mouth. He understood that any attempt at self-defense wasn’t needed or even wanted. He understood that probably there was absolutely nothing he needed to say, ever again. He closed his eyes, lips moving in some dim form of prayer.

“Ah. A man of God, then?” Oliver looked to see the man pull a rosary from underneath his shirt. “That’s a fuckin’ laugh, considering what you’ve done. But, hey, He’s forgiven worse, I imagine. Tristan might even forgive you, too, he was always too good a boy for it all. Too bad for you that I don’t forgive shite.”

“If you’re going to shoot me,” Oliver said, barely able to get his voice above a whisper, “then do it.”

“We’re not going to shoot you, idjit.” The man rolled his eyes, giving his companions an exasperated can you believe this? look. One of the men, the one on Oliver’s right, laughed. “They’d trace it, we’d have to deal with the law, and honestly I am just not in the mood to pay any cops off this week. I’ve already paid Rossi off to keep him from gettin’ pissed at me, although he’s a man who understands the value of family, I think he’d have let us anyway. Still, never hurts to grease a palm, does it? What we’re going to do, Mr. Branch, is drown you. Your bathtub’s chock full of river water.”

“What?” Oliver swallowed, jerking forward as if to push himself up, but the hands on his shoulders pushed him back down. “H-how-... why-”

“When we dump you in the Trelawney,” The man said, calm and easy, “your lungs’ll already be chock full of its water. Nothing unusual about that, hm? Just another child molester dumped in that chemical swamp where he belongs. My mucker’s boy-... I couldn’t help him. I’ve owed Paul for that, we all have. This is my organization, now, and I will ensure Paul’s boy’s name never leaves your lips again.” The man snapped his fingers and Oliver shouted as he was dragged to his feet by the other two, kicking out, knocking his chair over with a clatter.

Just beyond the window were a hundred other houses, lights on in some, families laughing in front of their televisions. Utterly unknowing as their neighbor was dragged upstairs to his own master bathroom, to a custom-made clawfoot tub absolutely full of disgusting, muddy river water dredged up and brought here and Oliver had never even known they were in the house.

They held his head over the water as he screamed for help.

The leader leaned back against the sink, lit a cigarette, took a long drag and let the smoke float over his face. His eyes were green, Oliver realized with a kind of hysterical panicked giggle. His eyes were green.

Like Baldur’s.

“W-wait-, wait-... one question, just one, one question-”

The leader held up his hand. They kept Oliver’s head a few inches above the brackish water in the tub.

“Paul Higgs-... Baldur’s-... the boy’s father.” Oliver could barely breathe, barely get out the words. He was going to die, why was this question so important? Still, he couldn’t stop himself from asking it. “The boy’s-... just a friend?”

The leader snorted, flicked his cigarette onto the bedroom carpet through the bathroom door. A trail of thin smoke began to rise. “Paul was my best friend, yes,” He said flatly. “His da and mine were cousins. The looks run in the family, don’t they?”

“Why… why now? Why not before? When he was-... why only now?”

The man’s lip pulled to the side in a sneer. “Had to wait ‘til the company couldn’t protect you, didn’t I? You’re not a client now, Mr. Branch. Just a bit of blood on Karen Renford’s shoes. Loose thread. You’re not the only one keeps tabs on runaways, you know.”

“What?” Oliver’s eyes widened, the muddy water giving him a strange, distorted, half-transparent view of his own reflection. “What, what are y-you-”

“Ah, it’s not worth explaining this shite to him, is it?” The man rolled his eyes. “Renford knew where he was. She knows where all the runners are. She’s not going to let you fuck the company just to get your fifteen minutes, gobshite. I hate that insufferable bitch and she’s the one who made Paul’s boy into a pet, but I know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth even if the one given’ it should probably be shot herself.”

“Wh-why-”

“Shut your feckin’ hole. We may not have the pleasure of a regular contract, but I was happy to accept this little job free of charge. Everyone gets what they want, don’t they? Paul’s boy gets his nice little life for keeping, Renford gets the blood out, and I get to make up to Paul what I couldn’t do back then. Ah, Tristan was a sweet boy. Bit of a wild thing, but…” The man sighed mournfully. “Well. We all lose people, in this business, Mr. Branch. I’m sorry to’ve lost him but I’d never think to take him from what he’s got. I’m no monster.”

Laughter bubbled in Oliver’s throat, and he barely held it back. No monster, but you’ll kill me, will you?

“Tonight, everyone gets what they want.”

“I wanted Charleston,” Oliver said, staring into the brownish silt-soaked water, thinking of the blue of the ocean, the waves battering the shore, white-capped on rougher days, the salt-smell of the sea. His mother’s hands holding him, sitting on his father’s shoulders, before it had all changed. “I, I wanted Charleston.”

The words were more plaintive than he intended them to be.

“Sad for you,” The leader said without sympathy. “The heart bleeds. Perhaps you should’ve kept your wee dick in your pants and not touched our friend’s boy, then, hm? Bit late for that, though. Hope the Good Lord’s feelin’ His mercy today, pervy fuck, ‘cause you’ll see none from us.”

He snapped his calloused fingers, and Oliver’s head went under the water. He’d jerked in a final breath just before, and as he held it - lungs burning, time running out - Oliver had only a single remaining defiance. His last thought, before he had to pull water into his lungs, before the thrashing and the choking and the final blackness that pulled him under, wasn’t of Baldur at all.

He was found in the Trelawney River, the water in his lungs a perfect match for the water around him. His bathtub had been recently cleaned, but that wasn’t suspicious, as his cleaner had been there only the day before and Oliver rarely took baths. His dinner table was clean of any sign of his final meal.

There were no papers on the table, or anywhere in the house, detailing his intended speech to the press. Those papers were burned and the ashes spread on the graves of Paul and Veronica Higgs, along with a fresh spray of daisies, Ronnie’s favorite flower.

Oliver Branch’s testimony could no longer be given, due to his untimely death.

The suggestion that he had killed himself because of the shame of his own actions made the rounds in the press, followed by certainty in certain spaces that he had been murdered to protect WRU on Karen’s orders.

Perhaps a handler had done it, the rumors went, sent by the strange emotionless Karen Renford, who sat on the stand and spoke with perfect diction and a total lack of feeling on the particulars of her job, and who had never once set off a lie detector in her life. Perhaps a pet liberation member had finally snapped - there had been an incident years ago with someone who had beaten Oliver nearly to unconsciousness, maybe that person had hunted him down again.

Maybe Karen had killed him herself.

The rumors went in circles, but no one ever guessed the truth.

Oliver’s final defiance was known only to him, and went with him to the grave he was eventually buried in. His final thought was simply of the crash of a white-capped wave against the shore.

Oliver Branch died thinking not of his crimes, but with the ocean behind his eyes.

#death of a villain #original fiction #drowning tw #gun tw #threats with gun tw #chris the strawberry blond romantic #oliver branch is gross #but also very dead now #so that's nice #whump #character death tw #creepy whumper #villain death #did anyone guess 'paul's mob friends'?#karen renford #wru #box boy #box boy universe #box boy multiverse

181 notes · View notes

akaashisupremacy · 4 years

Text

Connecting Flights w/Iwa

Summary: On Hajime Iwaizumi’s flight back to Japan, he meets an unexpected friend from his past who is a little hung up on someone else.

Iwaizumi x fem!reader/Oc || Read it on A03

Genre : romance, friends to lovers (wc: 2.2k)

Notes: Hiromi Miura is an original character, but readers are free to put themselves into her shoes! Coming of age fics are fun to write but I wanted to explore a world centered around adulthood that included a work life outside one’s significant other. Hope you can give me feedback on whatever world-building I’ve done. Successive chapters will def have more Iwa.

Hiromi Miura packed the last of her toiletries into her large black check-in luggage. Rolling the luggage out into the hallway, she checked her phone for the third time in ten minutes. Her boss, Hayate Hoshizora stood in the hallway waiting for her with her own luggage standing beside her.

“Where’s Tsuchida?” she asked.

Itsumi Tsuchida was the third member of their team of three and Hiromi’s room mate for the trip. She handled production and logistics so Hiromi and Hayate could write and shoot their articles on food history without worry. Despite her astounding efficiency with her work, Itsumi had a habit of being late.

“Itsumi is almost out. She’ll be here in a minute.” said Hiromi.

The three checked out of the small business hotel before going their separate ways for their last minute shopping. Hiromi wanted to window shop for shoes and cosmetics while Hayate set out to buy some omiyage for her family. Itsumi offered to accompany Hiromi on the condition they stop by for milk tea.

“Let’s meet outside of Time Square before 12 for lunch. I’m going to buy some jerky and maybe some dried goods. Do you guys want anything?” asked Hayate before they set off.

Hiromi declined. Itsumi asked for some jerky for her own omiyage.

As the two junior members of Hayate’s team entered Time Square, Itsumi noticed Hiromi was checking her phone again. She had been doing so whenever she could during the trip.

“Still no texts from Eita?” she asked Hiromi.

“Nope,” sighed Hiromi. Everything had been going smoothly just last week. She had been texting consistently with Eita. He even offered to call. She would send him photos of their first day in Hong Kong and he would eagerly reply.

Come the day before yesterday, he stopped replying all of a sudden. Hiromi had begun to worry that things had fallen apart without knowing why. Their last conversation was on Hong Kong protests. Eita fumed against the injustice, Hiromi agreed with him and nothing came after that. Maybe he joined the resistance?

“I don’t know what went wrong. I thought he liked me.” she moaned, “We have similar political views. Maybe I wasn’t enthusiastic enough when I replied to his call for justice or something.”

“Maybe you should just ask him about it.” Itsumi suggested, rolling her eyes.

“He ignored me for two days what else is there to say?”

“So why are you still looking at your phone?” Itsumi asked, with her brow raised at her co-worker, “Come, let’s go shopping to keep your mind off things.”

————————————————————————————

Hiromi and Itsumi had a penchant for hole in the wall restaurants. For their last meal, they asked to eat at a restaurant at the back of Time Square, nestled between narrow shopping alleyways. It was the first restaurant they ate in upon arrival and it would be their last meal too. They both ordered a bowl of wonton noodle soup and a serving of bok choy shared between the three of them. Hayate ordered chicken noodle soup for herself.

The restaurant was small and narrow, not to mention humid from all the steaming and the boiling from the kitchen. Although the lunchtime service was quick and brash, the two did not seem to mind. The girls were well-travelled and cosmopolitan. They were used to environments different from the quiet efficiency of Japan. Hayate found it chaotic but the team did not get many out of country assignments so she took what she could.

Hiromi in particular specialized in writing about Southeast Asian diasporic (meaning a scattered population whose origin lies in a separate geographic locale) cuisine. Noise hardly fazed her but apparently boy problems did.

“Hiromi, you looked so forlorn. Are you really that sad about leaving Hong Kong?” she joked. Hiromi’s focus in her work was second to none. Her tolerance to mediocre young men, less so.

“There’s a boy who hasn't been texting back…” trailed Itsumi.

Hayate didn’t pry, but the girls opened up to her for just about anything.

“Oh, hmmm don’t overthink it.” she said.

“It’s ok, I mean he’s smart and artistic and he knows my friends, but I guess I wasn’t interesting enough.” wailed Hiromi in between bites of her noodles.

“Honestly, if he can’t be bothered to speak with you clearly, he doesn’t deserve your time.” said Hayate, sipping her scorching hot red tea burning a bit of throat in the process. Her eyes grew wide as her throat grew numb.

“That’s true, besides I feel like you’re more worried about why he doesn’t like you than the actual relationship.” sighed Itsumi, mixing some soy sauce, chili oil and black vinegar for their wonton dip.

“Enough moping, let’s eat and talk about something else.” exhaled Hiromi, raising her hand to call for cold water for Hayate.

The topic shifted to work. They were excited about editing the photos. Hayate couldn’t wait to unpack but was a little sad about going back to the office again. Itsumi dreaded doing the liquidation and desk work for their Hong Kong trip. Hiromi was buzzing with ideas for their next assignment and was hoping to pitch recipe ideas to the cooking staff at their next meeting.

Just before boarding, a familiar figure caught Hiromi’s eye. A tall, tanned boy with a lean muscular physique stood a few rows in front of her. He was wearing a white shirt and black athleisure pants. Iwaizumi from college?

The three were seated separately on the plane. Hiromi was seated near the back while Hayate and Itsumi were on the second row. As she got to her seat, Hiromi was surprised to find Hajime Iawizumi beside her, blinking sleepily at the seat in front of him.

“Miura-san!” he said in incredulity realizing that his college friend was right beside him in his Hong Kong layover.

“Iwa! It is you! I thought I saw you while we boarded.” she said, shoving her carry on onto the storage, “Also, do you really have to be so formal?”

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“What are you doing in Hong Kong?” she asked simultaneously.

“I just finished my time in LA. I’m moving back to Japan. This is my last layover.” he yawned, popping a breath-mint into his mouth.

“I work as a food writer and researcher for a publication in Tokyo. My team and I are just finishing up our assignment in Hong Kong. We get out of country assignments from time to time. I’m still kind of new, but when I become a veteran I’m hoping to get more regular trips.”

“Cool! I’m moving to Tokyo next week because I got a gig training members of a Division 1 Volleyball League! This week, I’ll be home to do some laundry and just get things in order.” he said.

“If you need help moving or settling in let me know. I moved to Tokyo just last year.” she offered, “It was crazy.”

Iwaizumi nodded and thanked her for her offer. They continued catching up as the plane took off and soon the stewardess began handing out food.

“I’m so tired of plane food. It’s all I’ve eaten in the past twenty four hours,” he sighed.

“This has definitely got nothing on everything I’ve eaten so far” she exhaled, “I can’t wait to go home, even my own cooking is better than this. I got lots of new recipe ideas to try too.”

“I thought you said you were a writer. Do they make you cook at work too?” he inquired. It seemed like her job required an awful lot of skills for one position.

“I can cook to some capacity. I don’t really cook at work, it just helps if I know how.” she waved.

They ate in silence, chewing through the mediocre airline food.

“By the way, I need some boy advice. Do you have space to hear me out?” she inhaled, gathering her courage before she unloaded her questions on her friend.

“Sure? What about it?” he shrugged.

Hiromi opened up about her latest romance and its frustrations. She gave him a bit of background on who he was and how they started the relationship particularly the wishy washy feelings about their courtship.

“Do you really like this guy? You’re having more questions and doubts than answers. That’s not really a good sign. You can go ahead and be upfront but is this guy worth it?” he asked thoughtfully.

“I don’t know. I want to give it a chance but each time I think about him I get more confused and anxious.” she sighed, putting down her utensils. She bumped her head against the chair in front of her.

“He also hasn’t texted back in a few days without saying why.” she promptly added, looking to him. Iwa jerked back, his arms in a flurry.

“Scratch what I said. I don’t think the relationship is going to work. It’s not serious enough for him if he can’t at least let you know why he goes off the grid.”

Her face fell, shoulders sinking into her back.

“Sorry,” apologised Iwa, pausing to empathize with her.

“I kind of already know this and I guess I just hate uncertainty suspense. I don’t know why I feel so affected to hear it out loud.” she groaned, massaging her temples. Iwa was not good at hearing about boy problems. He didn’t really know what to say.

“Why’d you go for him anyway?” he asked, thoughtfully chewing some eggs and shifting in his seat. The seat was obviously a bit narrow for his shoulders. Hiromi moved a bit to her right to allow him more space.

Her poster straightened up while she plopped her elbows onto the table. She clasped her hands together and thought for a bit before turning to him, her eyes wide and a tad bit glassy.

“He just ticked the boxes you know? I knew him from college and we understand the other worlds we worked in. He’s smart, artistic and apparently he’s been crushing on me since freshman year or something like that. I wasn’t seeing anyone so I thought I’d give it a shot.”

“But why are you adamant to make it work is what I mean?”

Hiromi shrugged her shoulders, “I can’t help but feel like it reflects on me. I feel like I’m not worthy enough when I can’t make a relationship work with someone who ticks the boxes.”

“I really hate dating and letting someone have this much control over my emotions though.” she growled at the chair in front of her.

Iwa had a small smile to himself, glad he was not in her place. She had always been the one better at giving advice when they were in uni together. He wished he could return the favor.

Before he got together with his college girlfriend, he was swimming in a lot of doubts about himself. It was difficult for him to speak about just anyone, but Hiromi was one of few who could coax the subject out of him.

“So how are you two getting on?” Hirom had asked him.

They were sitting together in the school cafeteria for lunch. Usually they sat with common friends and some classmates, but today they were alone which meant she could pry on Iwa’s love life. Even when Iwa wanted to talk about his girl problems, he had difficulty opening up. She saw it as her mission to initiate the conversation to help him out.

Iwa scratched the back of his head and sighed, “I don’t really know how I could be a better replacement for her ex. I’m not her first anything. I’m not any more good looking, or smarter or more athletic than he was. I’m not even nicer. I really don’t know if I’m worth the shot.”

His brow furrowed in concern. His lips were midway between a pout and a scowl.

She choked on her lunch. More often than not, it was Iwa encouraging other people and giving square judgement. Iwa was by no means arrogant, but he was also not self-deprecating. Hearing him speak about himself this so despondently was out of his character.

“Iwa, dating is not a competition!” she managed to say while pounding on her chest. Iwa handed her some water.

“I guess…” he mumbled.

After slugging down some water, Hiromi composed herself, “Yeah, her ex may have been great, but you’re great too! She likes you now which is why even if her ex is still in some of her friend circles she’d still rather date you.”

Iwa perked up a bit and smiled at his food.

“Just because you’re not her first doesn’t mean you can’t have a meaningful relationship right? What’s this obsession with being first? It’s not added value.” she said thoughtfully, putting her face between her hands as she leaned into her tray.

That lunch seemed so long ago. Who would’ve known that their next lunch after college would be a plane in between Hong Kong and Tokyo?

“Hey, are you still using the same email? Let’s keep in touch when we get back. I’m holding you by your promise to show me around.” he grinned, handing her his phone.

She continued sulking in half-hearted despair at the seat in front of her while she took his phone.

“Cheer up! I’m sure you’ll find someone in Tokyo.” he added, settling himself back into his chair looking at her.

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

Taglist: @scrappydaisies @itstheee-ha-chan

#iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi x y/n #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi hajime #haikyuu!!#haikyuu fanfiction #hq fanfic #hq iwaizumi #hq writing #haikyuu fanfic #hq fic #hq fics #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x me #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fic

41 notes · View notes

busterkeatonfanfic · 3 years

Photo

Chapter 7

When Nelly opened her eyes, she couldn’t remember what day it was, what time it was, or most of all where she was. The bed sheets smelled like a man. Buster. She sat straight up, hardly noticing the clanging in her head.

She scrambled to the edge of the bed and tried to tear off the sheets that were twisted around her middle. She saw as she swung her legs over the side of the bed that her dress and girdle had ridden up around her waist, but she was still wearing her cami knickers. Whatever had occurred last night had not apparently involved their disposal.

A wave of nausea and dizziness seized her before she was able to stand up. Her head ached so badly that she ran her hands over it, suspecting that she’d fallen and hit it. The exterior was intact, but the interior … It was in agony. Her very brains felt hot and swollen.

“Hello?” she said. The suite seemed empty, but she couldn’t be sure. “Hello?”

When no answer came, she reached for the half-full glass of water on the nightstand and drained it. She had a raging thirst and scanned for the bathroom so she could fill the glass again and relieve herself. She had to pee like a racehorse. She got up and was forced to hobble on her way to the en-suite. Her misadventures had led to one thing at least: a twisted ankle. She remembered a phonograph and a rolicking jazz tune that made her feel the lightest and gayest and youngest she’d ever felt in her life. She remembered Tommy now, how good-looking he’d been. She remembered dancing for what seemed like hours. She was in such a good mood that she’d even danced with the men who weren’t handsome. She groaned at the memory of the other men as she relieved herself.

There was water in the round basin at the bottom of the skeletal shower and the bathroom felt slightly humid. A towel hanging on the bar confirmed that Buster had come and gone.

At least she thought it was Buster. That part she remembered too. Vomiting her guts out and Buster Keaton squatting opposite her in his white undergarments … doing what? It was fuzzy. She vaguely recalled a desire for a pillow, but he must not have given one to her because she woke up in the bed. She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten from the blind tiger to the hotel room. She tried and failed. It was a big black spot, a blight on a reel of film. Buster had not been at the blind tiger as far as she remembered.

At the sink, she drank four glasses of water total, then rinsed her sour mouth. Her face was pale and haggard in the mirror. She looked about twenty years older. Suddenly, her heart hammered at an alarming thought. It wasn’t Sunday, it was Saturday. What had made her think it was Sunday? They were filming today! She was hours late.

Her eyes scanned around the bedroom for a clock. She spotted one on the mantel and rushed to it. A quarter to noon.

“Damn!”

She ran into the adjoining salon, hoping to at least find her handbag. She did, half-spilled on one of the seemingly dozens of ornate chairs that dotted the room. The handbag held no powder or rouge, but at least it had lipstick and her tin of mascara. She dashed back to the bathroom to apply it. Her hair was another story. There was no hairbrush in the handbag, just a small backcomb that was impotent against the rat’s nest of tangles confronting her. She was out of bobby pins. Her dress was wrinkled and covered in lint, not to mention that she stank of sweat and stale booze. She would have to go back to 22nd Street unless she wanted to get fired on the spot for improper dress. Also, her stockings were nowhere to be found. She looked on the chairs in the salon, underneath the bed, on the mantel, and in the sheets and bedspread. Nothing. She even peeked, blushing, in Buster’s closet and his bureau drawers. She did find a sterling silver men’s hairbrush on the bureau. She also discovered a bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet and washed down four capsules without a second thought.

As she considered the sterling silver hairbrush, she felt guilty. It was expensive and she didn’t want to get it clotted up with her long hair. Promising herself she’d use her own comb to clean it afterwards, she sat on the bed trying to get the tangles out. The hairbrush smelled like Brilliantine. It seemed important not to be seen wandering the halls of the prestigious Hotel Senator with the unbrushed hair of one of Macbeth’s witches. Maybe she could call and have some bobby pins brought up—but that would alert hotel staff to the fact that there was a Girl in Buster’s Room. From her first encounter with him in his dressing room, it was clear that he had dalliances, but she wasn’t sure how discreet they were. For all she knew, an enterprising maid might sell a story to the papers for some extra money at the first opportunity. She brushed her hair and tried not to think of how terrible her head felt.

Her situation went from bad to worse when a doorknob rattled in the salon. Of course. The staff tidied the suite every day. She considered hiding under the bed, but it was too late. From her position, she watched an arm come through the door, shortly followed by a leg, shortly followed by Buster himself.

Of all the things she might have expected to come out of his mouth when he saw her, it wasn’t, “You’re awake.”

Before she had a chance to do much other than stammer a response, he was in the bedroom. He took off his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe, saying, “How do you feel? Feel like eating?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling rather weak and desperate.

“I’ll order sandwiches and coffee. You look like you could use some coffee.”

As soon as he’d exited the room, she frantically pulled the strands of her hair out of his brush and padded to the bureau to return it. Job accomplished, she sat on the sofa rather than the bed, noticing for the first time that there was a rumpled sheet draped over the back and a pillow lying on one end. From them, she deduced that she had run Buster out of his own bed.

“Relax,” said Buster, appearing in the doorway and startling her.

“Am I fired?” she said, looking over at him.

He looked surprised. “Fired?” A half-smile played on his lips as he realized what she was driving at. “Oh, for being young and silly and frivolous? No.”

“I am terribly sorry for last night,” she said soberly. “I kicked you out of your bed and you—when I threw up, you—”

He waved her off. “Don’t worry about it.” As if he’d peered into her mind that very second, he added, “Nothing happened between us, don’t worry about that either. Why’s your hair look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Brushed on only the one side.”

“I don’t have a hairbrush in my bag.”

He squinted, clearly confused. “How’d you get half of it brushed then?”

She flushed what she could only assume was a violent red. “I borrowed your hairbrush.”

“But you only brushed half?”

She was going to die of mortification right here in Buster Keaton’s hotel room. That’s how she was going to go, rest in peace Nelly Foster. “I didn’t want you to know I’d used it, when you came in just now. I hadn’t asked permission.”

He cocked an eyebrow. He strode over to the bureau, then to her, and dropped the hairbrush in her lap. “All yours,” he said.

“Thank you. Do you think,” she said, not meeting his eyes, “you could have some bobby pins brought up?”

“Sure. Need anything else?”

She shook her head. “I’m just going to go back to my room to change before I head over to the set.”

He sat on the foot of the bed. “You’re not going to the set today, you’re going to rest. How far away is your room?”

She thought. “A mile, a mile-and-a-half? 1911 22nd Street. I didn’t mention it last night?”

Buster grinned. Nelly had seen him smile, but never up close and never with full teeth. His teeth were very straight on top and he had a dimple in his right cheek. She was keenly aware in that moment of how extraordinary it was that she had ended up in the bedroom of Buster Keaton’s hotel suite, never mind that her methods were nothing short of disgraceful.

“You mentioned a lot last night, but I couldn’t get that address out of you to save my life.”

“Oh no,” she said, her stomach sinking. She shielded her face with her hand.

“You’re a lot of fun.” He stood up and squeezed her shoulder on his way out of the room. “I’m going to call for those bobby pins.”

As he used the telephone, she hastily brushed out the rest of the tangles, swiped her hair from the bristles, and set the brush on the nightstand next to the bottle of aspirin. Pretty soon there was a knock at the hotel door and she ducked into the bathroom, partly to relieve herself again, mostly to hide from whoever was delivering lunch. She looked in the mirror, tried for a moment to make her hair and her face more presentable, but gave up. The lipstick and mascara would have to do. She also gave her teeth a hasty brush with a finger and Buster’s toothpaste.

Feeling shy, she stepped into the salon where a silver tray sat on a cart. “Sit down,” said Buster. He handed her a small plate that held a chicken sandwich. “There’s soup here too. Something asparagus, I think.”

Nelly took a bite of the sandwich and found that she was ravenous. The sandwich gave her an excuse not to talk. As she ate, she considered how she would politely remove herself from Buster’s company and sneak away before he changed his mind about not canning her. Her bare legs made her self-conscious and she tucked them under her on the chair as she ate. The silence didn’t seem to bother Buster. He dipped his sandwich in his soup and ate, glancing at her once and awhile.

“I can’t find my stockings,” she said, after she’d finished her sandwich. “Do you know where I put them?”

“You threw them out the window.”

“I what?” she said, not sure she’d heard right.

“Of my car.” Buster blinked without expression, the famous frozen face she knew so well from pictures.

She was bewildered. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were hot,” he said, with a small shrug. “By the way, I noticed the ankle.” He gestured. “You should ice it when you get back to your room.”

“I don’t remember turning it,” she confessed.

“What do you remember?” he said, his eyes probing hers.

She told him about drinking and dancing in the blind tiger. She also told him about the gap in her memory between dancing and winding up on his bathroom floor. “I am really, terribly sorry about that,” she said again. More of the incident had come back to her and she remembered how he’d dragged her into the bathroom and held her hair back as she vomited.

He waved her off. “I’ve seen worse. I want to talk to you about something serious for a moment, though.”

A hot-cold rush of dread ran through her insides at his words, but she kept her hands steady on her cup of coffee and tried to make her face cool and calm.

Buster finished the rest of a second sandwich, dabbed at his lips with a napkin, and put the plate on the bottom of the cart. “You know that tall man, the one with the blonde hair?” He paused, looking at her.

“Tommy,” she said. Why she should feel so guilty about Tommy, she didn’t know, but under Buster’s gaze she somehow learned that consorting with him was a horrible mistake.

“Is that his name? Well anyway, I’ve fired him. If he ever comes around again to bother you, come straight to me.”

She must have looked as puzzled as she felt, because he went on.

“When I walked into that speak-easy last night, they were trying to get you into a room with them. A whole gang of them, and he was the ringleader.”

She was horrified beyond words. Tears filmed her eyes, but she blinked them back. On top of the spectacle she’d made of herself the previous night, she was not going to cry in front of him. “I don’t remember that at all,” she said, her voice feeling weak.

“I know you don’t.” He reached over and laid a hand on her knee for a moment. “They got you as drunk as possible for that very reason. Just be careful from now on, okay? Take a few girlfriends when you go out.” He withdrew his hand. “Here.” He took a red box out of his pocket and handed it to her. It was decorated in violets and labeled INVISIBLE HAIR PINS. “Do your hair up and I’ll drop you by your room before I go back to the set.”

Back in the bathroom with Buster’s brush, she saw she no longer needed rouge. Her cheeks were in a high flush now, partly from the effects of last night’s imbibing, partly from their conversation. There was no crimping iron to be found, so she made do with a hasty chignon, patting down the flyaways with Buster’s Brilliantine afterwards.

“Ready?” he said, when she returned to the salon.

She felt hot and ashamed walking through the halls of the Senator and down the stairs next to him, but he didn’t seem to care if they were spotted together. She kept her eyes on her feet as much as possible. Even though they hadn’t slept together, no one in the hotel knew that. No one in the hotel knew either that she’d almost been raped by a gang of men last night, but all the same it felt like she was wearing a scarlet letter.

They waited in silence outside the grand hotel doors for the valet to bring Buster’s car around. He didn’t seem to have anything to say and she was too mortified to make small talk. When the green Duesenberge rolled up and the valet exited, Buster held open the passenger door for her. She assumed it must have been the car she’d ridden in last night, but her only memory of it was from the parking lot in River Junction. She sat beside Buster in silence as he took a right on J Street. When they had come to Joe and Maggie’s house, he went around to the door and helped her down from the car.

“Don't look so glum,” he said, before he let go of her hand. “Everything’s okay. And ice that ankle as soon as you get in, hear?”

#Buster Keaton #Silent film #silent movie stars #Golden Age Hollywood #Fan fiction #fan fic #Actor RPF #rpf

16 notes · View notes

quicksilversquared · 4 years

Text

Max and the Murky Story

Max isn't always the best at social stuff. People don't behave in the same way numbers do, and they can be confusing. So when things at school with their newest classmate just aren't adding up quite right, he starts collecting data. And what he finds?

Well, it's a bit surprising.

links in the reblog

Something funny was going on at school, Max was 87.5% sure of it. But he just couldn't put his finger on what.

Frowning to himself as he sat in front of his computer, Max listed off the facts in his head, hoping to gain a bit of perspective on the whole thing. It was worth a shot, and with any luck, Max could figure this whole thing out and stop waking up in the middle of the night, a niggling feeling dancing in the back of his mind.

Fact one. Marinette was one of the friendliest people in the class, and rarely- if ever- disliked people without good cause. Max might have been inclined to even go as far as to say that Marinette never disliked someone without good cause, but it was never a good idea to talk in such absolutes when considering a human element. There were almost always exceptions to the norm with living beings, and ignoring that and speaking in too broad of terms was- well, it wasn't a good idea.

Fact two. Lila was a new student, one who- at least according to her, it wasn't as though Max had independently verified those stories- lived an exciting life, with a mother who was a diplomat and frequently traveled. Lila had talked about meeting celebrities, all sorts of famous people with serious connections. She apparently had just as much bad luck to counter out the good, though, considering that Max had heard her complain of allergies and other ailments on more than one occasion.

Fact three. Marinette did not like Lila. In fact, Max might even dare to say that Marinette hated Lila. She refused to hang out with the rest of the girls when Lila was with them, even going so far as to turn around and leave after Lila turned up and joined their group when they were going out to watch a movie. Marinette had even once joined Chloe's group for a project so that she wouldn't end up being paired with Lila.

(Fact three-and-a-half: that was, objectively, really strange.)

Fact four. Pretty much everyone else in the class loved Lila. Except.

(There was almost always an except. Humans very rarely dealt in absolutes.)

Adrien also seemed to avoid Lila, if Max thought about it. Sure, he was polite and didn't turn away and hate as openly as Marinette, but he very rarely looked comfortable with Lila. Of course, the reason there might be because Lila sometimes seemed to forget what personal space was and Adrien was the kind of person who was only really comfortable with a select few people getting close to him like that. But there was a possibility that there was something else going on there.

(No hypotheticals and guesswork, Max scolded to himself. Theorizing wasn't going to help him any. So fact four-and-a-half: Adrien was the second exception to everyone loving Lila, and did not seem comfortable with her. The reason for that was unconfirmed.)

Fact five: The teachers and principal also seemed to like Lila, enough to make serious accommodations for her while Lila wasn't in school. They hadn't raised any concerns, but, well….

Fact five and a half: The staff at Dupont were not always through in their investigations. Point in court: the entire day when Marinette got expelled, considering that it had all been walked back and retracted the very next day.

And that led to fact six: Lila had made several large accusations against Marinette over the course of one day, leading to Marinette's abrupt expulsion. An expulsion that had been walked back less than twenty-four hours later. And, well- it wasn't a fact but a feeling: all three of those accusations had seemed strange. The answer sheet had been found on top of Marinette's things in her bag, when the test had been several days prior. Lila hadn't actually been limping and hadn't looked at all mussed after she claimed that Marinette pushed her down the stairs. And the fact that Lila apparently knew who had taken ("taken"?) her heirloom necklace and where it had been put….

Looking back on it, that was a little weird. A lot weird, even. But there could be data missing, incomplete information biasing his view. It wouldn't be smart to jump to conclusions now. The probability of him getting something wrong- well, it was too high.

One thing was for sure- to draw an informed conclusion, Max needed more data.

One of the most important things to do when collecting data was to make sure that it could be found again. Being able to cite references was important.

So Max recruited Markov.

His robot companion usually came to school with him most days anyway, in order to listen in on the traditional human process of teaching and learning information and to be able to spend more time with Max. All Max really had to do was ask Markov to keep audio files on record of everything Lila-related. Whenever she talked, whenever she was being talked about, whenever there were people talking to her. If Markov was out- and Max wasn't sure that he wanted to have his companion out until the strangeness surrounding the Lila situation was cleared up- then he would keep that visual file, too. On top of that, Max was going to try to do short narrations of what Lila was up to on a regular basis, just to add to his data set.

If there was something strange going on, Max was going to figure out what it was. Even the best-kept secrets couldn't hide against a deluge of data. Maybe there were other ways to do this, and maybe all of the audio-journaling was overkill, but this was Max's preferred way of investigating. By his calculations, it had a 97.7% chance of successfully producing truthful results within a five-week time frame. There was a potential for getting results even earlier, of course, but five weeks was pretty much the optimal collection time when Max factored in both the chance of success and the amount of time invested. After five weeks, he would likely get diminishing returns on the additional time spent collecting information. Continuing his data collection would only be advisable if the data that he collected in that time period turned out to be inconclusive.

Max really hoped that things wouldn't turn out inconclusive. It was so frustrating when things went that way. He liked clear-cut answers, things set out in black and white instead of blurry grey. Contradicting and/or incomplete information frustrated him, because it could throw his calculations way off.

But in the end, it only took a week for some inconsistencies to show up.

"On Monday morning, Lila turned down the opportunity to share a croissant with Alya after Marinette brought some in to share with Alya, Nino, and Adrien," Markov reported Friday evening, after running an initial scan on all of the data. "She claimed that she was dealing with a gluten sensitivity recently and couldn't eat bread. Then on Wednesday, she took her lunch at school and ate the pasta that the cafeteria was serving, which was not gluten-free."

Max frowned, noting that down on his summary sheet. "I suppose that sensitivities can come and go, but surely it would make more sense to gradually ease back into eating wheat instead of having a plate of pasta."

"On Tuesday afternoon, Lila stated that she was going to have a video conference with Prince Ali of Achu that evening about their charity work regarding pollution," Markov continued. "I have run a scan, and Prince Ali is currently only involved in children's charities, largely dealing with those concerning children's hospitals, childhood homelessness, and child hunger. There are also no mentions of any Lila Rossi being involved with Prince Ali, even though all people who have assisted him are mentioned on his website. Even your classmate Rose is listed."

Max's frown deepened. "Hmm."

"On Wednesday morning, Lila mentioned having attended the Royal Wedding," Markov continued. "There were plenty of pictures taken at the Royal Wedding, both of the couple being married and of the people attending. I ran facial recognition software on all of the photos and came up with no match for Lila, though I did recognize Adrien and his father as well as Kagami and her mother."

Odder and odder. Of course, it was possible that there were people hidden too far back in the crowd to be easily seen with a photo, and of course, Lila was shorter than adults, so it might be easier to miss her. The fact that Adrien and Kagami were seen could, of course, always be attributed to them just getting a better seat, so by itself that didn't necessarily mean much.

"Wednesday afternoon, Lila showed off a picture of herself in Berlin," Markov continued, and Max nodded, remembering that photo. It had been passed around, and he had managed to show it to Markov without anyone noticing. "It was on a well-known street in their shopping district, and Lila said that it was taken earlier this year, when she was absent from school for several months. However, there are no pedestrians or cars in the photo, even though there is a street behind Lila, and one of the stores pictured moved out of that location five years ago. A web scan turned up a poster of that street that matches exactly, available to purchase in a local poster shop for eight euros and fifty-two cents."

….what.

"There was nothing of particular note on Thursday, but on Friday afternoon, Lila claimed to be allergic to tomatoes after Sabrina invited her over to dinner and told her that it would be tomato soup and grilled cheese," Markov finished. "Even though she had had a tomato sauce on her pasta for lunch on Wednesday."

Max's frown deepened and he nodded sharply. "Okay. Even though I hadn't planned to stop collecting data for another four weeks, I think we have enough to draw some preliminary conclusions. Namely, that Marinette was correct when she called Lila a liar. Some things on their own could be explained away, but all of them?"

The chances that there was some unlikely excuse to explain away all of those contradictions… well, the chances of that were pretty low. Single digits, even. And when Max considered the comments about the food all on their own-

"Max, did you say that Lila's mom was the Italian ambassador?"

"Yes, that's why she travels so much and meets so many people," Max responded absently, wondering if he should bring what data he had to Ms. Bustier right away, or if he should wait for another week. "Why?"

"I cannot find data on who the current Italian ambassador, but a query about the duties of an ambassador do not mention anything about constant traveling to other countries as part of the job," Markov told him. "Their only travel for work would be between their home country and the country that they're stationed in. There is nothing that says that they would be traveling elsewhere over the duration of their time in the position."

….that was concerning. Add that to everything else that he had collected over the course of the week, and Max was pretty convinced now that he did have enough evidence to build a convincing case to present to Ms. Bustier. Maybe he should compose an email tonight, and have Markov make a copy of the pertinent voice and visual clips to attach to it. Maybe she already knew and an email would just be a bother. Maybe she would be annoyed that one student was recording and digging into another student's stories. Maybe she would object to the recordings altogether, even though Max had gotten permission from the class- including Lila- to have Markov in the room, with the understanding that he took in and processed information via audio and video recordings.

But it was better safe than sorry, and Max wanted to make sure that the teachers were as well-informed as they could be.

The email that Max got in response was- well, it was baffling, to say the least, and not nearly as concerned as he would have expected.

Thank you for the information. I talked to Mr. Damocles about your concerns, and he informed me that Lila told him that she has a medical condition that makes her sometimes tell lies. Please keep that in confidence, as we are not supposed to share any information about student medical conditions and I am only bending that rule to explain our response.

"I have done a preliminary scan of the web and found some information," Markov reported as Max scanned the email for the thirty-eighth time in hopes of getting something else out of it. "There is a condition called pathological lying- or perhaps it would be called a behavior, and it may or may not have a medical reason behind it. But if we look at the pattern of lies and include the presumed lies, the lies seem more premeditated rather than impulsive or spur-of-the-moment. And if Lila was the one who told your principal about her supposed condition…"

Markov didn't need to finish the sentence. The ending stood obvious, a glaring brand in Max's mind: she lied about that, too, to get herself out of something.

Well. Probably. After all, now they were building their assumptions on stories that they were just assuming were lies, based on related but perhaps somewhat indirect evidence. Like the fact that diplomats didn't travel from country to country when they were meant to be stationed somewhere, and the fact that Lila's photo of herself was in front of a poster. Both of those were stand-alone pieces of evidence that suggested that Lila's months-long trip "all over the world" had just… not happened. And lying about something of that magnitude- not making up a story about something that had happened before she arrived in Paris but instead actively going out of her way to create a narrative that did not line up with reality-

Maybe Max should stop questioning if Lila's lies did or did not fall under the category of typical behavior seen by pathological liars. After all, he was not any sort of mental health specialist. He hadn't had any training in diagnosing mental illnesses. But his mom had a friend who specialized in mental health services. Maybe she could answer some of his questions about pathological lying, or at least advise the school on the correct way to deal with a pathological liar in the student population. After all, something told Max that ignoring the problem and not letting any of the student population know so that they would be able to adjust their behavior and expectations accordingly was not quite what a professional would recommend.

Especially in their current akuma-prone climate. Lila had been building up a lot of people's hopes with her claims of connections, and the disappointment of inevitably being let down was bound to cause some strong akumas.

Akumas! There was another spot where Max could gather data, of course! Lila had claimed connections to the superheroes multiple times, and Ladybug and Chat Noir could confirm or deny those stories. Max might have some trouble getting in close enough to catch them at the end of an akuma attack- he wasn't Alya, getting caught up in akuma attacks had the annoying habit of giving Max nightmares instead of a 'fun' adrenaline rush- but Markov could probably slip past unnoticed.

But- well, that would just be more data points, when Max already had enough to make some strong preliminary conclusions. Talking to the superheroes wouldn't address the current issue, also known as the fact that the teachers and principal were aware that Lila sometimes (or often) lied and weren't telling their students or doing anything about the lies to keep them from becoming a problem. That needed to be addressed. Everything else could wait, at least for the time being.

After a moment's consideration, Max pulled up his list of contacts, searching through the list for his mom's friend. He had put her information in just in case, and a quick check from Markov confirmed that the information was up-to-date. He forwarded the email he had received to her with a quick message listing his concerns about how the school was treating the situation and then, after a moment's thought, also sent a blind copy of the email to Kim and Alix.

Maybe Ms. Bustier had asked him not to tell any of his peers about Lila's lying condition, but that just didn't feel right to Max. His friends deserved to know that Lila couldn't be trusted, because he knew that Lila had claimed connections that had impressed them, too, and Lila could very well use those "connections" to manipulate Kim and Alix into doing things for her.

Also, they both had big mouths and the likelihood that almost all of the class would be informed about the contradictions by Monday if he told them sat at a solid 85.7%. Max doubted that anyone would try to tell Alya- after all, she was so focused on having an in with Ladybug's best friend that she didn't even want to consider that Lila might not be telling the truth- and of course Marinette already knew, but the news would probably spread to everyone else.

Max supposed that there was a possible exception of Nino as well, just because of his connection to Alya, but- well, the exception of the two of them and Lila herself still qualified as "almost" all of the class, right?

Max did some quick calculations. If everyone but those three heard the news, the percentage of the class who would know would sit at a solid 80%, which was definitely a majority. But did it make sense to count everyone? Marinette already knew about the contradictions- and Max was willing to bet that Adrien did, too- so maybe they shouldn't be included in the calculations. By that logic, maybe Lila shouldn't get counted, either. If he took those three out…. That was still above 80%. Still a solid majority, even if Max removed himself from those calculations, too, since he would be the source of the information this time around.

But that was nitpicking, and also not completely relevant to the issue. What Max did know was that, come Monday, Lila's reputation and place in their class was likely to be very different than it had been on Friday. How different depended entirely on a number of very human and very unpredictable variables, which made making any predictions about it largely useless.

"Well, Markov, I think that's all I really can do about it right now," Max commented, checking one last time to make sure his messages had sent before closing the window and turning to his friend. "Now we can only wait."

Monday morning, the usual crowd around Lila had dwindled down to only a handful of people, Nino and Alya and a few people from other classes. She looked a bit thrown off by the change, particularly when Rose and Juleka hurried past with barely a glance and not even the prospect of news about Prince Ali could make them pause for more than a moment. A flash of fury crossed Lila's face at that as soon as the two girls had turned away again, her glance at Marinette a second of pure murder.

Hmm. Perhaps Max should give Marinette a heads-up about the information he had gathered and the emails that he had sent out. After all, if Lila decided that Marinette was behind the rest of the students' decision to stop listening to her, then Lila could very well try to retaliate. Considering that Lila's earlier retaliation- or assumed retaliation, to be more accurate- had consisted of an attempt to frame Marinette for cheating, stealing, and assault, some warning about another possible attempt at something would probably not go unappreciated. With some warning, Marinette could be on guard.

Max felt a little bad about that, actually. This time, Marinette had not been the source of the- well, not the gossip, because that suggested not entirely truthful rumor-spreading, but perhaps the discord regarding Lila. Max had been the source of the information that Lila very likely didn't want getting out, but Marinette would probably get most of the repercussions from the other girl simply because previously, Marinette had really been the only one calling out inconsistencies.

"Yo, dude, that was a weird email you sent out over the weekend!" Kim announced, making Max jump in surprise as his friend popped up next to him. "I can't believe we didn't notice some of that stuff ourselves!"

"Well, it's hard to remember everything people say," Max said instead of admitting that he hadn't noticed, either. Not really- not specifically. All he had really picked up on was the fact that an unidentified something was off. "Thus the data collection." He adjusted his glasses, glancing over at Kim. "So who all knows now?"

"Who doesn't know would be the better question. I know Alix told most of the other girls. She tried telling Alya, but. Uh." Kim cringed. "I think Alya just really loves the idea of having an in with 'Ladybug's best friend', because she wasn't willing to listen. I don't even think Alix got to the part where it was you that was saying anything instead of Marinette."

"I did wonder if anyone would even try to talk to Alya. She's been most invested in Lila's stories, it seems. Unfortunate, considering that that has to be hugely frustrating for Marinette." Max glanced across the gym again. Nino was starting to look a bit on edge, thrown off by the number of people who usually would be joining them in listening to Lila but who were clearly avoiding the Italian girl now. "And Nino?"

Kim shook his head. "I don't think anyone tried talking to him, considering how Alya blew Alix off. I bet he's going to be asking around now, though. Since everyone else was willing to listen, he might figure that we actually have something worth listening to."

Max nodded, in full agreement with Kim. With the rest of the class believing them, it was only a matter of time before the final couple people were at least willing to listen. "Hopefully. Should we head to class? I want to talk to Marinette before everyone comes in."

Kim snickered. "You're really going to assume that Marinette is already there? I mean, you're right this time," he added hastily. "I've already seen Marinette this morning. But considering how often she runs late…"

"I had also seen her already, or I wouldn't have made that assumption." Max led the way, away from Lila and her dwindling audience and towards the classroom. He pushed open the door to see Marinette very obviously trying to look like she wasn't paying attention to the woman talking to Ms. Bustier and Mr. Damocles in the front of the classroom.

The woman who looked very familiar. Apparently his mom's friend had been concerned enough by the email that she had decided to come in in person.

"They seem to be alternating between being happy that there's a specialist here and insisting that they can handle things and they can't disclose any part of a student's medical record without permission," Marinette murmured as Max headed up to his seat, doing his best not to look like he was listening in. Apparently someone- Alix, if he was to guess- had already filled her in on Max's investigation and subsequent emails. "Though I think the being thankful for a specialist is winning out, because she's told them what all would be required to properly handle a condition like the one Lila is claiming to have."

Max nodded in thanks, glancing back towards the front once before retreating to his seat and watching the adults' expressions as they talked. It was fairly easy to deduce from the expressions that Mr. Damocles was all in favor of handing over Lila's entire file and letting the expert deal with her "condition", while Ms. Bustier was far more concerned about student privacy. If Max had to bet, he would say that Mr. Damocles would probably win the discussion, if only because his status as principal afforded him more clout when making decision.

And sure enough, two minutes later, the meeting broke up with Ms. Bustier looking less than pleased as she sunk back down into the chair behind her desk.

""I think it would be a good idea for her to at least talk to Mrs. Lenoir," Mr. Damocles told her, heading for the door. During homeroom, if you could- I don't want to waste Mrs. Lenoir's time. And you know that we haven't had a case like this before- we didn't know what paperwork we should be asking for, or that we would need to be working with a therapist daily."

"It's overkill, surely," Ms. Bustier protested weakly, clearly well aware that she was losing the argument. "She's getting along just fine with the others in the class, she's popular-"

"And how long will that last once people realize that the stories aren't based in fact?" Mrs. Lenoir challenged. "How upset will they be about being misled? Is that a safe gamble to make with Hawkmoth still on the loose?"

Ms. Bustier fell silent. Up front, Adrien's head went up, clearly forgoing the pretense of not listening. Mr. Damocles glanced between the two of them, clearly a little uncomfortable, before Lila's arrival with the remainder of her entourage broke the silence.

"Ah, Ms. Rossi, just the person we were looking for!" Mr. Damocles announced at once, and Lila clearly startled. He gestured towards Mrs. Lenoir. "This is Mrs. Lenoir! She came by the school today to talk to you about- well." He paused, clearly suddenly aware of the filling classroom. "The condition that we discussed a couple weeks ago. You two can take my office, I can work from the library for the first hour."

"Oh, that's fine, I don't need to talk to anyone!" Lila tittered at once, and now that he was looking, the level of fake in her voice made Max cringe. "I've already seen experts back home, you know-"

"And yet we don't have records on file here, so I'm afraid that until we can get those, we'll need to start from scratch," Mr. Damocles told her kindly. "It won't take long now, and Ms. Bustier has already agreed to excuse you from homeroom. Now, if you please?"

Lila glanced between the adults, a small frown on her face. "Is this really necessary? I mean, my mom's just been too busy to ask that the files be sent, I'm sure, I can just remind her tonight-"

The smile on Mr. Damocles' face gave way to a frown. "Now, Ms. Rossi."

Max didn't miss the tiny flicker of outright panic on Lila's face as she was ushered out the door.

By the end of the day, Lila had been expelled from Dupont and reported to the school board. Several eye witnesses said that the elder Rossi had come to collect her daughter in a huff, with a police officer accompanying her. Whether or not Lila would even be staying in Paris sounded like it might be up for debate, because Hawkmoth's presence meant that Lila could still last out.

Frankly, Max hoped that Lila would be removed from the city. Her akuma forms had a high potential for causing catastrophic confusion and danger, and she was crafty enough to use the powers to their full advantage. With her mom and the school board (and the police) on her trail, Lila would just get plan after plan disrupted, which would no doubt frustrate her to the point of akumatization. Who she decided to go after when that happened… well, that was about as close to a wild card as Max had ever seen, and he didn't like the odds of Lila targeting all of her old classmates, simply because she didn't know who had gotten Mrs. Lenoir called to the school.

Presumably Mrs. Lenoir hadn't given Lila any specifics during their short but fateful chat. She would know how bad of an idea that would be, what with Hawkmoth around and far more opportunities than usual for revenge (however temporary) available.

The class was still reeling from the deceptions- exactly how many of Lila's stories were made up was still being investigated- but Max suspected that it wouldn't be long before something else came along and pulled everyone's attention away again. They would move on, Lila would be forgotten, and everything would go back to normal. Or at least as normal as Paris got these days.

Max smiled at the thought. Maybe his next data-collection project could have something to do with Hawkmoth and his akumas. It would be interesting, and anything he found- well, it could potentially have some pretty serious implications.

Yes, Max decided, that sounded like a good idea. It would be a challenge, particularly figuring out how to approach his study and data-collection in a way that would actually produce meaningful results- after all, surely the police already were looking at the available data to try to find Hawkmoth- but Max rather fancied a challenge. Figuring out what was going on with Lila had been just a touch too easy for his tastes, and figuring out Hawkmoth would be much harder. Still, Max was convinced that it was doable.

After all, well…. Hawkmoth might be doing his best to keep his identity secret from all of Paris, but he was still a mere man. He was prone to making mistakes, to leaving clues that might be overlooked, to falling into familiar patterns. All things that could be collected, could be analyzed, could be built into a bigger picture that, with any luck, would lead them to Hawkmoth.

Maybe most superheroes didn't fight their supervillains using metadata, but there was always a first time.

#Miraculous Ladybug #My writing #max kante

192 notes · View notes

havetheavengersdoneanythingwrong · 3 years

Text

An Interlude — The Unknown Expanse

A fearful baker lost his calendar yesterday, and a month passed—

And ever since that year went by, the coward has lost sight of everything but the false safety of ‘home.’

That decade passed without word, without sound, as the baker faded away from the world —

—until, that second later, a message from ‘someone.’

—

I lost my calendar yesterday.

Last April.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it. Seconds, maybe, or hours. It could be days.

A light shines underneath the door, for a moment, and flickers off. It illuminates hardwood floor — its texture worn down over months of use, light barely showcasing whatever cracks remained after all that pacing, just before vanishing as quick as it came.

It could’ve been anyone — my parents, perhaps, or someone else entirely — but it felt the same.

It all felt the same. A grip surrounding my neck, that forced the breath out of me, its spare hand rearranging my stomach to tie itself into hundreds of knots.

Dread, wasn’t it? That was its name. That horribly, sputtering feeling, that bit into your heart and ground its teeth relentlessly until all you could think of was passing out to halt the pain.

Darkness surrounded my vision — the tunnel vision that built up, certainly, and the darkness of the place I called ‘home.’

In the shimmer of my light, someone could easily see a target of burglary — someone to steal from — through a window that wasn’t boarded up from the inside just yet.

Compared to that, the endless darkness surrounding me was preferential, if not optimal. The fear of possible insects, of beings that scuttled in the night, was nothing compared to it.

‘Aah, wouldn’t it be nice, if...’

Even in my mind, I cut myself off thinking of a better idea.

Slipping in and out of consciousness endlessly — in this darkness, time was impossible to understand. ‘Sleep’ and ‘awake’ melded into one whole, two lovers apart by circumstances now waltzing together in the haze. Only ever seeing daylight in the times I ate, it was all too easy to mistake reality for fiction, and fiction for reality.

‘...It’s better like this, isn’t it?’

Aah, for all I knew, it was reality that this was all there was — that thieves and criminals existed only in my head, and that the world outside was only an illusion made to hurt me.

Was that reality?

Was that truly reality?

...Or had my eyes closed again?

—

I was 14.

14, 13, 10, 15–

The first incident is impossible to recall in the soup of ‘happenings.’

Twenty dollars — a little dollar bill I held close to my chest, moving slowly through the Toronto streets that lay just outside my home.

The bakery, ‘Roland’s Pastries,’ lay just a stone’s toss away — a half hour walk from our home. My father’s business, one he pridefully named off his last name, and the focus of the pastime we enjoyed more than anything else.

More than even the base jumping my father enjoyed, or the parkour stunts my mother taught to a generation of gymnasts —

Was a simple pastry, made delicately and kindly, warm to the touch, to sweeten even the sourest of days.

To call it my dream to run that bakery one day would be putting it lightly. I could still remember the shimmering gaze I always directed at its structure, the way my parents joined their staff to produce the best quality they could manage. I could still remember the first loaf of bread I helped make — even though it rose poorly, and didn’t taste the best, the gleaming smiles of my family stayed with me.

Yes — today was the day I was going to buy my own baking materials. Twenty dollars wasn’t much, but I wanted to contribute something to the next loaf of cinnamon bread we made.

A man brushed past me, however.

They wore a dark green rain jacket, and a grey shirt. Black jeans, too — they were impossible to miss.

Their face was a blur — a mismatched cloud of skin-shaped vapour in my mind, only a single bloodshot eye remaining in my mind.

It stared daggers into my skull, but I hadn’t noticed.

I was going to get some cinnamon. Maybe flour.

I was going to help. I was going to make cinnamon loaf.

I was going to

I was

I couldn’t make the

The hand reached out , and the gaze of the ‘person’ said it all -

Their hand remained in their pocket, but the outline of a <hand/dagger/gun>

Their hand reached to mine, and their <hand/dagger/breath>

The weight was gone in a moment, but the front door opened, and it

—

Aah,

So that was fictional.

Certainly, it were my dreams — separated from reality only by the fact that ‘nothing’ lay instead of ‘something’ before my eyes.

Darkness — the roots of unknown, of fear — felt comforting, compared to that.

The light outside my door was turned off. Shuffling could still be heard, though — and a gentle knock at my door.

“...It’ll be your birthday soon, son. If you want to celebrate... Just let me know, alright?”

...A calm, older male voice. My father.

Aah, how it was so pleasant to hear — how someone existed who could be that kind.

It must’ve been May, then —

...

“...I’ll think about it... Thank you, pops. Really.”

“Of course. Just... Let me know what you want, okay?”

...

Aah, how it almost felt like those older times —

—

...16.

I can still remember the first muzzle I stared down.

I was working the cashier booth at our bakery. Handling money, the works.

“Just smile and do whatever the customer says,” said my father. “If they cause any trouble, just call me and I’ll be here.”

He’d pat me on the back and send me on my way, with a list of basic instructions. Just the way I liked it — after all, words in general were in one ear and out the other when it came to me. Didn’t stop my mother from trying to speak a novel to me, but I could always rely on my pops to write down some of what to do.

Of course, those days usually went well — kind customers, kids with the cutest goshdarn smiles, and admittedly a fair few free cinnamon buns given to people who needed a pick-me-up.

I remember, one day —

“He’s been too slow lately. You need to punish him a bit, or he’s just going to stagnate like this.”

“He’s doing just fine for his age. He’s taking a load off our shoulders, handling customers, so I think he’s doing well.”

“You need to teach him a better work ethic.”

“He’s doing fine enough as is.”

I did have my slow days — where, suddenly, counting dollars didn’t mesh with my mind. Where in a matter of moments, I lost my desire to keep working, and I was fighting my mind to keep moving.

And this, of course, was one such day — the line was small, albeit, but I couldn’t deny I was a bit slow on the draw.

I remember counting out around forty dollars — around four of which were due in change.

Just enough time for—

...

...I was handed a note with the change. I open it, not thinking much of it-

“Empty the register, and say nothing, and nobody will get hurt.”

A teenager at the register of a bakery. The perfect target for a silent robbery.

Nobody was behind me — nobody could see his actions. Least of all the empty line behind this man, holding no witnesses in sight.

My family, arguing in the back, had no idea of what lay beyond that thin wall.

Just me — and the muzzle of a pistol.

It wasn’t possible to forget what the inside of a gun looked like.

A dark, empty void — reflecting what it could do to me, in an instant, if my hands now stopped.

The blur of repressed memory brought the scene into a haze —

—But hours after its completion, as that ‘me’ lay in horror, sobbing, I couldn’t help but listen —

“He’s misplaced most of our earnings for today! I told you that you had to discipline him better!”

—Aah,

They hadn’t known, had they?

—

Something — to nothing.

Faint, hazy memories dissolved like a tablet into water, as I felt something on my face.

I couldn’t see it, nor understand it in full — it were there, however, placed as if to irritate me specifically.

...I’d awoken in a cold sweat. Perhaps from the chilled air surrounding me, and the weak blanket I forgot to sleep under, I found my legs quivering when I tried to stand in the darkness — groping and feeling the air around me, stumbling into my bathroom to take a sip of water from the tap.

Even this darkness, this state of mind as if I hit the supercritical point of reality and dreams, felt comforting —

—Even the horrible memories of what once was could be dismissed as dreams, even the fear that came from living like this, and the fear of abandoning everything.

Here, reality was what you made of it — what you chose.

Lapping at the lukewarm tap water, barely reaching it, unable to see it save for the small reflections in the surface of the water itself, I heard a buzz on a nearby device.

My phone — charging there, waiting for something that would never come, began to vibrate.

“...What..?”

Unlocking my smartphone, I was met with a familiar image as my home screen —

—a young ‘me,’ eyes shining with delight, holding a loaf of cinnamon bread with utter care while grinning in pride.

“The only one who could take that was...”

...My phone began to ring.

A phone number I didn’t know — only one number off from mine, I realized. Out of curiosity, or perhaps loneliness, I placed my finger on the ‘accept’ button.

“Hey! I don’t know who you are, but we’re textdoor neighbours! Thought I’d say hello.”

...

“...Who are you..?”

“Uh, Ritsuka. Ritsuka Fujimaru. If it helps, I was the person who bingeplayed tekken and ate curdled yoghurt for superchats.”

“...”

...Had that much changed? How long had it been..?

“...Tell me more.”

—Somehow, it felt wrong to continue.

As if, by saying those three words, I was changing something that should have never been changed.

And yet — as my finger hovered over the button to hang up, the words fell out of my mouth instead.

Within the fear that lay in revealing who I was to a stranger —

—somehow, I felt as if this person was worth meeting.

Somehow, I felt as if something would change if I said something.

Something better would happen —

—surely, better than this.

#fgo #mastersona #gudasona #cadenceloreposting #l o r e #cadangst #like a reverse where are they now #where the fuck was he before??#now ye know #i like to think in other ‘verses he hung up on Ritsuka instead

2 notes · View notes

imanativeofswlondondahling · 4 years

Text

Hidden in Plain Sight (3)- Tom Holland X Reader

A/N: This story is fun to write, but school is taking over little by little so sorry if this gets delayed more than I mean for it to be! Enjoy Chapter Three!

Word Count: 2165

Warnings: Swearing? Maybe? To be honest I can’t remember if I swore or not but knowing me I probably did. But there is mention of a killer moth so if that’s as trigger as it was when it was flying around my room then I’ll mention it here.

You had the absolute worst day. You were hoping it was going to be a good day since you had put on one of your favorite outfits to wear to work. But as soon as you got to work, everything turned into a shit show. A project you thought was finished didn’t save the last days edits, your boss got on you for something that was your coworker’s responsibility, and someone ate your lunch, which you’re not entirely sure how that happened, but it did. Add to it you have the start of what you think is a migraine, the last thing you want to do is anything work related, but because you’re behind on the project that is due tomorrow, you’ll probably be up all night working on it before going in tomorrow to continue working on it at the office. So heating up some soup to eat while you work, you decide to scroll through Tumblr while you wait for it to heat up.

The news of Spider-Man, and therefore Tom Holland, staying in the MCU still hasn’t died down, which let’s be honest why should it? It’s fantastic news. Out of all the Spider-Mans, Tom’s portrayal of it is your favorite and you would be so sad to see him taken from Marvel just because Sony, Marvel and Disney couldn’t come to an agreement on things. It’s only been a couple days since it was announced, but you wouldn’t be surprised if this was talked about for weeks at least. You reblog a couple of photos, adding some of your usual hashtags. Honestly, you want to be distracted by asks, but you know that the likelihood that people will respond is low, plus you shouldn’t let yourself be distracted by Tumblr when you have the project due tomorrow.

Hating seeing notifications, you click on the second icon from the right on the bottom of your screen. You clear off the notifications from reblogs and likes but notices your app is still showing a notification, on the messages side. It’s probably just from one of your friends. You flip over to the other screen and see a message from none other than Tomholland2013, who you’ve been messaging on and off over the past couple of days, ever since you sent him that edit.

You haven’t been super active on tumblr lately. Everything ok?x

Been super busy at work lol. Big deadlines coming up.

You don’t expect to get a message back since you figured from your messages where he mentioned he was in the early hours of the day while you were only in the late afternoon, that he was probably asleep since you got home later from work than you had planned. So you set your phone aside as you pull the broccoli cheddar soup from the microwave. However, you’re pleasantly surprised to see a message waiting for you when you pick your phone back up to head back to your computer to keep working.

Ah, big deadlines. What kind of work do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?x

Hm, this new tumblr friend of yours is awake even though it’s probably the middle of the night for him?

I don’t mind. I work in graphic design. Isn’t it the middle of the night for you?

It would be if I was at home. I travel a lot for work. I’m currently in New York, so it’s only 9pm.x

But it definitely feels like I should be asleep. I’ve only been in New York for a few days and my mind is still on London time.x

What kind of work do you do?

You set your phone down and boot your computer back up. You know you have shadows to deal with and layers to add back before even getting to the stuff you were meaning to get on today. This project was going to be the death of you.

Tom stares at the message. How does he respond to that? He can’t very well tell you he’s an actor. That blows all of this. He likes being able to be open with you and the moment that it comes out that he is actually Tom Holland, well you might not be open with him. Could he tell you he works in the movie field without having to admit who he is? Could he play it off that he’s still a fanboy, because he will be a marvel fanboy until the day he dies, without blowing this whole thing up? There’s just something about you and being able to connect with someone who has no idea who he is that is different.

Even on your blog today, you shared things from months ago and still reacted like it was your first time seeing them. Your whole blog just radiated positivity, even though your messages sounded like you had a lot on your plate outside of the internet world. He wants to be able to know you without the pressure of having to be, well, him. But you’re not asking him to spill everything about who he is. Just a snip-it.

Film production. Getting ready to head off to a new project actually.x

Must be fun to travel for it. Anywhere fun?

Cleveland actually. Haven’t been there before, so maybe I’ll find something fun to do outside of the project while I’m there.x

Maybe you’ll run into Tom. He’s supposed to be there shooting a project I think. Especially if you’re also in the film industry, you’d already have more of a way into things than say I would lol

I don’t know if I’ll have that much time off to look for him.x

Well if you happen to run into him in said little time off, tell him there’s probably half a million if not more tumblr users willing to marry him, should he be in need of a wife, husband, or nonbianary pal.

Would you happen to be one of those said half a million?x

He shouldn’t have sent it. You have been pretty good about responding, but after sending that message, he hasn’t heard from you in over twenty-four hours and he’s beside himself. You also haven’t posted on your blog. Which makes him think you’re avoiding him on the site all together, which is even worse. The flight to Cleveland, wouldn’t have been half bad if he wasn’t worried the whole time about what you might have been sending while his phone was on airplane mode. And of course the one time he would have paid any amount for on flight wi-fi, it was down and no one could use it.

As soon as the plane lands, he’s flipping the switch to connect his phone again. He needs to see if you’ve messaged back. He’s ignoring all the other notifications that pop up, looking for only on apps notifications. And while you haven’t posted again, you have messaged back. Which makes him suddenly feel like he can breathe again.

I’m not the one who took Tom’s name on here. I feel like you might propose to Tom before I even have a chance to meet him IRL.

I don’t think I’m Tom’s type.X

And what do you think Tom’s type is?

And it takes everything to not just describe you. It wouldn’t be hard. He had spent a lot of time deep diving through your blog. He had looked through your #me tab on your blog. It was filled with everything from selfies to posts about things you had done. And you were the kind of person that he was into. It wasn’t an only physical attraction thing. It was the things that you found important enough to post about. The little things about your day that you shared about. But instead of typing back you, Tom decides to type something different.

I think he would be into someone down to earth. Someone who is into sharing time with friends and family equally and someone who has a great sense of humor. Oh and they would HAVE to love Tessa. That would be a must.x

Wow you’ve thought a lot about this.

Do you disagree?x

Surprisingly no. But I thought you’d say something more… I don’t know physical I guess.

Why’s that?x

I don’t know. I just did.

What do you think he’d be into?x

He can’t help but ask. He wants to know what you think he’s like. There’s enough speculation out there about what he’s like, but for some reason, knowing what you think about him, it means something to him.

I would say, similar to you- family, friends and Tessa would definitely be at the top. Sense of humor would be important. I also feel like with there being so much he can’t talk about to the public, having someone he can trust with stuff would be important. I also think trust would be important so that he has a space he can just be himself too. 🤷‍♀️

Pretty spot on. All of those are important to him. He wants to ask if those things are all important to you, but asking that would come off weird, so he takes a different approach.

Honestly if I wasn’t such a div when I was making accounts I would have just made a Tessa fan blog. I’m a bigger fan of her than of Tom. x

SO TRUE. How can you not be?! She’s the purest thing in this world (sorry to Tom) and every time he shares more of her with us I melt a little.

Paddy had sent him that picture of Tessa this morning, maybe sharing it would brighten everyone’s days. Especially knowing that you were such a fan of her too. Adding the picture to his Instagram story, with a quick caption of missing this sweet girl, he quickly uploads it.

APPARENTLY TOM CAN READ OUR THOUGHTS?!

What do you mean?x

Cute Tessa content just uploaded to his Insta story. Apparently he’s away from her and missing her 😭

She’s just too pure for this world x

I needed that right now.

Something wrong?x

Work project might kill me.

It’s due by the end of the day, but photoshop keeps crashing and I might scream.

I’m sorry love x

I’m restarting my computer for the third time today and it’s not even noon yet.

You know he’s English so the love thing shouldn’t throw you. Plus he’s a boy on the internet. But for some reason, it feels like something more. So instead of saying anything about it, you just keep messaging like nothing happened. A small part of you is hoping that by not mentioning it though, it might happen again.

Tom spends the rest of the day messaging you when he can. He knows you’re working on a project that has a deadline, so he doesn’t expect you to be at his beck and call. But when he gets a notification at almost eleven o’clock at night his time from your blog, he hopes it’s one of your personal posts to make him laugh. He isn’t let down.

THERE WAS A MOTH FLYING AROUND MY ROOM AND NOW I CAN’T FIND IT IM GOING TO DIE. IF IT EATS ME YOU ALL KNOW WHO THE MURDER IS

#me #killer moth #save me #if i die i leave everything to tom

He can’t help but send you an ask about it.

Tomholland2013 asked: You know moths don’t eat people right?x

Y/T/B: You didn’t see how big this one was. This one was definitely of the people eating variety with how big it was. And now it’s hiding in my room waiting for me to close my eyes and then it will sneak up on me, kill me, and devour me whole. 🖕

Tom laughs at your reply before sending another ask. Sure he could do this in your message thread, but he’s betting the asks are helping distract you from the moth.

Tomholland2013 asked: That’s a quiet defensive response from someone who is going to be eaten. If you want me to come save you from a killer moth, maybe be a bit nicer.x

Y/T/B: If you will race over here, find this moth, and release it into the wild so that it can’t kill me in my sleep I will make you as many Tom edits as it takes in gratitude. 👏😘Just come save me please. I swear I can hear him laughing in the distance.

Tomholland2013 asked: If he’s laughing in the distance, I’ll be over to take care of him. No one gets to disrespect my favorite blog and get away with it.x

Y/T/B: Thanks darling. I really, really appreciate it. Now I must be off to hunt this moth, before he hunts me.

Tags: @serendipitous-amor @im-still-tryin-to-find-it @tomfiction4 @im-deeply-shallow

#tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland x you #tom holland fan fic #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fan fiction #tom holland fanfiction #imanativeofswlondondahling #hidden in plain sight

38 notes · View notes

xxx-cat-xxx · 4 years

Text

Vacation

This is my very fluffy @marveltrumpshate fic for @twentyghosts, whose wonderful stories made me fall in love with Science Bros. I hope you like it.

Many thanks to @whumphoarder and @sallyidss for beta reading!

___________

“This is ridiculous,” Tony moans, letting himself sink down on his backside to slide down a steep passage of the hill, his injured foot carefully stretched out in front of him. “For the record, this is the last time you get to plan our vacation.”

“You know, this is easily my fifth hiking trip in the Himalayas and the first time someone managed to get injured by tripping over their own feet on a perfectly straight road,” counters Bruce.

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in...” Tony mutters, then winces when his ankle bounces on a stone and pain shoots up his leg.

“Hey.” Bruce’s expression sobers. “You sure you don’t want me to call for medevac?”

“I am not calling for medevac because I sprained my ankle on a vacation,” Tony retorts, already picturing the field day Barton would have upon hearing about it. Then seeing as Bruce is about to protest, adds, “And no, Bruce, it’s not broken. I think by now I should know what a broken bone feels like.” He uses a nearby branch to lever himself back upright and grits his teeth when he puts weight on his right foot. “Besides, we’re almost back—I think I can see the village down there.”

That was a bit optimistic. By the time they reach the village where they stayed the previous night, it’s already late evening and the sun has long since set. Tony is glad for his arc technology-powered flashlight that makes it possible for them to find a path in the dark forest covering the mountains.

They slowly make their way back through the village road—Tony’s arm slung around Bruce’s shoulders and his lips pressed tightly together, politely declining any offers of help from the few villagers that are still awake—before finally reaching their rental car.

Tony leans heavily against the driver’s side, glad to take the weight off his foot for a bit. He’s exhausted and feeling kind of shaky, which, he realises after hearing a loud growl from his stomach, might be because the last thing he ate was breakfast at the homestay that morning. It was only supposed to be a short hike up the mountain; they’d planned to leave for the city before dark after eating in the village, but then Tony’s foot had thwarted their plans.

Tony fumbles for the car keys in his pocket, then opens the door and lets himself fall inside with a groan. “Okay, let’s go,” he announces. “I hope the restaurants will still be open by the time we arrive—I’m fucking starving.” Then he realises that Bruce hasn’t made a move to get into the vehicle.

“Brucie?” In the rearview mirror, he sees his partner take their suitcase out of the trunk. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bruce says in the tone of someone talking to a very stubborn child.

“I’m driving us back.”

Bruce scoffs. “No, not with that foot of yours, you’re not. How are you gonna work the pedals?”

“Fine,” Tony says in the most provocative tone he can muster, “then you drive us back.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “You know I don’t drive on these mountain roads, Tony. Especially not at night.”

Tony shrugs. “It’s your choice, darling.”

“This is not a choice at all!” Bruce says in frustration. “Don’t be ridiculous. Neither of us can drive tonight. You can barely walk.”

“You’re the one being ridiculous,” Tony declares. “If you’re not driving, then I am. This is nothing compared to what I’ve worked through on missions.”

“But this is not a mission.” Bruce bends down to the window, a softer expression on his face now. “Come on, Tony, there’s no need for you to prove anything to anyone. Let’s just spend another night at the homestay. We’ll ice your ankle and see how it’s looking tomorrow morning. I’d feel terrible making you drive for three hours while being in pain like this.”

Tony’s pride tells him (in Howard’s voice, of course) to just suck it up and drive anyway. But then his eyes meet Bruce’s warm ones and he feels his resistance melt. “Fine, whatever,” he agrees. “But I hope we can get a decent dinner there...”

When they reach the homestay, the lights are already out, and Tony’s hope for dinner extinguishes with them.

“Didn’t you want to go back to the city?” their host’s grown-up daughter, Radhika, asks them when she opens the door. She is dressed in a colourful long nightshirt and a warm shawl, her usually braided black hair falling over her shoulder.

“Yeah, we had a small…incident,” Bruce replies. He gestures to Tony’s foot, which is held awkwardly out in front of him.

“Oh, I see,” Radhika replies with a frown, then turns to shout over her shoulder, “Mata!”

Moments later, her mother—an elderly woman wearing the same combination of clothes—appears in the doorway and ushers them inside. She, Bruce, and Radhika start a conversation in Hindi, with Bruce evidently explaining their situation.

“She says her older daughter is a doctor in the hospital down in the city—it’s about four or five hours from here if we take a bus that leaves at six in the morning,” Bruce translates to Tony. “We can stay here overnight, but the room we had yesterday is already taken by other guests. They are offering us their spare room.”

“Fantastic...” Tony grumbles, grimacing both at the prospect of having to get up before sunrise and the word “spare room”, but it’s not like they have many other options. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Bruce nods and turns back to their hosts. Tony can’t understand the words, but he definitely makes out some English numbers in between.

“Bruce, are you seriously haggling right now?” he interrupts. “Maybe you’ve forgotten in the last few hours, but I am an actual billionaire.”

“Sorry, sorry, force of habit…” Bruce mutters, rubbing a hand over his brow. A few sentences later they seemed to have agreed on a price and Radhika takes the suitcase from Bruce’s hand to bring it to the spare room.

“Are you hungry?” the elder woman asks in heavily-accented English.

“Starving,” Tony agrees immediately.

“Tony!” Bruce scolds. “They’ve already had their dinner—they were about to go to sleep.”

He says something in Hindi to their host and another discussion ensues, which Bruce apparently loses.

“Great, now she’s staying up later to cook for us.” Bruce sighs, visibly uncomfortable.

Tony knows that Bruce doesn’t like anyone working for him, but Tony’s stomach is so empty that, combined with the pain in his foot, he feels almost nauseous. He’s sure that Bruce must be hungry as well. “We’ll give them a big tip, okay?”

Bruce bites his lip and nods.

Twenty minutes later, Tony is sitting on a plastic chair next to the freshly-lit fire in the middle of the family’s courtyard, His foot is resting on a pillow on a small stool with an ice pack (made from actual ice, thanks to the Himalayas) wrapped around the ankle. Now that the hiking boot has come off, it’s visibly swollen and pulsing in time with his heartbeat, and although Tony hasn’t admitted it to Bruce, he thinks that maybe he’ll have to correct his earlier statement about being sure that it’s not broken. According to Bruce, nothing can be done except for keeping it still and iced until they can get an x-ray done at the hospital tomorrow.

“Isn’t Indian food supposed to be spicy?” Tony mutters under his breath, slashing his spoon around in something that looks suspiciously like algae soup, except that it can’t be algae, because, well, Himalayas. “And tasty?”

Bruce frowns and gestures for him to keep his voice down. “I told you before, different regions have different dishes. India’s more of a continent than a country—things here are different than in Delhi or Mumbai. There is actually no such thing as Indian food, you know.”

“Still, I could have done with spicy now…” Tony grumbles. “This tastes like the stuff Steve makes when he gets nostalgic about the 40s.”

Bruce gestures him to be quiet and this time Tony obeys. He eats a bit more, and, despite the rather bland taste, feels his bad mood receding more the fuller his stomach gets. After dinner, Radhika brings them chai—for which Bruce thanks her profusely—and then settles down next to them, followed soon by her mother.

India, in Tony’s head, has always been a synonym for poverty, which is a bit weird because compared to Tony, almost everyone on the planet is poor. But as Bruce has been slowly showing him since their arrival, there is no one such thing as poverty—its appearance varies from city to village. Poverty can mean anything from not being able to afford a place to stay or sturdy shoes to wear, to living in a large farmhouse but going hungry because the crops were ruined by the last thunderstorm, to having a comfortable life but still being unable to afford a life-saving surgery due to lack of health insurance (which, as Bruce added, is not actually very different from the US).

Tony has seen his fair share of India’s high society—which, to be frank, is not much different from US high society (except for prettier, more colourful clothing and better food). He’s always imagined the rest of the country outside of luxurious hotels and glamourous wedding celebrations to be a mixture of the slums he’s seen from his car window while driving through the city and international aid commercials with dirty children begging for someone to feed them.

While all these realities certainly exist somewhere in India, he hasn’t really ever thought of everyone living in between both of the extremes—people like Radhika and her family, who don’t seem to fit into any of the stereotypes shown on CNN. He knows that one of the reasons Bruce took him on this low-budget holiday was to show him some of those realities, and Tony has to admit that he now has a much better idea about why Bruce sometimes misses the country so much—chai definitely being one of them, he thinks while watching his partner blow into the steam curling up from his cup.

They are sitting quietly, sipping their tea. Tony notices a black cat watching them from the shadow of the other side of the patio. He stretches out his hand and idly wiggles his fingers to make it come closer, but the cat just keeps on sitting, its gaze now slightly judgemental.

“Oh, she doesn’t like to cuddle,” Radhika comments. “But she knows everything that’s going on in the village, I tell you. She’s a spy.”

“Natasha,” Tony states, turning towards Bruce, who snickers into his chai. “We found Natasha’s Indian counterpart.”

“I wonder how the cat’s interrogation techniques compare,” muses Bruce.

“Let’s not find out,” replies Tony. “I’ve already got one injured joint, thank you.”

Radhika giggles at that.

“What’s so funny?” Tony asks, slightly irritated.

“It’s just…” she hesitates, visibly trying to contain a grin. “You are Iron Man. I mean, you defeated aliens and supervillains and all that…and then you sprain your ankle during a hiking trip.”

“Very funny,” Tony huffs. The corners of Bruce’s lips twitch.

“So if we take the bus in the morning, what about the car?” he changes the topic, suddenly realising the flaw in their plan. He gestures at his foot, then at Bruce. “You won’t let me drive, you won’t drive on your own—how are we supposed to get it back to the rental company?”

Radhika looks at her mother and says something. The woman shrugs and then gives one of those sideways head shakes Tony has seen Bruce do when he’s getting interrupted deep in his thoughts and forgets he’s not in Kolkata anymore—it means yes, he’s learned. “I can drive the car,” Radhika offers.

Tony looks at her critically. “No offence, but I was kinda planning to get back to New York in one piece.”

“Most people born in the village know the mountain roads by heart,” she says, “My sister visits us once a month and drives all the way with her tata, and sometimes I drive her back when I go to the city. I’ll drive the route regularly once I start my engineering college next year. With your fancy car it will be even easier.”

“Then we wouldn’t have to get up at five…” Bruce thinks aloud with a side glance at Tony.

“Well, that’s a compelling argument,” Tony agrees with a sigh. “Fine, kid, just try not to kill us.” He gets an angry look from Bruce for this.

Radhika smiles. Her mother collects the now empty cups and disappears towards the kitchen, shaking her head at Bruce’s offer to help her.

Radhika disappears for a few minutes and returns with a deck of cards. “Do you know Court Piece?”

They spend the next hour playing cards with Radhika, her mother, and eventually her father, who joins after being woken up by their laughter. Her mother turns out to be a cunning player, and together with Tony, their team wins the majority of rounds. Eventually, the family turns in, leaving Bruce, Tony, and Natasha-The-Cat at the smoldering campfire.

“The sky is so clear in the mountains,” Bruce states, leaning back in his plastic chair and gazing upwards. “You can see the Milky Way.”

Tony nods, looking straight ahead. Ever since the Battle of New York, stargazing isn’t really on the list of his favourite activities anymore—but then, seeing Bruce’s fascination, he takes a deep breath and holds onto his partner’s jacket a bit to ground himself before turning his head upwards. The Milky Way is clearly visible, and he has to admit, breathtakingly beautiful.

They stay out for a while longer until the fire dies down and the mountain cold starts to seep through their layers of high-quality hiking clothes and into their bones. The toes of Tony’s bad foot have gone from painful to numb and they decide to turn in before they start to fall off. Bruce helps Tony to their spare room, Tony teasingly kissing his neck and earlobe while leaning on him.

Radhika had told them that she put an electric heater in their room, but when they enter, they find it colder than outside, the heater dead on the ground. Bruce’s attempt to switch it on doesn’t yield any results.

“We can’t wake them up again,” Bruce says with a look at Tony, visibly steeling himself for an argument. “It’s the middle of the night and they already stayed up so long to cook for us.”

“What are you saying, Bruce? You’re travelling with your own personal on-call mechanic.” Tony grunts, already lowering himself down to the ground. “Let me take care of this baby.”

The device, however, proves to be as stubborn as the engineer trying to fix it. Fifteen minutes later, Tony is literally shaking and by now it’s not just his toes he can’t feel anymore, but also his fingers.

“I would need a soldering iron for this,” he complains. “The fuse is blown and it’s impossible to reconnect the wires without it.”

“Shh...” Bruce lays a warm palm over his lips and hugs Tony from behind. His body heat is wonderful—Tony feels himself melting into his partner. “Come to bed,” Bruce admonishes.

“Well, that’s a sentence I love to hear,” Tony replies with a lascivious grin. Stretching his arm behind himself and letting his fingers run down Bruce’s neck, Tony finds himself suddenly not having any issue leaving the device alone.

However, having sex turns out to be harder than it reasonably should.

The blanket is warm, but it seems to be filled with living geese instead of feathers since it weighs approximately 20 pounds. After wiggling his head free to stop the threatening feeling of suffocation, Tony manages to actually enjoy Bruce’s teasing and reciprocate appropriately. They have worked their way out of their shirts and Bruce is in the process of removing their pants when he jostles Tony’s foot and the engineer can’t suppress a yelp of pain.

“I’m sorry!” Bruce exclaims, “I’m so sorry, Tony, are you okay?”

“Yes,” Tony grunts, angry at himself for letting it slip. “Just, get on with it.”

Bruce frees himself from his half-lying position on Tony and almost topples down from the bed. Tony pulls him back in, biting his lip when his injured foot acts up again, but then concentrates on the arguably very distracting other things he’s got to do. After another five intense minutes of making out, Bruce pauses in the middle of a kiss.

“What?” Tony moans, his teeth impatiently reaching for his partner’s lower lip.

“Just remembered that the condoms are at the bottom of the suitcase,” Bruce mumbles.

“For god’s sake,” Tony curses. “It’s fine, I’ll go get them.”

“No, stay there, you’re not supposed to put weight on your foot…” Bruce extricates himself from both his partner’s embrace and the blanket before Tony can stop him.

Tony watches his boyfriend tiptoe over the ice-cold floor towards the suitcases, goosebumps forming all over his body, and start rummaging around. Then he notices the cursed cat has been sitting right next to their bags since god-knows-when, watching their mostly-naked forms with slitted eyes and definitely judging them now.

“I am s-so sure that I packed them back in after w-we used them in that hotel in D-Delhi…” Bruce sighs, rummaging through their belongings.

“God, Bruce, get back in here—I can hear your teeth chattering…” Tony sighs.

Bruce looks up with a guilty expression and definitely blue lips. “I don’t even know if I can do anything with the cat watching us,” he admits.

Tony opens the blankets half an inch in what is supposed to be an inviting gesture and his partner crawls back in, pressing himself against Tony as his whole body shakes.

“I can still try to do so-something nice for you with my h-hands,” Bruce whispers, “just l-let me warm up a little.”

“Sure, Bruciebear…” Tony teases, his voice the kind of sugarcoated that he’d never thought he’d use in any way except sarcasm. He feels a little saccharine though as he lies there, holding tightly onto Bruce’s soft body somewhere in the middle of the cold mountains.

Bruce’s shivering stops after a bit and a few minutes later, his breaths even out. Tony knows he won’t be able to sleep—the pounding in his injured foot is harder to ignore now that there is no distraction, and he’s not sleepy at all. It’s not that Tony doesn’t get tired; it’s just that the times he is and the times he is lying in an actual bed rarely ever coincide.

As he lies in the darkness listening to Bruce’s quiet snores, it occurs to him that he hasn’t checked his emails once since they left Delhi. Bruce would probably count this as a win in his plan to take Tony on a different kind of holiday and get his mind off SI-related projects and Iron Man. Tony briefly considers taking out his tablet and catching up with work, but then decides against it. It’s mostly because the thought of getting out of the blanket is not at all appealing, but also because he realises it’s been a while since Bruce slept like that in his arms and holding him feels... well, not bad.

Tony’s frequent nightmares always make themselves known—he will squirm and shift in his sleep, sometimes mumble or even moan when they get really bad—and if Bruce is around, he always wakes him up before it comes to that point. Bruce, on the other hand, dreams absolutely silently. It’s only when he takes in a short, sharp breath and stiffens in Tony’s embrace that he realises his partner is awake.

“You okay, Big Green?” Tony asks softly.

“Hmm,” Bruce mumbles, not very convincingly. He takes a few moments to ground himself, shift around and calm his now quick and shallow breaths, before his eyes settle on Tony. “You know, I always say I liked my time in Kolkata,” he says. “And I did. But I was still on the run, and it was never… never safe, you know? I always felt like I might have to leave any day. Sometimes it’s just hard to shake that feeling.”

"Well, this time you get to stay right here," Tony says, reaching for his partner’s hand under the blanket and squeezing it tight. "And thank god for that because we're not fleeing anywhere fast on this ankle," he adds with a huff of humour.

"Is it bad?" Bruce sounds concerned again—the exact opposite of what Tony was going for. "Do you need some more ice?"

"Nah," Tony dismisses with a flap of his hand. "I'll just stick it out of the blanket and let that famous Indian-Arctic air take care of it."

Bruce finally gives a short laugh at that and starts to settle down again before stopping suddenly. "We've got company," he observes.

“What?” Tony’s eyes dart to the door.

Bruce motions his head to the foot of the bed, where that damn Natasha-Cat has curled into a ball, a foot’s distance from Tony’s toes. “I guess that’s a compliment?” Bruce ventures. “She’s watching over us.”

“Or maybe she’s making sure that we don’t go anywhere else before she and her feline associates can kill us in the morning,” Tony retorts. “Cats are unpredictable.”

“I think you’re thinking of Nats, not cats,” Bruce says, curling back up under the blanket and shifting closer to Tony.

“Telling her you said that,” Tony mutters.

“Just go to sleep, Tony…”

The morning comes with rays of sunlight creeping through the gap under the door and the dusty window. Tony did get bored in the night after all and, after a couple of fruitless attempts to train Natasha to bring over his bag, he crept out of the bed himself to gather his StarkPad. Now the cat is sitting on the window pane above the bed, intently watching the light reflections on his screen.

Bruce wakes up when Radhika knocks on the door to bring them two cups of steaming chai and biscuits.

“Did you sleep at all after my nightmare?” he asks after thanking her and setting the tray on the bed.

“I was watching over you,” Tony replies cheesily. “Well, that and saving our Nigerian subsidiary from a diplomatic crisis.” Tony takes the cup of tea and carefully sits fully up against the headboard.

“How’s your foot?”

Tony grimaces. “Trying to win the competition for the world's largest eggplant.”

The ankle is swollen even more than the previous day and now a mottled green and blue colour. Bruce prods a few places and then decides that driving is not an option and getting to the hospital is the priority.

After having breakfast and packing (under Natasha’s watchful gaze), Tony thanks the family for their hospitality and leaves a generous tip before getting into the car.

Bruce sits on the passenger seat next to Radhika and Tony positions himself sideways on the backseat, the injured ankle stretched out. It quickly becomes evident that Radhika wasn’t exaggerating about her driving skills. She makes her way down the steep mountain safely, and admittedly, takes the sudden sharp turns much smoother than Tony did on their way up.

Radhika and Bruce start talking about Arundhati Roy’s newest book and then get into an argument about whether one should give money to beggars, only half of which is led in English. Tony feels himself zone out, tiredness finally taking over. He lets his head rest back against the window and watches the mountains slowly give way to hills as they get closer to the city.

Half asleep already, he thinks that despite everything, maybe he will let Bruce choose their next vacation after all.

____________

All my fics

#science bros #hurt tony #vacation #fanfic #tony stark #bruce banner #india #fuck caa #fuck ncr #which has nothing to do with the fic #but needs to be said

53 notes · View notes

hideyseek · 4 years

Text

50 Questions You’ve Never Been Asked

tagged by @usersoup <3

What is the colour of your hairbrush? it is .. black and turquoise, though i must admit that since i’ve cut my hair i rarely use it.

Name a food you never eat? huh. caviar? i tend to forget about the existence of foods i don’t eat until i’m on the instacard website. chocolate ice cream, i guess. that’s like, a normal-person food i never consume.

Are you typically too warm or too cold? i am constantly too cold. as i type this i am in my apartment in sweatpants under a blanket and my roommate is in shorts and a tshirt.

What were you doing 45 minutes ago? mm i was reading a room of one’s own, at risk of sounding like the pretentious humanities major i am. i’m reading it out of desperation (we are in possession of the writer’s block and we would like to give it up as soon as possible), after having had it in my head to read since i came across a lin-manuel miranda tween in like 2015 telling all young writers to read it

What is your favourite candy bar? i don’t really like.. candy. twix or butterfingers, if i had to pick one at gunpoint.

Have you ever been to a professional sports event? yEAH u fucking bet i went to winterguard international championships twice in high school and bands of america championships once (both as part of my school’s winter/colorguard). i’ve never gone to a pro sportsball match though.

What is the last thing you said out loud? oh, are you really out there alone? (at my roommate, who is on the balcony with a desk lamp rigged up for optimal dirtball making).

What is your favourite ice cream? vanilla. or hazelnut. i fucking love hazelnut.

What was the last thing you had to drink? not to associate myself with brands, but i am drinking sprite as i type this.

Do you like your wallet? yes! i had my wallet nicked on a bus in the middle of the semester and my replacement is a lovely narrow black folding wallet that i am infinitely fond of.

What was the last thing you ate? the dregs of my cheezits, pepper jack flavor

Did you buy any new clothes last weekend? mm no, though during my phone call with my grandma earlier this week she told me i should buy more clothes no less than four times. she thinks i should own and wear more “pretty girl clothes” and i haven’t the heart to tell her that i think gender is fake.

The last sporting event you watched? i participated in a harry potter pub quiz over zoom the other week, if that counts. otherwise, probably something televised and american football related, several months ago.

What is your favourite flavour of popcorn? KETTLE CORN KETTLE CORN KETTLE CORN KETTLE CORN KETTLE CORN KETTLE CORN

Who is the last person you sent a text message to? oH thank god i have an interesting answer to this one -- my stage manager/playwright friend, whose recent play i am dying to get a copy of.

Ever go camping? yeah. my family used to go every august with some family friends.

Do you take vitamins? mm just vitamin d. (fuck off this was not meant to be a dick joke).

Do you go to church every Sunday? nah.

Do you have a tan? not anymore... even during the semester i spend most of my time underground in a basement rehearsal space or in the on-campus computer labs. (hence the vitamin d)

Do you prefer Chinese food or pizza? these are?? not equivalent at all in terms of scope? chinese food, of course.

Do you drink your soda with a straw? nah. can-to-mouth for me.

What colour socks do you usually wear? depends on how cold i am: i have some very lovely warm purple socks and some red and black socks that my dear friend gifted me for christmas last? year? but otherwise i have just sports shoes height white socks and black socks.

Do you ever drive above the speed limit? i am gay, i do not drive.

What terrifies you? failure, mostly. i hate that that’s my answer, but there you go. failure, or being putting myself in a situation where i don’t really have a choice in what happens to me.

Look to your left, what do you see? mm, i just moved from the study to bed so: the empty space in the loft bed railing where the ladder is, a blank wall, the edge and hinges of the bedroom wall.

What chore do you hate? none, really? i’ll get really passive-aggressive about some of the small apartment tidying things in my head, but not often enough that anything comes to mind now.

What do you think of when you hear an Australian accent? how my linguistics prof last semester had folks self-identify if they spoke non-american english in the middle of lecture

What’s your favourite soda? hm, hm. oH. there’s a vietnamese sandwich place in my hometown that has the best lychee soda. (a handful of google image searches informs me this is elisha aerated brand)

Do you go in a fast food place or just hit the drive-thru? hm, most of the time when i’m going to fast food i’m going to in-n-out with either a pile of theater people or my high school friend group, so sitting. er, going in.

Who’s the last person you talked to? roommates, in person.

Favourite cut of beef? i could not name cuts of beef if u asked me to really nicely. actually jk i know uh, ox... oxtail? i like oxtail soup.

Last song you listened to? am in the middle of listening to trenchh by cavetown but i’ve been alternating fob and cavetown and bastille on shuffle on spotify.

Last book you read? ella enchanted by gail carson levine, because it is my #1 comfort book.

Favourite day of the week? i like thursdays. they just sound nice.

Can you say the alphabet backwards? if i had like, several minutes, i probably could do it. but everything after w would involve me counting (counting? reciting?) from the beginning.

How do you like you coffee? i’ll drink it any way but black. i have discovered i do not like dalgona coffee. but i like the dark chocolate mocha that peet’s does in the winter a ridiculous amount.

Favourite pair of shoes? i have this pair of converse that’s grey stripes that always makes me feel like a Cool Arts Student, even though it’s actively terrible for my arches.

The time you normally go to bed? to bed? midnightish. to being asleep? usually 1-2ish.

The time you normally get up? eleven in the morning, apparently, since that’s what’s been happening now that i’m not setting alarms. during the school year, usually 7:30 or 8 because i work in the scene shop half the mornings of the week.

What do you prefer, sunrise or sunsets? conceptually? sunsets. aesthetically? also sunsets. metaphorically, though, i prefer sunrises.

How many blankets on your bed? i’ve got a blanket (duvet, maybe? comforter? i have never really vibed with these western concepts of bedding) and another knitted blanket.

Describe your kitchen plates: black and square and slightly chipped because roommates and i get a bit aggressive with cramming them onto the drying rack.

Do you have a favourite alcoholic beverage? i like hard cider. (i like soft cider better than hard cider, but the apple taste drowns out the alcohol taste enough for me to have a pretty good time.)

Do you play cards? haha yeah. whenever i’m home i play 24 with my little brother and lose a lot. or my family’ll play 21. or BS, which i fucking hate because i cannot lie for shit.

What colour is your car? still gay, still don’t drive.

Can you change a tire? mmmmmmmmmmm no. i have a shocking lack of car-related life skills for someone holding down a job that mostly involves wrenches.

Your favourite province? oh boy. hubei province, bc there’s no country specification and this feels less impersonal than if i were to just point somewhere in australia.

Favourite job you’ve ever had? hm, let’s limit this to work i’ve done for money, just to narrow the field down. (i tend to like the work i do a lot.) i really really enjoy working as a sound technician, especially as a mic assistant (it checks my “meeting people” box and my “helping people with their emotions” box and my “storytelling for an audience” box because at the theater i work at, pre-show mic check is me talking about my day and has resulted in a handful of people telling me i should try standup). the hours and pay are kind of crap, though. you don’t get friday nights when your friday nights are spent backstage of the same show you’ve heard twenty million times at this point. i also enjoy teaching computer science, because i just fucking like computer science. christ, i just,, miss being at work :c the production of newsies i was gonna do this summer got canceled.

How did you get your biggest scar? mm, pass.

What did you do today that made someone else happy? i, hm. everything that comes to mind feels vaguely manipulative, since i can’t really tell if people were made happy? oh! i had an extended slack conversation with one of the academic interns for the cs class i help teach that was basically just us bonding over word humor. he seems like the kind of person who would have gotten a kick out of it.

I tag: @kittog @wali21 @capt-ann @lemon-yellow @iamanonniemouse @raccoon-sex-dungeon @snakesonacartesianplane @eternalflarg @swimmingseafish (do it if u want! don’t let me bully u into anything)

#tag game #SOUP I LIKED THIS A LOT! THANK U #no pressure friends #!#but also i enjoy holding knowledge about the people i like

13 notes · View notes

etraytin · 4 years

Text

Quarantine, Day 129

July 18

I'm feeling extra tired tonight and I'm not sure why. Just kind of run down, I guess, or maybe feeling one of those bouts of ennui that sometimes sweep in when you've had too many of the same day in a row. Maybe it's because I started MPRE study today and it reminds me that I really need to get a job even though I have no idea what school is going to look like this year or even what searching for a job will be like or who is hiring. It's just easier not to think about that stuff whenever possible, but at some point I'm going to flop face-first into all of it and I'm going to have to deal. And that is a depressing thought.

Good news this evening on the kitten front; all four kittens were accounted for at feeding time tonight. At first it was only the same two tabbies as last night and I was worried, but then the third tabby and the tuxie joined in and they all ate like tiny starving wolves. Mama didn't show up at all, which was a little weird, but I guess I can try and trap her separately if I really have to. The kittens are much bolder and more foolish when she isn't around, so that would make them easier to get in the drop trap all at once. I've inched the food a little further away from the storm drain to get them used to coming out for it, but at the same time I don't want them coming out too far and attracting attention from people in the parking lot. That just makes things more complicated. Day after tomorrow is trap day!

The kiddo played Minecraft most of the day, with mixed results. When he is having fun with Minecraft he has a lot of fun, but when it is bad, he is super-frustrated. Today he managed to both blow himself up with some misplaced TNT and bork his entire world by doing a command line to give himself 1000000 rockets instead of 100. Hopefully this sort of experience helps him learn to cope with frustration in productive ways, but right now it's just unpleasant for everyone. I was able to commiserate at least, having rage-quite Minecraft several times myself over various misfortunes. The thing about Minecraft, though, is that it is always there and you always go back to it eventually.

Tomorrow is grocery day again, or rather, a few groceries and a lot of school supplies. Last year Walmart did not offer school supplies for grocery pickup, but this year they are, even the rollback stuff. Assuming it works and is not all just unavailable tomorrow, that will be very excellent! We still don't know what school is going to look like, but I figure I can safely assume that notebooks, pencils, glue sticks, etc will all still be required. And I simply cannot resist a good twenty-five cent notebook! I'm also getting all the snacks that will be required for our trip. The idea of going anywhere is kind of scary, especially on a trip that is very likely to require an overnight in a hotel room. It's funny because six months ago we spent ten days in a hotel room at Christmas with my folks and it was great because we had our own space to spread out, a pool and unlimited hot water. Now I don't want to even overnight in one. But sixteen hours really is a very long time to drive all in one day.

I heard on my local community group that Virginia Beach's titular beachfront got shut down today because of too many people on the beach. I am at once rolling my eyes and grumbling that people are morons and admitting to myself that I understand the impulse. The guys have gone to the beach twice since we got back, though they have gone during less popular hours and to less popular beaches where there are not many people. Not everybody really has that option, and the beach in VA Beach is beautiful, especially when the weather is so hot and muggy. And most people did not have the chance that the kiddo and I did to decamp to a privately-owned island back in March to wait out the first days of the pandemic on a beautiful and practically empty beach (also empty because the ocean is _cold_ in March, but the beach is still fun!) Being safe without going crazy is a luxury that varies wildly with your financial and family situation. We personally do not have a lot but we still have the main breadwinner's job, one that can be done remotely. We also have families with greater resources than us who can backstop us and help out, as well as provide other places to go and still be relatively safe.

It doesn't keep me from judging entirely when I see people doing objectively dumb things, but I'm trying to remember compassion and empathy as well. Back when I ran the soup kitchen, I would get incredibly frustrated by people who would intimate (rarely say aloud, because we were all pious churchgoing folk) that most people who needed our services were there because they made bad choices and if they would just do x, y and z, they could better themselves in no time. And of course maybe x, y and z would help, but how do you do any of those things when you don't have a home, or a healthy mind or body, or if you're so deep into an addiction you can't see a way out, or you have a criminal record that will keep you from ever being a real part of society again? You can't know what people are going through unless you're willing to sit down with them and hear them and actually try to understand. Sometimes all you can do is give them a hot meal and a smile and some human contact they don't have to sacrifice their dignity to get.

I don't know why the people go to the beach, or the bar, or the dine-in restaurant. I don't know if it's their only outing in months, or if they're at the end of their rope from staying indoors, or if they're just desperate for things to not feel so bad and scary all the time. I suspect that many of them do it because they are willfully ignoring the risk, which is not great. I absolutely think they ought to be wearing masks because that is an easy way to help yourself and others. But the only person whose heart I really know is myself, so it behooves me not to pretend like I know why other people do things that seem foolish and risky. So I'm glad they closed the beach today, but I'm going to try and do better about judging the people who went there.

In slightly related news, my sixteenth wedding anniversary is next week. I am feeling kind of bummed about the extremely limited date options available to us, but it'll be okay. Honestly, I suspect that if we gave the kiddo his own pizza and pop and unlimited screentime for the evening, he would happily babysit himself in his room and allow us a romantic living room date. But I think we may just have takeout for three and a raincheck for when things are not quite so strange.

#quarantine #covid life #feral kittens #anniversary

6 notes · View notes

carmenlire · 5 years

Text

Satiable

Trigger Warning for disordered eating.

read on ao3

He doesn’t notice at first.

He doesn’t notice that he’s subsisting on coffee, that he can’t quite remember the last time he had a real meal. He’s just not hungry and he can’t figure out why his headaches have come back.

When he was a teenager, Alec suffered from terrible, pain in the ass headaches that made him want to collapse into bed where he could cry until he finally fell asleep and get some relief from the pain. It’s a dull ache in the back of his head, a sharp pain in his temples.

It’s been awhile since they’ve been this bad, though Alec doesn’t notice that their intensity-- and frequency-- has been ratcheting up. All he knows is that by mid afternoon he can hardly focus. He takes a deep breath and as his lungs expand, he feels a quiet easing of the bands that seem to tighten around his chest a little more with each day that passes. It’s a temporary relief from slogging through paperwork and approving expense reports but it keeps him from screaming.

Sighing heavily in the quiet of his office, Alec tosses his pen onto the blotter and brings a hand up until he can press fingers into his temples hard enough so that the blunt pain can drown out his headache for a brief, blissful moment.

Glancing at the clock, Alec sees that it’s almost six. Shadowhunters should be coming down to ops soon for their assignments and Alec’s glad that he gave Jace that responsibility a couple of months ago. He doesn’t know if he could leave the sanctity of his office right now and go into the control center where everyone would be talking, eager and ready to head off on patrol as their runes kicked in for the night.

The very thought of the controlled chaos makes his head pound a little more viciously.

Shaking his head a little, Alec works another hour or so until he deems the day done. He still has a thousand things that will be waiting for his attention in the morning-- and he knows a thousand more will drop in his lap overnight, no doubt-- but he’s done all he can for today.

Standing, Alec feels himself sway a little in his spot. Blinking, he frowns and reaches for the mostly empty mug of coffee that’s never far from his elbow. He takes a last swig and while it’s gone cold and more than a little gross, his shoulders lose some of their tension.

Reaching behind him, Alec shrugs into his coat and pockets his phone and stele. He’s out the door a minute later and manages to avoid everyone on his way out. Fall is sneakily fading into winter and Alec huddles a little tighter into his coat.

Magnus is out of town for a few days, tending to a werewolf pack illness in Dubai, so it’s just him as he swings the door open to their loft.

Alec briefly debates making dinner-- maybe heating a can of soup up or scrounging for some cheese and crackers-- but just the thought is exhausting. As he goes to walk past the kitchen, however, he abruptly stops as he realizes that the only thing he’s had today is six cups of coffee.

Suddenly, he’s starving and with a sigh, he enters the kitchen and heads straight to the fridge. Opening it, his head throbs as the fluorescent light pierces into his skull.

He’s not seeing a lot of options. He’s definitely not in the mood to cook and Alec briefly wishes that he’d had this realization just ten minutes before. He could’ve stopped by the pizza joint down the block or ordered takeout from the Thai place halfway between here and the Institute. Undoubtedly unhealthy but he needs calories and he's too tired to worry about their quality. He figures something is better than nothing.

Now, if he could just find something that wasn't too damned exhausting to prepare, something he wouldn't need to wait an hour for. He wants his bed so fucking bad he feels his eyes burning.

He’s just about to give up altogether when a deep blue Tupperware container catches his eye on the bottom shelf. Leaning down-- and that feels like so much goddamn effort-- just a little, he slides the box out enough to see a bright pink post-it on top.

This is for you, darling. I shudder to think what’s passed for a meal since I left you a few days ago. Before you collapse into bed, I want you to eat this entire bowl.

Love, Mr. Lightwood-Bane

Huffing out a laugh, Alec wonders idly that Magnus knows him too well. He hadn’t looked in the fridge in a few days but he’s filled with a quiet wave of warmth at Magnus taking the time to prepare-- or summon, for Alec’s not quite romantic enough to think that Magnus toiled away over this pasta when he wasn’t looking-- dinner while he was away. It's well known that Alec gets tunnel vision when he's at work. Magnus is used to Alec coming home and devouring the whole fucking kitchen once he's out of the Institute and breathign fresh air.

Alec tries to tamp down on the guilt that Magnus doesn't know that that's not what this is lately. It's not enough to be cause for concern, he tells himself and ignores it when the thought strikes hollow.

The pasta-- chicken fettuccine, his favorite-- warms up perfectly in the microwave. It’s delicious, even if Alec barely manages to eat half of the container before he’s too full to continue.

Figuring he’ll have leftovers tomorrow, he pours a glass of tap water and downs it while standing in front of the sink. Placing the empty glass next to the fork he’d used, Alec runs a hand through his hair before giving the room a once over and stepping out to the hallway, turning the lights off as he goes.

Pulling his shirt over his head and pushing his pants down until they pool on the floor next to his side of the bed, Alec slides between cool sheets and sighs into his pillow.

The weight of the day sloughs off him and he closes his burning eyes, finding almost immediate relief from the headache that’s held him in a vise grip for most of the day.

Sinking into the sheets, he falls asleep quick, pulling Magnus’s pillow to his chest and breathing in the scent of his husband’s shampoo.

The weeks blend together and Alec feels like his whole goddamn life is a never ending dumpster fire.

Well, that’s not quite true but he’s overwhelmed and stressed to the max and if Jace asks for special permission for a dumbass mission one more time, Alec won’t be responsible for his reaction.

His vision blurs as he reads over a request from the Clave that’s as subtle as a fucking grenade asking for his expertise to calm rising downworld tensions in St. Petersburg. Their flattery falls flat and Alec’s well aware that he’ll be portaling his ass to Russia by week’s end to deal with shadowhunters who will need to be brought to heel quickly and with as little bloodshed as possible.

That’s a headache for future Alec, though, he thinks with a grimace.

Reaching for the last bite of his pain au chocolat that he’d picked up along with his quad latte this morning, Alec barely tastes the damned thing. He figures it’s more than enough to get him through a day that’s busting with meetings and reaches for his coffee to wash it down only to scowl when the to go cup is unforgivably light.

There’s not a drop left and Alec growls a little-- there’s no one around to hear his irritation, at least-- as he stands, rounding his desk to head to the canteen, hoping to hell that someone’s bought more hazelnut k-cups since they were out last week.

Thankfully, Izzy is the only one there when he arrives and she bites into her sandwich as he grunts at her, the bare minimum greeting she’ll take and the most he can summon the energy to give.

“Rough day,” she asks dryly, reaching onto her plate for a cheddar and sour cream chip.

“Everything’s a pain in my ass,” Alec replies roughly. “If I have to hear another recruit talk back I’m putting them on ichor duty for the rest of the goddamn decade.”

Rasing a brow, Isabelle doesn’t say anything. She just watches him as she makes her steady way through lunch.

Alec opens one of the cabinets and breathes a quiet yet fervent sigh of relief when he sees the red box, almost three quarters full of his favorite k-cups. Placing his mug under the drip, Alec fires the Keurig up and selects the biggest size, tapping the button for strong before hitting start.

Almost immediately, the fresh smell of brewing coffee hits the air and his shoulders relax. It’s like coming home. It’s a brief respite and Alec inhales the notes of hazelnut and beans and prays that his headache stays away until after he has a chance to peak into the new recruits' training.

He’s just reaching for the almond milk in the refrigerator when Izzy asks, “When’s the last time you ate?”

“I had a croissant this morning,” Alec says absently.

“And before that?”

Alec’s quiet for a moment as he tries to remember. There was that granola bar he’d forced down last night as he’d been reading over a treatise draft. Frowning a little, Alec can’t remember anything else that he’d eaten yesterday and shit if he can remember the day before that.

He’s too busy to eat, he thinks with a frown. He’s never hungry in the mornings and by the time he gets to the Institute, he’s too busy to take a break. Most nights, he’s so damned tired that he takes a few mechanic bites of food before going to bed, just to wake up the next morning and do it all over again.

His plate is full to bursting and eating is as low a priority as he can have right now. There’s a little voice, though, that tries to slither its way through his head.

It’s not that he likes not eating. It’s not that it makes him the tiniest bit happy when he’s realized that he’s managed to go sixteen-- or twenty four or thirty six-- hours without anything but coffee to serve as a meal.

It’s something he can control. He can ignore his hunger pains through sheer force of will, even if nausea sweeps through him occasionally and he has to close his eyes to regain his equilibrium.

It’s something that’s plagued him off and on since he was in the Academy. When Alec was stressed-- when he was tired and the only thing he felt he could control was his eating-- his appetite vanished. It’s nothing unusual and Alec knows that in a few days, a few weeks, he’ll feel better one morning. Waking up won’t be so exhausting and he’ll go over to the East Village and have the best bacon burger in the city with an extra large fry and Oreo milkshake. Everything will go back to how it’s supposed to be and Alec won’t have to wonder when his last meal was, won’t feel his sister’s piercing eyes over a bag of Ruffles potato chips.

He doesn’t answer her and Iz doesn’t push. He pours a healthy dollop of milk into his coffee and leaves, resigned to going back to his office and getting through the day’s work.

Distantly, he wonders if he’ll have time to sneak in a quick training session before he calls it a day. He feels light and there’s an energy that’s simmering low in his gut that he knows from past experience just needs an outlet. Blowing across his coffee, Alec takes a slow, deep sip and wonders if he could persuade Jace to a sparring match tonight.

The next morning, Alec wakes up to a long line of warmth along his back. Sinking into the sheets, his breath catches at the dull throbbing in his ankle. He’d used an iratze after sparring Jace last night and he’s pissed that his ankle still feels off. Deciding to deal with it later, Alec relaxes further against Magnus and his eyes fall shut as he feels his husband nose along his spine.

He lets himself be urged onto his back and stares up at a sleep-rumpled Magnus. It’s a vision that still makes his heart ache in the best damn way, no matter that they’ve been together for a few years now.

Magnus studies him in the low light and Alec closes his eyes again as Magnus leans forward and nibbles across his collarbone, along his deflect rune.

“What do you say to waffles this morning, Alexander?” Magnus’s voice is a low rasp and Alec smiles a little even if words get stuck in his throat.

As though he knows Alec’s thinking, Magnus raises his head and studies him carefully. The intensity in his unglamoured eyes is a little unnerving.

Running a thumb over a stubbled jaw, Magnus smiles. “What do you say? Surely the Institute can wait a couple of hours.”

While there’s a part of Alec that’s uneasy-- while Magnus could be coy when needed, with Alec his attempts at subterfuge had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer-- Alec knows that Magnus has realized that his appetite has been damn near nonexistent lately.

Resigned, Alec thinks that he wouldn’t be surprised if his husband knew about his over-training. Alec’s not dumb. He might be pissed off but his ankle is screaming and the only reason that ever happens after applying an iratze is because his energy stores are too low.

Things have finally come to a head and while he still feels like he’s in a fog most days, he knows that something had to give sooner or later.

“Sure,” he replies hoarsely. “Let’s have waffles for breakfast.”

Magnus’s gaze eases just a tad even as the gold warms. He leans down and kisses Alec.

“Right answer, darling.”

The two of them get ready slowly, showering together, lingering under the warm spray. Magnus catches Alec’s wince when he forgets not to put his full weight on his left foot and his eyes sharpen.

He doesn’t say anything though, merely lowering until he’s kneeling on the marble of their shower, reaching a hand out to wrap it around Alec’s ankle. Alec watches as azure flows into his skin and the relief is immediate.

Magnus kisses the delicate bone of his ankle before lowering his foot back to the ground and stands, pulling Alec closer with arms around his middle.

They stand there for long minutes and Alec feels warmth that’s been missing for longer than he wants to admit.

He’s finally hungry. Not starving, not ravenous. But he can admit that he’s craving food.

It’s the breaking of the dam. It’s a start.

Alec knows the next few hours won't be easy but Magnus hasn't stopped looking at him, warm and open, and suddenly he's tired of hiding from his husband.

It feels like the quietest of snicks as the puzzle pieces align. Maybe, he wonders, if he felt guilty about keeping something from his husband then it was time to come clean.

He breathes easier at just the idea.

#satiable #my writing #malec fic

59 notes · View notes