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loostssoul · 3 years

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if you kissed me - Rodrick Heffley | 1.9k

Yeah yeah i know i haven't written since a million years ago. and yeah yeah i know this is my first real fanfiction i posted on tumblr. fair warning, i'm not the best writer, i honestly just do this for fun and i'm totally up to criticism because i do want to make my writing better. if this is literally inaccurate, im sorry its been like 5 years since i've read the books. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this fluff-fest that I created in the span of a few hours.

paring: rodrick x reader genre: fluff. lots of fluff

Credits to the maker of the picture! 15 Days till the Contest | 9:42 PM, Saturday

Plick, plick, plick

My speakers were blasting so loud I almost didn’t hear the sound of pebbles hitting my window.

Plick, plick, plick

I rubbed my eyes and slammed my laptop shut, walking toward my bedroom window. Peering down, I saw a figure a few yards down from my second-story bedroom, looking back up at me. Dark brown, messy hair that stuck up around his face. A red and black flannel, black ripped jeans, and, (of course) a tee-shirt with “Loded Diper” clumsily written on it. A grin spread on his face as he saw my face come into his view, causing me to blush. Rodrick Heffley, Crossland High bad boy, and my boyfriend.

I unlocked the latch to my window and stuck my head out, taking in the cool air and letting the neighbors enjoy the music I was playing (they never did). I looked down.

“Y/N!” He whisper-yelled

“Evening, Heffley.”

“I need to tell you something!”

“What’s so important that you have to scratch my window instead of using the power of modern technology to call me?”

His mouth opened to give me a response, but nothing came out. I smirked, “Come on up.”

I opened the window wider as he climbed the trellis that lined the back of my house. I backed up to my door and locked it. Precautions, my parents liked Rodrick but they definitely wouldn’t approve of him in my room at night. I looked back and I saw him, every feature of him illuminated by the light of my room. His cheeky smile and chocolate brown eyes. He slowly closed the window and walked toward me, brushing a strand of hair out of my face. I still got butterflies whenever he touched me.

“Hey, Spiderman. What did ya climb in here to tell me?” I asked

“I got Loded Diper into a contest.”

My eyes widened, Loded Diper, my boyfriend’s rock band, wasn’t exactly known for being the best. It was mostly known for his mom’s insane dance moves during the Plainview Talent Show. But of course, i'll never say that in front of his face.

“You did?! That’s awesome Rodrick!”

“Yeah! It's a battle of the bands contest, we’re going against two other bands. I really think this is gonna be our big break!” His eyes sparkled in excitement.

His happiness was contagious, he was like a goddamn puppy. I pulled him into my arms. “I’m proud of you Rod.” I muttered and smiled into his collarbone. I felt him inhale the scent of my hair and twirl my locks around his fingers.

“Hey,” he said, breaking the hug. “I’m having practice tomorrow with the band, you wanna come?”

“Sure. I go to every practice anyway, why miss out on this one?” I shrugged.

He chuckled and looked at me. Really looked at me. That’s one of the reasons why I fell for him. It never seemed like it, but he paid attention. We’ve only been dating for 4 months, but he knew me like no one else did, and I knew that in the way he looked at me. I felt his hand cup my face, his thumb rubbing my cheek in small circles. I looked up at him, noticing how tall he was, how close he was. Was I the one who leaned in? Was he the one who leaned in? Did we just do it subconsciously? Did he want this? Was he ready? Was I ready?

The ringing of Rodrick’s phone filled the room. The daze we were trapped in was gone and we separated, our faces red. Rodrick picked up the phone, it was his mom.

“Yeah, mom? Mom...I’m in the middle of something. I’ll do laundry later, ok? Now? C’mon… Alright, fine. Bye.” He hung up. “Sorry, I gotta blast.”

“It’s fine, I’ll see you tomorrow?” I asked him as he started toward my window.

He looked back at me and planted a kiss on my forehead, the farthest we’ve ever gone with physical touch as a couple.

“Tomorrow”

~~✰✰✰~~

14 Days till the Contest | 1:22 PM, Saturday afternoon

“Should we take it from the top?”

Practice wasn’t going so well. I could feel the nervousness, the tension. Drums were slightly off beat, the guitarist’s fingers would fly to the wrong places on the fretboard, lyrics would go all over the place. The contest was two weeks away, and Loded Diper was already feeling the anxiousness. I sat on the floor of the garage, on top of a picnic blanket I found. To Rodrick’s dismay, his mom forced him to let Greg watch band practice, as a form of “brother-to-brother bonding time.” Greg sat next to me, mockingly covering his ears.

“Oh thank god, it's done.” Greg said with an immense amount of sarcasm and uncovering his ears.

Rodrick threw a crumpled-up piece of paper at his head, “Shut up.”

“Both of you, be nice.” I laughed. “I think you guys should take a break for a while, maybe shake off the nerves.”

“Good idea Y/N, 20 minute break everyone!” The lead singer said. Everyone spread out, grabbing a piece of pizza ordered earlier and laying down. Greg ran out of the garage, yelling, “I’m free!”

Rodrick stood up and began gulping down a bottle of water. He wore a black tanktop and black ripped jeans, sweat dripping down his forehead. I ran up behind him and wrapped my arms around his torso. He turned and faced me, running his hands through my hair, lost in thought.

“You ok, Rod?” I asked him.

He sighed, “nerves”

I leaned my head on his chest, “You’re gonna do great, you’ve done so many gigs in the past. Think of this as one of those!”

He smiled at me, “You know what would make me feel a lot less nervous?”

“Oh god. What?”

A really common thing Rodrick did was try to bargain a kiss on the lips from me. It's been an ongoing joke, a meaningless bit he did all the time. I’ll do my homework if you kissed me on the lips. I’ll smile in the picture if you kissed me on the lips. It still hasn’t worked.

“I might be less nervous if you kissed me on the lips.” He whispered to me.

I rolled my eyes, “If that’s what it takes then I think you’ll lose the competition.”

He let go of me and laughed, my favorite laugh. “Worth a try.” He shrugged, going off to join his bandmates and the pizza. But as I watched him smile and laugh with his friends, I lost myself. I thought about the previous night. The way we fit into each other, the closeness, the fact that was so close that I could see my reflection in his eyes.

Maybe I should just say yes.

~~✰✰✰~~

The Day of the Contest

For the past 2 weeks, Rodrick has given me the “kiss-bargain” joke 9 times. Every time, I deflected it with sarcastic remarks, and every time I regretted not agreeing.

I sat on the front steps of my porch, waiting for Rodrick to pick me up. I regretted the jean shorts and plain black tee-shirt I had on, as a cold breeze brushed my skin. I pulled my black leather jacket on, which I painted “Loded Diper” on the back in white paint. Then, I heard it. The echo of heavy metal turned to full blast, and… the faint sound of something big getting knocked over. Oh god, they’re here. The white van with “Loded Diper” written in huge words screeched to a halt in front of my house.

The window rolled down, revealing my boyfriend and his excited grin. “Get in.”

~~✰✰✰~~

30 minutes till Loded Diper preforms

It felt surreal to be backstage, and really exciting. Energy was flowing through the room, as all the other bands talked and played. The rest of the band members seemed excited, full of adrenaline. Except for Rodrick, he’s been nervous ever since soundcheck. His leg was bouncing,he twirled his drumsticks around, drumming them on random objects, and his eyes stared into nothing.

“Rodrick, you want me to do your eyeliner?”

“Huh?” He didn’t take his eyes away from the ground, his voice seemed far away.

I lifted a liquid eyeliner pen I had in my pocket, “Eyeliner. I just did mine, we can match!”

He lifted his head and noticed me. I had my eyeliner smudged, just like he always does during a gig. He grinned, “Yeah. Yeah sure.”

I’ve done his eyeliner many times in the past, and I loved doing it because I had to be as close to him as possible. So I hopped onto his lap, pressing myself close to him, trying to comfort him with my warmth.

“Close your eyes.” I ordered.

As I applied his eyeliner, I could feel his heartbeat against my chest. It was heavy, and fast. I’m pretty sure I would still hear it if I wasn’t as close to him as I was, even though the loud music blasting through the theatre.

“Done”

He opened his eyes, and butterflies flooded my stomach. We were close. Very close. Should I do it? Should I lean in?

Rodrick probably sensed my flustered-ness. He smirked, “Cat got your tongue?”

I rolled my eyes, blushing hard. “Shut up.” I said, playfully punching him.

~~✰✰✰~~

“5 Minutes until Loded Diper performs!” A man exclaimed to us.

Rodrick was as nervous as ever. We’ve been standing on the left wing of the stage, watching the other bands play. It felt like a bunch of Loded Diper copy-pastes. A bunch of high schoolers, weird names, very aggressive playing. But they were still pretty good. Rodrick was biting the nails of one of his hands and tapping his other hand on the wall behind him. I looked up at him and held his hand, stopping it from fidgeting. He smiled nervously.

Now or never Y/N…

“Hey, you said that if I kiss you, you won’t be as nervous. Right?”

He looked at me, wide eyed. He seemed to be trying to compute what I said.

I stood on tiptoe and put his face in my hands. It was that night all over again. Every detail of his face, of him was in full view. His eyes, his eyeliner, his scent, his lips. I leaned in.

His lips were soft against mine, but they were tense, flustered. I was terrified, It was the wrong place, the wrong time. Until I felt one hand in my hair, another on my waist, pulling me closer.

How long was the kiss? A few seconds? It felt like minutes, hours. Sparked ignited. Butterflies flew in my stomach. His scent was the only thing I smelled, his warmth was the only thing I felt. The music faded away. Everything faded away. It was just him and I. Until we broke apart, taking in deep breaths of each other. We wanted more, but Loded Diper was playing in a few seconds.

“Hey, Rodrick.”

“Yeah?”

“If you win I’ll kiss you again”

We both knew I would kiss him regardless.

I didn't edit this because editing is for wimps (just kidding be responsible and edit your work)

please like and reblog because it gives me serotonin and i need that

#rodrick x reader #rodrick heffley #diary of a wimpy kid #rodrick rules #diary of a wimpy kid rodrick #fanfiction #rodrick heffley x reader #doawk #devon bostick

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taexual · 4 years

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i’d love you to stay but that’s simply insane // JJK (18)

jungkook is an uncontrollable lead vocalist of the campus band, and you’re a goal-oriented top student that’s known his rich and complicated family since childhood. you don’t want anything to do with each other, until each other is exactly what you want to do.

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

genre: college au

warnings: suggestive themes, lots of teasing & domestic fluff 🥺

words: 7.1k

chapter eighteen

When you woke up the next morning, the first thing that you felt wasn’t the disruptive rays of sun on your face – you’d forgotten to draw the curtains last night – but soft, almost feather-light touches of fingertips on your collarbones. And, even though you had never woken up next to anyone like this before, you didn’t flinch or pull away.

Instead, you opened your eyes and immediately regretted not doing it sooner. Jungkook was laying on the bed next to you, his eyes still hazy with sleep and his lips parted in concentration as he drew patterns on the edges of your skin.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice quiet. You weren’t sure if you were truly awake yet, or if this was one of the overly realistic dreams that you’d had before.

Jungkook looked at you, surprised to hear you speak – he hoped not to wake you – but relieved when he saw the soft smile on your face.

“Trying to make sure you’re really here,” he answered, his morning voice breathy and raspy, and enough to make your stomach clench and your smile spread in admiration, despite the corny words.

You closed your eyes again. “Did you practice that line?”

“Absolutely,” he replied, shameless. “How’d I do?”

You hummed in content. “The delivery was nice. But it’s all very cliché. I’d say a six out of ten.”

He chuckled lazily, pulling his hands away and prompting you to look up at him again, in a way a dog would look at the person who’d stopped scratching its’ head – disappointed and outraged by the audacity.

“I’ll do better next time,” Jungkook promised, almost naturally reaching for you again – this time, to brush an unruly strand of your hair away from your face.

“Next time?” you asked, not trying to insinuate anything other than your intention to find out his plans for the immediate future.

He read too much into it, however. He cocked an eyebrow as he lifted himself up on his elbows.

“I don’t like that voice,” he said. “You’re about to tell me I was just a one-night-stand for you, aren’t you?”

You laughed, turning on your back but still watching him. “I’ve known you for twenty-three years.”

“Not like that, you didn’t.”

You looked away, your face warm. The smile on your lips was relentless, however – it gave no opportunity for you to pretend like the stressful night last night, and the way it ended, wasn’t a pleasant visitor in your memory.

“What do you want to do today?” Jungkook asked, feeling his arms go numb from supporting all of his weight, but not caring about it too much because, this way, he could see you better.

“Not a thing,” you told him, completely serious. “I want to stay in bed.”

“Alright,” he said, laying back down next to you as he decided firmly, “that’s what we’re doing then.”

You turned your head to face him. “Your bandmates will kill you.”

“That’s only if I go home,” he said, not seeming the slightest bit fazed about his impending doom. “If I don’t, then I’m safe.”

His indifference got you to smile; the relationship dynamics between Jungkook and his bandmates resembled a sibling connection far more than just a friendship. Still, he needed to do right by them.

“You can’t avoid them for the rest of your life,” you said.

“You underestimate me,” he shot back, very proud of himself.

“Jungkook,” you countered seriously.

“Well, I won’t really avoid them for the rest of my life,” he defended, “but maybe for the rest of the weekend.”

“Jungkook—”

“I liked the sound of my name on your lips a lot more last night,” he pointed out, deliberately distracting you.

He ran his tongue over his lower lip as if he could physically see the bolt of electricity that his words sent right into your stomach. He couldn’t get used to witnessing how the effect he had on you manifested on your face.

“Hmm,” you resisted the pull of his eyes. “Did you rehearse that, too?”

“No,” he replied, leaning in closer, “believe it or not, a lot of this charm comes naturally to me.”

“Must’ve had a lot of practice, then,” you spoke, your voice so quiet, it was barely above a whisper, as his face lingered a few millimetres away from yours.

“Or a lot of daydreams,” he said, “and night dreams. And evening dreams. And morning—”

You ended up having to be the one who kissed him – to shut him up before you admitted that his cheesy pick-up lines made your traitor heart flutter; but it wasn’t so much the lines, as it was the undisguised fondness in his eyes, really. Smiling into the kiss, Jungkook was quick to take over by touching your cheek with his hand lightly, and shifting your face into his so he could deepen the kiss.

You pulled away with a half-hearted whine, your lips smacking as you broke the kiss. “It’s too early. I haven’t showered or even brushed my teeth yet.”

Jungkook looked absurdly offended. “You kissed me!”

“To get you to shut up,” you clarified.

“Oh, so the sound of my voice annoys you?” he jabbed, “very well. Let’s go.”

He rolled away from you and sat up in bed.

You watched him, confused and somewhat disappointed that his plans, clearly, did not include staying in bed the whole day, after all. “Go where? Where are you—”

Jungkook stood up and pulled you by your hands until you were sitting up. You refused to stand until he answered you and he clicked his tongue at your resistance.

“We,” he said, emphasizing the plural word as he gave you one more pull, forcing you to climb off the bed, “are going to take a shower.”

It already felt unusual – and uncomfortable now that it was daytime – to stand around in your room next to Jungkook, dressed in virtually nothing because you hadn’t bothered to find your respective clothes last night: he gave up after he untangled his boxers from his jeans, and you settled for his shirt. Now that he’d mentioned a shared shower, you started to feel even more self-conscious.

“We are—no, what are you saying?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest defensively as Jungkook realized he regretted tossing you his shirt last night – he didn’t want it back now, not unless you were in it.

“Come on,” he said, taking your hand and heading for the door of your dorm.

You stayed put. “Together?”

“You’re not very sharp in the mornings, are you?” he teased and then smirked before you could punch him. “I like that. Yes. Together.”

He kept going – or, rather, tried to keep going because you still weren’t moving – and when he turned to look at you, exasperation was clear in his eyes.

“Jungkook, the showers here are communal,” you told him.

“Even better!” he replied. Not even an earthquake would have changed his mind.

“How is that better?” you frowned.

“I don’t mind an audience.”

You punched his shoulder. “I mind!”

Laughing, Jungkook let go of one of your hands and rubbed his shoulder.

“Well, it’s seven in the morning right now,” he said, not checking the time on his phone again – he’d done that as soon as he woke up, and he decided to abandon the device for the rest of the day. “I’m sure everyone’s still asleep.”

“Seven,” you repeated, all oxygen leaving your lungs until you felt like a deflated balloon. “Oh, God. No wonder I feel so tired. Why were you awake this early?”

“Why would I waste my time sleeping when I’m with you?” Jungkook asked with a face so straight, you’d have really believed all of this came to him naturally. “Now come on, let’s go.”

And you went with him – mostly because he refused to let you refuse, but also because your refusal wasn’t entirely genuine – almost forgetting to grab the towels and the soap on your way out of the door.

You were beyond surprised to learn that the sight of a boy, taking a confident stroll down the hallway, dressed in his boxers and nothing else, didn’t make you cringe and look away at all. If anything, the dorm doors and the people living behind them was what seemed out of place here, because Jungkook – guiding you towards the communal showers – looked like he was right in his element.

“You ever worry your cockiness is going to get you in trouble?” you asked when Jungkook pulled the door open. You exhaled in relief at the sight of the empty shower stalls all around you.

“No,” he answered, smiling. “You do the worrying for me.”

You rolled your eyes. “You give me too much credit. I’m clearly letting you do whatever you want at this point.”

“Oh, so, does that permission include doing whatever I want to you?” he was grinning as he pulled you into the closest stall and pressed you against the tiled wall, forgetting the curtains or anyone who may have walked in at any moment.

“Maybe not while we’re in public,” you replied, managing to push him off of you – and ignoring his disappointed pout, “it’s highly unhygienic.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that,” he countered while you busied yourself with the shower curtain which had one of its’ plastic hoops stuck on the rod and wasn’t moving.

“Well, then, don’t look so sad,” you said, giving him a look over your shoulder – immediately, he smirked at your tone – and tugging the shower curtain harder until it finally slid down the rod and separated the two of you from the rest of the room. “You should have been prepared for this.”

“You’re the one who has to be prepared for everything,” he pointed out. “I just go with the flow.”

“That’s not always a good thing,” you countered, crossing your arms. “As I’m sure you know by now—”

Not waiting until you finished lecturing him, Jungkook settled for the most childish way to change the topic and turned the shower on. You gasped in surprise when the cold water splashed you, soaking the front of your – his – shirt completely.

“Jungkook!” you scolded, jumping away from the direct stream of water while he, predictably, laughed.

“What?” he asked, all sugar and spice and everything nice. “We’re in the shower.”

Then, to further prove his point that he hadn’t done anything wrong by getting you wet, even if you were still in your clothes, he turned the shower head towards himself and brought his hands through his hair until he was completely soaked.

You were frozen for a minute – which was exactly what he’d intended – watching Jungkook act out a shampoo commercial right in front of you.

“It’s not showering if you’re wearing all of your clothes,” you muttered under your breath finally, once you painfully tore your eyes away from the droplets of water that traced every crevice of his skin; a cascading waterfall that framed his half-naked body.

“Ah, so you want me to undress!” he translated excitedly and awarded you with a wink that could have made the devil himself flustered. “Should have said so from the beginning.”

“I wasn’t—”

Leaning down under the running water to take his boxers off, Jungkook promised, “your wish is my command.”

After a whole lot of giggling and slipping, and very little actual, legitimate scrubbing and cleaning, you and Jungkook walked out of the shower hand-in-hand, with smiles on your faces.

The sight of the pure joy in both of your eyes as you crossed the hallway back towards your dorm room, left little to the imagination, but you did not run into anyone, so, for all you knew, no one, aside from the two of you, was aware of what had happened in the shower this morning.

In fact, you loved the idea that you and Jungkook were the only people here – there wasn’t a single passerby, a single (un)bothered observer, or anyone else who could have otherwise interrupted you two. It was just you and him. Finally, you-and-him.

“I’ve never lived in a dorm,” Jungkook said once you were back in your room as he used a separate towel to tousle his hair, splashing water around like a shaggy dog. “But I really enjoy the showers here.”

“You got to experience them at a good time,” you replied. “It’s a lot less fun when there are people in every stall.”

“Hmm, I bet. And less fun without me, too, yeah?”

You gave him a look as you unwrapped your hair from the towel on top of your head. “You’re too full of yourself.”

“Me?” Jungkook feigned innocence. His angelic smile was a clear indication that some inane entity had possessed him today and he was absolutely not going to quit teasing you anytime soon. “I’m the most underrated—”

You interrupted, “self-absorbed, arrogant, inconsiderate—”

“—person there is. Hold on now,” he took a threatening step towards you, raising his eyebrows, “did you just call me inconsiderate?”

“Well, you rarely think about other people’s feelings when you do something,” you retaliated and Jungkook – who enjoyed the proud smirk on your lips, but only because he couldn’t wait to wipe it off with a kiss – pursed his lips, shaking his head.

“You mistake my intentions,” he said. “I always think about—”

Suddenly, your phone buzzed, cutting him off mid-excuse. You turned around in the direction of the sound, breaking eye contact, and Jungkook groaned in disappointment.

“Now who,” he demanded, “is bold enough to ruin my monologue about how caring and selfless I am?”

You scoffed, side-eyeing him before you reached for your phone and, much to your surprise, saw a text from Namjoon – who was wondering if you’d found Jungkook last night and if he was alright.

“If it’s Yoongi, tell him that yes, I’m avoiding him, and no, I’m not coming home today,” Jungkook said after noticing the way you bit your lip once you read the text.

“It’s not Yoongi. But you should probably call him,” you said absentmindedly as you tried to compose a text message that involved the right amount of gratitude for Namjoon’s help last night, but also just enough cold politeness, so that Jungkook wouldn’t have any reason to cause a scene. He already had a wary expression on his face after you said it wasn’t his bandmate who’d texted you.

Then, you stopped typing and raised your head to look at the boy, sitting on the bed across from you. “Wait. What do you mean you’re not coming home?”

He shrugged, lying down on your bed. “I’m staying here.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Did we agree on that?”

“Yes,” he replied, “with our bodies.”

You grimaced. “I’m not sure—”

“Oh, you can’t kick me out,” he said – ordered, really – as he patted the bed next to him waiting for you to sit. You did. He continued, “we’ve got so many things we still need to do. All of those movies we haven’t gotten to watch because we keep doing something else when we’re together,” pausing for a moment, Jungkook snickered, “I mean, I wouldn’t mind doing something else again—did you just laugh at me?”

You bit your tongue, trying to conceal your smile, but the playful mood Jungkook was in amused you too much.

“I just exhaled,” you replied, returning your attention to your phone as you pressed send. “Now, what were you saying about—”

“Who was that?” he asked with a nod at your phone now that you’d finished typing.

“Hmm?” you mumbled, not because you hadn’t heard him, but because something about the way your heart skipped a beat at his question told you that he wasn’t going to like your answer, and you needed to win some time to find a way to soften the blow. “Just Namjoon. He was worried about you.”

Jungkook scoffed but, thankfully, didn’t immediately throw a tantrum.

“Doubt that,” he said instead, with dripping skepticism. “We don’t know each other, why would he care—”

“You went off-the-grid last night,” you said, aware that the patient voice you tried to demonstrate may have come off as accusing. That wasn’t your intention but, now that the conversation came up, you thought it was fair he knew that his actions affected more people than just you and him. “It doesn’t matter if he knows you or not. You could have been dead in a ditch.”

“Is that what Yoongi suggested?” Jungkook inquired in a disgruntled tone.

“No,” you said even though it sort of was. “But we were all concerned for you. Namjoon included.”

He rolled his eyes – partially because he didn’t like to be reminded of the hassle he’d caused last night, but also because he had a hard time believing that people who didn’t know him were genuinely worried about his safety, when his own friends, aside from his bandmates, couldn’t have cared less.

“I know you want to see the best in people, but—”

“I’m not seeing the best in him,” you disagreed, “in fact, we got into an argument at the barbecue yesterday and I realized that there’s more to him than I’d previously thought. But when I told him about you, he was really concerned. He’s the one who drove me back to campus to look for you.”

Digesting this new information for a moment, Jungkook swallowed.

Then, when you thought you were going to have to explain your decision to accept Namjoon’s offer to drive you home, Jungkook dismissed the whole thing.

“So,” he said, “Namjoon isn’t who you thought he was, then?”

“He—that’s not what I meant,” you replied, surprised by the direction the conversation had taken, but suspicious when you saw Jungkook smile victoriously.

“No, I’m curious,” he encouraged, sitting up and scooting closer to you – so close, in fact, that you could see the glistening drops of water that he hadn’t wiped off from his chest, “has he let you down? Are you thinking you shouldn’t be friends anymore?”

Before you could be any more distracted – if not by his words, then by his glimmering skin or by his sneaky, yet lovable, smile – you cleared your throat and looked away.

“You need to call Yoongi,” you said, standing your ground, “or else you’ll be the one who won’t have any friends.”

“Eh, knowing me, that’s inevitable,” he waved a hand, dismissing the thought. “I just want to have you.”

Little needle stabs poked at your stomach after he said this. You blinked, preparing to answer, only to realize that his quick wit had momentarily rendered you completely speechless. Jungkook used that to his advantage.

“I’m thinking breakfast,” he said, changing the topic so quickly, it was like he had the attention span of a squirrel. “Do you have any food here?”

Deeply impressed with his determination to slither out of this situation unharmed – because Yoongi sure was going to rip him a new one – you stuttered, “n-no, wait. I mean, we have milk and—”

“That’s what I thought,” he replied, nodding to himself. Then, he stood up from the bed and ordered, “get dressed. We’re going grocery shopping.”

“Grocery—is that necessary?” you crossed your arms, watching Jungkook pace the room and, most likely, regret his decision to spray his own T-shirt with water because he did not have anything else to wear. “I always have cereal for breakfast.”

“It’s not just cereal we need to think of,” he pointed out, choosing to just settle for that T-shirt. It was supposed to be warm outside anyway. “We have to stock up on food so we wouldn’t have to leave this room for the rest of the day.”

You raised your eyebrows. “You were serious about that?”

“I’m serious about everything,” he retorted and then, untying the towel on his waist in order to put his jeans on, he nodded at you and urged, “come on.”

Not moving one bit, you declared, “call Yoongi first.”

“I’ll call him later.”

“Call him now,” you insisted. “He’s been worried sick since last night.”

“He’s probably still hungover, I’ll call him later—”

“Jungkook,” you said, your voice firm. You didn’t want to enter another conflict with him but, now that you two were obviously going to be spending a lot of time together, it was important for you both that Jungkook actually took responsibility for the things that he did. “He didn’t sound drunk at all when he called me last night. Call him.”

As stubborn as he’d ever been, Jungkook shrugged – and then nearly toppled over as he lost his balance while pulling his jeans up his legs – and said very casually, “then maybe he was high and you couldn’t tell over the phone.”

You could have laughed at this.

“Oh, no, trust me. I’ve talked to a high Yoongi once before,” you said. “I can tell.”

He had several other arguments up his sleeve – excuses were his specialty – but you looked determined to shoot down every single one of them and, at the end of the day, Jungkook didn’t want to spend the rest of the day arguing with you about this.

“Fine,” he gave in. “Give me five minutes and a soundproof room.”

You knew this wasn’t a compromise – Jungkook didn’t look like he’d changed his mind and suddenly understood that he had to do this; he looked like he was only doing this as a favor to you – but it was still something, so you crawled down the bed towards where he’d left his phone last night, and handed it to him.

“He’s not going to yell—okay, he probably is,” you admitted, “but you deserve it. Go talk to him in the hall, though. I’ll get dressed.”

This intrigued Jungkook and he took one last chance to stall, “ooh, can I watch?”

“No,” you answered and got off the bed, watching him buckle his belt. “You focus on your redemption.”

“My redemption,” he repeated, mocking the pretentious word and still refusing to move.

Ignoring that, you pushed him out of your dorm and into the hallway and, waiting for a second to make sure he really was dialing Yoongi’s phone number – “I’m doing it, alright? But if you’d rather I helped you get dressed—” – you shut the door and returned to your room to find some clothes.

When Jungkook returned several minutes later, he looked more solemn than when he’d left, but the glint in his eyes wasn’t too far gone.

“Did he give it to you good?” you asked, as you rolled up the sleeves of your cardigan.

“Actually, I think he was holding himself back a little,” Jungkook replied, scratching his right ear to indicate just how much yelling he’d had to endure out in the hall. Then, inhaling and seemingly dropping everything he’d just heard, he asked, “so, you ready to go? I was thinking it’d be nice to have some eggs.”

You spent the rest of Saturday in your dorm room, being about as unproductive as it was possible for two people to be. You got through two movies (you’d tried to watch five; Jungkook had no patience to sit through the rest) and finished a full bag of popcorn (you’d opened three; the rest of it ended up on the floor of your room as you played a very unsuccessful game of throw-and-catch and then, consequently, throw-and-try-to-hit).

You lost count of how many tears of laughter you’d shed. Or how many times you’d punched his shoulder. Or how many times he cut you off with a kiss when you gave more attention to the movie than to him.

“You’re like a retriever,” you told Jungkook that night, when the two of you were laying on your backs, side-to-side, your hands and hearts intertwined. “You’re hyper-active, unpredictable, and you need constant attention.”

“Also self-absorbed, arrogant, and inconsiderate,” he added, mentioning all the colorful adjectives you’d called him over the course of this one day.

You exhaled in a half-snort, trying to pull your hand out of his, but failing when he refused to let go, pulling on your hand until you turned to your side to face him instead.

“Is there anything good about me?” he asked you.

You squinted. “Are you fishing for compliments?”

Jungkook smiled, shaking his head. “No. I’m just asking. Because if there’s not, then why do you put up with me?”

“Because you’re trying,” you offered, “because you never give up. You work hard, you’re dedicated and determined. You’ve always got your eyes on the prize—”

He cut you off, “that sounds like the opposite of all the negative things you’d said about me.”

You didn’t see the problem there and you shrugged your shoulders.

“There are two sides to every coin,” you said, unsure if he expected you to shower him in compliments at all times, regardless if he deserved them or not. Actually, knowing Jungkook, that was probably precisely what he expected.

“You didn’t call me funny,” he pointed out then.

“Because you’re not,” you dead-panned.

Jungkook scoffed and looked away from you, declaring with great dignity, “I happen to think I have a great sense of humor.”

“You happen to think a lot,” you mumbled.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You snickered. “Here’s another one – you can always turn a negative situation into something better.”

Jungkook lowered his eyes to your intertwined hands, the smile on his face growing fainter, even if the atmosphere in the room remained as laid-back as before.

“Not always,” he said in a hushed tone, not daring to pose the risk of ruining the good-natured banter.

Even though he was careful, it was still obvious that you’ve hit a sensitive spot. Not having any intention to do so, you’ve brought back the fact that, in all twenty-three years of his life, Jungkook hadn’t managed to turn the negative opinion of his father into something better.

“But you always try,” you said, less confident now that you saw how easy it was to trigger something that was too big to fix with just a compliment.

“That’s not enough sometimes,” he said, purposefully avoiding sad undertones and, this way, making himself sound even sadder.

“And other times,” you argued, just as persistent as he was, “it’s more than enough. Stop painting everything in black and white, you always do that.”

Noticing that this was turning into a fight that neither of you would win, Jungkook looked at you with a half-smile on his face. “I thought I always turned the negative situations into positive.”

“You don’t do that when it comes to you,” you replied. “Your biggest flaw is being too hard on yourself.”

In the time that he’s been a member of Parental Advisory – and even before, when he was just an heir of a multi-millionaire – Jungkook had had nearly every single one of his flaws pointed out: none of them were new, he was already aware of them all.

He worked on some of them – the ones that he thought would genuinely help him improve: practicing new singing techniques, making sure his band was his first priority, learning how to communicate with his audiences and how to write lyrics that held more impact.

He’d never had anyone tell him that he tried too hard. And he’d never realized that that was true this quickly, either.

Jungkook didn’t consider himself to be someone who wanted to accommodate others. He never followed the societal standards if they contrasted with his wishes. He didn’t care about what other people thought of him; as it turned out, he worried about his own perception of himself instead.

“Maybe it helps me improve,” he said, not feeling like he deserved the credit for this particular flaw when he hadn’t succeeded in changing himself for the better yet.

“Maybe,” you agreed, giving his hand a supportive squeeze. “But give yourself a break sometimes. You’re really not all bad.”

“I needed you.”

You were teasing him and expected him to bite back in an equal way, but the serious tone of his voice took you by surprise. “What?”

“I needed you,” he repeated, “to be able to turn the negative into positive. You’re my better half.”

Despite the beating of your heart and the warmth that spread to your face and forced you to smile, you still shook your head.

“I’m not,” you said, meaning it, “you’re a full person. Not just a half.”

You thought he’d let go of you so he could protest and insist that he was right, but he did no such thing. Instead, he held you tighter and, for a moment or two, being pressed so tightly against each other really did make you feel as though you were two individual parts of the same set – good on your own, but great when paired together.

Jungkook didn’t let go of you the whole Saturday night or the next morning, or the afternoon. That made your normal, everyday functions very complicated – like brushing your teeth, when he was hugging you from behind and purposefully snoozing with his head on your shoulder – but you’d have been out of your mind to complain.

When you arrived to his parents’ house for your Sunday night dinner, Jungkook still had one arm around your waist, as if touching you came naturally to him and he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

As soon as his mother opened the door for you two, she could tell that there was something different about you – maybe it was the fresh glow of having spent the whole weekend locked up together, or maybe she could read your minds – but the wide smiles on your faces were too beautiful of a sight for her to question it.

“Come in,” she encouraged, “it’s lovely to see you, like always.”

“Ah, you’re here already!” Jungkook’s father climbed down the stairs just as you two passed the threshold into the house. Feeling the way Jungkook tensed – his usual reaction – you tried to make up for it by smiling widely.

“Hello,” you said, suddenly feeling ridiculous to be grinning like this for no reason.

“Son,” his father said, acknowledging Jungkook’s presence with a nod and earning one from him in return. “Are you feeling better, dear?”

You didn’t realize his question was directed at you so, for a moment, the four of you lingered awkwardly in the hallway while you waited for Jungkook to answer before you realized that, for one, Jungkook’s father had never called his son “dear”, and, furthermore, it was you who had supposedly gotten sick in the middle of the company barbecue this Friday.

“Oh!” you blinked, trying to remember if Namjoon mentioned what sort of illness he was going to give as your excuse. “Yes, thank you. I’ve gotten some rest and I-I’m much better now.”

“That’s good!” Jungkook’s mother said. Nor her, nor her husband seemed suspicious even though Jungkook inhaled sharply, attracting their attention. “We were very worried when you left early – if you’d stayed just a second longer, we could have driven you home ourselves, we were going to go back anyway.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” you replied, aware that Jungkook didn’t know about this part of your Friday night – he hadn’t asked if you’d left the barbecue early – and, evidently, learning of this right here, right now, didn’t exactly please him. “My friend from university was there and he was kind enough to offer me a ride back to campus.”

Jungkook’s father cleared his throat – an involuntary reaction, similar to that of his son’s before – and gave you a kind, almost apologetic look, “if Jungkook had gone with you, he could have been the one who drove you home.”

That offended you as much as it offended Jungkook – but for different reasons. Jungkook’s dignity was obviously hurt because he had, once again, let his father down. But you were displeased because his father made it sound as though you needed a chaperone. As though you were some damsel in distress.

“No, really, I’m glad he didn’t go. I wouldn’t have wanted him to leave early,” you ended up saying, your polite nature persevering. You could understand Namjoon a lot more now – it was easy to let your real feelings slip if you weren’t paying attention to what you were saying, but hiding them under a mask of good manners and respect, was far more beneficial in the long run. “And, actually, it was even better that he was back on campus, because he helped me out a lot this weekend. Really, I probably wouldn’t have recovered as quickly as I did if it weren’t for him.”

You weren’t just saying that to make Jungkook look better – but there was still gratitude in his eyes when you met his gaze – because he had truly turned your weekend into a time of healing just by spending it with you.

“That’s wonderful,” Jungkook’s mother was the one who responded – Jungkook’s father just smiled mysteriously – as she brought a hand through her son’s hair in adoration, “let’s head to the dining room now, alright? The food is getting cold. You can tell me how your semester’s going. I assume you’ve got finals coming up soon, isn’t that right?”

That was right – well, sort of; you still had about a month of classes left – and it prompted you to start a conversation about school, which allowed Jungkook to casually bring up the fact that he’d knocked his professors off their feet by passing all the tests that they had predicted he would fail. His father, of course, did not express his surprise or say anything encouraging, but he gave a very impressed nod and that was more than enough.

The dinner only seemed to last a few minutes – it flew by like it always did – and you found yourself in your already usual position: offering Jungkook’s mother to clean up, while she forbade you from doing anything and insisted you stayed back and relaxed.

Relaxing was what you and Jungkook had done here last Sunday – before his mother knocked on the door of his bedroom and interrupted you two – so, not very excited to have history repeat itself, you didn’t mind when Jungkook made an excuse to leave early today.

His mother seemed sad to hear that – dessert was just as important part of dinner as the actual main course – but she didn’t push you to stay. Maybe because she could see the look in Jungkook’s eyes and she knew him well enough to understand that, although he had a sweet tooth, her son would have gladly rejected dessert just to get to spend more time alone with you.

However, alone time wasn’t the reason why Jungkook wanted to leave early – you learned that as soon as you sat down in his car and saw his hand lingering by the ignition, not ready to put the key in just yet.

“You okay?” you asked tentatively, already trying to analyze the dinner in your mind, hoping to come across a moment that could have stuck with him.

“I didn’t know,” Jungkook said finally, “that you had to leave early. I’d assumed the barbecue ended and that was why you got back to the dorm.”

You lowered your eyes, realizing that your failed attempt to get to the bottom of things on Friday night – it was generous to even call it an attempt, considering that you were ripping each other’s clothes off within twenty minutes of seeing each other – had now caught up to you.

“Yeah,” you said. “I got Yoongi’s call in the middle of dinner, and told him I’d go back to campus to look for you. He told me you went missing, I wasn’t going to sit around eating grilled sausages and wait for you to turn up.”

That wasn’t exactly what Jungkook was trying to talk to you about – he’d already put the pieces together – and, taking a moment to admit to himself that he did feel guilty about this, he exhaled before speaking again.

“You could have told my dad the truth,” he said. “Or you could have left without bothering with an excuse, he would have probably assumed it was my fault, anyway.”

“I’m not stupid,” you replied, “you’re trying to make progress with your father. You may not be doing very well, but why would I halt your process? I’m on your side, remember?”

He nodded. “I remember. I’m just saying, y-you didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to stand up for me tonight, either.”

“Technically, I did,” you replied, smiling now. “We started to go to these Sunday night dinners for a reason.”

For a good minute, Jungkook really struggled to follow your train of thought. Even though it couldn’t have been more than a month, these dinners with you had already become a part of his routine, so the fact that you were, theoretically, only here to prove Jungkook’s maturity to his father, seemed very obsolete now.

“Well,” Jungkook said, considering your new situation. Chuckling lightly, he added, “that’s stupid now, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Pretending to be dating when we actually are.”

Catching the perfect opening, you teased, “we are?”

He gave you a look that dared you to test him.

“We haven’t been on one date,” you defended – sensibly so, really.

Jungkook narrowed his eyes as he looked at you, wanting to point out the flaws in your words, but having a hard time finding any, because, in the normal sense of the word, you hadn’t actually gone on any dates with him.

“We went to my party last weekend,” he still tried, figuring that the term ‘date’, when used loosely, could really mean just two people hanging out together.

You scrunched your nose, enjoying this game. “Was that a date?”

“We spent the whole weekend together,” he tried again.

“Was that a—?”

“You are my girlfriend,” Jungkook cut you off finally, his voice forceful and determined. “And you have no say in that matter.”

He looked you right in the eyes as he said this – boldly challenging your undeniable authority over this moment in the car – and you tried not to, but still ended up laughing.

“You’re taking away my freedom of choice,” you said.

“Are you saying,” he asked in a teary tone because his go-to maneuver in cases like this, was extracting pity, “you don’t want to be with me?”

“I’m not,” you replied, resisting him with surprising ease. You’d taken a page from his book and you were almost gloating as you watched how flustered he became with every word that you said, “I’m just wondering why you can’t ask me out like a normal person. Like someone who hadn’t known me for years.”

He observed your face for a second, making sure that you were serious – you were – and then sighed so deeply, it was like he was hoping to cleanse his dignity of whatever damage your words had done to it.

“You like me like this, don’t you?” he asked, aware that you had turned the tables on him.

“Like what?” you were still grinning. You absolutely liked him like this. “Do you think you’re too good to ask someone to be your girlfriend? Is that beneath you somehow or—”

“I love you,” he said sternly, cutting you off so quickly and successfully that your throat dried up as soon as he said this. “Please be my girlfriend.”

Biting the inside of your mouth to stop yourself from smiling at the juxtaposition of his pink cheeks and his determined eyes – while also, cringing at the cliché words that you’d forced him to say – you nodded and did not say anything else.

“What, that’s all I get?” Jungkook widened his eyes, scoffing in disbelief. “I ask you to—and you nod your head?”

You couldn’t help yourself as you replied, “I’ll think about it.”

Completely flummoxed, Jungkook examined your features without blinking or breathing. You really did have him right where you wanted him. If someone had told him that the reason why you stopped being friends once upon a time, was because he had too much influence over you, he wouldn’t have believed them.

“Enjoy this while you can,” he said a minute later, shaking his head and putting the key in ignition before finally starting the car. “You have endless weekends like this ahead of you, try to keep me on my toes.”

This didn’t put out your fire as you continued, “is that a challenge?”

“That,” he said, his voice more promising than threatening, “is a warning.”

You laughed before relenting just because you didn’t think it was fair to have his confession linger in the air like that, “I love you, too, Jungkook.”

He rolled his eyes, backing out of the street where he’d parked his car. “Oh, now you say that.”

“Better late than never,” you pointed out in a laid-back tone.

“Better all the time than late,” he retorted.

“You’re needy,” you said.

Jungkook didn’t skip a beat as he drove down the street back towards your campus, and still found enough time to glance at you, “you’re uncooperative.”

“You’re prideful,” you shot back.

“You’re controlling.”

“You’re reckless.”

“I love you,” he challenged.

“I love you more,” you fought back.

Jungkook cocked an eyebrow at this. “Don’t go there. I like to win and I am not above proving to you how much I love you the whole night tonight.”

A simmering fire in your stomach suddenly erupted into a bright flame.

“I have an early class tomorrow morning,” you said, more of a reminder to yourself than to him. “We both do, actually.”

He merely scoffed. “You think that would stop me?”

You shook your head, chuckling. “Just drive. Like you said, we have endless weekends like this ahead of us.”

And, even though you’d spent the bigger part of the weekend bickering and bantering, teasing and playing, both of you felt yourselves smile at the prospect of getting to do this again at the end of the next week. And then, at the end of the week that came after that. And then, the week after that. And after that.

At the end of every week, really. For as long as you wanted – be it the rest of your lives, or until the world ended.

keep reading | masterlist

#bts college au #bts reactions #bts smut #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook college au #college au #fanfiction #bts fanfiction #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook x reader #bts x reader #jeon jungkook fanfiction #bts fanfic #jeon jungkook fanfic #fanfic

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equestrianwritingsstuff · 3 years

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Oh damn. Your drabble "Drowning" has given me IDEAS....

I can just see hero managing to stop villain from killing Supervillain, but Supervillain still being injured/ getting pneumonia from the water in his lungs... and how awkward it would be for hero to take care of someone who'd just tried to drown her.

This idea is fantastic! I hope that this was an ask to do it. If not, I apologize, but this was just such a great idea!

May get a little sad at the end (spoiler alert)

Drowning Part 2

Part 1

Warnings: concussion, CPR, death/killing mentions, descriptions of how someone was going to kill another (never acted upon), classic sick and delirious whumpee, sedatives mention, descriptions of medical setting and practices, mentions of loved ones death, pills (tylenol), hallucinations

Villain grabbed the knife, his fingers clutching the hilt until they glowed white. Supervillain was breathing heavily, yet he was still unconscious- lips parted and blue.

Hero also moved forward, her legs tensed and ready to pounce. The scene registered in her mind very quickly. The knife, the villain, and the heaving supervillain... blood and then the inevitable stop of breath.

It didn't have to be inevitable.

Hero rushed forward, grabbing a metal rod, and landed the blow directly to Villain's temple. He faltered, letting go of the knife and collapsing into Hero's awaiting arms.

"M Hhh," he breathed, bleeding head lolling in the crease of Hero's elbow. His eyes shifted from focused to unfocused in a matter of seconds, only to fluctuate back. Here flipped out her phone and called her medic.

"Hero! You alright?"

"Yeah I'm fine. Get to Supervillain's base. It's empty. Villain has a bad concussion, he's not entirely lucid right now..."

"Oh uh, um... I'm on my way." The line clicked.

Hero laid Villain against the wall, cupping his heavy head for a moment before tending to the unmoving supervillain. He wasn't breathing.

Hero quickly felt for a pulse and upon finding a soft thump-thump, she tilted his head to the side. Water immediately gushed out of his nose and mouth. He sputtered a little bit, but never woke.

Hero pressed her lips against Supervillain's after rolling his head back to the center. She breathed into his mouth four times, checked to see if he began to breathe. No.

She continued this. Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, check... breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, check... until the supervillain gasped for breath, choking and coughing out water and mucus.

Supervillain jerked himself forward, glancing at Hero to Villain and then back at Hero.

"H-" another coughing fit with more water. He started to gag, dry-heaving until tears spiked his eyes and nausea rose in his throat. When he was done, he scrambled to his feet and tumbled towards the open door to his base.

Hero returned to Villain's side and scooped her friend up. Medic wasn't there, so she decided to take him herself. Caressing his head, gently, she followed Supervillain outside and to her base.

The next day, Hero was walking along a sidewalk on her way home from visiting Villain in the hospital. It was a nice day, a great change from her near-death experience with Supervillain the day prior... Hero shuddered, trying not to think of the agonizingly cold water, the darkness lapping at her vision, knocking Villain out... the whole ordeal.

Knocking Villain out... Hero replayed the conversation she just had with her very ungrateful ex-frenenemy (apparently?). The half-dazed cusses and just plain rudeness from the bedridden patient were more than enough to make her feel annoyed. She saved Villain from committing an act that would have surely land him in jail- if not a mental facility. Especially the way the concussed villain talked about killing Supervillain. Apparently, Villain was going to slowly kill him with the knife, decorating major body parts with cuts and blood.

Hero sighed. That sadistic little turd that couldn't just walk away-

A groan.

Hero looked up to find herself walking in front of an alleyway. It was dark, if that's not a little too cliche, and eerily quite. Not even a stray cat knocked over a garbage can like in every classical alleyway scene.

Hero entered the alley stealthily, opening her holster and lying her hand over her gun. She looked behind every dumpster and every cardboard box. Finding nothing, she proceeded to leave, but two hands grabbed her mouth and throat.

Being yanked backwards sent a spark of adrenaline through Hero's veins. She turned and thrashed, but her attacker was unrelenting.

"Let me go!" Hero yelled when a large hand slipped away from her mouth. The other hand went away too. Pulling her gun out, Hero spun around, only to have a fist meet her face.

The impact startled her, but not as much as the body leaning heavily against her's.

The body heaved and gasped, heat radiating off its skin. Hero looked down and took in the features. She couldn't see a face, but it was obviously a guy. Hero dragged the man over to the only bare spot against the brick wall and leaned him aaginst it. She began to step away, only to realize that his head was resting against her shoulder.

"Hey," Hero mumured and grabbed the man's cheeks, holding him up, examining his face...

Hero nearly dropped the pale face.

It was Supervillain.

Also known as the man who tried to kill her.

Hero, for a brief second of primitive logic, contemplated leaving the feverish man to deal with himself. But guilt, and maybe a twinge of annoyance, drove her the complete opposite direction.

After all, she didn't just save him and give Villain a concussion only for him to die, right?

Yet as she scooped her attacker up, two portions of her brain- her sensible part and her empathetic part- played tug-of-war with each other. Drop him, bring him home, drop him, bring him home...

Of course the empathetic clump of cells won and she bridal-carried the shivering supervillain to her apartment.

She set Supervillain on her beige couch with a blanket strewn over his lap. He just had a cold right? She brought him some tylenol and a glass of water.

"Hey," she said softly, almost a whisper. Supervillain seemed so disconnected that she was afraid that she would startle him. His eyes were glassy and had an abnormal, faraway look.

Supervillain didn't reply, or look at Hero. His gaze was fixated on a corner of the living room.

Then, like a bomb suddenly going off, he started to cough.

He coughed until blood, water and mucus gushed from his mouth. He hacked it up like a waterfall. Hero stood up, linked her hands under his shoulders and hauled him into a better sitting position.

He coughed until he was sobbing, screaming. He fell back against the cushions, sputtering and crying, with tears streaming down his face. Each breath seemed to be a workout- shaky and shallow. He never made eye contact with Hero. Just stared ahead, coughing and crying.

"Are you okay?" Hero asked, loudly, but she still doubted the sick supervillain heard her. She placed a hand against his back, rubbing circles. It was just a cold- she was certain.

But he was so hot.

So unnaturally hot.

Hero frowned and went to grab a thermometer. She placed it against Supervillain's lips, but he didn't open them.

"Come on now," she coaxed gingerly and rubbed his flushed cheeks. She sighed. She didn't even need to know the temperature to know that the sick man infront of her had a fever.

Supervillain parted his mouth open and allowed the pointed metal edge to find a home under his tongue. He tried to move it around, but his resolve was too weak. Hero held it there until it beeped. 102.9

102.9 degrees fahrenheit. Nearly 103 degrees...

"Oh gosh," Hero exclaimed and dumped a couple tablets out of the tylenol bottle. She coaxed them onto Supervillain's bacteria-lidden tongue and pressed the glass of water against his bottom lip.

"Drink," she whispered. Supervillain obeyed and took a sip just big enough to force the pills down.

"Good job," she praised and lowered Supervillain down. Only for him to start coughing again.

"Take it easy, honey," she murmured. Honey? Where did that come from? Come on Hero, she scolded herself. The guy just tried to drown you the other day; you don't have to make this even more awkward or embarrassing.

Supervillain leaned into her. His firey body nearly made Hero begin to sweat. His eyelids drooped, breaths slowed, and soon he was alseep in her arms.

Hero knelt there by the armrest, alone with her intense thoughts. She rubbed his moist hair, allowing her nails to scratch at his scalp. Even alseep, she hoped it gave some comfort.

Not that he exactly deserved comfort. Villain was in a hospital bed, sleeping off sedatives and painkillers greedily and dealing with a major concussion. She thought of the grim night the doctors and her shared. Restraining a delirious villain, the MRI, all the tests... and then finally given the clear to inject a moderate sedative dose to help him sleep.

But Hero still gave the undeserved comfort. Maybe she was too empathetic, too caring and generous for her own good, but that matter could be taken care of another day.

Supervillain awoke a few hours later to Hero'd strawberry smelling hair resting against the top of his head. Her arms dangled across his chest as if she was giving him a hug from behind. She fell alseep mid-hug.

Of course, the supervillain did not register this interaction as that. He imagined it more as encompassing tendrils of ivy tying him down to a foreign object. He squirmed, trying to break free of Mother Nature's restraints, but he was too sick, too weak, and too helpless to do much more than move around.

Hero then woke up also, pulling her arms- the so-called vines- off the terrified supervillain's body.

"Good morning," she yawned and pressed a hand against her ward's forehead. Supervillain didn't seem to know what to do. He wavered between pushing forward into the hand- or the frustratingly threatening boulder to him- or pulling away. He chose the later, jerking away only to send a rush of mind reeling dizziness through his head.

He swayed, or he thought he did for he was still lying against the couch as if a magnetic force attached him to it. Reaching out weakly to grab Hero's hands, he closed his eyes.

"You are so sick," Hero cooed, her voice a mixture of both anxiety and tranquility. Supervillain gripped her tighter and tried to pull himself up to her.

"Shh, shh," Hero whispered. "Sleep."

Supervillain seemed like he nodded. Or was it due to him loosening up as he fell asleep again? Hero didn't know, nor cared.

She stood up and laid a blanket over Supervillain before heading into the kitchen to make a bland chicken soup and a small bowl of rice.

After the meal was done, about thirty minutes later, Hero returned to Supervillain on the couch with a portable plastic table and the food. She propped the still sleeping man into a sitting position before awakening him.

Supervillain blearily opened his eyes, blinked, and settled his gaze on Hero's eyes. He twitched his head upwards, but that was all. Hero didn't even think he noticed the steaming food on the table beside him.

"Want to eat?" She asked, more to herself than anyone. Supervillain looked at her with those wide, brown eyes like he did right before he attempted to drown her.

"Mnh," Supervillain groaned. "M chest hurts."

"Your chest hurts?"

"Mhm."

Hero tentatively lifted his shirt, but the feverish man didn't seem to care, or realize the possible intimate gesture.

"Let's take this off, shall we?"

Supervillain nodded, which made Hero nervous. Why was he being so compliant?

Nevertheless, she striped his shirt off and examined his ribcage. She had him take a couple deep breaths, but the movement seemed to exhaust him further. His ribs seemed a bit swollen, but nothing was broken.

Then a horrid realization dawned on her.

He had pneumonia. Most likely due to the water still festering in his lungs.

"Ooookay," Hero breathed. She would deal with that later, maybe call Medic- no, no one could know that she was housing the Man of Terrors- but first she had to get some food into Supervillain's stomach.

So she spooned, mouthful by mouthful into Supervillain's parched mouth slowly. She cleaned any broth dripping down his chin with a washcloth.

After he finished eating, Supervillain was so exhausted that he nearly fell alseep with his neck bent awkwardly. Hero readjusted him to a laying position, but elevated him slightly to ease his ragged breathing.

Pneumonia.

That would explain the harsh breathing and the daunting fever. Gosh, was he sick and so sudden too. Hero sat next to Supervillain, rubbing his hair back from his sweaty forehead like a caretaker.

Even though it was awkward, given the circumstances and past events, Hero stayed with him all night. Easing his pain, feeding him small bits of rice and soup, taking off blankets and putting them back on, wet washcloths and fans. Sometimes she would doze off on his chest, but never for long.

Whatever connection and trust built up between the two that night was unbelievable. Extraordinary, even. But still, nothing, not even with the newfound relationship, prepared Hero for the one simple and innocent yet insanely heartbreaking word that sickly Supervillain uttered.

"Mother?" He squeaked, looking up at Hero with eyes so full of love and relief that they looked about to burst. Hero felt her heart break, shattered to a million pieces as her guest extended his hand to her face.

"Am I in heaven?" He asked in such a childish manner. He looked around, but frowned at his surroundings. "Mother? You're dead right? Am I dead too?" The previous chirpy voice lowered to Supervillain's desolate montone.

Hero didn't know what to say, for Supervillain gazed at her with all the intent he could physically muster.

She could give into the hallucination and play along, but guilt would eat her alive. But, she thought it rude to just blatantly say, "No. You're mother is dead. It's me, Hero."

Supervillain whimpered, chin trembling as he began to cry. Hero winced, but then realized:

She said those words outloud and now she had a grieving, delirious, and sick supervillain to tend to. Great, just great.

#villain whumpee #supervillain whumpee #hero caretaker #tw death mention #sick whumpee #pneumonia #writing #heros and villains #feverish whumpee #feverish villain #hero x supervillain #maybe?#delirious whumpee

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daydream-believin · 3 years

Text

What About the Smaller Picture (3)

Summary: Merlin knows best. And what he feels is best for you and Douxie right now is to sit around and wait for him to come back from New Jersey, Merlin-knows-when. (3) You’ve adjusted to Arcadian life pretty well. (1) or (4)

Warnings: Swearing, sleep problems?

Word count: 2474

A/n: sorry this wasnt out sooner I’ve had a week

The curtains were blue. They had a little pattern of navy and white flowers and curvy lines like pottery painted with indigo. You had moved one of Doux’s bookshelves to be the second wall to allow the curtain rod to even be in place. This layout effectively created a nook of sorts around your little bed. To be frank the curtains weren’t absolutely necessary. The space kinda gave you university dorm vibes with the two twin beds across from each other. But there was no way you were letting this guy you barely knew watch you sleep. Even if you were good friends, you wouldn’t let him watch you sleep. That kind of vulnerability was special, reserved for only those closest to you.

Speaking of closeness, Douxie had been very adamant about you not calling him by his full name anymore. Made him feel like you were reprimanding him, he said. You could relate to the feeling, and so you were now being careful to replace all ‘Hisirdoux’s with ‘Douxie’s in your head. Or at least a ‘Doux’. Not ‘Babe’. Who told you that. You definitely never referred to him as Babe in your mind. Nope. That Is Not Something Friends Do.

“And,” Douxie rubbed the back of his neck, “Normally when people call me Hisirdoux nowadays it’s because they want to kill me. Only strangers and enemies call me that. Or Zoe when she’s pissed. So yeah, just Douxie is fine.”

“Just Douxie?”

He chuckled, “Yeah.” You looked up at him with a smile.

“Douxie.” He flushed, nodding. “Well, Douxie, what do you want for dinner tonight.”

That little nook you’d built hadn’t stopped Douxie from trying to talk to you all night, however. You’d think the curtains would be a clear message of don’t talk to me I want to be left alone but Doux hadn’t really taken that hint. You tried your best to brush him off the first few nights, even pretending to fall asleep. It didn’t stop him. By the fourth night you spent in Arcadia, you gave in. You had trouble sleeping anyways, as it was apparent so did your roommate, so might as well indulge him. It’s not like ignoring him did any good. Instead of staring at a blue-light screen that messed with your circadian rhythm, you talked about nonsense with Doux. And it was good nonsense. He was way too funny. Or maybe it’s that thing where if you’re into someone then everything they say is hilarious. You’ll never know. But it was nice, either way.

The funny thing was that not only did you actually start to like this, but now it was becoming hard to sleep without it. He helped. Your whole life you stayed up late, and then tossed and turned all night anyways. Now your bedtime routine was talk to Douxie for a few hours, slowly falling asleep, and then you’d sleep the whole night through like a baby. No more restlessness. No more waking up over and over again. Even if you did, you could just listen to him snore for a bit and fall right back to sleep. You guessed it was the feeling of safety he provided. Like someone was watching over you, even when you were at your most vulnerable. You’d never really had that luxury before.

You had started noticing the trouble coming back when he would stay out late sometimes. And Douxie was gone one night and you suddenly couldn’t sleep at all. This was bad. A problem, if you will. But no matter. There were more pressing things to worry about.

Like the fact that all week, Douxie had been hinting that he had something you two were going to do soon. He would not tell you what it was. In fact he was taking quite a bit of joy in dangling this “surprise” in front of your face but not telling you anything about it. It was driving you a little crazy. You hoped what he had planned was nothing too wild, though. It’s not that you weren’t down, you were just tired. But you could use a little shaking up. This bookshop existence was boring. You weren’t boring. You had enough crazy stories to last an immortal lifetime from growing up in New Jersey. Not just modern-day Urban New Jersey. Early colonial Quaker-dominated New Jersey was wild too. Especially as one of those infamous New England witches. Maybe Douxie was taking you on some magic errand. That would be great, you were dying to do something actually in your job description ever since you got here. Not that working in the bookshop wasn’t nice, it just wasn’t magic. You were craving magic.

But alas, as the sun was setting and the last patrons left the store, life moved on as mundanely usual. You flipped over the sign, scratched a sunbeam bathing Archie behind the ears, and started the process of re-shelving all the damn books that customers left strown about. The sunset turned the bookshop pink. There were fewer cars rushing by. Now that there were no customers, it was very peaceful. Just you, Archie’s snoring, and the soft lute music playing. The music was lute covers of popular songs, and at this point you were pretty sure it was Douxie himself who recorded this shit.

Speaking of Douxie, you hadn’t seen him all day. It had made working the bookshop extra extra boring. Like if he wanted you to be free labor, he could at least give you the decency of his lovely presence. But no, it was just you, all day long. All by your lonesome, with nary a cute theater-kid adjacent wizard to keep you entertained with his company. It was a travesty really. But anyways, where was he. Better not be having fun without you.

You like to think your thoughts summoned him. He came in through the back door, panting, disheveled. Singed? He frantically looked out the door’s window into the alleyway from which he had just came from, looking for something. Whatever it was, he must have seen it, since he looked panic-stricken. In a painfully obvious attempt to swallow the fear, he turned to you, trying his best to sound nonchalant.

“SO. You know that thing? The surprise? Well. It is here a little sooner than I expected it to bE—” A loud crashing noise came from the alleyway. “Oh, fuzzbuckets.”

You dropped the book in your hand. “WHAT DID YOU DO.”

There was another very loud crash, this time closer. Douxie glanced back for less than a moment before rushing over to you, taking you hand.

“I’ll just have to tell you on the way love, come on!”

You two fled out the front door of the shop like your tails were on fire. Speaking of tails on fire, once you rounded the shop to the alleyway, you found out just what Douxie had been running from that was making such loud noises. Hellheetis. Five large hellheetis. Blazing bright in the Arcadian dusk. How the neighbors haven’t already called the cops or the fire department was a mystery. The large lion-like creatures growled, stalking down the alley. It was only a matter of seconds before they smelled and or spotted you and went back into the chase. You had to make a plan and fast. Distracting you from your thoughts, Douxie nervously laughed beside you.

“hehe, uh, could you believe there was only one of these at the start?”

You slowly turned to the wizard, “Did you,, hit them, Hisirdoux?” You could call him that now because you were in fact pissed off at the moment.

“Only twice.”

“Only twice… Okay”

“I may not be the best at monster identification. Or remembering which tactic to use for which.”

“I can see that.” You tried to keep your voice as calm as you could, which got a little easier to do as the hellheetis turned down a different alleyway, putting some more distance between them and you. They were still searching though, that was apparent. Thankfully the stench of the alley trash was keeping you covered.

“Believe me, Archie gets onto me about this all the time.”

“It’s okay… just. I think I have a plan. But one of us has to be bait. And it’s going to be you.”

“That’s fair.”

You sprinted up the stairs of the bookstore and up through the ceiling hatch onto the rooftop. You first instinct was to get them to the center of the square, where you could use the fountain as a water source. The alley they had started going down opened up to the square anyhow. It would have been a straight shot. But dear Mr. Casperan made a fuss about that being too out in the open or whatever.

Next solution. The bookstore’s rooftop had a facet, Douxie told you. You’d like to imagine it was put there so some nice old lady could have had a sweet rooftop garden without too much hassle. Maybe you should start a sweet rooftop garden. You and Douxie could have a little oasis in the city up here. You could grow veggies and flowers for your table. Maybe make a cute little picnic area. Stargaze at night. The facet. You quickly found it and made work of turning it on. Or at least you tried your best. You could hear roaring, getting louder, getting closer. The scary growls and roars were punctuated by Douxie’s frantic footsteps, grunts, and gasps. Please don’t get eaten, Douxie.

The facet was so rusty, it took all of your strength to get it to budge. And then nothing came out really, the hose attached to it lifeless without so much as a trickle. You tried to unscrew it from the facet to see if there was a problem and the metal part of the hose disintegrated in your hand. Okay. No water was in fact coming out of that facet.

Imaginary sirens rang in your ears. You had to get water, fast, or your partner was gonna be kit & kadouxle. Hellheeti chow. Growl mix. Douxies. Fiery feast. The big cats were gonna eat him okay. After managing to get the facet turned as fast as you could, fueled on pure adrenaline, and still getting little to no water, you made a judgement call of fuck that. Magic time. To be completely frank here that should have been what you had done in the fucking first place, but hey, fear dulls the mind.

Gathering up as much water as you could, like, metaphorically feel in the pipe, you pulled that shit out with all your might. Aaaannddd because of this you may have not actually remembered that you would need to catch said water in order to, you know, use it. Instead of a nice bubble to be used at your discretion, a magic roof-water tidal wave washed over you and over the side of the building into the alley below. Thank your lucky fucking stars that Douxie just so happened to have gotten the fire felines to the right spot in time. The uncontrollable rain rushed down, dissipating the hellheetis, soaking Douxie darling, and flooding not only your alley but all the alleys connected to it. Holy shit, stop it! STOP IT! It took a second, but you did finally get the river to stop pouring out of your rooftop. Fingers crossed there were no basement windows open and all your neighbors had flood insurance. And that no one saw. Can’t be connected to you if no one saw right. Shhhhhh.

You peered over the ledge to see if Douxie was alright down below. He looked like a cat caught in the rain himself. You probably did too. Douxie’s soaked bangs covered his eyes. Nevertheless, he was able to see you up on the ledge and gave you a thumbs up. You awkwardly returned it.

Toweling off your hair, and now in nice dry pajamas, you walked out of the bathroom to join Douxie on the couch. His own hair towel hung around his shoulders. You took a moment to enjoy how cute he looked all ready for bed, cozy in the blankets on the couch. And that semi-wet hair was looking pretty nice too. You only allowed yourself to linger on this for that moment however, as you remembered you were supposed to be mad at him right now. You crossed your arms as you approached the wizard.

“SO, dearest Hisirdoux, may I have the decency of getting to ask the question, WHY.”

“Funny story really.”

“Really?” You raised a brow

“Really.”

Douxie fidgeted with his hands. You watched this little nervous gesture intently as you sat down next to him. He took a deep breath before beginning,

“First thing. You’ve been here for some time now, and I thought it was enough time for me to start sharing my little, er, excursions with you,” Douxie’s face flushed a little, “I like monster hunting, and now that I know that I like you, I thought I’d like it more if I brought you along with me?”

Your face was flushed a little too now. “Hey, stop it, I need to be mad at you.” Yeah well the smile you wore gave up any pretense of that. Sorry.

“I didn’t know how familiar you were with monsters or how skilled at fighting you were, so I decided to go get some test monsters from Mervin the Monster Dealer, just to make sure our first time would be safe. FIRST TIME MONSTER HUNTING TOGETHER.”

You stifled a chuckle. “And you didn’t just ask me?”

“It was supposed to be a cool surprise okay.” He buried his face in his hands.

“… Hellheetis?” Safe monster your ass.

“Yes, I mean no, I- Mervin sold me the wrong thing alright. I thought I was buying those cute little fire sprite things you can easily just put out with your boot.”

This time you did not hold back that laughter. And you laughed, and Douxie laughed, and soon both of you were uncontrollably cackling until you were out of breath. Archie came in to see what the commotion was about and then promptly turned back around to go back to his spot in the window. You clutched your chest, still cracking up despite the lack of oxygen. Douxie wiped some tears from his eyes you were sure hoping were just from laughing too hard. You rubbed a hand on his back.

“So, I think I’ve had enough excitement for one day. How bout movie night?”

Douxie’s tired eyes smiled at you, “Yeah, I think that would be lovely.”

“Hey, I had a good first monster hunt, Douxie. Thank you,” You pulled your cold feet up under your legs, “But could you stop hogging the blankets!”

#douxie x reader #hisirdoux casperan x reader #douxie x y/n #tales of arcadia x reader #douxie imagine #hisirdoux casperan imagine #Douxie Casperan x reader #tales of arcadia imagine #douxie #my writing #watsp

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heli0s-writes · 3 years

Text

IV. Symbiosis

Summary: “Since you’ve been caught—” Fury squints, “Canoodling With The Allegedly Injured James Barnes, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s already halfway finished with digging you up. Forgeries. Petty theft. Grand larceny. The damn rest of the kitchen sink. So, Ranger…” The way he says it is both lazy and threatening, completely on brand and irritatingly calm.

“Here’s my suggestion: get ahead of this thing before it knocks you on your ass.”

A/N: 4.8k words. I’m a liar who lies because after 4 months of overthinking and coming up with diddly squat, here is part 4 of Trinity Epoch sans smut. I’m sorry! I’ll double your pleasure next time. xx Thank you for sticking with me, I’m so sorry it’s taken so long.

Warnings: Language. References to canon-typical violence.

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

Bucky stays like that a while longer, just breathing.

Your fingers trace his hair—running through the strands, over the shell of his ear, then resting briefly on his cheek. All the ways you used to with Natasha when she’d break her own heart, or maybe ways you would have liked her to have done for you when you felt like you were dying a little bit.

You feel it now: a small death in the wake of last night’s simple touches. Your body and Steve’s body curled around each other sprung something immeasurable, as if the drift flowered then and ripened beneath your skins. You bit into it. You savored its taste. You could have lived on it alone.

Everything smears together like a child’s careless hand in a mess of paints until all the brights muddle dark. A shaky breath as you work yourself into calming, trying to find coherent words while your head remains a pot of sideways soup, at best.

Bucky shifts until he’s looking up at you, nose millimeters away. His irises are just a touch more gray, a sprinkle less green. You can see Steve in him, just as he can see Steve in you and then your eyes begin to prickle, Nat’s face undulating behind the burn.

You don’t really know what you want to say. Maybe apologize, run, beg for forgiveness, grab Bucky by the shoulders and shake him until he understands that you didn’t mean it— you didn’t mean to hurt him. That you love him. That he lives inside you, too.

His ghost from the drift— the aftermath phenomena of the neural bridge when pilots take on a bit of each other’s consciousness out of the cockpit and into the world with them. Take two people with a predisposition for the drift into the cockpit into each other’s brains and they exit heightened—sharper, better—imbued with each other’s strengths and knowledge. Mind-meld long enough, deep enough, and your core endures, but you become a different beast.

When Steve’s consciousness bled into yours, so did Bucky’s. If you walked away with half of Rogers, you also got a quarter of Barnes and it only compounded worse during Polidori’s drop. Resurrecting trauma, agitating itself, making a mess of your weary soul.

You relived his amputation last night, just as fresh as you relived Nat’s death. More visceral than the first trial run, you witnessed him—felt him—torn and hoarse, clutching his shoulder as he rocked helplessly inside Orion’s chest, frayed wires sparking across his cheek and landing in his own blood. His teeth gnashing together as he tried to hold on for Steve’s sake, steering his co-pilot’s panic back on course. Terrified and agonized, but he was hellbent on making it out.

Bucky who made you laugh. Bucky who took you to dinner. Who walked with you, gave you his jacket, listened to your rambling and crying, and kissed you because you reminded him of his co-pilot, or maybe of himself.

How could you not love him, after all this?

Armageddon slows for nothing though, and before the first letter of his name can fall out recklessly from your mouth, three precise thumps jostles it back in.

Steve’s voice is muffled through heavy steel. “You in there?”

The door slides open with a tremulous croak but neither of you bother to separate. Nothing seems to matter now.

“Buck...” Steve looks from one raw face to the other, stepping forward and reaching out. He grasps Bucky’s hand. “We should talk—” he closes his mouth into a thin line, shoulders slumping heavily before letting go. “I’m sorry. Later. Shit’s hit the fan.”

The office is stagnant air full of questions but other than the squeak of the marshal leaning back in his chair, nobody makes a sound.

Fury untucks a finger from the crook of his elbow before pointing it between your eyes.

“Culpability.”

Across the room, you flinch in his crosshairs. Standing apart from them, you’re partially slack against one of many steel filing cabinets, using it to prop yourself up in case your knees might give out as vertigo descends.

It’s been a lot to take in. Everything— the night, the morning, emotionally, mentally, physically. The hull is a steel cage, and pilots are well armored, but you’re still hooked up to the robot enduring damage, taking hits at barely .0001 percent, but taking it all the same. You’re bruised up good beneath your clothes— Polidori’s claws leaving four tender imprints of a scratch to Orion’s right shoulder. Your shoulder. Steve’s shoulder.

To your right, he shifts. A tiny hint of pain streaks over his expression before it falls serene again, fixed on Fury.

“Since you’ve been caught—” the marshal squints, “Canoodling With The Allegedly Injured James Barnes, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s already halfway finished with digging you up. Forgeries, petty theft, grand larceny, the damn rest of the kitchen sink. So, Ranger…” The way he says it is both lazy and threatening, completely on brand and irritatingly calm.

“Here’s my suggestion: get ahead of this thing before it knocks you on your ass.”

This thing, being any story a 13-year old kid with two thumbs and a twitter account can spin between now and when you let Pepper Potts spin it for you first. There’s not a lot imagination can’t conjure to fill in the blank pixelated space between Bucky standing on the curb and you right behind him wearing his cap and jacket. Not to mention that once speculation goes live, it starts sprouting all sorts of appendages with minds of their own, and no matter how diligently you might cut one off, two would only sprout in its place.

The marshal stands up and takes heavy steps before turning the corner of his desk, absently tapping a pile of folders together like they’re not already in a perfect column. He slips a manila folder out from the stack and it becomes obvious that his suggestion is just buildup to some other type of impetus.

When you open the file up under his sharp gaze, you feel the blood drain from your face and possibly from your entire body.

The bullet he aimed between your eyes hits home. Cue your brains blowing out slow. Impetus met.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky appears over your shoulder, staring at the same grainy photocopied document. “You can’t be serious.”

“Do I look like I make a lot of jokes?” Fury leans forward, pointer curving over the top edge, tapping emphatically one, two, three times, even waving it back and forth in front of your unseeing eyes. “I’ve got a good contact inside the PPDC who risked a lot to get this out. They’re just plans for now, dogeared behind other pages, but don’t doubt the Corps’ cowardice for a second. The second this program looks like it might not hold up, they’ll turn their efforts there.”

You’re gone. Trapped between the lines, vehemently scanning the page, reading the same words over and over until they no longer make sense. But it’s not like they made any sense in the first place.

ANTI-KAIJU WALL: CONSTRUCTION AGENDA. SPRING 2020.

The conception of a perimeter stretching around the Pan Pacific—North and Central America, East and South Asia to isolate emerging Kaiju. It’s a fetal skeleton at most, the roughest of outlines for a plan, and truthfully, it’s no plan at all.

It’s shameful. It’s shit.

The so-called Wall of Life implies the portending death of the Program—of all Shatterdomes and Jaegers. It implies no support, no funding, and no repairs. No Kodiak. No juniors. No future.

Back and forth, you’re still desperately inspecting as if the words might shift into a new message, maybe one that didn’t spell out certain extinction, but despair is rippling across your face. Bi Fang and Polidori had wings, and they were only Category II. Bi Fang massacred one of the best pilots you’ve ever known—and it was only a Category II. Any higher and they’d blow through that wall like a ribbon of wet toilet paper.

Hysteria creeps up at the mere thought of it, fear stubbornly lodging itself in your throat. Nuclear-powered automata—the only proven defense against the terror of massive alien attacks are being dismantled in favor of steel rods and cinderblocks. They might as well build it out of Legos.

Anti-Kaiju Wall. A string of ants meeting a boot.

You’re panting softly, tongue swollen in your mouth, shaking with equal parts terror and rage, on the verge of breaking into inappropriate laughter and yelling.

“What—what do they expect?” You croak, “The breach opens, the fucking thing comes out, sees a fence, and what—they think it’s—going to crawl back in…?”

“Hey, calm down,” Bucky curls his fingers around your elbow. His hand and its black plates are peering at you, purring, dull gold bands threading at the knuckles. For a second, the prosthetic disappears. For a second, he’s blood red again.

“Hey!” Bucky grips tightly when you sway. “I’m fine! Don’t—don’t.” Steve’s jaw is set firmly on your other side, arms crossed so severely his biceps bulge with the strain.

“Nick,” He’s abruptly brusque as he eases the file from your grip. “Give us a minute.”

“You’re in my office.” But the marshal’s words hold no bite. He’s already won; he knows. Cornered again, he’s got you same as before in Red Cloud.

You get the gist: play out your redemption arc and come clean with your record. Win over the public, hoard all the additional support and funding you can because you’ll need every goddamn cent of it when the PPDC rips it away. The gossip. The photos. The headlines. It’s the perfect opportunity for a few hundred million when the media is putting a magnifying glass on your presence in Hong Kong.

Duty. Duty. Duty.

You’re just one small part of this colossal puzzle—a negligible smear of guts across the battlefield trying to keep the rest of the pieces together while the PPDC sits in their panic rooms throttling the entire fucking thing.

Fury steps to the cabinet and slides the file back in its place, keeping the illusion of it being just another unremarkable envelope in a row of hundreds of others. The metal drawer shuts with a clang, housing the most damning piece of information you’ve ever seen. His tact aside, you know he would never show you his hand like this if it wasn’t completely necessary—or pertinent.

Steve was right, you understand now.

The world owes you. And it owns you.

The next six—seven?—hours scatter like pulled teeth with your head spinning like a top the entire way. Pepper had been outside the door for the conversation, waiting on standby to whisk you off for princess lessons. Having already (and correctly) predicted your compliance, Fury scheduled an interview for precisely at nine. Then you were off, towed along by Miss Potts and her hasty strut.

You try to find perspective, reminding yourself that you’ve successfully gone toe-to-toe with the Empire State Building with fifteen rows of teeth seven fucking times and come out on the other side alive and if not in one whole piece, then at least 2-3 relatively serviceable pieces. You’re functional. A little damaged, but fine enough. But there’s also the fact that you’d just hopped out of Orion not even 24 hours ago coupled with how you’re suddenly in the middle of something that feels less like a confused love triangle and more like divine providence at the end of the world.

Fuck. No time to think about it now. The human brain is not programmed to multitask, and you’re hanging on by a mere thread. You prioritize making it through the night just as alive as you can make it out of a drop. Just a couple of hours and you can rest. Just a couple more.

After what felt like an eternity and a half of simulating Q&A, practicing your posture, smiling into a mirror, and one horrible limo ride where you stared dead-eyed out the window—Steve and Bucky’s steely gazes after you—the building finally comes into view.

Hair. Makeup. Wardrobe. You wear pants. You smile for the camera. You don’t stand in the middle of the group photo.

8:55 and time halts to a near stop. You can hear your heart in your throat, or in your skull. Your eyes feel switched from their sockets, or stomach rotated 30 degrees. Someone fixes your mic wire, your blouse collar, asking you to turn just a little over there. Three cameras are pointed to capture every angle, punitive red dots angry and glaring.

A live broadcast was agreed upon to ensure the least amount of potential edits and skews, as well as the charmingly quaint idea that it’s unscripted. The rub, therein, lies upon the burden of poise and a flawless performance. You rehearsed lines until your jaw felt like it was coming unhinged. Then you did it again.

Everything requires precision, and you keep that in mind with your hand on the glass of Dom Perignon being constantly refilled. An amicable gesture by the hosts, but their intentions are cunning: loose lips sink ships, and they’re betting on yours to sink the S.S. Orion Bravo.

Out of view, the translator sits with her legs crossed, listening to the questions before turning the words over in English.

You take a sip of champagne and it fires off like a gunshot—Cantonese and English in rapid-fire verses.

<2017 was a fateful year for both the Jaeger Program and the world. Beloved pilot Natasha Romanoff sacrificed her life to protect Alaska’s coast in a final battle against Category 2 Bi Fang. Memorials dedicated to Romanoff’s efforts appeared across every nation to lament her death and celebrate her heroism. Yet, somehow, no one seemed to be asking the million-dollar question: Where is her co-pilot?>

The host’s open hand urges your reply.

The lights seem to turn up even brighter. Your back starts sweating. The room is about to collapse. In short, naturally—infuriatingly—you choke.

Seven hours of droning like a broken wind up toy, already knowing how to answer this question by heart, prepping yourself for the interrogation, the relentless demand to publicize your grief, to placate the people about your relationship with their heroes—and, you choke.

Bucky’s chin tilts microscopically in the corner of your line of vision. You’re fine, he’s saying, you got it. He’s strangely calm, even pleased, as you stutter involuntarily. Like he’s the first to remember an inside joke you’d long forgotten, his grin widens the longer you look at him. Steve turns next. Focus. Don’t fight the drift. The drift is silence.

And suddenly, your shoulders ease. The static in your exhausted brain slides out of your ears.

You sit up tall. You smile. It doesn’t quite feel like your smile, but, it’s a good one. You know this smile; it’s Steve’s smile. Like a seamless assembly, you fall into rhythm.

The white of his teeth slip out from between Steve’s lips. He notices too.

You calmly recite the introductory speech you’d been practicing for the last two hours, feeling out your new voice, borrowing from his bearing—deeper, smoother, certain. The major points get run through: your record and own personality traits keeping you from the spotlight, admitting genuinely that you’re pretty damn uncomfortable now, so they’ll have to forgive you for any slip ups. It goes over well, as Pepper predicted; “candid” blunders made Rangers human—made them likable.

When the subject of Anchorage rolls back around, you can practically feel Steve’s jaw bulging preemptively. You graze his foot with yours as a warning to back off.

<It’s remarkable that you were able to bring the Jaeger back to shore, there has been only one pilot who was capable of that—>

“I’m thankful to have had Stacker Pentecost as my mentor. I owe so much of my resilience to him. It was difficult, but simply put, I had no other choice. I feel so lucky to have survived it.”

“She was one of a kind.”

“Yes.”

The host clears his throat, visibly awkward that you’re being so terse, but taking the hint until Bucky turns into the spotlight, that divorced happiness he’s so skilled at beaming into the lenses.

Steve easily picks it up, steering the conversation where he wants it to go. He’s disarmingly sincere as he relays the process of Bucky’s injury, replacement, apprehension, and finally success

His bright blue eyes flicker secret messages and you decipher them all.

“The connection was like—"

There’s a bell chiming in your ears. Bright, crisp chirps of it, cutting through laughter and bickering. You taste summer air in your throat, Bucky’s hair flying in the wind. “Riding a bike…”

“Exactly. New bike, same motions, and it worked. It was great. We learned things about each other. Some good, some bad—”

Crosshatched pencil lines of their shared apartment. Smudges of charcoal in a sketchbook. “He’s an unbelievable artist, but—”

“No— don’t say it!”

Bucky smothering a small kitchen fire. Steve throwing a damp rag on him in a frantic attempt to assist. Your voice is bubbling out gleefully. “—an awful cook!”

“It’s true,” Bucky smugly chimes in. “The boy can’t boil water. Breakfast eggs come with shells every time.” You can taste the grit between your molars—crushed grains inside an overdone omelet, Bucky spitting out spinach and feta cheese.

“Oh my god,” you sputter into a sip of champagne. “It’s so bad.”

“Do you see what I have to deal with? Two people knowing my secrets. Two.”

<Fantastic! Already we can see a great friendship here—>

It seems congratulatory, but there’s determination to drive into scandalous territory, poking at any rumor to lance and leak. A sly smile crosses his face as his assistant shows photos of you and Bucky in the city, but the lurid suggestion only gets shrugged off. “We’d gone out for dinner. It was the first time I’d left the Shatterdome after Seigehook and I needed moral support.”

“I’d give you my jacket if you looked cold.”

<Steve, Ophelia isn’t concerned that your new co-pilot is a woman?>

“No, absolutely not. ‘Lia’s the first person to support Orion—and the loudest. I don’t know what I’d do without her. You don’t have her behind the curtain, too, do you?”

<Well, what about personal memories? Won’t you know everything about each other…? Private things?>

“Sure, but what pair of pilots don’t? You got twins and siblings, not just married couples. Look, here’s the thing: the neural bridge doesn’t take you to a filing cabinet. It’s not open like that. It’s more like—somebody help me—” Bucky snaps his fingers your way, “—what’d you call it the other day?”

You didn’t, but you say, “A dream?”

“Right, a dream. If you think about it, you can pull on it, but if it’s not in the forefront of your mind. It’s a non-issue.”

“We’re all adults here,” Steve confirms.

Steve’s palm faces outward as if keeping the host at bay— or, you think, keeping himself at bay. “Hold on. This isn’t about replacement. Nobody is framing it like a nail in the coffin—we’re in the interim of a period of time, readjusting. Short of death, nothing is going to take him away.”

Sunlight. Recruitment. Ice baths. Training until they had to carry each other to bed. Your eyes flutter, head pilfering through the memories like instinct.

“James is still Orion’s co-pilot.” You agree. Apprehension. Dread. Terror. Confidence in each other even when they didn’t believe in themselves. They were together. Nothing else mattered. “Steve’s co-pilot.”

The tight look on his face is temporarily wiped as he beams proudly, “He’s my Bucky. Always has been, always will be.” He claps Bucky on the back twice and each thump’s echo bounces its way into your chest.

Bucky bristles and sputters, but a healthy pink dusts its way across his cheeks, “Don’t embarrass me, Rogers.”

“Are you blushing?” You tease, elated.

“Don’t you start, either.”

<Well… this is very wonderful. Is there a possibility we’ll be seeing a triple-piloted machine? The Tang triplets have been in talks for a new model.>

Steve shakes his head. “We haven’t discussed it yet. Nothing’s off the table, by any means. Just not priority at the moment.”

“Normalcy, as much as we can get in the middle of all this.” Bucky holds out his hand, closing it into a fist, letting the camera zoom in. “We’re… still working through all the kinks, balancing the personal and global.”

He flexes his fingers, letting the microphones pick up the drone of machinery, but his meaning is another secret. Clicking Morse codes of well-oiled obsidian plates purring two names. You’ve stopped listening to everything but the echo incandescent in your heart.

You down your glass.

Champagne tipsy, you try not to stagger through the lobby. The doorman nods toward the limousine parked faithfully by the curb.

The barrage of questions slowed after it became apparent that there would be no sensationalist headline. There was attention to Bucky’s arm, his handsome face, of course, before the banter quickly devolved into entertaining frivolous sidebar queries. Five flutes bubbled down your throat and by the end of it, you no longer wanted to grab camera one and shake the shit out of it, anger whittled down to a dull hum of annoyance.

Thirty million stupid dollars for inane reels of:

What’s in your purse? What do you eat? How do you stay feminine in a Shatterdome full of testosterone—have you tried any K-beauty skincare routines? Do you have anyone special in your life?

Bucky went in, then, leaning forward until he was nearly rocking off and leveled his glare. You know she’s on the other side of the same robot, buckled up into a ninety-pound rig steering two-hundred tons of—

It took a miracle (see: Steve’s firm hand discreetly on the back of Bucky’s neck and Pepper drawing a sharp line across her throat) to effectively halt the derailing train.

“I can’t believe,” Bucky grouses now, opening the door and waving the driver back to the front. “Those goddamn questions.”

“Does wiping my sweaty face with my even sweatier shirt count as skincare? What’s the K stand for?”

Bucky smacks the back of your head with one hand, other clumsily yanking the door open with the other. “For Korean—have you been living under a rock? Just—get in the fuckin’ car.”

You slap him back. “Quit it, you invalid.”

“Invalid? I’ll show you a fuckin’—Steve, did you hear—”

“Both of you, get in the car.”

And you shriek, scrambling in and yanking Bucky along by the scruff of his jacket. Mischief courses beneath your skin, encouraged by clever alcohol, now fully buzzed its way to every extremity.

Still giggling and leaning into the thrill of it, you slump over the smooth plastic molding of the door and press your face against the tinted window. It’s a cool reprieve on your warmed cheek, frosting when your temperature meet the glass. Bucky’s easy Cantonese, albeit slurred, is requesting a ride back to base. His hand has found its way into yours, fingers laced large and warm, clasping tight before he lets go.

“Haven’t had a drink—oh--” you murmur, catching yourself as the wheels shift.

“Since Red Cloud.”

“Outta my head, Rogers.”

“Says the person who kept finishing my sentences during that interview.”

“It’s the champagne! It makes me—“

“Stupid?”

“You’re an ass, Barnes.” But you’re laughing at him, at the way he’s smirking— cheeks gone ruddy. Both of them, open beside each other, heads inclined intuitively together. It makes you ache to see—to experience again after disruption—Rogers and Barnes. Barnes and Rogers. Perfectly fitted.

The partition slides up. The sunroof tugs open with a whistling draft.

Hong Kong’s lights are vivid—too much to properly see the extent of space’s beauty, but there are a few twinkles you’re able to make out in the moonless night as light poles and skyscraper tips whiz overhead. They’re brighter than most, simple to spot patterns in the dark.

“Orion’s out tonight,” you mutter, moving to catch the line of its belt, “Look. Beneath his feet is Lepus, the hare, pursued for all time.” From across, Steve follows, also looking to find their hero as your hair rustles wildly, making a hurricane against your ear.

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” Bucky scolds. He’s annoyed and comfortable on leather, ankle crossed over opposite knee. “You’re not being chased by anything. Besides, if you were a constellation, you’d probably be the soup ladle.”

You laugh. He’s always playing the part of a stoic so well. “Hey, I’ll have you know the Little Dipper’s got the north star in it. That soup ladle’s gonna be the thing that gets you home when you’re lost.”

The tone shifts—time dragging its pace as you look at them in wonder. The city’s overripe heaviness of the blows through, making goosebumps on heated skin.

“Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky slips his jacket from his shoulders to slide over yours. He tugs the lapels down like he’s trying to keep you on earth and your hands clasp on his wrists for a second before you let go. They’re both sitting up now, watching your bleary gaze unfocus.

Steve and Bucky oscillate in front of your eyes, their lines blurring until it doesn’t really matter who you’re looking at—until they become one. So easy, like this, just them like two sides of the same coin, belonging so seamlessly to each other.

“Sorry,” you blurt in shame, “I feel like I fucked it up. Ruined a thing that wasn’t mine to ruin.”

“Think you put it together,” Steve responds quietly, and the simplicity of his statement throws you off. “We found our way.”

“Soup ladle,” Bucky jokes.

“But, aren’t we just trading one war for another? World peace only made it because of monsters.” Unspoken questions hidden inside large-scale metaphors— symbiosis could only be achieved under the lies of other relationships. Whatever this would be, it wouldn’t be accepted. Steve still retains his supermodel girlfriend and you and Bucky dutifully fall in line for your own packaged little PR lies.

He shrugs. “I’m fine with losing a few battles in this war, but Orion’s got a good track record, doesn’t it, Buck?”

“Twelve— thirteen kills, sweetheart.” Bucky’s grin is lopsided. “Don’t forget you made that happen.”

“Thirteen’s an unlucky number.”

“Feels lucky to me.” Steve’s hand wraps around your wrist, thumb resting on your pulse. He taps your skin, looking genuinely apologetic. “Listen, all I can do is ask— and I’m not good at asking for things. I just want to make them happen.” A quick glance at the watch under his cuffs and he tugs at your arm like a lost child, “So, before we get back… will you come here?”

As he said, he’s not really asking. More like reaching his will out to you, finding you when you’re caught in the undertow and pulling you back to safety. To them. Okay. Okay.

Your footing slips, but they take your hands and turn you carefully, letting you settle in between. Bucky hums a low sound, fingers curling around your waist. Steve does the same to the opposite side and you feel both torn apart and held together by them.

Steve nuzzles your neck, hot on your skin.

“She was wrong,” he whispers, barely audible over the sound of your rising breath, “You know that? She was wrong, and I was wrong. I thought it couldn’t happen—thought I had other priorities, other things to manage and settle and save and... I lost sight of what matters most. But I’m gonna really fix it this time—I’m gonna do it right by you.”

He looks to Bucky, pained and relieved, “Both of you, I promise.” He takes Bucky’s hand in his own and holds it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles, his palm, saying softly, “I love you, Buck. I’m sorry you waited so long.”

“Hey stupid,” Bucky says shakily when your chin starts to quiver at the sight of them. He’s sniffling and swallowing his syllables, unable to stop himself from staring at Steve’s face in his hand, how Steve kisses the blue pulse in his wrist. “Ain’t you—too pretty to cry?”

The rocking of the car flattens out as Steve gently presses his lips to yours, letting the trail of salt bursting down your cheek into his mouth. He moves to the line of your jaw, promising,

It’s okay. I got you. Nothing’s gonna hurt you anymore.

They kiss you and the world turns itself right.

They kiss you and then they kiss each other. Again and again and again.

#marvel #stucky #stucky x reader #pacific rim au #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #fanfiction #reader insert #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader

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iwannaseeyainakia · 3 years

Text

The Moonlight Circus

This was a story I was commissioned to write by an anonymous tumblr user. Thought it would be good to show my writing and see how it changes over time!

trigger warning: gore, smoking, religious and supernatural themes, death, minor profanity

The heel of Morgan’s boots clicked against the checkered flooring of the circus. She made her way to the center of the stage, her stride casual. She readjusted her gray beanie as she climbed up the steps. The plastic name tag below her collarbone wobbled with each step. The words “Moonlight Circus” in Courier New font rested above her first name. The floor of the stage was filthy; ash and soot smeared into the once pristine black and white pattern. Her pale green eyes followed a line of ash leading to a rusted cast-iron cannon. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air.

She exhaled softly, reached into the pocket of her ‘Metallica’ pullover, and pulled out a lavender lighter and a worn pack of Newport cigarettes. She yanked one out of the box and shoved it in her hoodie again. Her black bitten nails struggled to start a flame before she victoriously held it to her cigarette, finally lighting it. A pewter gray smog released from the very tip, emitting a bitter comforting scent. She lifted her hand to her face, the cig clenched between her middle and pointer finger. As the paper touched her pale lips, the once vermillion embers shifted to a startling violet and the musty gray smoke suddenly turned a mauve tone. Morgan took a long drag of the strange purple cigarette while taking in her surroundings.

The massive tent surrounding her was a striped pattern of burgundy and eggshell white. The fabric was contrastingly cleaner than the stage of the ‘Moonlight Circus.’ The seating for guests was discolored bleachers; the aluminum being stained and scratched away by years of usage and lack of cleanliness. Many hot dogs drenched in mustard and bags of popcorn must have been dropped on it. There were multiple stacked on either side of the tent. The elevated stage had an outer ring surrounded by dark crimson foam. A round indoor pool was 15 feet away from her, the bottom of the pool a dirty yellow tint. Scales and confetti floated at the surface of the tainted water.

Large LED stage lights were set up at the ceiling of the canvass. Each was about the size of a child and contained a lens of different hues. They dimly lit the stage white. The tent was held up by dozens of rods with a singular large black pole at the center. The fabric bunched together and pulled up; it looked almost as if the very top of the tent was a tunnel that led nowhere, the stripes creating a dizzying optical illusion.

The circus itself was located in a cheap amusement park; the locals treasured this place. It was affordable and held plenty of memories dear to their hearts. The Moonlight Circus was the main event, the park's pièce de résistance if you will.

They had crowds of people flood the show every day. Bright smiles beamed on the faces of children and content parents awaited a trip down memory lane, nostalgia a pleasant high. After all, who wouldn’t be entranced by real-life monsters?

Morgan released a puff of amethyst smoke, gently laying the cigarette between her lips again and keeping it there. She proceeded to stuff her hands in her pockets before an elegant voice called out to her, disrupting her daze.

“Are you ready for the next show Morgana?” The feminine voice was gentle and motherly. She spoke each word with a grace that held centuries of wisdom. Her thick French accent was gorgeous; her voice matched exactly how she appeared. Morgan casually turned around and sent the woman a closed smile. Guinevere was a being of beauty, a true spectacle to behold. She was a small woman, approximately 5’2, petite but with a stance that conveyed raw strength. Her billowing pitch-black gown strewn behind her as she sashayed her direction. Her arms gently swung at her hips, an opera-length cigarette holder between the dainty fingers of her left hand. The skin of said hand was a pale blue-gray. The center of the long pipe was a silver fading into an intense black; a cigarette burning blood red at the end of it. Morgan glanced at her long dark hair. It was bone straight and swung behind her waist. The fringe of her locks covered her right eye, but Morgan could still make out a piercing iris a startling shade of red.

“Hey, Gwen. Yeah, pretty much. Is everyone in the dressing room right now?” She inquired as the monster woman stood in front of her. Gwen gripped the edge of her large ebony sunhat, cigarette holder still between her fingers. The brim of the apparel was big enough to cover most of her hauntingly beautiful face. Lace hung half an inch off the seams and thin royal purple sticks of dynamite adorned the outer ring. While the entire hat was an eye-catcher; a nod to her part in the circus, the true emphasis of the hat was the large skull littered with cracks and yellow stains from tobacco.

“Yes, and they’re taking damn long if I do say so myself.” The skull quipped judgmentally. Morgan chuckled. Gwen was not so amused by her husband’s comment.

“Hush Pierre. No need to be snippy.” Guinevere jutted her hip out and placed her right hand on it to convey her sass. The skull instead, haughtily laughed at his wife. She rolled her eyes but could not contain the fond smile that grew on her lips, exposing her sharp fangs. Despite all the time that’s passed, she still couldn’t fight how easily Pierre made her grin ear to ear. “Don’t mind him, Morgana, we’d best be on our way to prepare.” Gwen gripped Morgan’s wrist and tugged her along in the direction of the dressing room.

Guinevere was the owner of the Moonlight Circus. A wonderful boss indeed, she felt more like a friend she’d known all her life than her superior. She also was a woman with a dream: to unite humans and monsters through entertainment. Humans used to fear the supernatural, loath it with their very being, but in this day and age, they take great pleasure in the abnormalities of the differing species. Harmony is built in this circus; humans come for entertainment and to admire the beautiful, violent specters, and the monster women give it to them. Gwen, a vampire, found joy in making others happy with her performance and her performers.

She often sat with Morgan under the night sky, gazing at the stars with a fond expression, spilling her life story to her.

As a young girl, Guinevere was dazzled by monster kind. Born human, she felt there was so much to be discovered in magic and mythology. She felt it a shame that humanity was so quick to turn a blind eye to something so beautiful due to its differences in appearance. Her inclination in performing arts made her dream of a world where she could use performance to change a deep-seeded ideal within the societal structure. She’d sit next to her window sill, eyes twinkling with delight, wishing upon stars that someday her dream would become reality.

For a woman such as herself, an objective of that nature was unheard of; impossible even. Nonetheless, she persevered. She wanted to tell the world that as a woman she would create art like no other and she would make a change for the supernatural of all origins. With a cigar between her lips, she rolled up the sleeves of her dress and got to work. She specifically sought out other women of mythological backgrounds for her acts. By 1890, she’d created the “Moonlight Circus” with the help of supernatural people she’d met along the way. In a small corner of Paris, France, it stayed. Given that monsters were still looked down upon by mankind, they’d been spit on, leered at, and dismissed by the public. As decades passed without much luck, her hope slowly began to dwindle.

Gwen spent many restless nights wandering the streets of Paris, desperately trying to spread word of the big top containing wonderous spectacles to no avail. Just as she was close to giving up an aspiration she’d clutched tight since childhood, an American traveling carnival approached her. The owner, a large man who was only ever seen adorning a velvet suit, believed there was promise in her bazaar. He saw something no one else but Guinevere considered possible: an opportunity for change. In a society where her family within the tent were nothing but social rejects, outcasts; they along with everyone like them could be so much more. The man, kinder than Gwen could have ever hoped, opened up about his beliefs and desire to have her circus as an attraction in his fair. And she accepted with insurmountable glee.

So, a new chapter for the big top began. With this foreign carnival, she traveled and built up her crew from nothing but sheer will. She continued her exploration and found many monstrous beings with the same ideology to join as performers. Word soon got out of the fantastical bazaar that made its way around the world. As opinions of the inhuman began to evolve with new generations, so too did their desire to know more. And eventually, they had a crowd; an adoring audience astounded by the display of otherworldly figures. Now, the carnival has made its permanent home in New Mexico, USA, and the circus by extension.

“Think it’ll be packed tonight, Gwen?” Morgan already knew the answer, but figured it would be polite to make small talk.

“Yes, absolutely my dear.” Guinevere continued to drag her to a slit in the circus tent. She placed her cigarette holder between her lips and used her palm to gently spread the opening, revealing a backstage area. It was renovated to be a dressing room; gothic aesthetic to match the theme, for all the performers pre-show. It was a much smaller canopy structure installed into the side of the main show tent. Despite the ground being grassy terrain, the room itself was well done. Dark oak vanities covered the walls, steampunk and alternative costumes littered any free space, and makeup laid atop every flat surface. The spherical bulbs lining the mirror of the vanities were all lit a dim white light, illuminating the room enough so it was not pitch black.

Light chatter and giggles filled the room as everyone who performed in the circus continued to get ready.

The first person to notice Morgan’s sudden appearance was Gwen’s daughter, Victoria. Her eyes instantly brightened and a large Cheshire grin grew to meet her eyes. Vicky’s poofy raven black dress bounced as she sprinted towards her. The ivory petticoat underneath made the lace skirt fuller and frilly. The undead theme seemed to run in the family; Vicky being the zombie to her mother's bloodsucker and her father's skeletal remains. Her skin and teeth were rotten and oozing. Her hair was almost floor-length, and unbelievably matted. The knots at the base of her skull were so large you could have mistaken them for golf balls wrapped inside her tresses. A pair of filthy copper goggles rested on her forehead, the lenses murky and caked in blood. Between her toothy smile was a large cigar. There was no way to pinpoint the brand, as it was only labeled with a strange rune Morgan had never seen before. Apparently, she had been taking a drag from the cigar, because smoke began to leak out of the holes in her skin.

Vicky launched her small form into Morgan’s arms. Morgan struggled to grip her as the foul stench her rotten flesh emanated was near unbearable. Swallowing down an audible gag, she smiled at the little girl before placing her gently back onto the grass.

“Morgan! You’re going to love my act tonight.” Victoria loudly claimed, holding her fists to her chest with a grin still plastered upon her lips. Morgan couldn’t help but return the expression. Vicky was a sweet girl. A demented undead one, but sweet nonetheless. “I’m sure I will, Vicky. You’ll kill it tonight.” She seemed to have chosen the right words, because Vicky’s grin only got wider as she bounced up and down, skirt floating with her movement. She made gestures referencing explosions and tried to explain how her act tonight would go, but her words were so jumbled they were not understandable in the slightest. Her enthusiasm continued to increase alongside her violent movements before her mother placed a hand on her small shoulder.

“Now, now Victoria, you’re talking so fast no one can understand you, dear. She’ll get to see your performance soon anyway, so let's keep it a surprise.” Gwen chided her daughter sweetly. “Ok, mommy.” Vicky heeded her mother's words and scurried to the side to search for her favorite lighter, cigar bouncing between her decayed teeth. Cigar smoke trailed behind her figure. Gwen shook her head at her daughter’s antics, gripping the cig holder between her lips to take in a puff of nicotine.

Victoria was the product of forbidden love between Guinevere and Pierre, a formerly vampiric man she’d encountered while searching for spectacles to join her circus. The traveling carnival had traversed Europe and decided to take camp for a while in the French countryside. Gwen had been overjoyed to be in her mother country again. She languished in the smell of the air and the sounds of nature like music to her ears. On a particularly stormy night, a vampire man with hair as light as wheat and skin as pale as snow knocked at the door of her bedroom within a quaint little inn. She opened the door to see him drenched in rain. The revenant, Pierre, gave her a goofy smile and asked for a part in her monstrous sideshow.

While puzzled, she wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity. Pierre and Guinevere grew close the more they worked at the fair together. They both had a passion for performing and magic. Romance blossomed; eventually, they eloped and she became pregnant. It was uncommon for vampires to conceive children, let alone with one of mankind. Guinevere was a woman of adventure and risk, so she took this new development in stride. In the excitement of her family growing larger, she decided to have Pierre turn her. Neither realized the possible problems that would arise from changing her into a vampire while bearing a child.

And so, when Victoria was born, she was sickly and frail in every sense. Her genetics were corrupted by the change her mother took on while carrying her. Her personality, though, could be described as nothing but robust. Vicky as a toddler would often act as if she were not terminally ill; watching the acts in her mother’s circus with enraptured eyes, even participating in the choreography herself from time to time.

Guinevere often spoke of a time in which Vicky had climbed into the cannon without anyone noticing and failed in trying to light it with one of her old cigars. She had rushed over in a panic, tearing her from the barrel before the flame grew closer. She checked over her body and, once assured she was not injured, inquired what she had been thinking. Victoria, the overzealous little girl she was, could only laugh with a large smile plastered on her face. “I wanted to fly mommy!”

As she grew older, her body deteriorated. By age five she could barely walk. By six she couldn’t at all. At seven, she no longer had the energy to speak. At the young age of eight, she could only watch the performing women with a blank smile before she passed. For days they grieved over her. They left her cadaver laying on her satin bed sheets as she was before her death, in anguished hopes they could find a way to bring her back to them. After tirelessly searching for any form of necromancy that could revive her, Guinevere entered Victoria’s bedroom to adjust her as she did every day. Only to be startled by her daughter sitting upright and speaking to her.

“Mommy, can I go play at the circus now?” Victoria bounced off the bed with newfound strength in her rotten limbs. Gwen could only rush to hug her baby who was with her once more. Undead, but with her despite everything. From that day on she allowed Victoria to become a full-time member of the bazaar. The human (zombie) cannonball. With a body that could be put back together, no working pain receptors, and a passion for explosives and theatrics, she fits the part flawlessly.

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

The smaller tent was filled with a variety of supernatural women, the circus only having female staff. While most continued with their activities, some turned her direction and welcomed her. The parts in the circus were relatively small compared to most other acts, but the integration of monsters and mankind made up for it.

Every single person handpicked by Guinevere herself, the cosmetologists, background musicians, and stage crew were all fairies. They each had varying sizes and shades of iridescent butterfly wings, and tight thigh-length dresses made from leaves and spider silk. While not as small as fae are typically depicted in human literature, they reached only about 3 feet and hovered above ground with a light flap of their appendages; they had the grace of hummingbirds. Faes are known for their artistic and musical capabilities. There were twenty-three pixies on set, all of them being gentle girls with a heart of gold. Their love of all life made them a wonderful asset to this circus promoting coexistence. Currently, they fluttered around tidying the room and freshening up the faces of the main performers.

The ‘clowns’ of the act were all young shapeshifters. All fifteen of the women were from different cultures, shapeshifters being in a large majority of mythology; making them unique despite the similarities in capacities. Their abilities were used to shift them from playful clowns to dangerous animals to be used in other’s acts. While their personalities were all very different, each of them loved performing at the Moonlight Circus. Some spoke amongst themselves, shimmying into tight leotards and fixing their updos. A few of them, though, struggled to keep Victoria from swallowing handfuls of gunpowder. Especially with a lit cigar in her mouth.

“VICKY NO-” A wet splat hit the wall and a giggling head rolled at their feet. The shifters looked in disgust at their blood-stained clothes and scolded the decapitated head of the little girl. The others just laughed at the normally terrifying sight.

Morgana turned her eyes away, cringing internally, but knowing full well she’d be back on her feet in a few minutes.

The main acts were very typical of a circus; the women enacting them were anything but. The designated tight rope walker was an Arachne woman named Magnolia. Her form was that of a tall human, her body could only be described as pear-shaped. Despite her form being humanoid, she had skin that was a smooth charcoal black and a spider abdomen attached to her lower back. The abdomen was a sunshine yellow covered in symmetrical white spots on either side. The pedicel connecting it to her body was the same tone as her skin. She also had eight spindly appendages protruding from the middle of her spine, each striped black and yellow. Magnolia had shoulder-length wavy hair a banana color with frayed strands of spider webs tangled within. Despite the frightening six extra eyes lining her temples, she was a kind eccentric woman. As the aerialist, the tightrope she walked during each performance was a magnificent braided rope made of her webbing. Magnolia was sitting on a cushioned stool, twisting her thread into a complicated bracelet, only glancing up to grace Morgan with a polite smile and greeting.

Delane and Clio, however, wasted no time in rushing to make conversation with her.

“Yo, Morgan! We’ve been looking for ya. Can you help me into this wetsuit?” Clio loudly proclaimed, simultaneously carrying her lover, Delane, in her arms bridal style. The duo is the aquatic performers of the show. Clio is a water nymph with connections to the Greek god Poseidon. She willingly took on a human female’s appearance, but that could not hide the divine aura that radiated off her very being. She had a lean build but still held all the strength a creature with holy connections such as herself should have. Her head was bare of hair and her ears pointed in an elf-like fashion. She stumbled around in a limp bedazzled wetsuit pulled up her hips halfway, the skin of her upper half an olive tan.

“Seriously dude, I’m struggling here.”

Delane was a mermaid, a perfect match to Clio’s Nereid. Her Prussian blue scaled tail hung limply over her girlfriend’s arm. The trawl half of her body closely resembled a koi fish. The caudal fin was long and thin, like fine silk flowing with the movements of Clio’s jerks. A dorsal fin ran down the back of it, getting smaller as it reached the end of her tail. She also had multiple pelvic fins running down the sides; the fins at the top were much larger than the ones at the end. They were all light cyan. The scales from her tail ran up her stomach, becoming much more scattered as they reached the dark skin of her breasts. Her hair was a short black pixie cut with a shaggy top, ending at the gills just below her chin.

“Yeah, uh, maybe hurry before she drops me, please.” Delane nervously spoke. She wore a necklace composed of seashells and stones from the shore of her home, matching Clio’s own as a symbol of devotion between them. Together, they enacted a beautiful water-based act that captivated every audience we had.

Morgan laughed at Clio’s predicament before moving to help her into the suit. Just as she got a grip on the neoprene material a strong voice halted them.

“You could’ve just asked me, Clio. Here I got you.” Large calloused hands assisted her in her efforts. Morgan turned her head to Anastalia. Anastalia was the strong woman act of the circus. Like many of those hired here, a part of her resembled that of mankind, but she was very obviously not human. Her upper half was the build of a shredded woman: pulsing muscles, large bulging breasts, defined abs, intimidating biceps. She looked as if she was carved by the gods themselves. Her bottom half, while just as muscular, was that of a black stallion. Her four large hooves clapped against the ground in a deafening display and her dark tail broke the sound barrier like a whip. The hair atop her head was a dark brown with a sheen that made it glint in the light. Her long straight locks cascaded down the flesh of her shoulders a similar shade, reaching the small of her back.

Anastalia peers up from the suit to bicker teasingly with Clio. She galloped gracefully in circles around them, admiring her handy work. “Eh, to be honest, I think it needs to be a bit bluer at the hips.” She quipped thoughtfully. Clio and Delane exchanged a glance and giggled in unison. Clio responded, “You’re one for detail, but let me tell ya, you don’t look it.” She lets out a boisterous laugh, keeling over slightly, causing Delane to screech in fear of being dropped and grip her shoulders tighter. Anastalia only rolled her eyes.

“Har har, laugh it up, I’m not just a brute. I’m also an artist.” She struck a pose that had Clio cackling harder and Delane protesting louder. Morgan shared a laugh with them, her sides aching. Loud footsteps behind her turned her attention away for a moment. “C’mon Lanira, hurry!” Vicky, seemingly back to normal after spontaneously combusting, ran and jumped in a very abstract dance with her friend. Lanira, an incorporeal little girl resembling that of a cartoon witch floated around her at a much slower pace. “I’m going as fast as I can Vicky.” Lanira’s tone was much less enthusiastic. She had a slight cockney accent.

Her dark flowing gown had no shape to it, more like a sack made of cotton. Her sleeves puffed out and tightened below her palms that gripped onto a translucent 19th-century broomstick underneath her. She twirled around with Victoria, who was still jumping around and flailing in her interpretative art form. Her wide-brimmed hat had a large peak at the top that dipped down at the very point. It was navy blue and held a wide variety of jewelry and trinkets that dangled down. Bits of cloth hung off the edge with pearls woven into it.

Lanira had become a ghost after a ‘mishap’ with one of her spells backfiring. As the magician of the big top, she experimented with plenty of dangerous enchantments. One moment she was but a mangled corpse of a girl with crippling insomnia, and the next she was a spirit with large eyebags, continuing with her act as if death had not just occurred before everyone’s eyes. As the specter of a young talented sorceress, she must have expected this possible outcome and kept a few “tricks” up her sleeve. She kept with her act even after her untimely demise, even increasing the intensity now that death was no longer a possibility.

Morgan took a long drag of her cigarette and continued to gaze in amusement. Lanira half-heartedly attempted to keep up with Victoria, the zombie child still lost in her own little world.

“Alright, everyone! It’s time to get this show on the road once more, as they say.” Gwen chuckled at herself lightly. The room erupted in conversation and scrambling to get in costume in time. The pale woman approached her once more. “Will you please start allowing entry, dear?” She nodded at her, cig between her lips bobbing. “Of course.” She smiled and made her way out of the dressing room.

The flap quietly closed behind her form as she made her way to her ticket booth. She could still hear the loud conversations and shuffling from inside the room. Her steps echoed throughout the stage. The entrance to the inside of the show floor was a large rectangular cut-out with a flap hanging to the side that could be zipped up. The outside of the tent was the same striped colors as the inside, illuminated by the setting sun. The tent performed almost all day, but their largest and most spectacular show was always right after the sunset. It was also the most packed of all their performances.

The ticket booth was a wooden structure painted red and white. A gigantic sign in the shape of a ticket was placed on the roof displaying the name of the circus. It sat in front of a zig-zagging gate that led to the entrance. She opened the door and stepped inside, admiring the long line that had already formed. The crowd was a diverse amount of people. Some were singular people showing up alone for the show. Some were human couples on a date or parents with their ecstatic children bouncing with joy. There were even some couples that were interspecies; a human and a not-so-human person lovingly interlocked their hands.

She opened the window of the booth and started accepting tickets from each person. One by one they approached the stall, handing in their crisp voucher, and making their way through the gates to pick up snack food and be seated. The sound of kids giggling and adults speaking with a grin in their voice was heartwarming. Memories were being made here time and time again; the atmosphere never changed. She never got tired of seeing happy faces coming to experience the wonders of the Moonlight Circus. A small crescent moon adorned each ticket that she received and stashed away in a box beside her.

It took a good long while before each person who had previously bought a ticket was granted entry. She let out a sigh and sucked in some more smoke. She released a lilac cloud into the evening air. The sky was a dusty orange making way for the black of night. She continued to smoke while idly wondering if a storm was brewing. It seemed as if their best shows were when it was pouring rain and thunder broke through the cheers. The sound of Guinevere’s muffled voice over a speaker broke through the silence she’d been basking in.

“Ladies and gentlemen! I thank you for coming to see our fantastical performers tonight! We hope to amaze you just as every crowd before.” Her words were a cue for Morgana. She laid the cigarette between her lips once more and strode her way into the tent. The tips of her fingers graced over the edge of the tent fabric for a split second. The control panels for the lighting were tucked into another miniature tent attached to the side of the main structure. She could see the sprites flying above and moving the large spotlight from the cameras beside the panels to follow Gwen’s moving figure. The stark white luminescence made her look more ethereal than before. She continued on, cigarette holder still wedged between her thin lips.

“We have an awe-inspiring act for you all!”

“This beautiful lady here did most of the work.”

Her husband quickly added to her dialogue. “Hush my love.” The crowd quietly chuckled.

“It’s true.”

“Pierre!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

The audience roared with more laughter.

Under the dim lighting of the rest of the stage, she could make out the two fluffy skirts of the little girls waiting for their first part in the choreography. One was fidgeting and prancing around in the dark, not only disguised by the lack of light but the cloud from her cigar. The other floated just above the ground, flying around the other body in circles. Morgan placed her fingertips on the switches and pushed them up very slightly. The area brightened enough for the stage to be somewhat visible but kept the two hidden from their awaiting audience.

“Each of our performers is a woman with grace, power, and most of all, a love for their part here.”

Recovering from her husband's unethical interruption, she made her way up to the round platform on the stage. The spotlight followed in sync. She turned suddenly to face the stands, her skirt twirling above her feet.

“We give you our best and only our best!” Gwen spoke into the microphone with glee, her visible scarlet eye piercing the crowd. “The Moonlight Circus has been our pride and joy for many decades. Tonight, we strive to show you exactly why!” She gave them a beautiful motherly smile.

“Now please.”

“Stay seated and enjoy the show!” She and the skull of her husband atop her head spoke in unison. She extended one arm behind her, bent the other in front of her middle and bowed.

“Hey, hey! Careful please!” Pierre screamed as he slipped down slightly. The audience responded with laughter as before. The spotlight shut off and the stage was dim once again, other than the shine of Guinevere’s red cigarette. The crowd went silent. Her footsteps echoed on a different part of the stage. She could very faintly make out dainty shoes running up the steps and hopping into the cannon. One of the two figures was missing from their spot to the side.

Morgan’s fingers danced on the panel, letting excitement coarse through her. She couldn’t fight the adrenaline rush before each performance commenced. She hadn’t been working there for more than two years, but this circus had become her family. Her home. Each person here has proven to her that the impossible is only so if you believe it is. And each show was a testament to how far they’d come. This circus act alone has been a large part of the progression that’s been made between the supernatural world and human society. They’re more than just a tent of sideshow freaks; they’re artists embracing their bodies and talents to better their lives, and many others.

She grips the lever with resolve. She knows that to an outsider they may be passing entertainment. But that was progress by itself. This place is a part of her now. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Morgana pushed the handle forward. It clicked in place. The stage lights flicked on in a magnificent spectrum of colors. Gwen’s right hand is extended to the wick of the cannon, holder lighting the end. Her daughter’s tangled mane of hair is just barely visible from the lip. A deafening boom shatters the atmosphere and the show begins.

#original fiction #commisionwork #oc commission #oc #commission #short story #short stories #writing #fiction #gothic #circus #supernatural #monsters #gore

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wordsfromthesol · 4 years

Text

Pretend to be Friends

Author: @wordsfromthesol Taglist: @anousiemay @malfoys-demigod @pricetagofficial @zphilophobiaz Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader Summary: Red Hood took an interest in a the new vigilante in town…you. Warnings: Injuries, language Word Count: 2.0k A/N: Still in Mobile and haven’t had much time to write, so this is one I finished before work went crazy.

"So, you must be new." You heard the voice echo behind you. Letting out an exasperated sigh, you turned around to face the vigilante. It was only a matter of time before one of the big ones discovered who you were.

"Not really. No." The response was short and bitter.

"Ouch, alright. Well, I'm Red Hood."

"I know." The words left a bite in the air as you leapt off the building.

The next three nights your vision was plagued by that irksome red helmet. How he figured out where you were still puzzled you, but if he was going to stick around you might as well talk to him. "ALRIGHT!" You screamed across the alley way towards the building you saw him lurking on. "I give in!" Though his face was covered, you knew he was smirking underneath the mask as he sauntered towards you.

"So, Eclipse, is it?" Red Hood named you as he approached.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised." You scoffed at the vigilante name you had chosen. "So, why have I had a tail these past few nights?" Though you rarely used the confrontational approach in real life, once you put on the mask you gained a newfound confidence. And tonight, you were putting that to use.

"Oh…I just…well you didn't seem to have anyone. And this job is dangerous." Though that was partially true, there was also something about you that intrigued Jason…though he couldn't put his finger on what exactly it was.

"Well I don't see any Red Hood minions around either."

"Yeah, but I have friends." He pointed to his helmet, "if I need them." You didn't bother with a response, instead choosing to look out over the city below. You knew there were other vigilantes, but it hadn't registered that they may actually know each other. "Just let me give you my number. In case --"

Before Red Hood could finish the sentence, you interjected. "I think I can handle it. Thanks." And with that, you were gone again.

The next few nights you didn't see the familiar red helmet looming in the distance…maybe you actually did scare him off. Though just as the thought crossed your mind, the vigilante collapsed on the roof's edge next to you.

"Quiet night, huh?"

"Yeah. All I had was a purse snatcher."

"Dang. Was really hoping to get some punches in." Red Hood almost seemed disheartened that crime was low for the night. You almost didn't ask, but the non-vigilante side won out this time.

"And why the need to punch someone?"

Even through the helmet, you heard the hero let out a big sigh. "Just family issues. My older brother is driving me crazy. And then the old man comes in…let's just say I didn't stick around to be further berated."

"Oh we've got family issues, do we?" You questioned, raising an eyebrow at how much Hood seemed to be opening up to you.

"Ha! My family is one big issue."

"Do they…uh…" The question didn't need finishing.

"Unfortunately. Yours?"

"Oh…uh." You were unprepared for the rebound question. No one ever seems to actually take an interest in your life. "No. They don't. I don't have many though and none of them live close."

"I don't blame them. Gotham is one big clusterfuck after another."

"Yeah." The two of you sat in silence for almost an hour before finally parting ways.

After that night it wasn't unusual for Red Hood to join you on patrols or stake outs. Finally, after a few months and a close call, you took him up on his offer.

"Alright Hood, you win." You commented as you approached his perch on the roof ledge.

"Well I always like to win…but what exactly did I win?"

"I'll take your number. For emergencies."

"What happened?" You could hear the apprehension in his voice.

"Nothing!" You spat out the word, not realizing the question had barely left his lips. He stood there, staring at you in silence. You were determined not to break, but then he took his helmet off. The domino mask underneath wasn't enough to cover up his concerned expression. "It was nothing, I promise. Just a close call. I didn't even realize how close until after the fight was over. And I saw a bullet hole in the brick, inches from my chest. So I just thought…well you're right. This is a dangerous job and I should have someone to call if I need backup." Content with your explanation, Red Hood stretched out his hand, gesturing for your phone.

Red Hood started showing up on almost every patrol. Though he seemed content to let you do the fighting, he was always there waiting on the rooftop afterwards. You began to think it almost pointless to have his emergency number, when was always a block away, waiting for you to join him. That was until you had to use it. It had almost been a year since you met Red Hood when the fateful night came.

You had been chasing down a new drug ring starting up in town. Following the dealer into the alleyway, you were met with two burly men armed with 9mm pistols.

"Is this your definition of an ambush?" You scoffed at the turnout as you barreled towards the two. Though just as the two landed against the asphalt, you heard a crack as a force pulled your leg from under you. Turning around, you saw another man holding a baseball bat. You took a sharp inhale and ran at the new assailant. As he fell to the floor, you heard more voices and footsteps. Angry voices. Putting as much force as possible on the uninjured leg, you hopped over to the nearby fire escape ladder. Jumping up, you slowly crawled up to the landing and pushed yourself against the wall. You pulled out your phone and texted "911" to Red Hood as you hoped the reinforcements didn't find your hiding place.

Almost as soon as the new goons saw their co-conspirators laying on the asphalt, they left. You only had to wait a few more minutes before you heard the familiar sound of Red Hood's motorcycle. A sigh of relief flooded your body as you hopped back over to the fire escape ladder.

"Eclipse?!" You heard Red Hood's exasperated cry through the alleyway.

"I'm here!" Before you could continue or explain, Red Hood interjected.

"What the fuck! You send a 911 text and then don't answer your damn phone! I thought you were dead or bleeding out or some shit!" Red Hood couldn’t seem to stop the spew of words leaving his mouth. Your feet…or rather foot, finally hit the ground. You winced from the pain shooting up your leg as you leaned against the cold metal. Hood immediately noticed your expression change. "What's wrong?" He realized this should have probably been his first question, after all this is the first time you had ever asked for his help.

"My leg." You nodded towards one of the assailants on the ground. "That asshole blindsided me with a bat." You watched the anger surge through him as he came to your side, you were almost glad the culprit was unconscious. Who knows what Hood would have done to him.

After one look at the damage done, Red Hood made another call. Apparently he did have other vigilante friends. "Red Robin, I'm going to need the car. And get the doc ready."

"Really, it's fine. I'm sure I can take care of it." You tried to weasel your way out of, well not only meeting more vigilantes, but also owing Red Hood a favor.

"Yeah…right." He glared at you, as you clutched the fire escape. "Totally in hand." Before you could protest, he was picking you up and carrying you to the edge of the alleyway. A car abruptly came to a stop in front of you and another hero stepped out.

"So you're the one Hood's always sneaking off to hang out with." A devilish smirk lined the dark haired boy's face.

"Can it replacement. Motorcycle's over there." Red Hood pointed a block south. As Red Robin began his walk, Hood screamed after him, "AND IF I SEE ONE SCRATCH ON IT!"

You pulled up to an unfamiliar place, but Red Hood already proved his connections in Gotham…so you supposed you had to trust him. Not that you had much of a choice at this point. There was no hope you were moving on this leg anytime soon.

"So, whose this doctor then?"

"Someone we trust. When the patch ups are too much for us to handle ourselves." He said it as if what happened was normal, no big deal. You couldn't get anymore questions out before you were met with a pretty blonde doctor and a wheelchair.

"Do I want to know?" She questioned as she wheeled you into the building and straight to the x-ray room.

"Just an asshole with a baseball bat and some luck." You tried not to look down at the damage it had caused. It seemed like hours went by as your injured leg was manipulated in ways it definitely shouldn't have been. Finally, you were wheeled back to a room. Much to your surprise, Red Hood was waiting patiently for you.

"Well?" He blurted out the question before you and the doctor could even get in the room.

She let out a deep sigh, "Well it's not great. A section of her fibula is shattered and she has a compound fracture in her tibia."

"So surgery?" Your voice went solemn.

"Unfortunately. Fairly routine though. Plates and a rod will reconnect your fibula, and we'll put some pins to realign the tibia."

"Great. So does that happen here…or…?" You still weren't sure how you were going to get through all of this without anyone noticing or revealing who you were.

"Here and now. We…" the doctor turned her head and glared at Red Hood, still lingering in the room, "will leave you to put on a gown. You can keep your mask on."

You assumed hours had passed, but it only seemed a few seconds to you. As your eyes fluttered open, you first noticed the new bandaging around your leg and then your eyes drifted to the man sitting in the corner of the room. "Why are you looking at me like that." You weren't even sure how your mind formed a complete sentence.

"Doll, I'm not looking at you like anything. Stop being paranoid."

"You don't have to pretend to be my friend or anything." The words were falling out of your mouth before you could stop them. Why would you even say that?

"Well, I'm not pretending. You know me better than anyone." At this point Jason was pretty sure that the combination of pain medicine and the anesthetic was causing the bizarre line of questioning. You had to have known that you were friends, right?

"Please, I don’t even know who you really are."

"And that is why you know me best. No preconceived notions."

"Oh so you're important then?" You chuckled before adding, "or just a dick."

"That's my brother." Red Hood laughed at the pun you didn't understand, before looking over and seeing the confused sad look gracing your features. "Look, I don't even know if you'll remember this…" He slowly pulled off the domino mask hiding his face. "But my name is Jason, Jason Todd."

A faint smile graced your lips as you followed his lead, "Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N." The two of you broke out in laughter at the drama of it all before hastily putting the masks back on as you heard footsteps headed your way.

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bitterepiphany · 3 years

Note

may i request a lil something about armin & mikasa coping/bonding after eren left them :’)

omg omg i had such a great time writing this!!! i ADORE these two and i love love love their friendship :))) hope you like it!!! p.s. ily marry me after <3<3<3

Archive Of Our Own

you’re here, and that’s enough

Warnings: A mention of self-harm. Nothing is described, but it is implied.

Summary: eren has disappeared, leaving armin and mikasa to struggle alone. mikasa can't cope. armin is there to be her shoulder to cry on

The day Eren walked out of the International Forum, they had initially assumed he just wanted to get some fresh air. Only Mikasa’s gaze had lingered on his retreating back for longer than the other’s, prompting a gentle tug on her arm from Armin, who just shook his head softly.

“He’s okay,” he whispered, “He probably just wants some fresh air… we did have a big night last night.” Armin rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, still feeling the aftermath of their ‘drunken shenanigans’ - as Hange had put it - in his pounding head and sore throat from the bile that his stomach had upended promptly after he woke up. Though he definitely didn’t have the worst of it; Sasha, Connie and Jean looked barely conscious as they slumped in their seats, cradling their heads in their arms and leaning discreetly on each other’s shoulders.

His words did little to ease the worry in Mikasa’s eyes, but she straightened in her seat, meeting Armin’s eyes briefly and gave a small nod.

****

It became apparent that Eren did not simply just want some fresh air. When he failed to return to the Forum, the group made haste to leave as soon as it finished, with the hope that he would just be waiting for them outside. What followed was a frantic rush around the city searching - searching shops, the markets, bars, back alleys, anywhere a broody 19-year-old Eldian would be hiding to get away from his responsibilities. They didn’t stop searching until a resigned-looking Levi had to physically force the panicking Hange to listen to Onyankopon; the sun was beginning to set, and it would raise suspicion if the boat they planned to commandeer back to Paradis lingered in the harbour for too much longer.

Armin was baffled. To say that Eren had literally vanished into thin air was not an exaggeration. The group had lulled into a shocked stupor; they had no idea what to do. Armin could see that Levi, despite his carefully schooled calm expression, was fuming - it couldn’t help that Hange, who, as commander, would face all sorts of awful questioning back home, looked utterly devastated; they had put enough trust in Eren to bring him along and not to do anything rash, and it just blew up in their face.

The person Armin was more concerned about, however, was Mikasa. She had transitioned into that unnaturally calm demeanor he had only seen when she thought Eren was dead all those years ago in Trost, and subsequently whenever he had gotten himself kidnapped by Reiner and Bertholdt, and Rod Reiss, respectively. She had searched for him with a frightening intensity, barely uttering a single word the entire time, that look ever present on her face.

Now Mikasa stood on the docks, facing back towards the city, eyes roaming over the buildings, as if Eren would simply appear in a doorway and stride out to join them. Armin carefully walked over to her side. She didn’t acknowledge him initially, continuing her silent search of the city landscape, but Armin knew that she could tell he was there.

Armin felt a wave of guilt rise up in his chest as he looked at her. What if he hadn’t stopped her from following him out of the assembly hall? There’d be no way Eren could have escaped Mikasa if she had been there with him. He should have known, should have seen that something was amiss with Eren, should have seen the signs somehow. But there was nothing he could do now.

He reached out and touched her arm. “Mikasa?”

She closed her eyes for a moment. Mikasa turned to him. For a moment, Armin saw behind the blank look in her eyes. He saw the raw pain in them, the terror at being left behind, once again. Suddenly, he was back atop Wall Rose, steam burns stinging painfully on his cheeks, struggling to find the words to say to comfort a younger, scared Mikasa as she came to terms with the fact there was nothing she could do to get Eren back this time.

Armin said nothing for a few moments, and just looked at her. She seemed to crack even more under his gaze, her face twisting, lines of worry and misery forming, her eyes betraying her internal conflict.

“Armin…” Her voice was barely a whisper, hardly rising above the gentle sounds of waves beneath the dock they stood upon. “What am I supposed to do? Wh-why did he leave? What did I-”

“Mikasa,” he interrupted, knowing where her thoughts were taking her. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I promise. We’ve done all we can, and -” he reached out again and took her hand “- now I guess... all we can do is hope that Eren knows what he’s doing.”

Mikasa stared at their hands, mouth opening to protest, but he squeezed her fingers firmly; she looked at him again, before her shoulders sagged. “I guess so,” she breathed. Finally, she looked away from the city skyline and turned to face the rest of the group. Just in time, as Onyankopon appeared on the deck on the boat, calling them over.

“We’ve only got thirty minutes to get out of here before they start asking questions!” he yelled, “I’m sorry, but we either leave Eren here, wherever he is, or we leave you all here!”

Hange looked over them all, their eyes lingering on Mikasa with concern. They glanced at Armin, who nodded slightly. “Ok guys, it’s time to go...” they announced heavily, “There’s nothing else we can do.”

“Quit your moping, brats.” Levi glared at them all in turn. His eyes softened slightly. “Let’s just go home.”

They traipsed up the gangplank, Jean, Connie and Sasha heading below deck immediately, finding themselves prone to seasickness due to the unfamiliar, jarring feeling of the boat rocking over waves. Armin’s hand was still linked with Mikasa’s, and she trailed behind him slowly, head hanging miserably. Armin found the movement of sea travel to be soothing, the rolling waves fascinating to look at. Mikasa and Levi didn’t seem to mind either, but Armin suspected it was due to their Ackerman genes that kept them from getting an upset stomach.

Armin led his subdued friend over to some crates overlooking the bow of the ship, as Onyankopon, Hange and Levi called out to each other as they prepared to set off. They took a seat, Armin’s eyes tracking a sea bird as it glided on the breeze over their heads.

Mikasa was quiet, but Armin could see the shaking of small tremors in her hunched shoulders. He ran his thumb softly over her knuckles, every callous and scar lining her palm pressed up against his own.

He didn’t let go of Mikasa’s hand the entire trip back.

****

Months passed, and the only indication they received that Eren wasn’t dead in some ditch was a singular letter, - detailing nothing much but the fact that they should entrust Zeke with everything - arriving at the island a few days after they returned. After Armin and Mikasa had confirmed that, yes that was indeed Eren’s handwriting, they had been swamped in meetings with a whole range of officials ranging from Queen Historia to the damned Reeves Company, all demanding how on earth they had fucked up so badly that they had allowed their most vital asset and bargaining chip of the Founding Titan to simply run away.

Being stationed in seperate divisions following the incident - Armin in HQ assisting Hange with strategy and official business; Mikasa in the field training new Scouts recruits - Armin scarcely had the chance to see his best friend. He was concerned for her, and if those few days after receiving that letter were any indication of her mental health, he could only imagine how she was doing at the moment.

As soon as she had read it, Mikasa had become concerningly withdrawn. She only appeared among the group if she had to for meetings, and as far as Armin was aware, she hid in her room any other time. He had tried to talk to her, but she never opened her locked door or was evasive and distant with him during short breaks in between meetings.

He lost his chance to really try and talk to her when they were separated, and now three months had passed, work just keeping him glued to a desk or at Hange’s side. But he resolved to ask for some leave to join Mikasa, who was assisting Levi near Shiganshina in the wildernesses of Wall Maria.

He approached Hange’s office, running over his excuses on how he was going to convince them to let him go. He resolved to just tell them the truth, since Hange would likely see through any feeble lie he made up. Armin reached their office, and knocked on the door.

“Come on in!”

Hange was perched atop their desk, examining a wad of paper. Upon seeing who it was, they grinned and hopped down.

“Armin! I was just about to go find you, did you look over those reports from the new recruits near Karanes?” Hange walked behind their desk, rummaging around for a second and pulling out a tin. They opened it up, and Armin spotted what looked like biscuits. Hange offered him one, and he took it.

He bit into it, letting the sugary taste fill his mouth. “Yeah, I saw those reports, I’ll bring you my notes on them after this.” He rubbed the back of his neck, scratching at his undercut. “But I wanted to ask you about something else.”

Hange nodded, mouth full. “Oh yeah, go on?”

“Honestly? I know it’s been a couple of months since we went to Marley, but I’m really worried about Mikasa,” he explained, “I could tell she wasn’t doing too well back then, and I just don’t know… she’s never been this long without being with him, and - “

Hange waved their hand at him, cutting him off. “Say no more Armin, I understand, I understand.” They bit into another biscuit thoughtfully. “Levi hasn’t said much about her in his updates apart from standard stuff, but I’m sure he hasn’t had much luck in getting her to open up either… Do you want to head out to them tomorrow?”

“Oh!” Armin was surprised at how willingly they agreed. “I mean if there’s anything else you need me to do before I go -”

“No, no, it’s fine Armin, seriously,” Hange insisted, “I mean I hate to lose such a diligent worker like you, but I know you’re probably the only one who can get Mikasa back to her old self… well, as much as she can without Eren…”

Armin smiled, nodding. “Thank you so much Hange, really.”

Hange just ushered him out of their office, stuffing another biscuit into his hand.

He began to walk down the hall. “Oh Armin, before you go!”

Armin turned back. Hange grinned mischievously, a glint in their eye. “How is she? You know -” she gestured to the ground, finger pointing downward.

“O-oh well -” Armin blushed, hand tugging at his hair. “Uh, she’s-”

Hange cackled, waving him off.

****

The trip to Wall Maria took him less than a day by horse, and he arrived at the Southern Survey Corps training grounds at sundown. Jean, who alternated his time between this camp and the eastern one near Karanes, rode out to meet him as he arrived, and he updated him on the state of things. Apparently, Captain Levi had the recruits renovating an abandoned barn, and was even harsher with his cleaning regimes than he was when they were part of his squad. Jean chuckled as he recounted Mikasa’s attempts to give the kids an easier time by sneaking in extra rags, changing water discreetly, and helping them carry around the splintered planks of wood, much to Levi’s annoyance.

They were rubbing down their horses Jean sighed. “You know, sometimes I miss those days when we were all together in Levi Squad.”

Armin paused, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Well, we still technically are part of his squad, but…”

“It’s not the same,” Jean nodded, “Not when we’re split up all over the place like this. Heh, remember when we were on the run and had to scamper around in the wilderness for a couple of days?”

Armin chuckled, recalling how Levi still somehow managed to get on their asses about keeping themselves clean while they slept huddled together under trees in the dirt.

“Yeah… somehow, those days seem more laid back than what we have to do now, in a way,” he said, making his way to the mess hall with Jean. “Oh, by the way, how’s Mikasa doing?”

Jean, who’s hand was reaching to open the door, paused. He looked over at Armin, sighing. “She’s the reason you came, right?” he asked.

Armin nodded.

“Well, she’s -“ he ran his fingers through his hair tiredly “- she’s not okay. She tries to hide it, but we can all tell that she’s barely coping. She won’t open up to us, or anyone, not even Levi.” He looked over at Armin again and punched him gently on the arm. “But you’re here now, you little silver tongued snake!”

Armin snorted, stepping inside the hall behind Jean. The recruits were still at dinner, and chatter ceased abruptly as they looked over at the new arrivals. Armin and Jean spotted Levi and Mikasa eating on the other side of the hall, and they raised their hands in greeting.

“Oi! Brats!” Levi’s voice rang across the room. “Where’s your respect? An important guest just arrived and you just ignore him?” He strode to Armin’s side and gestured to him. “This is Officer Armin Arlert, he’ll be here for a few weeks to help you twats out, okay?”

The sound of wood scraping on wood filled the room as the recruits hurried to their feet. They saluted. “Sir!”

Armin saluted back, still not used to being a higher rank than these kids who weren’t much younger than him. He turned to Levi. “It’s good to see you Captain.” The older man just nodded at him, glancing at his shoes.

“You didn’t track in dirt, did you?” Armin shook his head, smiling. Levi looked over at Jean, who was getting food. “Tsk... Jean! Get Arlert a plate too!”

Armin made his way to the table, where Mikasa sat. She looked up at him, eyes wide. They just looked at each other for a moment, Armin trying to see how she was before he said anything.

“Mika -”

She jumped up suddenly, and wrapped Armin in a tight hug. The tension left his body, and he hugged her back, smiling as she rested her cheek on top of his head. “Hey… I missed you,” he mumbled.

Her arms tightened around him. “I missed you too, Armin.”

****

The night had passed without event, Armin, Jean, and Mikasa chatting about what they had been up to the past few months, laughing together when Levi roused on the recruits for making a mess of the food hall. As they helped clean up, Armin scrubbing dishes, when Levi approached him and pulled him aside. He placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Look Armin, I couldn’t say anything to you right in front of her, but I know why you’re here and I’m glad you came.” Levi sighed and crossed his arms. “She’s not good, and she’s a shitty-ass liar too, so everyone can tell. I’ve tried, but she won’t tell me jack, so all I can really do is try and keep her busy out here.”

Armin nodded understandingly. “It’s okay Captain, I’m sure it's better for her to be doing things rather than just… being alone with her thoughts,” he mused, “But I’ll talk to her, see if I can make her feel any better.”

“I’m holding you to that, brat,” Levi groused. He jabbed a finger out at Armin’s chest. “I won’t let you leave till she’s back in somewhat working order, you hear me?”

“Yes sir!”

Levi snorted, gracing Armin with one of his rare half-smiles, before ushering him back into the hall to continue cleaning. Armin hummed. He supposed Levi cared about her in his own, special way - after all, they were each other’s only family left, and it couldn’t have felt good for Levi to see the only soldier who came close to his strength in such a state.

He returned to washing the dishes, and couldn’t help the warmth spreading through his chest as Levi smacked Jean across his head for disrupting a massive dust pile and causing all the recruits to sneeze. He caught Mikasa’s eye and that warmth only grew when she cracked a grin at him he couldn’t help but return.

I guess some things never change, huh?

****

Mikasa walked him to where he would be sleeping in the officer’s quarters after the recruit’s curfew. They paused in front of the door. Armin glanced back at her. That closed off look had returned to her features. “Come in,” he offered as he turned the handle.

“‘Kay”

The room was fairly spacious, with a decently-sized bed, a cupboard, and a desk in the corner. Armin flicked the lamp on and it filled the room with a soft amber glow. Shucking off his jacket and shoes as Mikasa did the same, he clambered onto the bed, looking up at her and patting the covers next to him. She seemed to hesitate slightly, before sighing minutely and settled next to him.

Realising he had no idea how to start this conversation with her without bringing up really sensitive topics, they sat in silence for a while. Then, Armin felt her slender fingers brush lightly through his hair, rubbing his bangs between her digits.

“Remember when I used to braid this for you when it was longer?”

Armin smiled, recalling the days before he cut his hair shorter, and Mikasa would sit him down and braid it back for him during times when he couldn’t get a trim and it would start to get in the way.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “You were always really good at that kind of stuff…”

She hummed. “Sometimes I miss your old hair..”

“Really?” He scoffed. “I don’t, it was ridiculous! I looked like a blonde coconut!”

She chuckled at that, tousling his hair roughly and eliciting a small squeak of protest from his mouth. “It suited you though, you were cute.”

Armin blushed slightly, peeking at her shyly. Mikasa was beautiful. Always had been. She possessed this fluid elegance that graced her movements, making it seem like everything she did came so naturally to her. Armin wasn’t afraid to admit that for a time after he first met Mikasa - back at the tender age of nine - he had become pretty infatuated with her. Maybe it was her exotic beauty, or the way she always was willing to patiently listen to him ramble on about the books he read, or maybe it was the fact that she was so willing to stand up and fight for a small, weakling boy like him, that she barely knew, but he became smitten almost instantly.

He had never pursued his feelings, knowing immediately after a few weeks of being friends with her how she felt about Eren. The crush had lingered for a few years though, fading into the background, and eventually snuffing out when they joined the Cadets. He still harboured his feelings of admiration towards her, and remained super happy whenever they spent time together. Rather than protest Mikasa’s motherly tendencies towards them like Eren did, Armin accepted it instead, embraced it even, understanding that she just wanted to protect the remaining family she had left in this world. She always seemed to be grateful for that.

Now Mikasa was as good as his sister, and he hated seeing the way that her smiles faded off her face too fast, hated the hollow look in her eyes as she retreated behind that mask of loneliness and helplessness.

“Mikasa,” he murmured. She looked at him. “You need to talk to me.”

She averted her eyes quickly, turning her face. There was a pause. “Talk about what?”

Armin frowned. Slowly, so not to startle her, he reached his hand out and caught her cheek, turning it back to face him. Their eyes met. “You know saying that won’t work on me right?” She just looked at him, eyes wide. He could feel her tremble under his fingers. “I’m here, Mikasa.”

And just like that, the dam broke. Her face crumpled, and broken sobs ripped out of her throat. She collapsed into him, head landing on his chest, and he gathered her into his arms and just held her. Armin adjusted so she was curled up in his lap, her head buried in the crook of his shoulder, hands balled so tightly in his shirt he wouldn’t be surprised if he found it ripped later. He settled his chin atop her head, fingers stroking the hair on the nape of her neck, slowly, soothingly.

Armin let her cry, allowed her to let out those body-shaking sobs, letting her release what must be months of awful, pent-up feelings. Slowly, her tears subsided, leaving her sniffly and trembling. Armin rubbed small, gentle circles on her back, and she shifted, raising her face off his chest and wiping at her eyes and nose.

Mikasa glanced sheepishly up at him, mouth parting to form words. Armin’s finger pressed against her lips, stifling them. “Don’t apologise,” he said quietly, “It’s okay.”

Her breath hitched awkwardly, and she swiped at her eyes again. “I-I just don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” Mikasa whispered thickly. “I feel like it’s all my fault, like I should have done something, said something, be-before he-” she broke off again, new tears leaking down her cheeks.

“Hey, hey…” Armin soothed, thumbing away the liquid on her face. “I told you before, you did - you’re doing - everything you could.” He lightly brushed her hair out of her eyes, leaned forward, and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Mikasa…” he mumbled against her skin, “You’re here, and that’s enough.”

Her shoulders trembled, and she buried her face against his body again, tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt. Armin held her like before, until her body relaxed against his, and her breathing evened out. She had fallen asleep.

Careful not to wake her, Armin lay down, keeping her wrapped in his arms, and reached behind him to flick off the lamp. Darkness swept across the room, and Armin settled against her, burying his face in her hair.

Mikasa had always smelt of home, of the scent of fresh-baked goods wafting down the back of a Shiganshina alley-way, stone streets wet with the rain from an afternoon shower, of a crackling fireplace in the winter, and of exotic market spices that would make his nose tingle in curious ways. He closed his eyes, breathing her in, breathing home in, allowing her to sweep him up in it, the steady rhythm of her breathing lulling him to sleep.

****

The weeks passed in a happy blur following that night. Mikasa emerged from her cocoon of misery and returned, for the most part, to her normal self. Armin spent almost all his time with her, just enjoying each other’s company, letting themselves forget some of the outside worries, focusing instead on the recruits, Levi, and the rotating members of their squad that came to train with them. Both Sasha and Connie had arrived, stayed for a few days, and been on their way respectively, and had both been ecstatic to hear that Mikasa was doing better. Sasha was so happy she had hoisted Armin over her shoulder and paraded him around, yelling about how he was a magician.

Ever since that first night, where the recruits had witnessed them hug openly, whispers and giggles followed them around whenever they were together - which was basically all the time. Their openly affectionate nature towards each other didn’t help dispel the rumors that Armin was Mikasa’s lover, either. He heard enough envious groans from both male and female recruits alike that sometimes he teased them by making a show of linking his and Mikasa’s arms together as they walked, or randomly giving her surprise hugs from behind. They just laughed it off together, even more amused with the fact that Levi would ‘tsk’ loudly in annoyance whenever he heard the teenagers gossiping.

But their little bubble of contentedness would pop occasionally, and the reality of their situation would sink in. It truly hit Armin hard how badly Mikasa had been struggling when she approached him one afternoon, and wordlessly handed him a small box. His eyes widened when he realised what it contained, the sight of the small metal blades breaking his heart. He felt tears prick his eyes, and he pulled her into a long, bone-crushing hug, only letting her go when Levi had approached them, worried that something had happened.

Mikasa came to his room on some nights, quietly slipping through the door with her cat-like grace, padding across the floor and curling up under the covers with him. Armin asked no questions, and they rarely talked on these occasions; he would just wrap his arms around her and they’d breathe each other in, presence alone being enough to soothe them to sleep.

Duty called though, and the day he had to return to HQ came quicker than either of them would have liked. But as they said their goodbye’s Armin held her close and promised he would visit more often, even looking over at Levi and saying he’d try and bring Hange along, much to the older man's delight - if his exasperated snort was anything to go by.

“I’ll come up too,” Mikasa said, linking her fingers with his as he mounted his horse. “It’ll be good to take these kids out, and I’m sure even old grandpa over there is getting sick of this place.”

“Oi brat, I heard that!”

Armin chuckled, squeezing her hand. “Promise me you’ll find me if you ever need to talk about anything?”

“Promise.”

She smiled and waved as he rode away, remaining in the same spot, watching him as she grew smaller and smaller over his shoulder, until she disappeared from sight entirely.

****

Mikasa made good on her promise to visit, and she and Armin spent the months alternating travelling north and south to visit for a few days at a time in between work. She seemed to enjoy her time at HQ, sometimes showing the recruits around and helping Levi and Hange assign them tasks, or just hung out with Armin in his office. She helped him with his work on occasion, or she would clear the floor and start doing push-ups or something similar while Armin read over reports, much to his bewilderment and her amusement. Other times they would just hang out; play silly games; sneak food in and eat; or they would sprawl on the floor and he would read books out loud to her.

He took her to see Annie in the basement once. She just stood there, gazing up at the crystallised girl, eyes contemplative. She didn’t say anything, and simply watched as Armin went through his usual routine, recounting what he had been up to since he had visited last, reading snippets from the newspaper, and reciting random facts about things that popped into his head. Hitch wasn’t in today, so it was just him and Mikasa. Armin could feel Mikasa’s gaze on him as he went through the motions, and he struggled to look her in the eye after they exited the basement, afraid to think about what sort of truths he would find in her steel-grey eyes.

It was during one of those lazy afternoons when they were leant up against each other, Armin reading some fantasy novel about a prince going on a quest to save a princess, when Hange suddenly burst through the door, looking frantic. Armin jerked and looked up at them, only to feel his stomach drop as he saw what they clutched in their hand.

A letter. And Armin recognised the messy scrawl on the envelope.

****

So then they were huddled together on the rocking airship, Armin shifting uncomfortably in the new ODM gear. He thought about what he was going to in just over an hour. He thought about all the people he was about to kill.

Mikasa looked over at him, and he knew that she was aware of his thoughts. She shifted closer to him, covering one of his hands with her own. He looked up at her, and tried to smile reassuringly.

“Armin,” she said suddenly, breaking their silence. “I will stay with you, if you want me to. I can support you with what you have to do.”

His eyes locked on to hers with surprise. “What?” he exclaimed, “You can’t do that, you need to be there to take out the Warhammer!” He gritted his teeth and squeezed her hand. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. The plan should hold out fine. Plus, Eren’ll end up doing something stupid and dying if you aren’t there to help him out.”

Mikasa huffed slightly at that, a small smile gracing her lips. Her hands reached up and parted his bangs, and she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “We’re here, together, and that’s enough, right?”

Armin looked at her, his sister, his best friend, his rock, his one constant throughout their crazy lives. He smiled.

“Yeah. Together.”

#requests #arumika #armin arlert #mikasa ackerman #hurt and comfort #they are the best besties ever i love them so much #their friendship is superior you can't convince me otherwise

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pressedinthepages · 4 years

Text

One Condition

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Jaskier/Reader

Rating: E

Masterlist

a/n: Reader Request [Hey! I love your Witcher fics! I know it might seem a silly prompt, but could you write an oneshot where Jaskier and the reader are sharing a bath together, and smut/fluff happens, please? Thanks so much!] Hey thanks nonnie! not silly at all, mostly just like, hella sexy.

Also, thanks to @sometimesiwrite for beta-ing!

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: language, smut, bathtub sex, and they were roommates

Jaskier returns one cold winter evening looking for a bit of warmth.

A single flurry of snow floats past your window, blown by a soft wind that frosts at the edges. You’ve been teaching at Oxenfurt for about fifteen years now, and this is the first year that they’ve seen fit to house you in your own private quarters in the city, rather than the set of dormitories, but it was on one condition.

You let Professor Julian Pankratz winter in the home as well.

Well, that certainly seemed doable when you had agreed at the start of the term. You had been left with a sizable house all to yourself, complete with a luxurious bathing room just off of the bedroom. The home became your sanctuary, letting you fill it to the brim with books and knowledge.

Just as the last of autumn had blown through, so had Julian, landing right at your door like a leaf whisked from a tree. You remembered him from your own time at Oxenfurt, having been a few years behind him. He had made quite a name for himself in his time traveling the Continent, and you looked forward to learning from him yourself.

But by the Gods did he talk.

From the moment he crossed your threshold with a kiss to the back of your hand and a request to be called “Jaskier,” he never actually seemed to stop chattering. He would talk about nothing for hours, pretty words lined with prettier threads. Jaskier prattled on about his travels, the weather outside, a nice flower he had seen while heading home. Hells, if he wasn’t talking, he was still making noise, humming as he went about his business around the house.

It was...different. You were used to quiet, silence suspended on the web of a spider. But Jaskier brought music, and life, into your dusty old home. Your heart warmed whenever he bustled back through the door, arms full of papers and little odds and ends he had found on the way home. You could lose yourself in his eyes, and the way that he devoted himself fully in a moment with you. It was breathtaking, being on the receiving end of such pointed attention.

Not that you’d ever tell him that. No, best to keep that bit to yourself.

You perk up as the front door suddenly opens to reveal Jaskier, looking all the world like the perfect representation of winter. His bright doublet is encompassed by a thick fur cloak, bright white and lined with a deep, wine red. His hair, soft chestnut waves that have grown a bit long in his tenure, is dotted with soft flurries of snow that have yet to be brushed away. He kicks off his boots, leaving them haphazardly off to the side. At least if someone tries to break in they won’t get very far before something of Jaskier’s trips them.

Jaskier smiles when he sees you, shucking off the cloak and leaving it to hang on a peg by the door. “Ah, my favorite young professor. I hope you have not stayed up on my account, darling.”

You shake your head, holding out a steaming mug. “Not at all, Jask. I was just reading for a bit when I peeked out of the window and saw you coming. That white cloak is immensely recognizable.”

“Ah, you like it? I had it made not too long ago, I liked the contrast of the colors and how it differs from my typical wardrobe...You know, I once knew a man in Novigrad who…”

And there he goes, sipping his mulled cider as he prattles off into no man’s land with his words. You smile as you listen, settling back into your chair. Jaskier moves to perch atop the arm, his backside barely brushing against your shoulder. You shift a bit, not wanting to read too far into it. Surely he just wanted a seat close by, ignoring the several other chairs in the room.

“-for a bath?” Jaskier asks, and you blink back at him, eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

“Sorry, what was that? I was in an entirely different world.”

Jaskier smiles, bright and wide and contagious. “No worries, love. You are a scholar, it is what you do. I was going to draw a bath to stave off the cold, and I asked if you would like to join me.”

You thank the Gods that Jaskier is not one of the Witchers that he sings of, since he surely would have been able to hear the way that your heart stuttered in your chest. “I-well, if you wouldn’t mind, I don’t want to intrude-”

“Nonsense, I insist! That is, if you truly want to?” Jaskier goes serious for a moment, like a turn of a page. Suddenly, his face is all hard lines and worry between his brows, as if he were the one concerned about overstepping a line. His eyes are still kind, asking you genuinely if you would like to accompany him.

You smile, looking away before meeting his gaze once more. “Sure, Jaskier. I think a warm bath sounds lovely.”

Jaskier springs up, holding his hand out to you with all of the joy and mirth returned to his features. He pulls you up, leaving your now abandoned mugs on the floor beside the chair as he leads you to the bathing room.

The wooden floor is cool on your bare feet but the air in the room is warm from the raging fire that heats water for the tub. Jaskier quickly undoes the delicate clasps on his doublet and drapes it over a rod along the wall. He shucks the sleeves of his chemise up to his elbows as he crosses to the fire. You see his arms swell as he lifts the great pot, and you can only hope that the heat in the room camouflages the way that your cheeks flush with arousal.

“Should I go fetch some more?” Jaskier grunts as he sets the empty pot on the floor. The tub is filled about a third of the way, but that should be plenty for the two of you. You shake your head, swallowing thickly as Jaskier begins to untuck his chemise from his trousers. He lifts the shirt over his head, revealing a broad chest covered in dark, thick hair that just begs for your fingers to run through.

Jaskier closes the distance between you, stopping just shy of touching you. “May I, my dear?”

“Please…” you whisper as Jaskier brings his hand to the neck of your blouse. He deftly undoes the tie at the top and flitters down the line of buttons. When the shirt falls open Jaskier’s hands push the fabric aside and down your shoulders, his touch like fireflies alighting on your skin. You shiver into his hands as they toy with the waist of your skirt, teasing before undoing the tie and letting it pool around your feet.

You stand before Jaskier in only your underclothes and you instinctively move to cover your chest.

“Oh, darling,” Jaskier croons, “Please don’t hide from me…”

You blush as your arms fall away, and Jaskier’s breath hitches high in his chest. His hands find your hips and grasp the hem of your underclothes, his eyes finding yours once more before moving.

“Go ahead, Jaskier.” Your voice is small but sure, and you stand confidently as Jaskier slides the delicates down your legs. You step out of them and reach for Jaskier’s trousers.

Jaskier chuckles as you frantically search for buttons down the front or a tie on the side, but you can’t find any fastenings. “On the back, dear.”

He turns, revealing the silly little bow at the small of his back that holds his trousers on. You smile as you slowly pull the ties, feeling the fabric loosen where it sits on his hips. As they start to fall you take the initiative to fit your fingers into his smallclothes as well, bringing everything to the floor in one swift motion.

You kneel on the floor for a heartbeat too long, just admiring the view. Jaskier’s legs are long and hairy, his thighs thick from the countless miles he has trekked over the Continent. You are oh so tempted to reach up and give his pert little ass a squeeze, but you just barely resist. Maybe another night…

You stand and turn towards the bath and you hear a gasp when Jaskier turns around. You look over your shoulder to find him looking directly at your own backside, and he flushes even deeper when you catch him looking.

“Sorry, darling,” he whispers, a look of awe crossing his features, “you are truly a work of art.”

You laugh, a new wave of arousal soaring through you when you look down and notice that Jaskier is half-hard, hanging heavily against his thigh. You step into the tub, letting the warm water lap around your ankles. You hold out your hand, beckoning Jaskier to join you.

He takes your hand, fitting your fingers with his own as he climbs in with you. “Go ahead and sit, love. I’ll sit behind you.”

You lower yourself into the water, sighing a bit as it warms your skin down to the bone. Jaskier follows close behind, and the sound that he lets out is obscene and goes straight to your core. The water sits right at your chest and you watch the steam rise in little tendrils that dissipate before your eyes. You scoot forward and lean back to dunk your hair under, feeling the droplets fall fast down your back.

“May I wash your hair for you?” Jaskier purrs into your ear. You melt into him, feeling the strength of his chest resting against your back.

“If you’d like,” you reply, and Jaskier leans over to collect the soaps and oils. The scent of flowers fills the air as he pours something into his palm and begins to run his fingers through your hair. His nails scratch along your scalp as he works the soap into a lather, rubbing little circles into the tender skin atop your crown and down to the nape of your neck.

You are very quickly lulled into a sense of peace, your arousal all but forgotten. But every touch of his hands sends sparks down your spine and you can feel your core flexing and squeezing, searching for any small bit of relief.

By the Gods, he’s even humming now. But it’s slow, and his voice has dropped lower than the sweet, bright tone you have become accustomed to. You feel his chest vibrating against your back, and even down so far as the persistent hardness that presses itself against your ass. You moan darkly, letting the resonations from his voice soar across into your bones, everything having amplified in the matter of the moment between heartbeats.

“Jaskier, please let me get this soap out of my hair so I can kiss you,” you murmur, fidgeting under his fingertips. He chuckles as you scoot forward once more, his hands returning to your hair as you lean under the surface. The water turns hazy with the suds rinsed from your hair as you sit back up, turning to face Jaskier where he rests with his back against the rim of the tub.

Your hand rests on his neck as you lean in, Jaskier’s finding your hip as he pulls you close. His skin is warm and wet from the humidity in the room and your fingers slip into his hair, curling a bit at the edges where it has dampened. You close your eyes as your lips meet, reveling in the sweet indulgence of his attentions. His lips are softer than they have any right to be in the chill of winter, but you can’t linger on that.

You climb into Jaskier’s lap and straddle his hips, shivering when you feel his fingers drift under the water to your core. His eyes lock with yours as he leans into you, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses over your chest while he plays with you beneath the surface of the water. You sigh as he slips a finger into your heat and circles the little peak of nerves with his thumb.

Jaskier’s fingers move deftly around, in and out and adding a second as he strokes up and down your side with his other hand. “Ah, my dear,” he murmurs into your skin, “may I have you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, pushing into his hands as your hips chase him. He withdraws his fingers from you and takes your hips in a strong, firm grasp. All of the air leaves your chest when his length finds your core and pushes, filling you slowly. Your hips meet, and the world has fallen away from the walls of the room.

You stare deep into the clear pools of Jaskier’s eyes, blown out with lust and looking at you with such blatant adoration it’s dizzying. “Please, Jask.”

Jaskier grins, “Anything for you, love.” His grip on your hips tightens as you raise yourself, sinking leisurely back down and up again. Jaskier’s head lolls back against the edge of the tub as the water swells around the two of you, his eyes shutting as he takes his pleasure. You scratch along his scalp as you increase your pace, feeling his thighs twitch beneath you.

You continue faster and faster, chasing your climax as it builds with each passing moment. Water sloshes out onto the floor in waves. Jaskier shifts, planting his feet and pressing his chest up against you as he meets you thrust for thrust. You see stars with each spear into your core, moaning freely when his teeth dig into the meat of your shoulder.

Your climax overtakes you, blinding in its euphoria. You are painfully aware of every sound and feeling in the relative vicinity but they are only background noise, deafened by Jaskier moaning his own orgasm into your neck. You feel him swell and spill within you, carefully riding him through his high as you come down from your own.

The only sounds become your own heavy breathing accompanied by the gentle dripping of bathwater onto the floor. Jaskier looks up at you with that same dreamy look in his eyes and you find that you cannot resist the urge to meet his lips. The kiss you share is slow, languid, painted with contentment and strewn with sweet release.

“Come to bed with me,” you whisper against his lips, stroking your thumb across his cheek. You feel his smile against your mouth, his cheek pushing up into your hand.

“As I said before, my darling,” he murmurs, “anything for you.”

#jaskier x reader #smut #and they were roommates

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jordanstrophe · 3 years

Text

This One is Mine, Part 1

Hi, this is part one of hopefully a very enjoyable series MOSTLY filled with fluff. I prioritizes the comfort in the hurt/comfort, but there’s still going to be some hurt <3 katastrophe may strike

CW: Pet whump, Blood, abuse, minor wounds, threatening, implied beating

“Why this of all the places...” Charles sighed.

“Short run, It’ll be as quick as all the others, sir.” Miles said.

“This place gives me the chills more than all the other businesses I’ve toured. That says something in our line of work.” He crossed his arms

Charles was at the top of the top when it comes to power. One of the 7 so called “rulers” of the business that ran things like the black-market, assassinations, high-end blackmail, anything illegal, ran like a business away from prying eyes. Unfortunately, some of those prying eyes are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyone who stumbles upon the operations from FBI to a random pedestrian, is immediately caught and hauled off to Malcolm Morfran, a powerful man who uses them as slaves, or “Pets” and sells them to other people in the business. Charles Mendrix ran the blackmail business, clawed his way to the top with a large loyal family that could get dirt on anything.

“Lets get this over with.” Charles sighed, pulling down a pair of sunglasses as Miles shut the car door for him behind him.

The building looked like a factory, tall, dim, muted grey and white colors. They entered and was immediately greeted by a way too happy well dressed older man.

“Sir Mendrix! We’ve been anxiously expecting you! We’re ever so honored to have you here, please allow me to make you comfortable.” The man was practically bowing as he slipped behind Charles and slid his long coat off his shoulders. The air in the building had a twisted chilled feeling to it. It was clear this man was trying a bit too hard.

“I’m only here for the tour, no need to be all formal.. Please.” Charles sighed, as the man held his coat in his arms with precious delicacy, as if it were a fragile object.

“No no sir, I insist! It’s not often the Founders all tour each other's sections, we strive to impress in hopes you find favor in our little business. In fact, our Founder is in the house today! You can meet him face to face.”

“Oh marvelous...” Charles mutters under his breath.

“Now, as courtesy of our business, we would like to offer you one free product of your choice, no question asked, anyone that catches your eye, no matter the qualit-”Charles hand shot up to silence the man.

“I’m not interested in slaves. I’m just here for the mandatory tour. I hardly care about your business as much as you do mine. Just take me to Malcolm” Charles huffed. The man shut his mouth and took a moment too long to put his thoughts together.

“Err.. Mister Morfran is in his office... Sir. Please allow me to accompany you to him.” He muttered with a toned voice, opening a door for him.

They entered a long dim hallway, the man shuffled his feet as he slowly made his way down the hall while Charles and Miles trailing behind. There were dozens of metal bars of cages filling the walls down the hallway, inside some was muffled scratching or crying.

“Sure you’re not interested? Any one of these pretties for free.” He hummed in a musical tone, his head back to him with a creepy smile.

“No, I’m quite sane, thank you.” Charles sighed. He turned his head towards the cages, and was horrified. Uncountable numbers of people locked in the cages, huddled in the deepest furthest corner, practically cowering.

“Sir, are you sure we shouldn’t have brought more security? I really don’t trust Sir Morfran after last time..” Miles muttered. “More security will rub him the wrong way, I have to still stay in the good graces with the other Founders, besides, I have you, don’t I?” He smirked, playfully nudging Miles shoulder, who couldn’t help but let out a smirk himself.

The man held open a door for them, as they entered a well lit, beautifully decorated office. All the furniture was golden trimmed, with red material with buttons, marble floors, and massive glass chandeliers. Red curtains draped from the ceiling to the floor framing the tall slim windows down the room. At the end was a large wooden desk, sat at it was a heavy set man dressed in a purple suit and greased back hair.

“Charles!’ Malcolm praised, raising arms in the air. His chair was almost fully reclined, as he struggled to worm his way out of it, before dashing over to him. Miles pushed his shoulder forward so he was in front of him in a protective stance, only backing down when Charles placed a hand on his shoulder beckoning him back.

“Gah! There you are, it’s been too long, friend! Really, we should set up a dinner, I don’t get to talk to you much.” He smiled with a chipped toothy grin, then quickly turned to admire his own reflection in a giant mirror on the wall.

“Business aside, I don’t have all the time in the world, unlike you do, it seems.” Charles laughed, motioning towards a huge table with scattered puzzle pieces half way done.

“Pssshh! Nonsense! I work just as hard as all you lugs do, I just enjoy a good long project. Speaking of which, did you get the tour done? See anything you like? Eh? Eehh?” He playfully nudged him with his elbow. Charles face went stern.

“As interesting as your “gift” was, I’m not interesting.” Charles said

“Really? Still have that mood? Come ooon buddy, they are so nice to have! You have something pretty to show off, they can do things, they make noises when you beat them, they can even smart sometimes!” Malcolm laughed. “Take this baby for instance.” He joyfully frolicked back to his desk and bent over, trying to grab something. Charles sighed and dragged a hand down his face.

“Listen, I’m here to drop off some papers I need you to sign, just the usual signature saying we’re not at war and al-”

He was cut off by a high pitch yelp. Malcolm dragged a young man out from under the desk by his hair, and threw him to the ground. He had his arms tied behind him with heavy restraints, a blindfold on his face and bruises down his arm. He was thin, and wore a pair of ripped bloodied jeans and huddled low on the floor on his knees, Charles could just make out the slashes covering the man's back as he was bent on the floor.

“Caught this beauty a while ago, he was hiding in the back of his cell for far too long before I noticed him. Dragged him out and now he’s my favorite.” Malcolm said, ripping the blindfold off and forcibly holding his face up to show him off. He had dark hair, and bright ice cold eyes that stared at him fearfully. He whimpered as he glanced up at the bright chandelier stinging his eyes. Malcom held his head up and gently stroked a hand down his face, then rested his fingers firmly in his hair.

“Malcolm, this is messed up! Just look at him! That kid looks mangled!” He hissed.

“Messed up, hmm? Says the blackmail owner. I heard you sold information to sabotage a court and got an innocent man imprisoned this weekend.” Malcolm smirked.

He wrenched the man’s face higher, forcing him to look at him.

“He says this is messed up, when he’s running around bending everything to his will, and selling dirt like hotcakes!” He laughed, the man only whimpered in response. Charles ripped a file out from a bag Miles was carrying.

“Just sign the papers so I can leave. I can hardly look at this.” He growled.

“Naha! No so fast mister! You haven’t done a formal tour yet.” He said, letting the man go, and gleefully clapping his hands together. The man at his feet jumped at the sudden noise. Malcolm waved the papers away that were being outstretched to him. The door slammed open, and the old man staggered in.

“There’s a-an outbreak! R-Rebellion!” He gurgled, throwing his hands in the air.

“The new ones that came in yesterday! They teamed up and broke the latch on the cell!” He yelled, trying to catch his breath, his hair dripping with sweat.

“Those rodents!” He hissed, fastening the blindfold back on his Pet before running down the hallway calling out for security, and something about a rod.

Charles couldn’t decide if he should be concerned or amused at the situation. He looked behind him at the young man shackled at his feet, breathing heavy with his head down with a messy blindfold.

“Hey.” He said, gently.

The man jolted, and scampered back, hitting his head on the desk. He fell still, holding his breath, all the could do was endure whatever happened. Hopeless. Charles knelt down in front of him as the man cringed lower to the ground, feeling his presence looming.

“Hey, It’s okay.” He soothed. Gently with his fingertips, he touched the young man’s face below the blindfold. He felt a sting of relief when the man huffed and started breathing again, even if it was heavy. He slid his fingers underneath the blindfold and off his face. Large fearful blue eyes squinted up at him.

“Who are you, little one?” Charles whispered, not entirely expecting an answer.

“..... P.. le-” He stuttered. Before any other noise could escape, the door slammed open, then entered the fuming Malcolm.

“Those rats! After all I’ve done for them!” He hissed, furiously throwing a bodied metal rod to the side.

“YOU!” He shrieked, charging through and grabbing the young man by his hair.

“Did you speak to him!? I swear if you spoke a single word!” He screamed at the man, who cowered and cringed while being pulled up off his knees.

“He didn’t say anything, calm down Malcolm!” Charles raised his voice angerly.

Malcolm fell deadly silent, not even his breathing could be heard. He slowly turned around towards him, face as red as blood, expressions twisted into rage that could make anyone's blood run cold.

“I. did not. ask you.” He growled, quietly. He turned his attention back to the young man, who had a single tear streaking down his face, huffing for air. He let go of his hair, as he collapsed back onto the ground with a thud. He scampered as he tried to get his knees back under him.

Malcolm walked over to his desk, and pulled out a long whip from his drawer. The man let out a panicked cry as he pressed his chest to the floor.

“Come on Malcolm! I said he didn’t speak!” Charles yelled. “Sir I think this is going too far!” Miles chipped in.

“You know Charles, there’s a good reason all the furniture in this house is red. This is MY house, and this here, is MY favorite. He has strict rules regarding what he does, that includes not speaking to ANYONE but me.” He said. Walking over to the man. He was sobbing on the floor, muttering “please... please... please.. not again” over and over again.

“When I’m done with you, you won’t even think to look at another soul who isn’t me, you hear?! I own you! You have an obligation to have eyes only for me!” He hollered, grabbing he man's thin arm, and half dragging him over to a chair. He threw him over the chair face first, so his back was too him. Charles could make out just how badly conditioned the man was from there. Malcolm ripped the shackles off his wrists as he cried out.

“Don’t you move an inch. This will put you in your place!” He hissed, pressing the man's head by the back of his neck into the chair. The man remained as obedient as he could, as Malcolm drew back the whip as far as his arm could go. Just before his arm picked up speed, someone snatched his wrist in mid air.

It was Miles.

“I’ll take him!” Charles exclaimed.

“W.. W-what!?” He yelled. “Shut up! And tell your stupid body guard to get his hands off me! I could have him killed for that!!” He shrieked, wrenching his arm out of miles grasp.

“I said, I’ll take him.” He repeated, keeping a cold stare fixated on him.

“I.. How.. Y-You! Who do you think you are? He’s mine! MINE!” Malcolm stomped.

“I have a free pass to any “product” I like of my choosing, no questions asked, correct?” He asked

“Well.. Y-yes. Bu-” “Then I’ll take that one.” Charles pointed at the man, sobbing hysterically, half clinging to the red chair like his life depended on it, hardly even listening to what was happening.

“You can’t have him! He’s my personal property! He’s my favorite!” He stuttered.

“So that means you have paperwork with your name?”

The color drained from Malcolm's face when he came to the realization. Since he runs a factory filled with Pets, he didn’t assume if he picked one for himself, he would still have to file proper paperwork. The paperwork he himself put in as a law to anyone owning one.

“I’ll take that as a no, old friend.” Charles smiled, Miles however, wasn’t even hiding the evil look on his face. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Miles whispered. “Nope.” He whispered back.

He grabbed the file, and slapped it on his desk. “Can’t go back on your own word now, can you?” He asked, walking past Malcolm. He placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder, who gripped the chair tighter and cried out as if he had already been struck.

”Because this one is mine.” Charles whispered. The young man jerked up and looked at him. If anything, the first spark of life in his eyes was at least noticeable. As carefully as he could, he coaxed the man off the chair into his feet. He gently put his arm around the young man’s shoulders, with another hand gripping his upper arm, and steered him out of the room, keeping himself in between him and Malcolm who held out both hands towards the young man’s neck in a longing fashion. Either to strangle him, or hug him. Who knows?

“But... He was my favorite.”

#whump #Pet whump #whumpee #whumper #caretaker #caretaking #whump fluff #whump scenario #rescued whumpee #creepy caretaker #whump stories #whump writing #hurt/comfort #hurt comfort

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robbyrobinson · 3 years

Text

GODS AWAKEN: CHAPTER 27

The mad emperor dashed at Camila at lightning speed faster than her eyes could perceive. Huge gashes were torn into Camila’s clothes from the razor-sharp teeth of Belos’s suckers. Camila desperately tugged at her attire to withdraw more parchment paper.

“You have gotten heinously slow throughout the years haven’t you, daughter?” Belos snickered.

Ignoring him, the middle-aged mother successfully discards a glyph from her shirt and slams it on Belos’ hideous face. He was propelled further away. Camila, with the parchment still in her hand, held it out defiantly. On the paper was a sketch of waves representing wind.

“Wind spell,” she stated in a matter-of-fact way.

Belos chuckled. “But your mind is as sharp as ever.”

Belos lifted himself off the ground with his abdominal tentacles and reclaimed his staff. He raised it skyward summoning a rumbling quake underneath the ground of the coliseum. The force underneath shifted its motion and erupted out of the ground sending dust and rocks in the air. The beast possessed a huge gaping maw fixated into a permanent scream and beady yellow eyes. It lunged towards the mother in relentless speed.

Camila grabbed another parchment from the spot between her chest and slammed it on the ground to activate it. She hadn’t foreseen any possible method of getting out of the way of the rampaging worm and even if she did, its frame was too colossal. The worm dipped down claiming the mother with its mouth and taking out a large chunk of the ground.

“How unfortunate,” Belos noted.

As he looked at the worm again, he was taken aback. Red flames flickered out of the sides of the worm’s body and burned it from the inside out. Belos flicked his finger uprooting roots from the ground to restrain his daughter. Brown, hickory roots wrapped around her waist and limbs slamming her with savage force. Belos waltzed towards her holding his hands out again. This time, the illusion of an axe was levitating above his head.

With swift motion, Belos clutched the axe and brought it down.

Camila breaks the root wrapped around her waist and rolled over. A swishing sound droned out and before Camila knew it, a small segment of her front hair was sliced away falling to the ground before her. Camila sighed in relief.

The brown-haired girl grimaced and pulled her wrists together breaking the roots between her hands. She ducked again when Belos brought the axe back down.

“Hold still, miscreant, it will only last a second.”

Camila rolled over thrashing her leg out. Her foot hit the handle of the axe and sent it sky high. The axe materialized before the two.

Another parchment paper rolled out this time Camila hit it with her foot. A wall of ice grew from the ground slicing off Belos’s tentacles.

“Gah!”

The Emperor’s weird alien blood dripped from the stumps of the tentacles and corroded the soil. “Not bad; a minor scrape nonetheless.”

New fleshy tentacles sprung from the stumps hissing and writhing towards the human woman. They opened their blood red maws showing off their razor teeth gnashing and clicking like needles. They shot at Camila again this time managing to make a hit on her.

Camila was knocked to the ground again. The papers were scattered all over. The middle-aged mother reached out her hand to grab one, but Belos’s staff stamped down on her exposed palm.

“Ugh!”

Belos laughed to himself again. Like before, his ribs scraped against each other as he laughed and wheezed. Gunk fell out of his mouth as his hold over his staff began to falter. “End of the line.”

Back at the laboratory, Luz and the gang finished up on their stockpiling of glyphs. Luz made a dash down the stairs to marvel at her work. “Do you think that should be enough?”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s blow this joint,” Eda noted.

Luz looked around the laboratory again seeing all the boxes containing the enchanted armor. She grimaced still sensing the screaming emanating from the armors’ metal shells.

“Are you okay, kid?” Eda asked.

“Belos had created those suits out of the broken souls of witches; if we’re really doing this, I feel we should give some peace to the poor things.”

Eda scratched her chin. She sighed deeply. “Eh, fine.”

Eda entered her house casually throwing aside any of the unconscious bodies of the guards. There was a crashing sound and a few mini explosions, but the Owl Lady returned holding a few flasks.

“Edalyn, what are those?” Lilith asked concerned “and what is that purple substance inside of it?”

“The seeds of some poppy plant that I got from the swamp; just grind em up and light a match and voila...a magic bomb.”

She passed the flasks – about six in total – and also gave them a stick to grind the seeds into a powdery substance.

“Make sure to completely grind them otherwise the explosion fails.”

They pressed down hard on the seeds and scraped the smaller pieces counterclockwise until they were soft as feathers. “Typically takes about ten seconds to completely pulverize them.”

After the task was over, they poured the powder in a long trail leading towards the entrance. “Oh, so this is like gunpowder,” Luz said.

“Yes, Luz, it’s like ‘gunpowder’.”

Luz took one last look at the laboratory to soak in the knowledge of what she was about to do.

“You still want to do this, Luz?” King asked.

Luz nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Luz took a parchment paper containing the fire glyph placing it on top of the trail of powder. Gently pressing it, a small flame started and completely consumed the paper. As the flame grew larger it quickened its pace eating away at the powder. The trail of powder would ultimately come to an end once it connected with the crates containing the statues. Another trail led towards the portal machine and quickly ignited a large fire.

“We should leave now.”

Luz and the team met up with Amity and her siblings and dashed further down the halls. Large walls of fire licked at the powder seeking more to consume and destroy. The flames rose higher and higher now reaching the stairs.

Belos now had his hand wrapped tightly on Camila’s hair. Tugging it, he lifted his fist. Lightning flickered from his fingers. “It is a shame that you have driven me to this point.”

Camila scowled at him. “Enough with this talk. Do your worst.”

“With pleasure.”

Before he could strike Camila with the full brunt of his electricity, he was caught off guard by a sudden tremor.

“What in the-?”

A cloud of smoke spewed from his palace blasting chunks of debris skyward. The ground shook again at the further destruction. The explosion sent a wavelength leveling half of the palace and bringing the final nail in the coffin towards his laboratory.

Belos dropped to his knees. “This can’t be...how?”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Camila beginning to collect herself. He made a grab for his staff, but Camila batted it away.

“This cannot be how this all ends.”

Belos stood up and growled showing his large, inhuman teeth that were sharpened and crooked. His tentacles flailed around in disbelief. “My plan has failed.”

“What plan?” Camila asked “you already failed to execute me like you wanted.”

Belos turned and grit his teeth together. “That was only a small sample of my revenge.”

Camila raised an eyebrow.

“I had served the Isles for fifty years all for one purpose: when my master escaped from his prison, I asked him to destroy your world. But I saw that if I were to have summoned the Outer Gods to the Isles...”

“What that you’d become one?” Camila interrupted.

This elicited a shrill chuckle from the Emperor. “Close, but no cigar: when the gods would arrive from the portal, I would steal their powers and become all-powerful.”

“But what of your master’s plans?”

“I don’t care one lick about Nyarlathotep’s whole goal of destroying the Isles and recreating it in his image. It should be ME and me alone who could bend and mold the Isles to my liking. Once I became a god of my own design, I would turn on my master and kill him.”

“Oh, you mean with this?”

An irregular, bizarrely angled instrument sliced into Emperor Belos’s chest and ripped through his wicked heart. Belos coughed up purple pus which dripped down his chest. Belos wheezed in agony and turned around with bulging eyes. He saw the Black Pharaoh standing behind him holding the other half of the instrument in his hands.

“L-Lord...” Belos coughed again. His lungs were filling with his own blood.

“If you really wanted to kill me, you shouldn’t have shouted your plan out loud.”

“B-But...how...?”

“Don’t act like I did not know your true allegiances. You planned this for a long time ever since I noted that you had your own agency.”

Belos wabbled to his knees. His life was painfully draining out and flooding the ground.

“After all, I switched out the Shining Trapezohedron with a decoy after all.”

Nyarlathotep crossed his arms and looked down at his servant. Belos slipped off the instrument and laid sprawled on the ground. He covered his chest with his hand to placate the internal bleeding. “Please, master, give me another chance.”

“Oh, so now you’re being a loyal servant?” Nyarlathotep said rolling his eyes.

A dark mass descended from the Crawling Chaos’ body and became two dimensional as it slithered on the ground. Belos’s shadow grew larger from the waning sun and seemingly was trying to flee from the mass of Nyarlathotep’s shadow.

The shadow produced long, spindly fingers and grabbed onto Belos’s leg. Emperor Belos’s physical body was tossed on the ground and dragged alongside his shadow’s leg. Belos was pulled closer towards Nyarlathotep’s body.

“No, master please! If you do this, I will lose my personality. The very fabric of my being will cease to be.”

Belos clutched his tentacle appendages on the opposite sides of his body and jammed them tightly in the ground. “I’m sorry...please, please have mercy!”

Nyarlathotep’s shadow was that of a fisherman’s rod. It nudged the shadow’s leg a few times and loosened its grip. About two seconds later, enough time for Belos to relax, Nyarlathotep’s shadow tugged again, tighter this time and pulled Belos further.

“Have mercy!!”

Belos disappeared underneath Nyarlathotep’s garment. And it was then that the Emperor’s rule over the Boiling Isles came to an end for whatever made Belos himself was stripped away from him making him become nothing more but a memory. Camila shivered unsure of what to do or say.

Nyarlathotep smiled wickedly. “Let the game begin.”

#owl house #the owl house #emperor belos #belos #camila noceda #cthulhu mythos #nyarlathotep

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tessareadsfiction · 4 years

Text

Camping Confessions Part 2

Part 1

Pairing: Grayson Dolan x Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: After setting up camp, you and Grayson decide to go for a walk. You stumble upon a secluded lake. OooOh wonder what happens next!!!??

You were nervous about being the one to help Grayson put the tent up. You’d been there, hidden behind a camera, to witness the brothers try to figure out the instructions. It always ended in a big quarrel, and you didn’t do well with conflict.

“Whatever you do, don’t let this corner go.” He proceeded to fold the metal rod together, and slide it through the hoops, just like the directions had read. The fact that he read directions before diving in was a quality you admired in Grayson; it reminded you of yourself. “Okay, now slowly let it go.”

“Is this a trick question?”

His hair flopped as he looked up at you from his squatting position. His facial expression read -- are you joking? -- before his eyes lightened and a smile spread across his face. “No. This half should be able to stand on its own.”

And it did.

“Yes!” Grayson was quick to jump up and meet your raised hands for an ‘epic high-five.’ Both your hands stung a bit, but neither of you felt the need to mention it. You still had another half of the tent to build, after all.

You lingered for a second, admiring his bare shoulders exposed by the white muscle top he sported. Now that the boys weren’t uploading weekly, Grayson had been spending more time in the gym. You knew that. But it wasn’t until today, with the sun glistening down on his tan complexion as his arms stretched to fold the next rod together, that you realized just how much of his free time had been dedicated to his newfound pass-time.

Holding down the tent just like you had before, you let your mind wander. You debated on whether he would be strong enough to lift you -- to hold you -- against a wall as his mouth worked over your neck. You imagined you’d either have your hands on his shoulders, or tugging at his lengthy locks, or even running down his bare back as-

“And for the big reveal!” Grayson stepped away from the tent, motioning at you to do the same. He laughed like a kid as your hand released the nylon string and the tent didn’t topple over.

“We pitched a tent!” His embrace was sudden and forceful, almost knocking you off your feet. His strong grip was quick to wrap around the other side of you, keeping you from falling. Even with a thin layer of sweat and outdoors, he still smelled like fresh linens.

It took you a moment, but soon your arms were wrapped around his neck. Laughter and cheers surrounded the two of you as you jumped up and down, moving together as one. “We did it!”

The two of you had settled down and resumed your places in folding chairs. You sat with the cooler in front of you, digging down to the bottom as Grayson watched with an intent stare.

“We don’t want to fly through our P-N-J’s just yet!”

You handed him a sandwich and grabbed one for yourself as well before shutting the cooler. Without a word, you opened the reusable container and sunk your teeth into its soft bread. Your mouth was sticky with peanut butter as you mumbled, “I packed extra.”

His eyes danced down to your closed mouth smile, and his face softened. Something between awe and amazement plucked at his heart strings as he opened the container, taking a bite of his own.

“I’m back!” Ethan was marked up and down with scratches and splotches of dirt. He flopped down backwards into the last fold out chair, across from you and Grayson. “I got lost.”

“What do you mean you got lost? How did you get lost going to pee?”

With the flip of a switch, every ounce of anger or annoyance you’d spent the last hour trying to shake out of Grayson had built back up. His eyes bled with disdain toward his brother as he ripped out chunks from his sandwich.

You stood from your chair, grabbing the bottle of water from the cup holder. “E, Grayson and I are going to go check out the area. We’ll be back in a little bit.”

Watching you two stroll off, arms brushing and sharing small smiles, Ethan couldn’t help but to feel upset. He was happy for his brother, he could tell there was something going on between the two of you, but he just wanted to engage in a conversation without feeling like he wasn’t meant to be there.

“So I’m thinking we should look for firewood?”

“Didn’t know we had an expert survivalist on our hands.” Grayson’s shoulder bumped against yours as you squeezed down a narrow path. He smiled down at you, watching you watch your feet for any sticks or pebbles that might cause you to trip.

“Learned from the best.”

It was his turn to look at his feet.

“You’re cute when you blush.” You felt like you were walking on air, waiting for his reply. You were sure that the wind was going to trip you and your nervous limbs, sending you face-first into humiliation.

“That’s supposed to be my line.”

The two of you walked with quiet smiles on your faces, until you came across a lake. The body of water was surrounded by trees on each side, with the falling evening sun reflecting off of the still water.

“Last one in the water has to build the fire!”

Grayson knew he’d be the one stuck with the task, but he enjoyed the way your face lit up at the challenge. So, he matched your pace down the hill and raced to strip down to his underwear. Just as he had jumped off the rock, your squeal was muffled by a splash.

You pushed the water from your eyes just in time to see him resurface and do the same. Paddling over to him, you smirk. “Guess we can’t all be winners. It’s a shame, too. Your fire won’t last fifteen minutes.”

“Are you questioning my survival skills?”

“I might be.”

“You’re going under.”

A yelp escaped your mouth as you tore through the water, desperate to get back to shore before you got pulled underwater by the man stalking right behind you. When you could touch, you used your feet to try and tread through the water faster, but Grayson was able to reach your ankle and pull you down into the cold.

He let you catch your breath and wipe your eyes before slowly stalking toward you. With every step he took forward, you took one back. The dance, a mixture of heavy breathing and intense stares, continued until your back was against a rock. “Now, what was that about being a winner?”

With his hands resting on either side of your head and the mischievous glint in his eyes, you were unable to find words. You tried, you really did, but when his head tilted down and his hot breath fanned over your neck, you gave up.

His hand rested at your chin, turning your head to meet his eyes as his voice dropped to a whisper. “Stop me if you don’t want this.”

Alarm bells were going off in your mind, reminding you that this was your best friend. Somehow, as his eyes fell down to your lips, you found them quieting down and being overtaken with thoughts. Do it do it do it do it do it do it.

So you did.

You inched your head forward, connecting your lips. They were wet and soft and needy against yours. Your lips battled for dominance, which he easily won as your head came to rest back against the rock.

A soft moan escaped his mouth as your fingers tugged at his wet locks, and his hips involuntarily jutted against your stomach. The hand that had been on your chin was now cupping your jaw, pushing your head to the side as he left open mouth kisses along your neck.

Chills ran though your body and your own sounds began to escape your mouth. You found your leg trying to wrap around his waist, trying to — needing to — get closer.

“Jump.”

It was a simple command, one that caused you to open your eyes for the first time. You were met with his eyes, which held no trace of a joking matter.

So you jumped.

As soon as he pressed you back against the rock, you were reminded of how little you actually had on. You were sure the rock behind you was leaving scratches all along your back as he began to rock into you, making quick work of leaving hickies along your neck. You could feel him right between your legs, right where you needed him most, which only made the fire burning within you grow stronger.

Everything came to a halt so fast.

You felt like you were falling from cloud nine as all friction between you two stopped, and his forehead came to rest at the crook of your neck.

“Not here.” His words were muffled, but audible enough for you to understand that maybe you should get off him. Once you were on stable footing, he took a step back from you. His face was flushed as he pushed hair from his eyes. “We should start us off right.”

His words were simple, but they spoke measures.

“C’mon,” he offered out a hand, which you took, “let’s go back.”

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