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doobler · 3 years

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Indebted

//Implied NS.FW content warning//

Stephen knew Chrys was still in the Sanctum. He could feel his energy, the natural spring of magic that bubbled inside the dhampir. His aura was often a lovely dance of grassy green and hot pink. Now, it was sallow and grey, the colors muted and cold. He finally found him slumped down in a beaten old armchair, eyes lidded, lips parted as he stared into space.

"Chrys?" Stephen asked tentatively, unsure if he was meant to be a sorcerer or a doctor in this moment. "Are you okay, bud?"

"Ah, sorcerer," It seemed to take a lot of effort to speak. Chrys' usual silky English baritone was crackly and soft. "Pardon me, this is. A sorry state to see me in."

"What's wrong?" Stephen stepped closer, hands anxiously hovering over the dhampir.

"It's been so long since I last fed," Chrys' head lolled back and he squinted at the ceiling. "The hunger... I do my best to feed so little, sustaining myself on large meals and deep meditative states but... I can't fight my lineage, I must feed at some point or I'll wither away."

Stephen swallowed. He bridged the gap and laid shaking hands on Chrys' forearms. The dhampir jumped a little in his seat, his pupils shrinking into thin little slits.

"... Would that be... Dangerous for whomever you uh... Feed on?" Stephen cursed his lack of knowledge.

"No, I don't have the power to turn anyone," Chrys croaked. "Only pure-bloods and those who've been turned can spread it. My mixed blood isn't enough."

Stephen swallowed. He looked back over his shoulder. Wong was out for today, probably passing on some updated records to Kamar-Taj. It was only Stephen and his dhampir; his large, handsome, selfless, romantic, self-sacrificing dhampir. He tried to tighten his grip on Chrys' arm but his damaged hands didn't permit it.

"What if--"

"Stephen," Chrys tried to sit up, groaning lowly. "That would require... Consent. And a lot of trust between us."

"And?" Stephen searched his face, maintaining eye contact. "I... Trust you, you've been an incredible ally for the time you've been here and a confidant and a teacher--"

"You hesitate," Chrys raised his hand, cupping Stephen's chin. He rubbed circles against his jaw with his thumb. "I need... Complete and total trust. Consent with no regret. Otherwise, I'd never. I could never forgive myself. I can sustain for a while longer, I'll just. Animal blood will suffice--"

"No," Stephen stood, bracing his hands against Chrys' chest. He ran so warm but now he was burning hot. "No. I trust you. Completely. You've already saved my life more times than I can count--"

"As you have mine," Chrys took a deep shaking breath. "Are you sure? Absolutely?"

"Yes." Stephen inhaled slowly, steeling himself. He nodded. "I know... You'll be safe. You won't hurt me, turn me... Kill me. I trust you."

Chrys watched him warily. It was easier to see his age like this, the century of pain and heartache that lived behind his eyes. In his weakened state, he seemed more genuine, old blood magic and an alien sort of beauty laid bare in his features. He took Stephen's hand, intertwining their fingers.

"Take me to your room then. We'll do it there."

Stephen's quarters were somewhat humble. He had a four-post bed covered in a variety of blankets, a oaken desk, a walk-in closet, a dresser, and a slim floor-to-ceiling mirror. While the Sanctum itself had a bit of an old dusty smell to it, Stephen's room smelled like the sorcerer himself. Part of Chrys wanted to faceplant down onto his mattress for another seventy-five year nap.

"Are you sure about this, Stephen?" Chrys asked once more, hovering over the bed.

"You seem far more hesitant than me now." The sorcerer laughed. He'd already shed his sweater and shirt, now standing bare-chested at the foot of his closet.

He folded up his shirt, still holding it against his chest. Chrys could hear his heart beating, slowly and evenly. He could hear the blood pumping through his veins, the air whooshing through his lungs, the delicate flutter of his eyelashes.

"You and I are a lot alike," Stephen sighed. He sat down, patting the bed as invitingly as he could. "We're both old souls with a lot of trauma. We're both beings of magic and science. We're both... Misunderstood, I think."

Chrys sat beside him, watching his face in earnest.

"This past month as been interesting," Stephen chuckled. He peered up and Chrys found himself lost in his pale green eyes. "I've learned a lot. I think of you as more than just an ally, you're... More than a teacher, more than any of that. And I cherish it."

"I feel like you're leading up to something." Chrys held his breath.

"Just. Trying to communicate that I trust you," Stephen smirked. "I've been betrayed and backstabbed and hurt before but. I struggle to believe you could ever be that guy."

"I would rather die," Chrys laid a hand over his heart. "I... I cherish you, too, Stephen. I've really enjoyed our time together."

There was a pregnant pause. Chrys could practically taste the pounding of Stephen's heart. He leaned in, as did Stephen, until their faces were mere inches apart.

"I think...." Chrys licked his lips, trying his best to hold Stephen's gaze. "I think I'd very much like to kiss you now."

"Please." Stephen breathed and they crashed together.

Chrys was clearly the type to love with his entire being. He cradled Stephen in his arms, cupping his cheek with one broad palm. He curled his arm around his slim waist, dipping his head to deepen the kiss. Stephen felt dizzy. He carded trembling fingers through the ocean of Chrys' hair, moaning quietly as he was ravished.

"Wow," Chrys breathed as he pulled away. "I uhm. Wow."

Stephen laughed, bright and loud. His lips were flushed, his high cheekbones painted a pretty rosy color. Chrys felt his heart flip a few times.

"Can I...?" He stroked his thumb along Stephen's neck, pressing gently where he felt his pulse pound the hardest.

"Yes, just-- run me through it first. Please."

"I'll bite down on your neck," Chrys held his gaze. "A venom will be released into your bloodstream that will temporarily thin the consistency of your blood. I'll drink it-- not to worry about overdrinking, I know exactly how much blood fits in a human body. When I'm sated, a second venom will be administered to thicken your blood and seal the punctures. Within a few minutes, your blood will have recycled through your body multiple times, flushing out all the venom in the process. There won't be side effects or anything, just a mark on your neck for a week or two. And... That's it."

Stephen laid back, hands folded over his sternum, and nodded. He tried not to flinch as Chrys touched him, gently coaxing his head to turn to the side. Chrys pressed his lips to the sorcerer's neck. He could smell his blood now, counting the beats of his pulse. If he focused hard enough, he could sense the natural magicks that flowed through Stephen's body, glimmering through his aura like fireflies. He laid a few open-mouthed kisses along Stephen's neck before he bit down.

Stephen gasped but did his best to stay still. He could feel Chrys' fangs sink into his flesh, much sharper and longer than he realized. The initial pain faded quickly, replaced with a warm dizzying feeling. Stephen huffed, a chill running down his spine. He reached out for Chrys and clasped his hand as well as he could. The dhampir drank. He was silent, the only tells being the sound of his hungry swallows and the alien sensation overtaking Stephen's neck.

Chrys drank for what felt like ages. Finally, he laved his tongue over the wound and retracted his fangs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was a very clean drinker, the only lingering evidence being a small streak of blood along his knuckles.

"Are you alright?" Chrys gathered Stephen up in his arms. Already, his skin looked healthier, his eyes bright and sharp. His aura was almost smothering, it radiated so brightly.

"Uh huh," Stephen tried not to squirm as he pressed the heel of his hand against his groin. He was rock hard. "I'm. I'm fine."

"I apologize, there are occasionally some... Side effects," Chrys blushed though there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I'll ah. Let you take care of that."

Chrys stood to leave but something made him hesitate. He turned back and froze like a deer in headlights.

Stephen was panting, cherry red lips parted, pupils blown, his naked chest heaving. The fly of his slacks were already down, when he'd done that wasn't apparent. He watched Chrys and Chrys watched him.

"Unless..." The dhampir curled his hand around one of the bedposts, gripping until he could feel tendons roll beneath his skin. "... You'd like me to stay?"

"Did you drug me?" Stephen spluttered. He pressed his fingers against his chest, over his heart. "Is there. Is. Is vampire venom... An aphrodisiac?"

"It's a sacred and intimate exchange," Chrys squeaked, swallowing loudly. "I. Can't control the effects it has on your body, I'm--"

"Stay," Stephen breathed. He was always so calm and cool and collected, seeing him so unraveled had Chrys nearly drooling. "Stay and... Fix this."

"I'd be honored," Chrys' shirt was off before he even finished his sentence. "I've craved you since we first met, I'm--"

Stephen shook his head, raising his brows. His more standard brand of humor shone through.

"I'm gonna need a first date before we put any labels on anything."

"Yes, absolutely, of course," Chrys babbled, shucking off his pants. "Anything for you, let me take care of you first."

Stephen laughed as Chrys' full weight hit the bed. The sorcerer was thrown up a few inches, thumping back into his forest of pillows and blankets. Chrys leaned over him, his hair cascading like a waterfall and framing Stephen like a curtain.

"You're very eager." Stephen felt smug for once.

"You're quite a man," Chrys shrugged with a shy smile. "I'm delighted."

They shared a kiss and didn't say much else for a good while.

#my oc #self-insert #stephen strange #chrys bloodlurch #tiny fic #oough oough oough

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thecursedhellblazer · 4 years

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‘Cause We’re Living in a Mad World

{ @adventurepunks }

(( Hiiii! I fished this out of a couple of memes I had done ages ago and...it seemed fun and it gave me the chance to ramble about stuff we mentioned, so...here you go! It’s mostly Nick and John, but I throw in some Zee because the gal deserves some space :3 ))

Who said “I love you” first Definitely John. He was either drunk or totally out of it for not having slept in days (or both) and Nick had been forced to escort his sorry ass to lie down somewhere. Among all the incomprehensible, nonsensical babbling he had been doing, at some point he had just gone on and mumbled something on the lines of “N’ aye, tha’ th’ bloody t’in’, Cap. I think I do love yeh...I bloody do”. By the time Nick had registered the non-sequitur, John had been out cold and drooling very much unattractively on his pillow, leaving his mentor to wonder, hardly for the first time, what the hell he was supposed to do about his disaster youth.

Who would have the other’s picture as their phone background Neither of them does. John doesn’t have a phone (and that’s the reason why both Nick and Zatanna dread the times he uses the one in the Sanctum to phone Chas back to London...Two hours of non-stop Scouse rambling about everything one can find worth complaining about). As for Nick, he simply doesn’t bother with such things. However, John has one, slightly creased picture of him and Nick (a Polaroid taken by accident by some tourist who had been nice enough to hand it over to John) and another with the two them and Zee glued against the wall of his bedroom, right next to a group photograph of his closest English mates, a picture of him and Chas and a black and white one of a younger Cheryl. Also, Zatanna has made sure to have a better, properly framed picture of the three of them hanging inconspicuously from one of the walls in the main room of the Sanctum, not enough to catch the eye, but in a position that makes sure that you must look at it if you know that it’s there. Nick never acknowledged any of those, but you might catch his eyes wandering in the direction of the pictures every time he is in the room with them (yes, at times he dares to wonder in that reign of chaos that’s John’s bedroom).

Who leaves notes written in fog on the bathroom mirror John...when he is trying to be funny. Usually he writes the messages on some other window or piece of glass and then magicks them on the bathroom mirror when he knows that either Nick or Zatanna are inside. Of course, he doesn’t always get it right and at times the wrong person receives a message that wasn’t intended for them. Like Nick finding questions about women lingerie (he never asks, because he is pretty sure that, whatever John wants with it, it’s not something he wants to know or guess). The most memorable mishap, at least in Zee’s opinion, has been when, after having come back from one of her shows at 3 am and after a very much earned shower, she had found herself staring at the suddenly foggy mirror while the words “wudl u shag me een if I ws a gost?” materialised on it. Judging by the bad spelling and by how smeared the calligraphy was, John had to be shitface drunk, wherever he was. Not that the fact excused him in her eyes. Not in the least. She had marched out of the bathroom, told Nick that John wanted to talk to him and then had gone to bed. Useless to say, Nick had gone from confused to extremely unimpressed as soon as he had seen the note on the mirror.

Who buys steals the other cheesy gifts John is the one who, from time to time, comes back from his wanderings bearing “gifts”, pretty much like a not so domesticated cat would do. Thankfully, usually they aren’t dead animals (aside that one time with the still dripping goat’s head...but they don’t talk about it). They range from things he has won at the poker table to stuff he has either con out of someone’s hands or straight out nicked. He has learnt pretty quickly that he can’t tell Zatanna if he’s giving her something he has stolen, not after the one time she has forced him to return the necklace he had got her, much to his annoyance and embarrassment. This has also caused him to get more stuff for Nick than for her. She’s always suspicious now (and with reasons), while his mentor doesn’t really care how he has got his hands on it. The only one time the older sorcerer has shown concern about John’s kleptomaniac habits has been when the younger man brought home a very ancient, very valuable, and also very cursed book. The cleansing ritual took them hours. However, on the other hand, it turned out that the contents of said tome were very much worth the trouble, so John got away with just a mild scolding, much to Zatanna’s incredulity.

Who initiated the first kiss Nick did...after John had driven him crazy with half angry flirting and ambiguous provocations (and talks about shagging ghosts). The whole situation had started from a lot of unresolved tension between them (and not of the good kind), but considering where it has landed them...It might as well have been worth it, even if the original issue lies still mostly unsolved.

Who kisses the other awake in the morning If anyone does in the first place, it would probably be Nick, for the mere reason that John isn’t an early bird (unless he simply forgoes sleeping completely), no matter in whose bed he falls asleep. However, it’s still far more likely that Nick chooses to wakes him up by shaking him or with a shove, simply because something as light as a kiss wouldn’t do the job. Or it would lead to John getting his hands busy even before he has opened his eyes and that’s unacceptable when they have a schedule and lessons to attend to. A few times, John has crawled in Nick’s bed before dawn and, in those occasions, he is the one to wake his mentor up with kisses. There’s an equal chance of either being kicked out of the room pr being allowed to carry on, and, in his eyes, the second thing is definitely worth facing the risk of rejection. John usually gets his nicest wake up calls from Zatanna, when she lures him out of the sheets with a kiss on the cheek and the promising smell of coffee and bacon. She has also learnt to throw a fresh pair of underwear in his face before walking back to the kitchen, though, because that’s the only way to make sure he doesn't show up stark nake for breakfast.

Who starts tickle fights Tickle fights aren’t something that happens frequently, but they did happen. Mostly when they were all at least a bit tipsy. John started the very first one, almost accidentally, by rambling about how Cheryl used to tickle him till he cried and couldn’t breathe as a payback for when he messed with her things. Useless to say, that led him to ask Zatanna if she was ticklish and to the poor homo magi being assaulted. Nick had made the mistake to declare that he found the whole affair “undignified”, which had been enough to make John tackle and tickle him too. Zatanna might have retaliate, on them both (John for starting it, Nick for not defending her), even though, if asked, she would deny it. After that episode, both Zatanna and Nick have become very, very wary of whenever John is drunk and feeling both touchy-feely and playful. Of course, he still manages to find a way to catch them both off guard.

Who asks who if they can join the other in the shower John’s “asking” consists in him sticking his head inside the bathroom (or straight past the shower curtain) and make comments about how there’s just enough room for another person under the stream or about how great he is at scrubbing backs, full trademark smirk in place. Nick usually asks before anyone gets in the shower and it usually happens after a very intense roll in the sheet when all the participants might use a wash up. However, there have been times when he has just hopped in the shower while John was already in it, without warnings or questions, because the smug idiot can use a taste of his own medicine from time to time. The main issue with that tact is that John, after the initial moment of astonishment, always gets a bit too mesmerised to really grasp the lesson.

Who surprises the other in the middle of the day at work with lunch Nick can get completely absorbed in his studying and researches and John at times forgets that human beings need to eat to survive, so it’s definitely Zee. When she is around, she makes sure to bring them both, if not a full meal, at least a snack twice a day. She has found that it usually also prevents John from raiding their fridge during the night and, considering how messy that affair gets, it’s a very good thing. When Zatanna isn’t around, Nick is the one who has a more “regular” (if it can be called that) routine, so he takes over the task of keeping them both fed (also because John can’t be trusted around the kitchen at). There are times, though, when John knocks at Nick’s door, after making sure that the older man is done with whatever he’s doing, with takeaway already laid down at the table or saying that he has discovered a new pub that makes nice steaks or pizza and that they should totally go and try it out.

Who was nervous and shy on the first date Definitely John, even if, as per usual, he covered it up with cockiness and smugness. Especially since he felt like a idiot for being nervous in the first place. He and Nick had gone out plenty of times together (with and without Zatanna), so sharing a night that was perhaps a bit more intimate shouldn’t have been such a big deal. And yet, he still spent an incredibly long amount of time (especially for his standards) tidying himself up in the bathroom and deciding which of his clothes were more suitable for the occasion. It earned him a few raised eyebrows from Nick’s part, which made it clear to them both that the older man knew, but John obviously refused to acknowledge both the gestures and the fact.

Who kills/takes out the spiders Spiders are usually either left to mind their business. Zatanna might use her magic to coax them out of a window when they are in the way, but for the rest no one really cares. It doesn’t happen too often that they manage to get inside the Sanctum, so when they do...it’s safe to say that they have earned their right to stay. There are times, though, when the poor creatures become the unfortunate subjects of John’s practice. Once he has learnt how to open portals towards other realms, it has become very much not unusual to see him trying to shove the spiders inside very small rips in the fabric of reality. Nick has pointed out that he has no way to find out whether or not he has managed to send them where he was planning to, but he has soon given up trying to make John see his point, because his words always earn him nothing but a snicker.

Who loudly proclaims their love when they’re drunk John, even if calling his drunk claims “love declarations” would be pushing it. For the most, what leaves his lips are comments about his and Nick alone time together and far too bold to be nice compliments. And, if he is really in the mood, also short rants about what he would love for them to do that they haven’t tried yet. Whenever magic or the undead start being thrown in the mix, Zatanna takes it as her cue to dump him in Nick’s capable, even if exasperated, hands and go spend the rest of her night elsewhere. The real slips can happen after John has ceased being loud, when his mind is more in Dreamland than on the material plane. They are quiet whispers, compared to all the noise he makes before, and that alone is very telling of how much more sincere they are.

#john constantine #nick necro #zatanna zatara #long post #(( this is me upgrading the whole ))#(( 'let's find the guts to tag peeps' ))#(( so I'm showering you with my idiocy ))#(( hopefully the effort will make up for the stupid ideas ^^" ))#adventurepunks #* My reality is eleven tenths perception. * ::headcanons::#* Once Upon a Time We Three could have had the World * ::John&Nick&Zatanna::#* Show Me the Way and We'll remake Destiny in Our Image * ::John&Nick:: {adventurepunks}#sv. Every Shade between Darkness and Light

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kariachi · 4 years

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Some reboot fic. Just because Hex cast aside his apprentice, doesn’t mean everybody agrees with the decision.

“Shortsightedness always was Hex’s most damning trait.” There was a brief time they’d thought Kahina had broken him of it, but no, apparently even to this day he focused too much on the now to see the potential of the future. With a flash of teeth like sabers she glanced back at the human child trotting in her shadow. Really, casting aside an apprentice so young for behaving childishly, as if she didn’t remember well when he had been the one with an underhanded hunger for knowledge and power. How many times had she and Kahina spoke of his attempts to steal spellbooks far beyond his skill?

Between him and her own chick, she was quite proud of that generation.

“So, where are we going,” the child asked, finally. He’d followed without question when she’d appeared and bid him come with her. Most human children did, when faced with a dragon. Those that didn’t flee in terror, useless to her, or insisted on finishing whatever matters they had at hand first. The latter tended to be the most steady, but then it wasn’t as if ‘steady’ was what she was going for with young Kevin.

“My halls,” she answered simply. “I’ve looked into you, your accomplishments and failures-” he hackled at that, how amusing “-and I’m quite interested in seeing you reach your full potential.” That calmed him, it seemed. There was the excess projected confidence of the insecure, but there wasn’t fear in excess. A good sign.

“I am pretty awesome,” he said. “And Hex said I would make a good sorcerer.” She didn’t doubt it, he had had so many words at his last visit, but still she barked out a laugh that made the boy tremble at the force of it. Her tail twitched over his head.

“A sorcerer, child I see much more than spells for you. Magic in your poetry, magic in your watch-” he clamped his hand over it, as if she might try to take it from him. Poor thing, thinking it was power enough to tempt her, who was older than knowing. “-no child, you are an artist first-” another word that calmed him, good “-and artists make for enchanters.”

She was happy to see a curious, thoughtful expression cross his face. There’d yet to be a proper enchanter in this age, the last fallen centuries ago to plague brought by those foreign to him.

She’d liked that one.

A long, low whistle came from the child as they reached the back of the cave and the glowing portal that sat there. It stretched wall to wall and floor to ceiling, more than large enough for even her bulk to pass through.

“Go on,” she urged him, and with a quickly hidden glance back for reassurance- trying so hard to not seem the child he was, poor dear- he did as he was told and stepped through.

“There’s nothing here,” he called a moment later, storming back from the very back wall of the cave with a glare on his face. “What gives?!”

She bit back a laugh, then walked through herself, taking a quick glance around her home before turning around and returning to the cave. He was staring at her. After all, the space he’d seen had been far too small to hold her. Calmly, she stepped passed him and curled up against one of the walls.

“My front door, as it were,” she explained. “Your test is to figure out how to get through it. I don’t care how you do it, magic, science, or what have you, as long as you do.”

He stared some more, schooling his face into a mask of cockiness.

“Easy.”

It took him an hour to stop trying to brute force it. Once he sat down to rest and look around, it took him ten minutes to figure out the trick. Then, another five to properly copy the runes on the walls and her scales onto the strap of his watch.

He was going to be a good one with a bit of teaching in him.

The portal had impressed him, but the sight of her home struck him mute and gaping. She couldn’t blame him, she had been forming and residing in these halls for millennia, her ambient draconic magic twisting everything within to brilliant opal. Every corner and carving shone.

“Those runes are important,” she explained as she entered behind him, sparing him any need to speak. “They can only be written if they’re the truth, and declare you welcome and pure of intentions.” He gave a small laugh.

“So, people need the runes to get in, but they can’t write the runes unless you want them here.”

“Yes.” He shifted slightly as she sent out a flare of magic, spurring an end table to go fetch some of the guest food. She was sure most of the others had been larger than him, and she would not have him poorly fed. “I have many portals around the world, all with the same runes. Just think about where you’d like to go, and the portal will take you to whichever of them is nearest your destination. You can then use it to come right back here.” Again he laughed, a grin beginning to grow on his face.

“Coool…” It was rather charming, really.

“One of your first lessons will be on reading and writing runes-” Hex had to have at least given him a start, he was too good not to “-so you’ll be able to put your own set around the entrance to your rooms.”

“Rooms?” His eyes went wide, and the grin stretched to match them. She couldn’t help her eyes crinkling in a draconic smile to match.

“Rooms, plural”

They had belonged to one of her chicks, and since they’d flown away had seen little use as anything but storage. But they were the closest to a fitting size for a human child, and she had cleared them out, magicking up some proper facilities, before going to fetch him. Besides, he seemed the sort who would appreciate the streaks of obsidian that still graced them.

“Make a list of what you’ll need,” she said as he darted around like a chick on their first visit to the outside, “and we’ll make sure you have it.” As it was, she’d had no wish to decorate for him. She intended to see him taught whatever he could learn, in all the subjects he should- from magic to literature to modern technology- and for that he needed to be comfortable. So, she’d made sure he had a bookshelf, a desk, chair, and bed. Nothing more. “You can assign whichever of the rooms whatever duty you need.”

He didn’t answer her, just nodding as he flashed passed. This time she allowed herself to chuckle once more. The end table went passed her, settling against one wall, loaded down with meats, fruits, cheeses, and drinks to the point if it hadn’t been magicked the stability of its gemstone form would’ve been in question. Hopefully it would be enough.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, backing out into the hallway. “The table will lead you to the dining hall for dinner, we can discuss matters further there.”

Yes, this would be worth the time and the effort. There were so few with the knack, even among dragons, it simply wouldn’t do to leave it to wither and die.

#fanfic #hex: fuck it i don't need an apprentice #dragon who watched *hex* grow from apprentice to master: okay then i'll take him #hex: *is a menace as an apprentice*#kevin: *is a menace as an apprentice*#hex: what did i do to deserve this i'm a good person

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spookyspaghettisundae · 6 years

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Portrait of Emptiness, Part 1

So easy to die in this day and age, yet so difficult to take that final leap.

Magdalene stared over the edge of the roof. Four stories of height should do it. The cobblestones looked so tiny from up here. The people in the gray streets of Crimsonport went about their business, oblivious of the girl of fourteen winters and garbed in a dress that suggested a well-off upbringing. Then again, she paid little attention to them either. They would be shocked, and there would be a mess to clean. Her suicide would be one of many among those whose hearts had been claimed by melancholy, and life would move on without her.

And the things in the dark would continue on. With nobody left to stand in their way.

Her thoughts ran in circles. Everything seemed so hopeless. Johnn Von Brandt had been missing for a year now. For months, Nora Morrissey had been caged in a prison cell where she rotted away from all daylight and human contact. And shortly after Nora’s incarceration, good witch Agnes Letterford had been run out of town, her home and library burnt to the ground by an angry mob. Everybody else in this wretched city plodded along, oblivious of the creatures of the night, of the things that fed and feasted on their supple flesh and souls; ignorant of the wicked warlocks and sorcerers who preyed on the weak and the willing, sacrificing their blood in sinister rituals and conjuring ghosts and demons; helpless against the monsters in human form who enforced the law with an iron fist of tyranny or eroded society from the fringes.

The Red Coast drowned in its own blood as evil forces encroached on it from every side. Winters had grown longer every year, the mists more thick and stifling by the end of every season, and the nights darker with each cycle of the moon.

And while the land’s unsung heroes vanished into the night, one by one, here stood Magdalene, on the edge of the roof. Night after night of desperation—wanting for a sign from the heavens, praying for a miracle to empower her in a way that she may pick up where the others had left off.

This girl knew of fates worse than death. Transformations into bestial were-creatures, becoming a thrall or ghoul under the control of the ancient dead, insanity borne by tomes of sorcery dedicated to elder gods, or almost being bled dry or flayed while kept alive in the rituals of some lunatic. If one of the evils lurking out there claimed her, she would become what she feared and hated. But if she took control, took the leap—took her life—

But what if she found a way to fight them?

No amount of powder could conceal the black rings under her eyes, contrasted by her almost anemically pale face. Magdalene now almost looked like the animated porcelain doll that had tried to kill her a year prior. Not just sounds of scratching at her windowsills robbed her of sleep, but the way that doubt and fear and hopelessness clouded her every thought made her head spin even when she tried to lay down for the night.

She found no rest. Even after bouts of sleep that came after excessive amounts of exhaustion, she felt tired and sought the solitude of her own bed. Although still desperately holding onto that final glimmer of hope, the prospect of a final rest—one that she would author herself—grew more attractive every day that died, every bell that rang, every breath she took.

Church bells resounded in the distance as they announced evening arriving soon. Magdalene’s thoughts turned one shade darker as she sighed. She moved her right shoe till it hovered over the edge.

“No! Wait,” spoke a man behind her, sounding frantic.

Standing on one leg, turning her head, and seeing the city from this dizzying height all happened within the same split second. A second that was long enough to throw her off balance and send her careening over the edge of the roof.

She only glimpsed a head of tangled hair and raggedy clothing. A grimy hand covered in dark red spots reached out and grabbed her by the skirt of her dress. It tore loudly as her other foot slipped and she tumbled over the edge, but his other hand latched onto her forearm and gripped it like a vice until it hurt. The friction of the fabric between their skin burned with a new painful sensation.

He groaned and held onto Magdalene with all his might. He grabbed onto her arm with both hands. The fear of death enveloped her. She pawed at his arms and held onto him for her dear life.

She had not been ready to go this way, after all.

The man huffed and turned red in the face as he mustered all the strength in his gaunt frame. In one sudden rush of movement, he had braced against the window’s frame and dragged her back up onto the inclined rooftop. They fell back inside the confines of the hallway she had exited on the roof from. He groaned under her weight. She rolled off of him.

Once they had both regained their bearings, the conversation that followed took hours. Night fell, and they sat in the servant quarters until the overseer shouted at them and sent them running out of the house that neither of them belonged in.

Magdalene’s strange savior, Marcel, was a painter. The artist scraped by on meager earnings but managed to eke out a living with his trade. Being an eccentric orphan, he had no friends or family to fall back on when times got tough. However, he could afford some food, tools, and scraps to mend his clothing, and even something that passed as medicine if you believed in it enough. His entire appearance and choice of words suggested a difficult life on the edge. When he had seen her from the streets, he knew exactly what she was doing. Where she was—he had been there before.

In that same spot. In that exact same state of mind.

Both in the house they did not belong in, as well as in his humble abode on the edge of the docks and warehouse district, they spent hours that flew by. Time filled with laughter and mutual understanding.

Although Magdalene figured Marcel to be as oblivious as the rest of Crimsonport’s population about the creatures of the night and dark magick, his woes had led him to the same brink she had been teetering on for the past few months.

She sipped weak tea from a cup that could use better cleaning, but something about it comforted her. The combination of the heat warming her hands wrapped around it, the simplicity of Marcel’s spartan home that reminded her of Nora’s hut in the forest, and how she could relate to the young man and his plight of feeling alone and hopeless in the world, with few lights on the horizon to guide him.

Between sips, Magdalene asked him, “May I ask if I may spend the night here? The nights are terrifying in the streets. Unless you want to risk your life escorting me home.”

Ignoring her question and rambling even though she had spoken clear, he asked, “May I paint your portrait?”

Magdalene blinked and blushed.

“Yes. I mean, If you want to. Why would you want to paint my portrait?”

His gaze turned intense as he said, “There is a profound emptiness in your countenance.”

“Emptiness? That’s not exactly—flattering,” she replied and let the thought trail off after she had found the right word.

“I see myself in it. I see everyone in it. I see a natural beauty in your stoic face that rivals the still lifes of the greatest masters, and the end of all life when the pale rider takes all of creation in his icy grasp,” he said, passion ramping up in his voice with each beat.

A shiver ran down her spine. His choice of words betrayed knowledge not gained normally in a life like his.

He escorted her home before it got too late and earned her a scolding from her mother about keeping the company of such a “rat-boy” after Magdalene made brief introductions and he had left and disappeared into the foggy streets. She ignored her mother’s condescending words and worried about him, though the glimmer of hope in her heart told her that this would not be the last she saw of him.

The next days turned into a blur. She spent several of them in his shack, sitting on a simple stool with her hands folded and resting on her lap. He instructed her to stare out the window, and rays of sunlight shone in from there. As hours went by, her back would begin to ache and watching the motes of dust dance in the faint light before her left her to her thoughts.

She enjoyed Marcel’s company and their talks. He would tell her tales of a life that had no connection to the unnatural things out there. Of thefts, rumors, and crude jokes that she enjoyed a lot more than she cared to admit. She could tell how there was more to his life’s story than he would speak about, questions he would deflect with questions of his own, or by changing the subject. Marcel fascinated her.

But the silence between those conversations, when he sat down and he painted her portrait with a fierce, primal intensity she had only seen in one other person, her mind wandered to other places. Other worlds. Other realities, where she fantasized about how she might find Johnn, or a way to break Nora out of Crimsonport’s awful prison. She spent plenty of time contemplating if she should have Marcel accompany her and look out for her while she explored the ruins of Agnes’ home to see if any of the good witch’s spell-books had survived the fire.

As the week came to a close, she had contemplated every scenario in which she might obtain mystical power to overcome the weaknesses of the frail body she was born into and take the fight to the evils that ruled the Red Coast in secret.

All the while, Marcel never allowed her to see the portrait.

“Only when it is finished,” he promised. “You may only see the final piece. It has to rival your perfection.”

His flattery came not frequently but it always caught her off-guard. He was always earnest and passionate about it. When the week ended, his work outdid his words. When he showed her the painting, her heart stopped for a moment. Blood rushed into her head and the awe that filled her heart rendered her speechless. His portrait of her was beautiful. Every stroke, down to where she could see how single hairs of a brush rounded out the image; the entire composition was breathtaking and lifelike. She had never seen herself this way, in how he had somehow managed to capture the sadness that quieted her demeanor, yet with that spark of life and hope in the tiny reflection in her eyes. She looked empty in the portrait, like a canvas upon which anyone could project their own thoughts and melancholy, yet as serene and beautiful as the sun shining brightly on a bleak horizon.

Marcel sighed and misread her stunned silence, which he proved when he asked, “You hate it, do you not?”

Before she could respond, he made ready to grab the painting like someone prepared to throw trash out the window. She spent the next minutes assuring him that, on the contrary, the portrait amazed her. It was among some of the best artwork she had ever seen, and her mother had taken her to a few gallery displays before.

Her words convinced him to keep it—and not throw it out. Magdalene then spent the next days assuring him that he should share it with the world. Perhaps even sell it. She perceived the quality as so outstanding that he might fetch a fair amount of coin and recognition for it. Marcel’s stubborn refusals of just the thought of selling it impressed her even more, but their walks and talks that filled the next days lightened both their moods and turned him around.

The days grew longer and summer approached. Magdalene felt the sunshine more intensely than ever before. She could practically smell the life that rode along with it, and all the darkness and creatures that she knew of, directly or not, grew more distant with each and every day and night since she had met Marcel. Until they felt more like a distant, unpleasant dream.

He showed the portrait around. The painting impressed all the common folk, stunning and awing them alike. He gave it a name.

The Portrait of Emptiness.

Then he showed it to a wealthy aristocrat, and he offered Marcel a modest pouch of good coin to put it on display in an upcoming gallery. The gallery owner, Benjamin Narbrige, assured Marcel that this might be the opportunity of a lifetime. That, even should he refuse to sell his piece, he might find employment by some of the rich folk that beheld it.

Magdalene got Marcel to lend his painting to Mister Narbrige.

The gallery exposition was a resounding success. The Portrait of Emptiness garnered immense praise.

It also received harsh criticism, especially from Sir Leonard Styles. Marcel did not take well to the word of that when Mister Narbrige shared the response. He turned despondent, staring off into empty corners and was lost in his own thoughts. Magdalene spent a full day consoling Marcel and said that Styles must be a fool or jealous. Indeed, word had it that Styles was a failed artist turned critic. But none of these words mattered to Marcel.

“Portrait of Emptiness? Rather it be called Portrait of Blandness. The artist spent far too long obsessing over the presentation of a tired, uninspired motif we have seen four scores over. Hackneyed, pale imitations of Raynsford’s techniques and no substance, no soul to it,” were just some of the select words of Sir Styles’ scathing critique.

Marcel became reclusive and locked himself in his shack, not responding to Magdalene’s knocking for a full day. When he opened up the door to her the next day, she then saw herself in the mirror of his eyes—that same hollow, dying hope, that same desolation and despair, that same death wish she had carried in her soul right before they had met.

It scared her to see him like this.

He let her in and made her the same weak tea he often did, re-using the same leaves for days on end. Although she tried her best to cheer him up, even cracking a crude joke she had overheard from sailors laughing about on the way over, Marcel’s responses came out clipped and ended abruptly. Her attempts at making conversation with him were interrupted when Constable Vaughn Todd and two soldiers came knocking on Marcel’s door. According to the officer, Sir Styles had been found dead in his own home. In a locked room. Murdered under mysterious, inexplicable circumstances.

Any hope that Magdalene had built in these past weeks, any glimmer of hope that she might lead a semblance of a normal life, that the darkness might stay away—it died in that moment.

She had no control after all. She could feel it. While Constable Todd posed sternly-worded, probing questions to Marcel and one of the soldiers eyed Magdalene suspiciously during the interrogation, she knew that it had caught up to her. Her fingertips tingled and a strange numbness spread in her body, like she was beside herself.

The darkness walked with her. Always right beside her. Staring back into her soul whenever she looked into that dark abyss.

When Marcel said that he knew nothing of Sir Styles’ death and had had nothing to do with it, he furrowed his brow and locked eyes with the Constable. Just like whenever he changed the subject in his conversations with her or tried to belittle the difficulties in his past. She knew that expression by now.

She knew—Marcel was lying.

—Submitted by Wratts

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pendragonfics · 6 years

Text

Patience & Ignorance

Paring: Happy Hogan/Reader

Tags: female reader, Happy Hogan is Done with your sh*t and has been since 2008, Christmas fic, ugly sweaters, angst with a happy ending.

Summary: It isn't always a dream working for Tony Stark and the Avengers. At least one of your co-workers, Happy Hogan is around to commiserate with.

Word Count: 3,079

Current Date: 2017-12-02

The end of year holiday is always the worst time of the year. People who were assholes became bigger assholes. Lines at the coffee shop down the street from work became longer. People dressed like terrible imitations of Santa rattled their jars, got photos for money, got donations for praise, sang awful carols, over, and over, and over!

It got colder, and not just outside. At work, too. Mr. Stark would be everywhere and nowhere, often neglecting his company, his place as an Avenger. As his secretary, it sucked. But then again, you hated the holiday season anyway, not even thinking about work – it was just the most terrible time of year.

Not that you’re a Grinch or anything; you’re just not payed enough for this shit.

And it was holidays when the heroes were needed everywhere on Earth, leading you to be manning the facility upstate with your fellow down-on-luck employee, Harry “Happy” Hogan. Like you, he’d been hardened by the job, except, literally. The poor guy had gone from regular-joe, to hell and back, to fed up – all without being a superhero. The number of times you had to fill in for his position as well as yours just because he’d been shot, injured, pissed off or knocked out while protecting Mr. Stark – well, you just didn’t have enough fingers to count those occasions.

At least the miserable have company, right?

Especially since the press were hot on your tail to catch up on an official statement now that Spiderman was an official Avenger. You were just a paper-pusher! The person who picked up the trash, ordered other people’s Christmas gifts in their name, and pretended to be okay with taking none of the credit. Oh, and the whole Captain America running off into the wind after the kerfuffle in Germany? That was on you to tell them, now that the old secretary Ms. Potts was now officially with your employer.

“You look like you need another coffee,” someone says.

You glance up from your work station to see it’s Happy. He’s in the suit he always wears, the 2005-esq glasses tucked where a handkerchief would be if anyone used one these days. There’s a five o’clock shadow on his jaw, and a twitch in his eye. Looks like someone else has been working late nights too, well, you must, to keep up with everything.

“What I need is a pay raise,” you mutter, pushing the keyboard from you, going to stand. “And a word with these assholes. First that kid rejects being an Avenger, now he is one? The media will eat me alive if I don’t perfect this by ten freakin’ minutes ago.”

Happy gives you one of his humourless smiles. “I’ll grab you that coffee.”

You sigh, pushing a hand through your hair. Before you upon the screen is an empty document, the title on the word processor the subject of what press release you are stating on behalf of the superheroes that brave and save the American people. The curser lazily pulses, empty of words, waiting for you to procure them like they can be bought, or magicked up like you’re some fancy sorcerer and not a typist.

Muttering an expletive, fall back into the desk chair with a groan.

He pushes a mug of something strong before you, and one in his hand too. “You should be glad you didn’t work for Stark when he was starting this whole thing.” He tells you, taking a long sip of his coffee. You consider your mug, and even though it’s late on a Wednesday afternoon early in December, you take down it all, like a shot. “It was a shit-show from day one. I mean, who the hell does this for a living?”

You smile, but don’t mean it.

Happy means you both by the last part, not the man you work for. It’s crazy – one day you were working for the New York Bulletin, chasing people for stories, and the next there were people in spandex and aliens in the sky, and you were given a job to work with them. And to fend of the people you used to work for. You loved the job, you truly did. It was just the rough spots you hated.

“To us,” you toast grimly to Happy, fingers poised above the keys, starting to type something monotonous to get the story-chasers off your back. “The idiots stupid enough to love the job, and stupid enough not to leave.”

---

By the time that statement you handed in runs, it’s nearing the time where it gets unbearable. Christmas lights, everywhere. Kids screaming when you’re just running errands around the city like it’s your paygrade or something. Crime rates skyrocketing, so the team you’re supposed to micromanage is off on tangents trying to save Christmas or something. At least the bakery you like stocks the gingerbread you practically live off, otherwise, you’d almost consider handing in effective notice of resignation and use your savings to live somewhere like rural Australia where nobody lived nearby for miles.

People ignore you when you’re downtown. It’s nice. You’re never ignored when you’re in the compound – it’s always _________ this, _________ that, _________, please make sure that this diplomat gets a thank you note from us, _________ … like it never ended. Downtown, you’re just another woman wearing all-black, holding a stack of presents and a fake Christmas tree on the subway because it was always your duty to clean out the dead thing when January came around. You’re just hey, lady! to a stranger, not _________, super nanny.

But as soon as you’re off the train, being picked up at the station by Happy, it’s over. Back to buckling down, back to business. At least he helps you put all the parcels you’re holding in the car, and getting in to drive off, he doesn’t ask about your day. Doesn’t talk about what it’s going to be like, getting back to the facility. Doesn’t turn on the radio to blast some popstar’s new-and-improved Christmas carols.

It’s quiet. Nice.

Pulling into the garage, you’re aided by Wanda Maximoff, and Vision. They’re both wearing ugly sweaters, and they both volunteer to help take in the parcels inside. You should have guessed they were just there to make you unaware of the ambush inside. Tony Stark hands you a camera, and to Happy, a length of green and red tinsel.

“_________, we need you! Just a couple of –,” Tony says, dashing around. The team all wearing terrible lumpy sweaters, from Commander Rhodes in his wheelchair, Steve Rogers and Mr. Barnes wearing matching Christmas hats, to Natasha Romanov. They all stand before the window, with the view outside behind them, “Scott, I need you – perfect.”

You look down the camera, and take the pictures. They need them on Christmas cards to be sent around to the friends and family of the team as soon as you can. Before you can take off to your desk to prepare the new task, though, the Parker kid stops you with a web, and taking the camera from you, gets Happy to stand beside you. You’re not sure what he’s up to, but you go along with it. The team get out from the shot. Vision takes the tinsel from Happy, and he and Wanda drape it around both of your shoulders.

The photo is taken before you can protest.

That afternoon, you send off the team’s photo to be printed. Flicking through the files, you open the picture taken after, of you and Happy. There’s two pictures – one where you’re both standing there, looking like there are places to be, and not enough time in the working week to get it all done. He’s got his signature frown, you, the tight-lipped no-nonsense business face. On the next photo, though –

You sit there, staring at the screen of your computer where the camera’s SD card is linked to, silent. Unmoving. It’s the longest time you have really sat down, and not have another urgent issue upcoming in a long time, and staring, you are caught on the photograph you see before you.

The tinsel, a sparkling festive reminder of the time of year around your shoulders glints in the picture, drawing you both close together. In the few seconds between the first photo and this, his face is turned toward yours, and in the place of the frown he always wears, there is a small smile, the edges of his lips pulled up. Your face is flushed, and looking closer, you see your hand is brushing his. The blush is obviously because of the embarrassment of being caught in such an unprofessional position while at work. Yes, that’s it. Not because you’re so close to him.

Your fingers hovers over the keyboard. Unsure what to do next, you frown, and then sigh. You wipe the memory of the camera’s SD card, and put it on top of the outgoing tray on your desk to give back.

But not before you print of a copy of that picture.

---

It’s a week before Christmas and your family down in Hoboken have no reply still when they asked you a month and a half ago if you’d make it for Christmas. Your mother had texted, your stepfather sent an email. Even your kid sister, she’d messaged you on Skype a week ago, and all you could tell her without disclosing that you basically worked for toddlers in billion-dollar life-proof suits that you weren’t sure (and that if you came, you weren’t sure if they’d survive a day without you).

So, there are three loose threads.

You haven’t made it back to Jersey for a single Christmas since you earned your job with Mr. Stark. Perhaps that’s why you dislike the holiday, because there’s no secret gift giving, no fake Santa footprints left out by your father – your real father – and no smiles and love and laughter that the people who raised you and planted your roots brought.

But all the while thinking of this, you’ve missed every word that’s come out from Tony’s mouth in the last ten minutes, and only now he realises that you’ve been daydreaming of life when it had been so much simpler.

“_________?” He asks.

You look to him, puzzled. “You don’t need me here,” you tell him, softly.

Your employer frowns. “_________, what do you mean? The team, we’re talking about the escort for the American embassy between us and the Canadian Prime Minister,” he says.

You shake your head. “I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realise…you have over five, no, six A.I.’s, and they’re smart. Smarter than me! I’m basically pushing paper when they could – I’m useless to you!” you tell him, voice rising. “I wish the rise of robots led to me being fired earlier, rather than –,”

Clint interrupts, “What do you mean?”

“I want to quit,” you tell Tony Stark. “It’s slog, day, night, every day and every night, yet here I am, doing things that F.R.I.D.A.Y. can do!” you exclaim, and moving from where you’re seated, you scatter the papers in the brief you’d been handed, the pages going every which-where. “I give my notice, sir. It’s more than hard working here, especially this time of year.”

You storm out of the room, leaving the Avengers still in the wake of the tempest you brewed, yet, if you stayed a moment longer, you would have heard a whisper.

“It’s not the Avengers if there isn’t _________,” Scott Lang says.

But you’re out of the elevator, and down two levels down the facility, and furious it took you so long to realise how unhappy you were in your job, you don’t look where you’re going. It doesn’t help that you’re hardly looking where you’re going – it’s those factors that lead to you to smack into Happy’s side, and fall.

Or, you would, if the seasoned security chief hadn’t caught you in time.

“_________,” he says, “Why are you crying?”

You didn’t even know you had been.

You don’t really consider it, even, because in that instant, those tears become thicker, and when Happy rights you, and sets you back on your feet, you crumple to the ground like a sagging balloon castle, and let it all out. The austere man known for snappy comebacks and straight-lipped smiles bends down, and sits beside you on the floor in the middle of the common area, unsure what to do.

You keep crying.

“What’s –,”

You sob. “I’m useless. You all don’t need me here.”

Happy’s quiet for a second. Through the torrent of tears, you see him hesitate to touch your shoulder, and giving in, he gives your elbow a sort of awkward pat. He considers it, and then, places a hand beside you. “Did Tony tell you that?”

You shake your head.

“I – I’m no good at words,” he prefaces, “But if you’re just saying that because of all the shit we deal with 24/7, then you’re lying to your own damn self, _________.” Happy tells you firmly. “You’ve done nothing but good things for him, for all of us, and if you can’t see that, well, then you need some big glasses,” he says. “I heard what you said upstairs.”

You place your head in your hands, feeling the sinking sensation of shame and sadness welling inside your lungs, weighing you down. “Did Tony tell you already?” you ask, knowing your boss’s history of tweeting about something 0.02 seconds after it happened. “Oh no…”

He shakes his head. “No, I heard it. Thin walls.” From upstairs you hear a raucous commotion, but ignoring it, Happy adds, “Just…if you’re going to leave, don’t do it because of what you said upstairs.”

You consider it, and wiping your tears with a sniffle, you say, “Okay, Happy.”

---

It takes half a day to clean out your desk after you give your verbal resignation, and the other half to move out from your personal quarters on site at the Avengers facility. You don’t talk to anyone, and hiring a U-Haul trailer, it’s all packed away by yourself, everything you brought, and the little things you’re taking with you that you’ve accumulated in your time working for Mr. Stark.

You told your family that you were coming home for Christmas, and if you buckled down and drove through the holiday traffic, you’d make it from upstate New York to Jersey not too long after sundown. It was a four-hour car trip, and after all the crap you’d gone through, you think that you can do it. But as you’re leaving with keys in hand, leaving without a proper goodbye to the team, you’re met a familiar face.

Happy stands at the driver’s side of the car, between you and leaving.

“Happy –,”

You go to protest, but he interrupts. “_________, I can’t let you just leave.” He looks to his shoes, and adds, “We’ve worked together for almost five, six years? You know my order of coffee as well as I know yours. We mutually hate Tony’s arrogance, and how much trouble they all get into.”

“Happy –,” you whisper.

“I feel like everyday it’s a better day because when you’re around, it is. I don’t know what I did before you came along,” he says, confessing. “I just – now you’re not my colleague, I wanted you to know that, er, if you had time, or wanted to, I’d take you out. Dinner, drinks, maybe a movie?”

You nod, feeling your heart beat faster in your chest.

Happy was always there when the shit hit the fan. He made a bad day good, just by making a passing comment or staring at something terrible until it cowered and fled or disintegrated. He never made you uncomfortable, hell – all the times he was around, it was like coming home. When he had brought you coffee. When you went Christmas shopping. Yesterday, when he saw your soul while crying on the third floor.

When you had that picture of the both of you taken.

“I can’t believe I’m so stupid,” you mutter to yourself. “I’ve been into you this whole time, and –,”

You’re interrupted by a flail of limbs, and out from the facility runs Tony, closely followed by Peter Parker. They both look like it’s the end of all ends, and while Tony stops running and stands a good way from you, maintaining personal space, Peter pummels you, almost knocking you down with a big hug.

“Please don’t leave us,” the kid superhero begs. “You’re the best person ever. Better than my favourite teacher at school, don’t go!”

Tony nods. “I’ll give you a raise, _________, and nicer rooms, and the holidays off, every holiday,” he gushes, “and a better set of insurance benefits –,”

You hug the Spider Man back, and stop Tony in his tracks. “I’ll stay.” Beside you, Happy smiles a rare grin. “And no takebacks on any of those things, you hear me? It’s hard work keeping up with all these superheroes.” You glance to Happy, who in turn, looks to you. “But…I told my family I was coming home for Christmas.”

Tony nods, “Go – take Happy with you. I’ll write a cheque for them too, say, thirty grand? No, I’ll make it fifty, that’ll send your sister to college.” He tells you. “I’m not kidding. I’ve been a shitty neglectful boss, it’s the least I can do.”

You glance down at Peter, who, in realising he’d been hugging you for too long, lets go.

“Thank you,” you tell them, and to Happy, you say, “How about a Christmas dinner first date? My Mom has a great stuffing recipe…”

The holidays were perhaps the worst time of the year. But from then on, for you, they were not. People who were assholes did not and would never mean a thing to you. Work for the Avengers turned out to be more than wonderful after the escapade. Your relationship with Happy blossomed, turning into something greater than you could ever imagine.

A year and a half later, your name officially became _________ Hogan, and another year after that, you both had a daughter, born three days before Christmas. The carollers and the snow and the awfulness of the holidays became something much better than you could ever imagine – much more than you could ever had hoped for.

#happy hogan #happy mcu #happy hogan x reader #happy hogan/reader #happy x reader #marvel fanfic #marvel x reader #chaotic--lovely #pendragonfics #Female reader

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