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pars-ley · 4 years

Text

Your eyes tell

Pairing: Prince Jungkook x Female Reader

Summary: When your best friend’s a prince and inherits the throne, he needs to find a wife to rule alongside him as Queen, you’re more than happy to help him choose an eligible bachelorette. But what happens when you, who only wants to marry for love, are forced to be one of the participants?

Rating: (SFW) 13+

Genre: Royal au / Arranged marriage au / Angst / Fluff / Unrequited love

Word Count: 6400

Warnings: Serious angst. It will make you sick.

Prompts: Everything makes sense when you’re by my side. + I didn’t believe in love, not until I met you.

A/N: This is for the Golden Closet Network’s ‘Jungkook Birthday Project’ I stepped out of my comfort zone for this one, so hopefully it paid off. It’s from their two different perspectives. Italic font is Jungkook, normal font is reader. A big shout and a hell of a lot of thanks to @wheresmymoniat for helping me endlessly, especially through some serious writers block with the ending. She’s a darling.

Banner: @yeojaa honestly, she’s a goddess who went above and beyond to help me with this when I was struggling and offered out of the kindness of her heart, she also made the break lines for me cause she’s the BEST💕😘!

Beta reader: @papillonsgf 😘

Meet Prince Jungkook...

As you hear the announcement escape his mouth, like a 'breaking news' headline silently screaming at you from behind bold, black print, all you can do is stare. The calmness in his voice, unmatched to his words echoing around in your mind, bouncing off the emptiness that has overcome you.

Your eyes sweep over him, the dark circles hanging heavy under his eyes, the exhaustion etched in his handsome face and the anxiety that rolls off him in waves.

A pain in your chest pulls at your emotions, a direct line to your heart just for him. Your body flung itself at him before you had time to register the action.

His arms curl around your waist, squeezing you, keeping you locked in place. His fingers digging into your back, making your anxiety for him creep up into your throat. You try to swallow it down, wanting to be strong for him but your mouth is suddenly without moisture

Your best friend is going to be King of Kalinia, that much you knew and that’s what is expected of a Prince but not now, not yet.

All you can do is stand there, unmoving while he relays the details of his father's illness and his decision to step down from the throne. Meaning, all of it falling onto Jungkook’s shoulders.

How could he bear all that weight on his own? Any normal man would crumble.

However, he is not any normal man, he is strong, determined, loyal, generous and one of the kindest men you know. But seeing him now, a shadow of all you know he is, you want to take it all away and harbour the load yourself, just to give him his freedom a little bit longer.

The studying and travelling he’s been doing, all that now comes to an immediate halt, just as he had started to live his own life, it all comes crashing down around him.

It’s your job to pick up the pieces and you’re more than happy to assume that role but it also means that your plans for travelling would have to be put on hold too.

Your arrangement had been to meet Jungkook in Italy and travel around Europe together over the course of 2 months before returning to continue studies, but the idea of visiting these places alone, without him by your side, now seems a lot less appealing.

His slightly painful grip on your back, fingernails desperately digging in to provide some kind of anchorage for him, pulls you back into the present.

"Hey," you lean away so you can cradle his face in your hands. "It's just me right now, you can be honest. You don't have to pretend with me."

His wide eyes seem to tremble as they meet yours. "I just wasn't expecting this so soon." His voice interrupts the silence, slicing through it like a knife straight into your gut at his words. “I don't feel...ready for this. I thought I’d have more time to prepare and now, I have to find a wife. A WIFE!”

The sorrow and anguish that fill his eyes overwhelm you with a heaviness in your chest, your pumping organ sinking like a rock to the pit of your stomach. But your mind is frozen, stuck on those last words you hear them rattling, echoing around in your mind, crashing against any thoughts you had like giant waves against rock. Wife? WIFE!

The ascending King cannot rule without a Queen by his side. That is the law of your country and the way it’s always been. You knew this, so why do you feel this way? How exactly do you feel? Sick. Panicked. Sombre. All of the above maybe? You just feel for the hardships that your friend is facing, that’s all it is, you tell yourself.

“I know, I know this has come as a shock but let me tell you, you’re meant to be King and you’re ready, even if you don’t feel like it. I have complete faith in you, Kook and I’ll be here every step of the way. I’ll even help you choose the right...wife.” You hesitate slightly, the words tasting like ash in your mouth.

He pulls you to him again. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Well, after he’s married and King, he’ll have to do without you. There'll be someone new to take care of him and do all the things you do together; to comfort him like this, to spend evenings star gazing and staring at the moon, to pick flowers in the Queen’s garden and have secret picnics in the meadows off grounds.

All of these moments with him won’t exist anymore.

You feel empty at the thought. Almost as if someone reached inside and stole the most vital parts of you and put them on display behind an inaccessible, glass cage to watch beating and working without you.

As you cling to him, fingers gripped in his hair, cheek resting atop of his head, cradling him like your most precious possession, a tear escapes.

Your friend is slipping through your fingers, down into the depths of a world you won’t be able to follow and there's nothing you can do to stop it. You will lose him, that much you are sure of.

You glance over, her expression a smooth and flawless mask, never giving anything away. But you know her well enough to know that something has changed. She has not been the same since you revealed the news of your new-to-be title three weeks ago.

Her usual brilliant, almost blinding light had dimmed into a burnt out candle, flickering on the last threads of its wick. No matter what you say to her she just smiles and says ‘I’m fine’. You might be clueless but you are determined to discover what’s changed.

As you sit here, discussing who, out of the fourteen eligible bachelorettes in the Kingdom, is most suited for being your future wife and Queen, you can’t help but find yourself thinking of only one.

The one you wish you could have, the one you’d give anything to spend the rest of your days with but is the one who would never see you in such a way.

As she sits across from you, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her delicate fingers tracing down her neck. God, how you longed for it to be you caressing her so tenderly, to be able to hold her and tell her what she means to you, to have her by your side instead of these paper faces staring up at you waiting for paper rings. All of them from good families, smart, pretty, the perfect persona for the outside world to see but completely and utterly tedious to you. There wasn’t a single thing written in this bleak print that held your interest even a fraction of the way y/n could.

“Your majesty?” An indistinct voice snaps you out of your trance.

Her eyes flash up to meet yours and you look away quickly, hoping no one has noticed your forlorn stare at the true object of your affection.

“Yes?” You reply, trying to seem present in the room discussing your future as if you weren’t even here.

“Who are you choosing, your majesty?” An advisor asks nervously.

Her. Always her. A thousand times over. In this life and the next and any other after that may follow.

“We need a final three, so we can move on to the next round of tests.”

Round? Tests? This was your life and here it is being discussed as if it were a gameshow.

Your stomach twists, fear rises in your throat making it feel tight. You take a gulp of water, allowing the coolness to sooth you, and look at the sheets placed in front of you. The faces blurring along with the writing.

“Y/n, what are your opinions?” You ask, genuinely curious who she’d pick for you.

She’d choose someone who was strong enough to rule but also sensitive enough to be a decent match for you and that was all you could hope for at this point, a decent match. The three words everyone aspires to describe their life partner.

You wait with baited breath for her response, somewhere deep down in the pits of your heart where hope was long ago locked away and buried beneath years of friendly rubble, it makes an alarming surprise visit, breaking through the debris with ease. You cling to the book of secrets that’s been held captive there in a vault created from torment and in the dark corners you’re on your knees, praying to a god you don’t think will listen. Praying you hear her utter all the impossible things you know she never will. The desperation inside you, clawing to escape out of the refined, solid cage you built, you’re clenched fists under the table fighting to keep it down along with your breakfast.

Everything stills and slowly starts to wither away back to its original place, the place where it belongs, when she nonchalantly reads off three names...none of them hers.

"You've been ordered to participate y/n." The royal adviser informs you, his words ringing like high-pitched sirens in your ears.

"I'm sorry, ordered by whom?" You frown, not understanding, the very idea of what he’s suggesting baffling your mind.

He sighs awkwardly, it’s obvious he did not want to be the one standing in front of you with your hot molten glare on him.

"Who gave the order?” You persist, when his silence is the only response you receive.

He looks down, away from your blazing eyes. “Her majesty, the Queen.”

You freeze, the ground feeling as if it would break away under your feet. What!? Why would she force you to participate in this? She knows you do not want to be Jungkook’s wife and that he would not want you to be his?

This makes no sense. You’ve always had such a lovely relationship with his parents. When you befriended Jungkook, they welcomed you in with open arms and loving smiles, encouraged your friendship and supported you with every decision along the way, so why do this?

“I need to speak with her majesty.” You say through gritted teeth, not only from anger but your attempt at trying to keep down the bile you can feel burning your throat like lava.

He gives you a sharp nod and leads you to her quarters, not that you needed to be shown, you know this castle like the back of your hand, everything in it was both familiar and safe.

As he announces you, you swallow, desperate to wet your dry throat pinching the air that passes with every breath. You hold back your cough in favour of clearing your throat, hoping to relieve the desert patch you feel, gravel grazing your insides down into the pit of your stomach.

When you enter she greets you with a broad, bright smile, a smile that contrasts so drastically to how you feel and, for once, you can’t bear to return it.

Her face drops slightly, but you see a twinkle of amusement in her eyes that makes your blood boil hot and irate in your veins. “Oh y/n, don’t pout, it doesn’t suit you.” She pats the seat next to her on her plush ornate sofa where she resides and places her book on the table in front.

You close the distance between you and sit rather woodenly at her side.

“The rules are the rules y/n, it’s nothing personal but I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I treated you differently. You know that.” Her eyes are so honest, a window right into her soul, lighting up and giving you a glimpse as to what it’s like to play her role.

“But I can’t be his wife!” You exclaim. “He would never want me that way.” You urge, shaking your head at the sheer hilarity of the idea.

You’re met with a poker straight stare, unmoving, her skin still smooth after all these years, unreadable and hard as stone. Picture perfect, a royal portrait ready to be framed with gold. “If that’s the case, what are you worried about?”

You open your mouth to respond but the words are squeezed around your panic induced, contracting throat. Your words seem far away, as you grapple desperately for them.

She places a gentle hand on your knee, the touch calming you instantly. "Y/n listen to me, I know this whole situation has come as a shock to you and to Jungkook, believe me it's still processing for the King and I, but this is our life, however unfortunate, we have a duty. Now, you are not bound to this life by any means, but participating in this is your duty."

She watches you for a moment, her intense gaze making you shift in your seat, as if she was seeing straight into you, everything you held laid bare for her own personal exhibit. "I know it’s hard, the idea that someone will take your place at his side, but he needs a wife and we know you don't want it to be you." Her piercing eyes driving a quick, sharp needle into yours, you look away unable to hold her intruding stare.

"Of course not." You retort with a snort.

She sits back on her sofa, her posture softening, relaxing against the cushioned back. She smiles staring at her hands placed in her lap, as if amused by an inside joke you're not privy to.

"You need to start listening to your heart more than your head, y/n, it will save you a lot of heartbreak in the future."

Perplexed by this unexpected turn in conversation you find yourself frowning. "What do you mean?"

Kindness stretching her mouth into a friendly curve. "My child, it seems I know you better than you know yourself. Your eyes tell."

"Tell what?" You shake your head trying to clear the mud in your mind, making her words impossible to understand.

"Everything." She sighs and stands. "I'm afraid I cannot get you out of this but as you said, you know he won't choose you, so there's no need to panic, is there?"

She saunters gracefully out of the room leaving you with only your bewildered thoughts.

There's a double meaning in her last words but you struggle to determine what it could be.

And how would she know you better than you do? There's a hint of anxiety at what she saw in your eyes, at what you'd apparently given away to her. Your thoughts race, unable to connect her words to your reasoning and you leave the room feeling more frustrated and perplexed than when you entered.

You lean over the pages of the final women you have to choose from, head down eyes unwavering from the same spot you’ve been looking at for what feels like a lifetime. You’ve gone from three possible wives to four, the latter you’re sure if you take your eyes off the page it will disappear before you.

Can this be real? Did she agree to this? Did she nominate herself to take part? Hope blossoms dangerously in your chest, flowering around your heart, encasing it in a prison of promise. A prison you’re creating, you know it but cannot stop. Your thoughts run away with you, visions of your dreams becoming reality within your grasp.

You and her sneaking off grounds for picnics and play dates in the sun, trekking through the forest and taking the row boat out around the river bend, travelling to Paris and visiting the Notre Dame; somewhere she’s always wanted to go, the two of you snapping your own love lock on a branch of a tree with your initials entwined together and throwing away the keys in a nearby river. All the hopeless romantic things you’ve wanted to do, becoming a possibility, the excitement causing butterflies to fly rampantly in your stomach.

You push your chair out, finding your feet and rushing out of the room to find her.

As you parade down the golden ornate halls, feeling as though you’re being carried by eagles wings, floating across the grounds being pulled in her direction. Her face; the only thing guiding your vision, maybe cupid’s arrow finally aimed in the direction you were hoping for, maybe god finally heard you.

You find her by the fountains, her favourite place here, sitting staring at the water as if it holds the answers to all life’s problems. She hears your approach, her eyes snapping up to yours before quickly looking away to hide the tears you’ve already seen and brushing her face with her sleeve.

You step down off the wings, coming crashing back down to earth, the butterflies turning to acid in your stomach and tasting it in your mouth as you rush to her side. Pulling her against you, wrapping her up in a cocoon of comfort and love.

“Y/n, what’s wrong? Tell me.” You urge, panic tightening your gut, squeezing your insides in a vice.

“I’m sure you’ve seen. I’ve been forced to participate in your bride-to-be pageant.” She spits bitter words aimed at you, hope clams up and collapses inside you.

You realise how foolish you’d been to let yourself believe that she could want this like you crave, that she could see you anything like how you admire her, that she could feel for you the way you worship her. Your heart feels heavy, sinking in your chest and resting in the loveless hole gaping open, revealing your insides. The dullness overtakes you, seizing your limbs one by one, you’re unable to listen to the words she angrily ranting. A cloud of darkness swallowing you whole and you gladly take it by the hand, allowing it to draw you in. Maybe you’d forget if you stayed in there, in the dark. Maybe you’d forget about her if you just gave yourself the chance.

She doesn’t want this, she doesn’t want you, that much is clear. So how can you choose her? Even if that is what you truly and honestly desire more than anything. You could not put her through that. She deserves to feel the way you do about someone, even if that person can’t be you, she deserves it, she deserves love. It was time to release her, to let her go.

The thought had tears prick in your eyes, you quickly blink them away.

“You don’t have to worry Y/n, it’s just a formal procedure. I won’t choose you, you’re off the hook.” The words leave you quickly, before you change your mind and sound like they belong to someone else. You would never say them, would you?

She pauses and looks up at you, her tear stained cheeks; you itched to reach out and wipe the shiny, salty trails away but you clench your hand into a fist to stop yourself. “You won’t?” She asks in disbelief.

“Of course not.” You try to give her a reassuring smile but it feels false, painted on like the many royal portraits you grew up staring at.

She stares back out at the fountain, back stiff against you. Your arms fall loosely away from her. “Oh, well, that’s a relief.” She sighs and yet, her reaction perplexes you. You thought she’d seem happier, instead she just seems blank.

“Hey, chin up.” You nudge her jaw with your fist, a friendly gesture you had done many times. When she arches away from it, the action makes your insides twist, unable to understand.

What have you done wrong? You couldn't win, nothing seemed like the right decision anymore.

Why did she seem to be slipping further and further away from you? Even though she sat right next to you, your arms lightly touching at the proximity, she had never felt further away from you. Just out of reach of your grasp.

He had spoken the words you hoped for and yet, you couldn't describe this overwhelming feeling that had draped over you almost instantly, like a blanket of despair. It has enveloped you more and more over the passing weeks.

As you watch him and her, his chosen bride, from your perch of loneliness you felt annoyance grow inside you. You're his friend, his best friend, you should be happy if he's happy.

You watch him smile at her, occasionally he might take her hand in his or tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Things he used to do with you, but it seems different with her, more intimate. And yet it’s funny how you know neither of them have romantic feelings for one another, it's all a façade, it’s all forced.

Why would anyone want to live like that? A loveless marriage. You couldn't wrap your head around the concept.

Was she so desperate to become queen? It's not like she has much of a choice though, those of you within certain households, certain names and certain social standing had a duty. It has been drummed into you since you can remember. That had only acted to make you more determined not to live like that.

You were free, he'd told you himself and yet you couldn't help but sit here; consumed by hopelessness.

Not for yourself surely, but for him. He now had to live the life you dread.

Maybe you should have said you'd marry him, put your selfishness aside and given him a friend in marriage instead of a stranger but it was too late now. Any hope of saving him was out of your reach, all you could do was watch as he made the biggest mistake of his life.

He should be with someone who knows when he's upset just by the look in his wide eyes, who knows each crease in his face when it crinkles when he smiles, who knows each line of his secret tattoos he always keeps hidden. He needs someone he can be himself with, someone who would do anything to see him happy, someone who would do everything to protect him and keep him safe. Someone he can have adventures with as well as make tough decisions with, someone who will bear him beautiful children and raise them to be just as loving and kind as him. He deserves all that and more.

Miss what's-her-name will never be able to give him that. She'll never be good enough. She'll never know what he wants or needs, not like you would.

You know him better than anyone. You could make him happy. So why wouldn't he pick you?

If he's not choosing for love why wouldn't you be first choice, surely that's obvious. Then again, why should you want him to choose you?

You were free to marry whoever you wanted. So, why now did the thought of Jungkook marrying her weigh you down with a rock in your gut, consuming you, making it impossible for you to move without thinking of anything other than her being with him. Touching him. Possibly loving him. Being his wife and her stomach being full with his children.

Why did it burn you so much you could hardly breath? Clawing for air with ragged breaths, you had to uproot your feet from their planted spot and go. Go anywhere the sickening sight of them wasn't, the last image of them walking through the palace gardens hand in hand was enough to overflow the salty dam in your eyes, crumbling with your resolve to hold it in. Your realisation, as you turn away from him, hitting you like a ton of bricks.

The blanket of night that had been covering you - concealing you from the light, from the truth, had finally been lifted.

How could you not have seen it?

How could you not have known?

The way he could make you smile through anything, or the way your stomach fluttered sometimes in his presence, or the way he knew you better than anyone and always seemed to know what you were thinking.

He was your glowing, peaceful moon lighting up the dark sky. The colourful morning sunrise, warming the chill of the night. The roots of your tree, keeping you grounded and yet the bright blossoms in the field bringing you comfort.

After all these years...you finally understood.

You tuck a stray strand of hair behind Charlotte’s ear, the action almost mechanical, something you should do as opposed to something you want to.

With y/n it was an excuse to feel her skin against your fingers, a chance to give her a caring caress and a subtle way to show her how you care. It fell on deaf ears or blind eyes, rather. All your efforts to show her your feelings, to attempt to get her to notice your heart, wide open and ready for the taking, went unnoticed. Maybe you should have uttered the words into her ear one day, laying in the meadow, basking under the sun.

But you didn’t.

You’ve made your decision. It’s Charlotte. She is to be your wife and your queen.

Perhaps, one day, you might feel something more deeply than the awkward discomfort making your toes curl. After all, tomorrow you will be standing in the palace with an audience and a live broadcast as you announce your bride and their queen to be.

It's your duty, there's no escaping it, you know this. And yet, your chest is weighed down, tight with an anchor pulling you underwater as you fight and kick against the waves of emotions crashing against you. Clawing your way to the surface and fighting for breath as hopelessness fills your lungs. The box your heart was kept in for her, now feels like an empty cage. Hollow. She left, not physically but in spirit, and took your beating organ with her, the life slowly draining in her absence.

But here you are still standing, unable to give up and let go.

You had to. You needed to move on and away from her, perhaps one day you'll be able to stop picturing her face, hearing her laugh or the smell of her skin.

Your agonising thoughts running rampant in your mind made you want to scream up at the sky. At a god you were rapidly losing faith in.

You needed to be alone and get yourself together.

You made your excuses, apologising to your fiancé - an invisible noose around your neck pulling tight from the very thought of who she was to you and who she would be for the rest of your life - and left, albeit rather abruptly.

Rushing to the stables and guiding your horse out of palace grounds, racing away from decision making and royal duty.

The wind against your face, cool air relentless as you speed across fields but cooling your burning skin, ablaze with frustration. The sound of hooves thundering against the ground seem to echo out around you in otherworldly quiet, giving away your position to everyone.

They'll search for you soon, you know this but you just need to breathe. You need to feel your lungs expanding and shrinking on their own, moving how they should, without barbed wire squeezing around them, digging in with every draw in of air and stopping you short.

You needed a last moment of freedom, before the tight noose of your responsibilities squeezed around your neck and choked you.

Your breathing came hard and harsh as you pushed your horse as fast as he could go, until the meadow came into view, your meadow and hers. You'd ended up here, again. This special place, holding so many memories.

You climb off your horse and sink down into the grass, each blade a page of remembrance tying the two of you together. A bond you thought indestructible and yet, here you are desperately clinging onto her in fistfuls of grass.

You understood, your life is on the cusp of changing forever, no going back, it's a life she cannot be a part of in the same way. Of course she'd want to move away from it all, if you could…it's irrelevant because you can't.

Duty to country before anything and everything else. Being a good ruler should be your main concern right now. And yet, you are plagued with the thought…'what if i had told her?'

What if.

Would it have made any difference? Probably not.

Would your friendship have been ruined? Probably.

But at least, if you had been brave enough to utter the words, even once, then you wouldn't feel as incomplete as you do right now. On your knees, gripping onto the turf as if to hold you in place, head against the ground and eyes squeezed shut.

If there's one last thing you should say, even to unburden yourself after all these years and remove the heavy shawl of emotion that’s been draped across your shoulders, weighing you down, it should be your truth. Finally.

Not for any expectation of reciprocation but to know that you did everything you could. No regrets when you look back at the choice you've had to make.

Just the truth.

The horse was already moving as you had one foot in the rung of the saddle and the other straddling across it.

"Jungkook's missing." The words from the royal advisor replay anxiously in your head, making your heart pound violently against your ribs, playing its own panicked score.

He left the palace hours ago on his horse and hasn't been seen since. The way your gut twists at the direction your thoughts take has your fists clenched painfully around the reigns.

You bolt out of the palace gates, hoping you know exactly where he'll be.

Trees whip past you at alarming speed but you dare not slow down. You need him to be ok. You need him to hear what you have to say. You need him.

Scanning the distance frantically, looking for the break in the trees, revealing the meadow, your heart almost stops when your eyes finally land upon it.

You spot his horse first, then see his hunched figure leaning over in the grass and fear takes your heart and locks it in a vice grip so painful tears fill your wild eyes.

You're already climbing off before the hooves have stilled.

"Jungkook!" You hear his name in a strangled scream and realise it's you the distraught voice has escaped from.

As you sprint in his direction, he sits straight up, surprised eyes shooting up to you and relief washes over you like rough waves crashing against the shore.

Your body collides heavily with his, a thump sounding out all around you into the usually calming silence. The air leaves his lungs in a hiss as he's flung backwards to the ground.

You squeeze your arms around him, holding him so close and so tight, frightened he'll be carried off into the wind like the seeds from the dandelion puff balls surrounding you.

His arms hesitantly wrap around your waist as if worried you'll break.

You pull yourself back to look at his beautiful face, to make sure he's ok and in one piece but the shock that widens his doe-like eyes momentarily distracts you.

"Y/n, what's wrong!?" He fusses, wiping softly at your tear trails with gentle thumbs. Cradling your face in his hands, worry lines wrinkling his forehead as if he has reason to worry about you.

Hot tears fall fervently from your eyes, unable to be stopped. You smile at him, tracing his smooth cheekbones and sharp jawline with your fingers.

Seeing him and looking into his eyes in this moment, it's undeniable your heart belongs to him.

How you never realised is truly mind blowing, it's so obvious now, all your confusing thoughts and feelings towards this entire situation suddenly made clear.

Overwhelmed to the point your chest is so full of him it feels ready to burst, sprinkling your special place with heart-shaped confetti etched with his name.

"I have to tell you something, before it's too late." You say taking a deep breath and straightening your back with determination, as you sit almost on his lap.

His worrying eyes search yours, frantically going from one to the other, trying to read you, trying to find answers to unasked questions.

"Over the past few weeks, I've been trying to understand...all of the memories we've made, and the places we've spent time together, they're very special to me, I hope you know that? I hold them very dear. And I was afraid of you having this other person to share them with and that i would be pushed out —"

"Y/n, I would never do that." He insisted, cupping your face in his hand. He means it too, it's written all over his face, your own personal scripture of truth.

"I know." You say softly, smiling and interrupting him before you lose your nerve to continue. "My point is, I thought it was the idea of being replaced by her that was bothering me so much but I realised something…I've been an absolute idiot." You laugh to yourself, feeling freer than ever.

He stares back at you with bewildered amusement.

"It's never been where we were or what we did that made everything so special...it was you. You are the centre of it all. You're the person who knows me better than anyone. You're the one who makes me endlessly and purely happy. You make me feel safe and protected. You are...home. Everything makes sense when you’re by my side. Wherever you are, I want to be. Whether that be as your wife, your queen or just your friend...if your decision is still to be with Charlotte, I will support you throughout —"

"Wait, I'm confused. At the fountain the other day, you were distraught at the idea of marrying me, you were relieved when I told you I wouldn't choose you?"

You look down at your hands that are now in your lap, ashamed you didn't realise then in that moment what is so clear to you now.

"I didn't understand then. But I wasn't relieved, my heart felt like it was caving in on itself. I didn't want to be in the running because I never thought you'd choose me. I told myself I didn't want you to, I didn't want to be a part of it, when the actual truth of it is I wanted to be your only choice, not the best out of a bad bunch but I couldn't face the idea that you might not choose me."

You feel your cheeks tinge crimson from your words, feeling sheepish for your naivety.

You peek up at him shyly through your lashes. He's frozen and wide eyed, staring at you curiously.

"So what exactly are you saying y/n? So I can understand this correctly." His quiet, breathy voice makes your heart pound faster and harder than ever. Each thrum vibrating through you with the sound of his name to accompany its beat.

You gulp loudly, digging deep for your last ounce of courage, to utter the words. To say them out loud makes it real, equally as the possibility of affirmation or rejection. You take another breath, your eyes meeting his, those pools of ebony you could so easily get lost in. "I'm in love with you."

The silence that follows is almost deafening as you prepare yourself for a sweet, gentle refusal. But you're perplexed when you see his perfect lips upturn and stretch, beaming at you like a ray of sunshine. He moves forward to you quickly, you lean in anticipating his next words. But when his lips crush against yours instead, it doesn’t register for a moment or two, you stiffen before your body's primal response takes over and your hands find their way up into his hair, skating your fingers through his silky locks.

The feel of his soft mouth on yours was undeniably alluring, pulling you in deeper with each movement of his lips. Your heart pounds frantic in your chest as the feel of his hands around your waist, holding you flush against him, your bodies moulded tight almost as one was enough to enthral you entirely. When he abruptly pulls back, you feel cold and needy. Your heart, now an open wound, seared by his kiss, bleeding love uncontrollably.

He holds your face in his hands, foreheads touching and breathing heavy. “How I have longed to hear you say those words.” He whispers.

Your eyes bulge at his admission but as you open your mouth to speak, he lifts a finger against your lips to silence you.

“I didn’t believe in love, not until I met you. I could only ever imagine a life and a marriage destined to be only friendly and passionless. But I have loved you since that first summer we met and I have wished everyday since for you to feel even a fraction of the way I do for you.”

He tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering gently on the skin of your neck. “Tell me again.” He pleads.

“I love you.” You lean forward and kiss him again. “I love you.” You utter the words between quick, desperate kisses causing him to groan against your mouth. His arm snakes around your waist and the ground leaves you, air breezing through your hair. You’re on your feet before you know it and your gaze is drawn downwards to him, in front of you, on one knee.

He tightly grips your hand in both of his. “I have waited long enough for you. I saw a glimpse of a world without you by my side and it was monochrome and cold. I don’t want that. I want to see the colours when you look at me and smile so sweetly. I need to hear your laugh, my personal symphony. And if you would take my hand and walk the path into tomorrow and forever with me as my wife and my Queen, I will spend the rest of my life trying to make yours as colourful and joyous as mine will be. Marry me, please?”

You feel hot tears sting your eyes as happiness blooms deep in your chest. A bright orange tiger flower blossoming for him, a beacon of light and joy calling to you, showing you your rightful and chosen path. All these wasted years shall be no more and new ones accompanied by new memories await.

“Yes!”

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marvels-writings · 4 years

Text

Love is Trust

Maria Hill Masterlist

Requested by Anon: 22, 34, 35 with Maria hill. Preferably from hills POV where r breaks up with her. maybe a few time skips in there. heavy angst

22: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’m never going to do this again!”

34: “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

35:“Our time here is over.”

Word Count: 2,559 (long and angsty)

A/N: I could have written a simple, 1k word fic for this. But no, my imagination had to go wild and make me spend an entire two days writing this, was it worth it? Of course.

Daydreaming is an almost thing. You never know what different reality you might imagine. For Maria, a reality she was imagining was better than the one she was living in. Being distracted from that reality almost made her angry until she noticed who had brought her out of the daydream.

Natasha ran her thumb over the back of her palm as it rested on the coffee table. Green eyes scanned her features sympathetically. The brunette had no doubt she could see the exhaustion and hurt written on her face.

The sunlight from the windows in the kitchen hit her back, keeping her warm. But she still shivered, feeling cold all the time. Chest heavy, almost like she was carrying it around like a weight.

“What’s going on?” Natasha asked, pulling over a chair and sitting down in front of her, elbows leaning on the table. The redhead’s hand had slipped out of hers, waiting for her to speak.

“As if you don’t know.” Maria scoffed, leaning back in her chair, the hoodie sleeves over her hands. The hoodie she wore, navy blue and oversized, still smelled like you. It was almost the last thing she had left to remind her of you, except for the ring in the hoodie pocket.

“I only know what you’ve told me,” Natasha stated, watching the brunette and sighing. Maria didn’t respond, staring into the space ahead of her blankly.

“Which is that you and Y/n decided to end your relationship after almost 3 years.”

Three years, three years often sounded like a long time. It was a long time for most people, but it felt so short. The three years of happiness and being with you all over. Maybe if she could turn back time, it would be easier than trying to make things right.

“Natasha, this isn’t your business,” Maria said, inhaling sharply and beginning to get up, the rin gin her pocket heavier than ever. The redhead glared at Maria, gesturing to the seat, the brunette sat back down.

“As your chosen family, it is.” She shrugged, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.

“What happened?” Natasha asked, waiting for the story to spill from Maria.

To Maria, it didn’t feel like a story anymore. It was like a dream, a nightmare almost. Her worst fears playing into her reality and destroying her life. How she wished it was a bad dream, and she could wake up in your arms, safe and loved. It was a hope she was past having.

————

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” Maria said, running her hands through her hair, leaning back against the couch in your shared apartment. You sighed and propped your elbows against the kitchen counter, leveling your girlfriend with a glare.

“You think I do?” You spat, watching the brunette wince at your harsh tone. It wasn’t a tone you used often, it was the kind of tone you used when you were annoyed with someone or you hated them. Maria was neither of them, but it was starting to seem like it.

“Where do you keep going?” Maria asked, forcing her eyes to stay open.

Exhaustion was creeping into her, but she refused to fall asleep. It was well past one in the morning, Maria had started asking you where you had been almost all night. But you refused to tell her, making her even more adamant and irritated.

“What, what do you mean?” You stuttered when you noticed her say ‘keep’. Maria was surprised you hadn’t expected her to see you take your car and head out into the city, almost every week. The way you hid your phone and kept a few more secrets from her.

“I mean, where do you keep going once a week without telling anyone?” Maria asked, stepping forwards and meeting your gaze in front of the kitchen counter. Your eyes left hers, darting nervously around the kitchen as you stepped back.

“It’s not important.” You waved her off, licking your lips.

“It is if you don’t tell me,” Maria said, watching you from the front of the kitchen counter. The first time she had asked you about this, you had easily distracted her from it. But she needed to know, your hidden secret was always in the back of her mind, feeding off of her insecurities.

“Maria,” You sighed, walking back to the counter and taking her hands in yours. “it’s not important.”

Your touch distracted her almost instantly, your warm fingers dancing along hers intoxicating her. Maria knew far too well what you were trying to do, you were trying to distract her from this, again. Her insecurities threatened to spill forth, maybe it was time she told you why she was so scared.

“Are you,” Maria licked her lips, pulling away from you. “are you cheating on me?”

“NO!” You shouted, voice loud and eyes wide in shock.

The way you denied it made her almost believe you. There could be other reasons you kept sneaking away, none came to mind. The most obvious one was that she wasn’t enough for you. There was something in her hoping that was the case, so it wouldn’t be entirely her fault you left eventually.

“God, no, I couldn’t.” You ran your hand through your hair in disbelief before moving forwards to take her hands. Maria slid away, watching you carefully.

“You know I could never do that.” You said, pleading for her to believe you. One hand remained in your trouser pocket, fidgeting with a small box. Maria assumed it was a small gift for her since you’d been gone too much, she didn’t think much of it.

“Do I know?” Maria asked, almost lying through her teeth. Of course, she knew you would never cheat on her. Her insecurities had gotten the best of her.

“Why are you doubting me?” You asked, tilting your head to the side slightly.

Maria’s eyes widened minimally as she stepped back, stuttering over her reply. She tried to compose herself. To try to get any sort of semblance to lie to you. It wasn’t working, you were seeing right through her.

“Maria,” You caught her attention, blue eyes barely meeting your gaze. “what aren’t you telling me?”

The brunette fidgeted under your scrutiny, deciding her biggest regret might not be her mistake, it might be telling you. At least she could be happy about being honest, even if there was nothing else to be happy about.

“About 2 weeks ago, I thought you were cheating on me.” Maria began, sighing as the events ran through her mind, wincing as her regrets flashed through her. “I went to a bar by myself.”

Shutting her eyes tightly, willing the memories away, wishing they weren’t true. More than anything she wanted her worst regret to be wrong, maybe a bad dream, anything else but a reality. There was nothing she could do to undo this, to undo her worst regret.

“I got drunk, too drunk,” Maria said, eyes flitting up to you. Your eyes watched her intently, betraying no emotion. “I wanted you to feel how I was feeling.”

Maria went quiet, fear filling her, eyes boring into yours. Her eyes were somewhere you could easily get lost, they were familiar and known. Now, they felt strange, unknown, almost as if they were betraying you.

“What did you do?” You asked, fear dripping into your voice.

“I cheated on you,” Maria confessed, almost like an apology. An apology for betraying your trust and doubting you. Though, she doubted anything she said could make you feel better.

If anything, she remembered the long nights you spent talking together about your worst fears. She had confessed she was terrified she was going to die alone, you had easily assured her that would never happen if she trusted you. You had confessed your worst fear was not being enough for someone, your worst fear was that the person you trusted most decided you weren’t enough for them.

Maria expected you to yell at her, throw things, cry, anything but what happened next. Eyes wide and teary, you chuckled and pulled the box you had been fidgeting with out of your pocket. The box was navy blue and velvet, her name engraved in an elaborate cursive font on the front.

You chuckled, there was no humor in you anymore. It was pained, breaking you to make any sort of reaction. Maria wanted to rush forwards to apologize, to try to fix what she had broken. But you didn’t give her a chance as you fidgeted with the box.

You had been planning to propose to her, her insecurity about being cheated on was because you’d been trying to surprise her by proposing, by putting her worst fears to rest. Instead, Maria had made your worst fear come true.

“And here I was,” You set the box down on the counter, a single tear falling from your cheek onto the box. “wanting to spend the rest of my life with the woman I wasn’t enough for.”

Pain filled your words, enveloping Maria and suffocating her, weighing down on her chest like weights.

“I’m sorry,” Maria whispered, rushing over to your side of the counter.

You backed away from her quietly as she reached out for you. Tears continued to slip out of your eyes as you made no motion to stop them. Every single tear showing how badly you were hurt, how badly Maria had hurt you.

“I’m sorry!” She shouted, almost begging for you to forgive her. But she knew there was nothing she could do to make you forgive her.

“I’m never going to do this again!”

“You never should have in the first place.” You murmured, still backing away from her. Your back hit the countertop as you cowered into yourself even further. Maria winced and backed away, trying to give you some space.

“Y/n, I never would have if I didn’t think you were cheating on me,” Maria said, trying to make an excuse, say anything to try to make less of her mistake.

“This is my fault now?” You scoffed, crossing your arms defensively. Wiping the tears away from your face in vain as more tears began to slip down.

“No,” Maria sighed, reaching forwards to take hold of your hands, to bring your comforting touch back. “that’s not what I meant.”

You pulled away, hurt as you shuffled to the other side of the kitchen. Feeling less cornered, your tone rose angrily. Your face hardened, despite the tears clinging to your skin like oil, you looked furious.

“I don’t care what you meant Maria.” You hissed, voice beginning to rise. It was almost as if the gravity of the situation came back to you when the brunette looked at you. Your voice softened and more tears fell.

“I gave you everything I had and I still wasn’t enough for you.” You said, shutting your eyes and turning to face away from her, steadying your breathing. The truth in your tone hitting Maria in the chest, pain flooding her, washing away any hope of reconciliation she had.

“You might as well take the ring,” You reached forwards and took her hand, slamming the velvet box into it. Your hand slipped away from hers, maybe for the last time. Confusion was clouding your features like you didn’t know what the right thing to do was anymore.

“my life was something I was willing to give to you.” You stated, moving towards the door and grabbing your coat. The apartment was yours, yet Maria was the reason you were leaving.

“Y/n, no,” Maria reached forwards to take your hand, but you were already out the door and running into the rain outside. You turned around, a sliver of hope-filled Maria, maybe you would let her apologize and bring you inside.

The rain-soaked your clothes and hair as Maria still stood in the doorway, unsure if you wanted her close. The water mingled with your tears, washing them away, making you wish it could wash your pain away too.

“Our time here is over.” You stated, sniffling as you turned on your heel and went towards your car. Shoulders drooped as rain-soaked your clothes, half expecting Maria to chase after you.

Which she did, the brunette ran after you, she still wasn’t fast enough to catch you. By the time she finally caught up to you, you were in your car and driving off. Maria was left, the rain drenching her clothes, mixing with the tears that were starting to slip down her face.

You left her because of what she had done. The mistakes she had made caused you to leave, you were ready to spend the rest of your life with her. If only you would come back, she could tell you that the answer would have been yes, it would always be yes.

Walking inside, she picked up the ring set down on the kitchen counter and picked it up, examining it. The velvet was soft to the touch, the engraving perfect and elaborate. She opened the box to reveal a silver ring with a sapphire stone in the center, surrounded by smaller sapphires weaved into it.

The light glinted off awkwardly from the inside of the band, causing her to pick it up and look on the inside. There was a small engraving, it read

“Love is trust, I love you”

Her mind betrayed her, showing her the memories of when you’d asked her what love meant to her, just before she told you. To Maria, love had always been trust, to trust the person with every single part of you and trust them not to leave.

She loved you, more than anyone she had ever loved before. Now, after breaking your trust in her, she wasn’t sure if you loved her anymore.

————

“What are you planning to do now?” Natasha asked, watching the brunette play with the box in front of her. She hadn’t opened it after that, hoping she could find you and make things right again. But it was as if you’d disappeared, no one could find you. Not even her, and she had spent days trying.

Almost a week had passed since she had last seen you, felt your touch dancing across her skin like a flame. The warmth she missed, more than anything, it always felt too cold now. Even when she was in your shared bed, comforted by all the blankets around her, she felt vulnerable and cold.

“I don’t know,” Maria said, clenching her jaw as her fingers ran over the engraving again.

“Do you want her back?” Natasha asked, knowing the answer before the question left her lips.

“More than anything,” Maria answered instantly, she sighed and put her hands around the ring box, her hands getting warmer the more she held the box, she hadn’t let go of it even after you left.

“But I broke her trust.” She mumbled, opening the box as a tear slipped down her cheek. A small gasp left Natasha at the sight of the ring.

The brunette pulled it out, playing with it, running her fingers over the smooth stones resembling her eyes. Marriage is a promise to spend the rest of your life with someone, it must have been terrifying for you to get this ring made knowing she might say no.

“But love is trust,” Maria read the inscription with a sigh, fingers turning cold as more tears fell. “she doesn’t trust me anymore.”

A/N: Please don’t let my sanity go to waste and comment/reblog/send me an ask!

Tag List: @capcarolsdanver, @versdan, @lesbian-girls-wayhaught, @lovebotlarson, @dhengkt, @hstoria, @natasha-danvers, @veryfunnyal, @xxxtwilightaxelxxx , @ophelias-heart , @never-didbefore , @justarandomhumanhere, @the-most-unicorn-of-them-all , @thatssocamryn , @lesbian-x-blackwidow , @wlw-imaginesss , @hcartbyheart , @summergeezburr , @imnotasuperhero , @a-stressedstudent , @aaron-despair , @rooskaya-yelena , @thewitchandtheassassin , @wannabe-fic-reader , @izalesbean, @higherfurther-romanova let me know if you’d like to be in any of my tag lists!

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border-spam · 4 years

Note

Regarding ur pain snippet, would Troy feel comfortable venting around Sei? And if yes, how would they handle it??

Troy doesn’t feel comfortable venting about it with anyone. He’s spent his entire life trying to not be pitied while stumbling in the shadow of Tyreen’s blinding light, demanding perfection from himself to hide physical weaknesses and chronic illness from the greedy eyes of the billions of online followers who obsess over the twin’s every recorded breath.

But if you know God King Calypso well enough, if you’re close enough to him?

There are gentle ways to reassure Father Troy it’s safe to tell you the truth.

Sei and Troy are very close.

They weren’t originally, it was actually Tyreen who was far more in tune with Seifa in those first couple of months together, back when the twins were recovering on her ship after their first failed attempt at surviving on Pandora.

Ty was engaging, a bubbly young woman full of endearing chattiness and interested in everything Sei did. A hundred questions an hour as she followed Sei around the ship like, what are sponsorships? How do you get marks to keep their eye on you and not be distracted by competition? How do you move to make them hungry for your body? How do you know when you’ve gone too far? How do you read the room? How do you -

Tyreen had a million hows and a mouth that never seemed to need to rest, but Troy was silent. He had his reasons... he didn’t want to be there after all.

Pandora had been cruel to them both from the moment their worn soles crunched into its acrid dust, but it had hurt Troy. Really, it had almost killed him.

He’d been left sick, uncomfortable in his own stretched skin, and wary of anyone who was other - which meant Seifa. Thinking back on it, she had been pretty insulted by how he’d acted in the first few weeks in her home, before she understood.

Tyreen on the other hand was thankful for her. She was a font of laughter and energy, flitting about the ship as her new friend worked and attempting to “help her” in thanks for the hospitality Sei had shown them, as if hindering her chores with constant interruptions was somehow going to pay her back for taking them in, but Troy? He was just... there.

A looming, gangly shape standing awkwardly in corners. Rudely quiet, only proving he wasn’t mute through crackly whispers to his twin that would fall silent when Seifa would approach. A nervous, cagey giant of a child who came across as both irritated and terrified by Sei, till he’d finally talked, and he’d explained everything.

Tyreen had been the one who filled the ship with laughter in those first 6 months, but Troy had been the one to tell her the truth of things.

They settled as companions, slowly.

By the time Seifa had accepted the twin's request to join their management staff in the early growth of the COV and had returned to Pandora, the friendship between the three was easy.

Tyreen was still the focus of all attention mind you, it was still her who'd control the conversations and limelight when they'd meet each week in the "God Twin's" shared cloister to relax together in dropping their charades and becoming human again for a few hours.

Troy was happy just to sit between the women and smile as they eased into their drinks and each other's company on those nights. It was enough for him to simply exist next to people who liked his presence. There was warmth in those times, Sei's snorting laughter cracking a smile across his face he could never quite hide as she'd lean against the weight of his side, Ty insisting they watch as she theatrically reenacted how the day's encounter with off-world investors had gone. Never well for them, but always hilariously in her favor.

As the months turned to a year though, Tyreen just slowly stopped turning up.

They never really noticed as it happened, it was subtle, one missed night a month, then 2, then 3... It became Sei and Troy instead of Sei and the Twins.

The conversations would turn a little gentler without Tyreen's razor sharp energy to infect them, and they’d sit side by side, sharing snippets of each other's pasts, their hopes, and the things they both wanted from this newborn cult. Regrets sometimes, if the atmosphere was right.

The cloister slowly started to feel empty with just two people, and they knew deep down that Tyreen was unlikely to start joining again - she was far too busy with her God Queen persona and heaving fanbase to have the time to waste doing fuck all with close friends. The high walls and open space decor of the twin's shared quarters started feeling cold without her electricity, so they shifted to his ship instead. Troy's Sanctum.

She'd still turn up every so often, a couple of months of no appearances and then that crystalline laughter would ring through his quarters and they'd turn to raise a glass at the holy Vault Mother as she kicked off her boots with gusto and grabbed a seat, but eventually, that stopped too, and for quite a long time it was just Troy and Seifa on those nights, together in warm comfort.

A friendship that had bloomed into the easy, open kind where silence didn't mean awkwardness, where you could sit arm against arm and breath out the stresses of titles, and Godhood, and the crushing weight of responsibilities you never really asked for or wanted, and just... be. Just exist next to the reassuring presence of someone who never wanted more from you than what you could honestly give, because they knew who you really were, deep in your core.

It was Jak-Knife who joined next.

Troy's bodyguard had stood stoically outside his Sanctum's doors so many times that they’d become part of the evening, nodding at the Mechanicum's Saint as Seifa would arrive. Return her wink and knowing chuckle as they'd step to the side for her. It made sense they'd eventually find their way inside at his welcome, and the shared laughter in his home grew with their gruff warmth and open heart.

It was Ven, after.

The Oracle was impossible to avoid in general, he was a grandstanding assault on the senses with charisma almost as flamboyant as his dress sense, but the longer anyone spent around Ven, the easier it was to truly appreciate his company for what it really was. Someone who genuinely liked you for who you were, and not what his unique insight told him you could provide him in the future.

Troy had always had a soft spot for the gaudy soothsayer. Personal reasons maybe, he was the only one who knew what Ven had signed his life away to the COV in return for after all, and maybe that was why when Ven began to fill Sanctum with terrible stories and obvious lies about the beautiful people who fawned over him on benders in the Holy City's slums, it didn't take long before his delicate brother Eli joined them too.

Seifa saw the connection even if the other's didn't, Eli's joint braces and medical equipment, the sadness in Troy's glances. Physical weakness, unashamed from someone so strong in character. She saw how Troy looked at the other man, the fleeting respect in those ice-blue eyes. The shame.

They became a unit in the end, Jk, Ven, Eli, Seifa, and their broken God King, a rickety family existing inside the guts of a monstrous one as the COV surrounded and spread through their lives with every passing day its grip across Pandora tightened.

But Seifa and Troy are very close.

They know each other, inside and out. They've shared their failures, illnesses, rages and tears. They are the keeper of each other's years of secrets. That he's so sick so often, that her right eye is practically blind, that he wishes he wasn't what he's turned into, that they are both so desperately lonely.

She knows how to manipulate him into being honest about the painful reality he carries in a body that's never really functioned well, that's gnawed at inside by half of a power no one understands enough to try and heal.

She perfected it by watching the other people who care about him.

JK, huffing theatrically as they eye an exhausted Troy's shaky hand as he forces himself to continue working, complaining that they are hungry, that he may be a workhorse but they need to rest, then chuckling at his blustery ego as he mocks them and takes the out.

Ven and his little white lies, his warnings that Troy needs to stop pouring over the latest viewer statistics and take a break, because he "got glances" at bad outcomes if they weren't left till later. The reassurances that everything will be fine and things will turn out better if he stops for the night.

Eli, explaining how the latest medication course Troy's medical team recommended really helped with the tension pull in his shoulders from his spinal issues, chatting in surprising detail about how relieving it's been, what dosage he's been taking...

Troy will not talk about his chronic issues with anyone, because he is terrified of appearing weak. She doesn't know why for definite, but she can guess, and is pretty sure it's related to his childhood. From the snippets he's given her, the emotionless monotone of his voice when he speaks about his father, well, she has hunches.

Neither of the twins were happy as children, neither of them talk about "home" with even a vague sparkle of joy in their dead eyes. But Troy, he shies away from it, like there is something he's ashamed of, or the lingering ghost of something that haunted his early years and follows him still.

Troy is terrified of being pitied, because he so desperately wants to be seen as reliable. He wants to be strong. He wants to be useful.

So to get him to open up? You need to ask for his help.

Sei is a clever woman, and Troy is a lost, broken man who is so easy to wrap around her finger that sometimes she wonders at times if it's intentional.

When she sees him flagging, when his skin is a little lighter than normal, the dark under his eyes deeper, she'll play the damsel. She'll let him be the knight in shining armour that the little boy in him so clearly wishes it could have grown into. Sei will gasp gently when they are alone in his ship on these nights, pinch her lip between her teeth as she slowly rotates her wrist and stares sadly at the tremor that runs through it. She'll act it out, knowing he's watching, and wait for him to take the bait.

He always does - he can't help it. He'll always try and help her even when he's sick or exhausted. He'll always approach and ask if she's ok even if a migraine is rendering him barely able to stand.. because that's who he is. That’s the real Troy DeLeon.

She'll sit on the plush edge of the recessed couch in the floor of his Sanctum, and wait for him to shakily lower his towering body to the cushioned floor in front of her, before he gently takes her wrist in a hand that could easily crush it.

She'll wince, flutter her eyelashes with a gasp, and nod along to his muttered questions as he turns it so carefully, crankily asking when it last acted up, why hasn't she seen the specialist he contacted months ago, why she’s not taken time off when he knows he’s not working her that hard, why is she such a pain in the ass, how bad does it hurt, is he helping...

Seifa will wait, all quiet sighs and hitched breaths till he's so focused in shifting the tiny bones of her wrist under the pressure of his thumb that she can ask him how he feels, and he'll tell her.

That's the key.

Troy Calypso is so terrified of being seen as less because of his pain, that he'll pretend it doesn't exist, he'll suffer in silence alone in the sorrow of his empty ship. But if he's protecting someone else? If he is massaging the old fracture in Seifa's wrist and lost in the concentration of trying to ease her distress? He'll tell her about his neck if she asks, or the pain in the dull hollow of his lumbar, or how he's thrown up 4 times today, how he woke up the other night and was sure his heart had stopped.

He'll mumble out secret fears he was hiding behind the God King's vicious mask for weeks, and he'll let her run fingers through his hair as she tells him how strong he really is.

#borderlands #bl3 #borderlands 3 #troy calypso #tyreen calypso #calypso twins #leech lord #seifa #my hcs #my writing #sbsart

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notveryglittery · 4 years

Text

misc royality #3

summary: patton and roman talk after “putting others first” words: 2k / ship: royality warnings: might come across as a little harsh towards deceit but that’s definitely the author′s bias versus how the characters feel. uh, outburst of emotions, hiding one’s feelings. lmk if there’s anything else. author’s note: BEFORE YOU READ, PLEASE UNDERSTAND THAT THIS IS UNFINISHED!! I DO NOT HAVE PLANS TO FINISH IT!! it stops at a point that can be considered a happy ending, in my opinion, or at the very least hopeful and heading towards resolution. i started writing this on may 11 and have since read too many posts about the episode/royality during or after the episode/etc to feel happy with where i was going here. it has not been beta’d. i hope you enjoy regardless <3

— — —

Okay, so that had gone… about as terribly as it could have.

To be fair! … To be fair, things had been alright for a bit. Patton had genuinely been trying not to force his opinions on anyone else, Thomas had been open to hearing from both of them, and Roman had done his best to reign in the insults. He thought he’d done a pretty good job, standing up for himself while making sure still to support Patton. It hadn’t been easy, sure, wanting to mention how attending the wedding had been a waste, and how they’d have been better off at the callback, and how he wished their court scenario had gone differently, but that… That was all water under the bridge. The bridge might have needed some work, admittedly, given that Roman could feel the heat licking at his heels, but that wasn’t something he could worry about right now.

Right now, all he could worry about was figuring out where he stood on this good versus evil scale. Heh… scale. Yeah, thinking about the reptilian rapscallion was not going to improve his mood. Roman sighed, pushing a hand through his hair, and kicking his boots off the moment he arrived in his room. They disappeared under the bed, which was going to be very annoying when he couldn’t find them tomorrow, but whatever, that was a problem for future Roman. The only problem current Roman had was trying to understand the line between right and wrong.

It was wrong to laugh at Deceit’s name, at… at Janus sharing something important and then throwing it right back in his face. It was right to be selfish, but only sometimes. It was wrong to put others before oneself, but only sometimes. It was right to lie to spare someone’s feelings…

Roman couldn’t remember that being a part of their discussion but like hell he could forget that he was no longer Thomas’ hero. He wasn’t even sure if it would have hurt less, had Thomas been honest about it.

Maybe Janus was wrong, a small traitorous part of him hoped. Maybe something got lost in translation.

Yeah, and maybe he hadn’t been tricked before. He had to keep his guard up now more than ever… Regardless of whether Patton and Thomas trusted Janus, Roman couldn’t… Not after he’d been fooled so many times already.

He’d just been considering disappearing into the Fantasy Realm for an arduous adventure, something to take his mind off of things until he could better process them, when there was a knock at the door.

“Ro, honey?”

Flinching at the simple sound of Patton’s voice was definitely something worth being concerned about, but he shoved it into the pile of things he’d deal with later. Instead, he fluffed his hair and straightened his sash and put on a smile. It stung a little bit, to do so, when all he wanted was to cry, but maybe this wouldn’t take long.

“Evening, buttercup~” Roman sang as he opened the door, “to what do I owe the pleasure?

If Patton seemed put off by his cheery attitude, he didn’t show it. “I wanted to check on you. I know I’m feeling pretty rough after all that. Are you doing okay?”

“First of all, lovebug, you’re always pretty, so jot that down.” Roman was quick to remind, “as for me, you needn’t add anymore stress to your plate by worrying over this silly old prince.”

The smile that twisted Patton’s lips at the compliment was quickly replaced with a pout. He put his hands on his hips and leaned in closer. “Now Roman, you aren’t just some silly old prince. You’re the most handsome prince in the world. I think you’re very sensible and wise.”

“Logan’s room is two doors down.”

Patton scowled. “Is that a self-deprecation in my house, mister?”

Roman pretended to check his fingernails, feigning disinterest. “Technically not your house so… no, not really.”

Patton pulled away. “Is there something you’d like to get off your chest?” His tone was sincere and Roman wanted to scream because he wasn’t sure he could believe it.

“I don’t know, maybe the suffocating weight of having to be perfect for you all? Or could it be the overwhelming guilt at constantly failing to succeed in the only thing I’m good for?” Roman ignored the way his breath hitched, curled his hands into fists to resist tugging at his hair. “It might just as well be the stifling reminder of how easy I am to manipulate! Gee, Patton, I wonder what I could possibly have to be upset about!”

“Oh.”

Roman reeled back, as if he’d been slapped. Immediately, he was sure that he’d overstepped, that he’d fucked up, and that Patton was going to reprimand him for being whiny and dramatic.

“Oh, okay. Okay, hold on.”

Before Roman could realize it was happening, Patton had stepped through the door. He was trailing his fingers through the air, using the power Roman had allowed him over the room to better suit… whatever it was he had planned.

“Forget I said anything,” Roman said, voice catching. He stayed put, gesturing back out to the hallway. “I’m sure you have much more important things to handle.”

The setting sun normally filled the room with a light that was sometimes glaring due to the wall of floor to ceiling windows, but Patton had lessened it by creating sweeping lace curtains. It seemed softer now, warm and gold, almost as if everything wasn’t actually sharp and broken.

“The only thing I care to handle right now,” Patton said, approaching him, “is you.”

He closed the door before taking Roman’s hands in his. Patton’s skin was soft against Roman’s callouses, from years and years of learning how to play instruments and how to sword fight and how to work himself to the point of pain and then to grit his teeth and keep going. He tried so damn hard, all the time. What even was the point?

“Can we have an open, honest talk, please? I want to understand what’s going on.”

Roman laughed, though there was no humor to it. He yanked his hands free. “Sure. Let’s start with that ‘we love you.’ Finding it real hard to believe there was any truth to it.”

Patton looked hurt and some tiny terrible, vindictive part of Roman thought good. He hated himself for it. He let his arms fall to his sides and brushed by Patton.

He took a seat at his desk, which usually doubled as his vanity, and tried not to look at himself in the mirror. Instead, he grabbed the nearest notebook and pen, and began writing. It didn’t matter what made it from his brain to the page, just that it did, and that he had something to do with his hands and his thoughts. It was quiet for a couple of minutes but Roman knew Patton hadn’t left, for the simple sensation that came with another side being in his room. After a little while longer, Patton moved, and Roman heard the shift of blankets. He was glad, at least, that he was being given some space.

“Feel free to stop me at any point, okay?”

Roman gave him a noncommittal shrug.

“I think I know where things got messy. I really have been blind to so much. Sweetpea, I had no idea how badly Janus had been misleading you. And for such a long time… I can’t change the past but I hope in the future, I can help to protect you from these sorts of things. You keep us safe from so much, Roman. You deserve to be kept safe, too.”

Roman’s vision blurred. With shaking hands, he wiped the tears away before they could fall. He waited until the trembling subsided before speaking. “That’s very kind, dearheart, but I don’t need protecting. I can take care of myself.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have to do it alone.”

“It’s the only way I know how,” Roman said with a hollow laugh.

He finally looked up from his notebook and into the mirror. His eyes were rimmed red and he could see Patton in the reflection, twisting his hands and frowning. The glass went black at Roman’s will and he shoved away from the desk. He turned and took in his room to see what else Patton had done with it. Along with the curtains, he’d added extra strings of fairy lights and piles of pillows on the bed. Now that he was paying attention, Roman noticed the wood floor had been swapped out for plush carpet. It was all exceedingly comfortable.

Lacking the energy to go through the whole process of undressing, Roman snapped his fingers and changed into clean pajamas. Patton smiled hesitantly and did the same. A box also appeared beside him.

“I want to show you a few things. Can we cuddle?”

Roman wasn’t sure how he’d react to being touched right now but there was only one way to find out. They situated themselves in bed, sitting up against the wall with pillows at their backs. Patton stacked the extras at their sides and under their arms; Roman brushed a hand through Patton’s hair as he placed the box on top of his legs. It was cardboard and had been colored all over, decorated with stickers and glitter. On the lid, Roman’s name was written in bubbly rounded letters, surrounded by stars and hearts.

“What’s this?”

Patton opened it and reached in, blindly taking something out. It was easily recognizable for the big font written across it. Christmas Carol. The I was dotted with a star and the O wore mouse ears. Each of the C’s hosted Santa hats and beards.

God, that looks ridiculous. What were you thinking? Roman thought. All the time he’d spent had been a waste once it had become clear how little the others cared. The blatant disregard for their parts and who all they belonged to; that wasn’t even covering how they’d torn him down for (admittedly, he understood now) Virgil’s single line.

“You worked so hard on this, remember?” Patton said, voice heavy with nostalgia. His expression was fond. “It was so much fun to sing.”

“Oh, definitely. Everyone changing the lyrics was my favorite part.” Roman snapped, taking the script and throwing it across the room. There was no noise indicating that it had landed and he assumed Patton had returned it to the box.

Undeterred, he reached in again and this time, it took Roman a moment to realize what it was. A copy of the cast list from the final high school play Thomas had been in. He’d scored the lead role. Roman had been ecstatic; he’d ridden that high for weeks afterwards. Memorizing the lines had been effortless and it’d been so easy to play their part. All of the late nights after rehearsal, 2am at Denny’s, syrupy sweet memories full of laughter and friendship. He took the paper delicately from Patton. Thomas had even gotten it laminated, so that nothing bad could ever happen to it.

“That was a really nice day,” Patton said quietly. “And every day after that. Going over the lines with you felt like such a big deal. I thought I was so clumsy but you still picked me.”

“You were so supportive.” Roman muttered, trying not to trip over the past tense.

The sound of sloshing liquid suddenly had Roman looking to Patton, confused. There was a snow globe in his hand, which he held out on his palm so they could see the scene inside. It was of Elsa and Anna, the former creating the snow flurry that would bring Olaf back to life.

“I promise you that I still am,” Patton told him, in a tone so genuine that Roman wondered how he could ever doubt it to begin with. “You create such beautiful, wonderful, amazing things. I’m proud of them all.”

He tilted the box so that Roman could see better into it. It should have been filled to the brim, with the number of trinkets inside, but it looked well organized. He couldn’t even begin to guess how many scripts, stories, and pieces of artwork Patton had collected.

“Is this a Mary Poppins bag?” He asked teasingly.

“Yes,” Patton responded seriously.

Roman watched as he stuck his hand in and passed all the visible clutter. His arm disappeared up to the elbow as he stuck his tongue out in concentration. Roman found it utterly adorable. When Patton apparently found what he was looking for, he gave a victorious cheer and yanked hard. Somehow, nothing else was jostled; it all sat safely, nestled together with the utmost care.

In Patton’s palm now was a sunset pink orb. It shimmered regardless of light or motion and despite not holding it himself, Roman felt warm from its presence alone.

“What’s that?” He spoke quietly without realizing it, as if any loud noise would shatter the moment.

“I have one of these for every Occasion. They aren’t always this pretty.” Patton’s smile went a little sad before he continued. “It’s important to remember, regardless. Sometimes, it’s just a few minutes. Other times, it’s a whole day.”

#sanders sides fan fiction #royality #royality fan fiction #roman sanders #patton sanders #putting others first #dani writes

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dream-wreck · 4 years

Text

Count On You

Surprise! “Count On Me” has an unintended part 2.

Chapter 2 Title: Count On You Rating: G Word Count: 1,668 Description: When the office door closes, Neil can be alone in his own world. That's not always a good thing.

…..

Of all things, Neil missed spaghetti the most. Jarred red sauce, fifty-cent pasta, pre-grated parmesan (if he was feeling especially bougie). Nothing could beat it. He didn’t miss the reflux, but he’d deck his esophageal halls with ulcers if it meant eating a real meal, a heaping bowl of comfort food that would leave him full and sluggish and knock Insomnia flat on its back.

Neil ran his thumb over a medicine-purple protein bar wrapper, smoothing out the perforated ends between the flesh of his thumb and index finger. The yellow POWER BAR logo rippled and glimmered under his office lights like a cheap trick.

Clearly, the graphic designers had no idea that their chosen font and colors made the meal replacement look like a cartoon villain’s mind-controlling sugar bar. This one was supposed to taste vaguely reminiscent of peanut butter, which he’d discovered was easier to stomach than the artificial vanilla flavor that stuck to his tongue for hours after the fact.

He tore the wrapping down the middle. The sickly brown bar revealed itself, shedding its tacky cape.

He took a vengeful bite out of the bar, feeling as triumphant as he possibly could while chewing something that tasted like cardboard soaked in old peanut oil. Just last week, these weren’t so bad. He could stomach them and they had tasted pretty decent.

I was thinking of you the entire time, he’d eventually say to a heaping bowl of angel hair pasta and marinara.

Eventually. One day, soon. When all this was over, Neil could quit skipping meals and popping pain pills like tic tacs and Mentos.

The single bite of bar began to disintegrate in his mouth the same way a bad piece of gum chewed too long turns into a compound of sand and slime. Neil choked the mixture down and lunged for his water bottle. Empty. He turned to the mini fridge and pulled out an ice cold energy drink that had been sitting on standby, untouched, for months.

“Don’t tell Eva,” Neil said, snapping the tab open in the vacant room. The drink went down cold and sweet, washing the gritty paste from his tongue. He’d regret the caffeine in an hour or two, but for now, the familiar bubbles were worth whatever he had coming later.

A lot of things had become worth it recently. He banished the pitiful excuse for a protein bar to the bottom drawer, sitting down in his desk chair, staring at the paperwork that so desperately needed filing. A fib, of course. He’d never filed paperwork on time in his life. Lying to Eva....Neil had yet to discern if that was worth keeping any secret.

What secret? In the end, what could be worth keeping from her? That Neil Watts was mortal? Extraordinary, but mortal. Extraordinarily mortal.

He thought of Eva sitting outside the men’s room while he retched, stretching to keep pace with him in the hall, reminding him about the simple things. There is so much said in reminding someone to take care of themselves in the little ways, to drink water, to take time. Neil wished he were a better listener, that his pride would crumble for a day or two, long enough for him to set good habits and be honest -- with himself, with Eva, with everyone.

Fluorescent humming grated his ears, burned his eyes. He felt new sickness swelling. He shut his eyes to the room’s blue white.

He’d worry a lot less if Eva would just let it drop. She cared too much, that was her problem. She was usually good at hiding it. At work, of course, surrounded all day by dying people and their repressed traumas, you need to find a way to push through it all without completely breaking down, balancing visible empathy with healthy detachment.

Crying in front of the clients doesn’t get the job done, and it certainly doesn’t look good on evaluations.

Their particular line of work called for expert compartmentalization. Eva had mastered concealing a naturally compassionate disposition behind cold professionalism, efficiency, and control. It was never just another day at the office for her, even if she’d sometimes seem unfeeling when the chips were down.

Neil knew her too well. She always wanted to help. She was a problem solver, always trained on an objective, never one to dwell, to stutter-step, to second guess. She never let things lie. Why should a problem go unsolved?

He used to hold that against her, that she couldn’t let things be, that she could get a little control-crazy when things shifted from their right places into wrong places, drifting away from order like moons out of orbit. But she wasn’t the one who had to cheat on her entrance exams. And between the two of them, she seemed to have her life under control.

Neil Watts had looked to Eva Rosalene for a lifetime of answers. He could count on her for anything. She always came in clutch (he’d been watching a lot of Esports streams lately, picking up on the lingo during his late night nausea fits).

It wasn’t a question of whether or not Eva cared about him. It was a question of, if Neil truly believed in Eva Rosalene, why on God’s green earth had he not told her a lick of truth about what was really going on? He dove down for a good answer, or even a scrap of a convoluted selfish reasoning, but resurfaced empty.

In his coat pocket, a little blue bottle pressed against Neil’s thigh. He crossed his arms, but he only grew more aware of the light pressure resting there. It annoyed him, more than anything, like feeling a strand of hair brush along your skin, but just when you think you’ve swiped it away, there it is again, brushing just light enough to frustrate, to aggravate, to piss you off. Neil bounced his knee, trying to shake the coat off his leg, but the bump beneath the white cloth just moused its way back and forth, prodding.

He should do that paperwork. Listen to music or something to pass the time.

His stomach roiled. Neil slipped a hand into his pocket. He closed his fist around the smooth bottle, ran his thumb over the cap, catching his thumbnail along the ridges there. Comforting, he thought. The action really did calm his nerves.

Eva was across the hall. Fifteen steps away. A knock away. A conversation away.

Neil didn’t bother to set a stopwatch so he never knew how long he sat there, his thumb running back and forth over the ridges in the lid while his mind wandered, imagining the many ways that conversation could go, the look on Eva’s face, the disappointment. Daydream Neil started crying, but Real Neil didn’t think that was very dignified, so he started from the beginning, approaching Dr. Eva Rosalene in her office. Figuring she’d probably be busy, he reset to the cafeteria. A nice talk over lunch. When Eva burst into tears and people from the surrounding tables looked their way, Neil chose the park, even though they weren’t in the habit of going to the park together and never had been. But it was quiet, undisturbed. A gorgeous day in this self-revising simulation. He guided Eva to a bench. They sat down. Eva told him to take his time, that she knew something was wrong, that she was glad Neil could finally talk to her. Yes, he was ready. It would be amazing to finally say it out loud. To someone else. To confide. To confess….

He opened his eyes to the harsh light.

Confess? What was that word doing, flitting about in his stream of consciousness?

An email notification pinged on his desktop. He moved to open it with a click. It read:

If you’re up for it, they’re showing Inception and the Cowboy Bebop movie tonight. It’s the weirdest double feature ever so I have to go, it’s the law.

Popcorn’s light on the stomach, right? Let me know, my treat. --Eva

Perfect. He could talk to her then. Simple, easy as that. All that melodramatic daydreaming over nothing. He could talk to her then. Besides: free food.

Neil’s stomach suddenly felt very, very empty. His usual nausea felt like he was too full and ready to burst.

But it suddenly felt as if something small inside were eating away at everything, the lining and the tissue and the bile, hungrily consuming out of a gluttonous jealousy that which consumes. And when there would be nothing left, that small something would eat the air and the Nothing until an impossible vacuum remained. And Neil would also remain, nothing more than a container to conceal a parasitic anomaly, cursed never to be filled again.

His hand closed around the little blue bottle. The pills inside stirred, knocking against the walls of their plastic prison.

The emptiness in his stomach slowly spread into his hips and ribs, knees and neck, his head and the space behind his eyes, until his whole body felt hollow and the hollow spaces felt sore.

This moment was nearly one of those moments that change everything. Very important, nearly pivotal, but not to be realized, lacking the crucial self-awareness that would have sent things this way and that, particularly along different this-es and better thats. The manner in which a single rock falls prevents or triggers a landslide.

Neil drew the bottle from his pocket, poured two little white pills into his palm, tossed them back. They scraped down the dry walls of his throat, as though clawing for a foothold, before eventually settling in the cavern of his stomach, and almost instantaneously, the pain began to dwindle.

Neil didn’t stop to consider the impossibility of this. If he had, it would have made all the difference. But he didn’t, so it did not, and things seemed to remain relatively the same, the distant sound of tumbling rocks drowned by electric humming.

--------

Chapter 2 end notes: Ended up somewhere unexpected, as writing usually does. My fingers like to run without me sometimes. Pleasant surprises though! Thank you for supporting "Count On Me"! You all are the best :)

Wubnjeft

...

I've been reading a lot of science fiction lately.

#lol it was all supposed to stay a one shot #that never happens #count on me #count on you #rosawatts #to the moon #finding paradise #eva rosalene #neil watts #fanfiction #finding paradise fanfiction #drug use #imposter factory

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stonecoldjerseyfox · 4 years

Text

Jersey on my mind (part 32)

From the front door of the building to the elevator there were fifteen steps. Fifteen steps that passed a counter and an orienteering board over the more than ten floor Brooklyn building.

Just as every morning, Mila counted the steps. It had become a habit, just as she, before entering the elevator, began to unbutton her jacket. Inside the elevator she let out a lioness-que yawn as she parked herself against the back wall. Thankfully it had been a calm morning. Jim was already gone when her alarm yelled at her to ‘get her ass out of the bed’. Juri was already awake and parked in front of the tv, watching Clifford the Big Red Dog in his pajamas, which meant that Mila could take a shower before preparing his breakfast. While Juri ate his oatmeal with honey under a blanket on the couch, eyes glued to the tv screen and the happy, big red monster dog, Mila got dressed. Forty-five minutes later she dropped Juri at daycare, kissed him on the cheek and hurried off to work.

The elevator stops with a soft thud and she steps out on the ninth floor and heads for the glass doors to the clinic. She’s let in by the receptionists and is welcomed by the constant scent of fresh cut flowers on the reception desk.

”Good morning, Saif. Morning Vanessa.” Mila greets the always happy receptionist couple, lovebirds in real life, behind the counter as she passes through the empty reception.

The dressing room is empty when she enters. Mila removes her workwear, the slightly fancier than nurses-scrubs in a sophisticated shade of grey, from her locker. She leaves the white coat on its hook (it’s way too formal) and drops the bright pink Adidas trainers on the floor with a thud before starting to undress. They switch between the grey scrubs and plain white every other week; head dentist and dental practice owner Said Kadeem thought it would be a ‘edgy, yet fun way to brand themselves as a fun clinic’. In reality he just couldn’t decide which color he thought looked best. It’s the same with his morning-, lunch- and afternoon coffee; with or without milk? He can stand in front of the machine for hours it seems, with his forehead wrinkled together in concentration to make his mind up.

I’d die for a cup of plain, as black as fucking possible-coffee right now, Mila thinks as she pulls the grey pants over her hot pink thongs, reminding herself to do the laundry when she gets home. Putting milk into a cup of coffee is a crime if anything. She steps into the trainers and pulls the top over her head. She gives herself a last look in the mirror and adjusts her ponytail, before leaving the changing room, entering the break room. It’s not a luxurious clinic; no celebrity clients wearing bigger than their face-sunglasses or heavy politicians with a tail of bodyguards, but it’s one of the best private dental clinics in the area, which makes the staff spaces and benefits really generous.

Gotta get some luxury treatment for making it through university with a toddler at home, Mila thinks to herself and steers toward the coffee machine. She greets her colleagues, who are already parked at the table with coffee mugs in front of them, everybody except Lauryn, who’s entire face is hidden behind a huge Starbucks blonde vanilla latte with extra vanilla and coffee plus caramel.

”Rough night?” Mila asks.

”Never turn thirty.” Lauryn Cassidy groans and puts down the ginormous drink on the table. The bags under her eyes scream ’we need to rest you fucker’. ”Why am I even here today?”

”You’re thirty and responsible.” Kristian Shaffer responds. ”I’m impressed.”

Lauryn groans again.

”I liked myself better two days ago, when I was twenty-nine and carefree.”

”Remind me to take the day off after my thirtieth birthday then.” Sarah Preston says and pours a pack of raw brown sugar into her coffee mug.

”Gosh, I’m glad I’ve been there, done that.” Riley Palmer sighs and leans back into his chair. He puts his hands behind his head and flexes his biceps. ”Trust me, thirty is the new twenty.”

”My god such bullcrap!” sterile nurse Ava Cooper rolls her eyes at Riley’s remark. ”It’s almost as bad as that ugly ’carpe diem’ tattoo.”

”What?” Riley looks at Ava, then at his biceps, where ’carpe diem’ is imprinted on his skin with black ink, in a barely readable font. ”What’s wrong with that? It’s inspiring. Like, a mental note that-”

”Ey, we know what it means.” Mila interrupts him. ”And it’s ugly.”

Riley doesn’t get a chance to reply. Kadeem enters the room and a glued-on, convivial atmosphere settles across the table in the blink of an eye. It’s for the best not to quarrel in front of the boss.

”Preston-” Kadeem announces and points with his whole arm at Sarah. “Hallie Reynolds called and cancelled Phillips’ appointment this afternoon.”

”Is Phillip the one with the ears?” Lauryn looks at Aaisha to get answers, but the angelic Aaisha only bursts into a muffled giggle.

”No, that’s Lennox. You know, Dumbo.”

”Christ sake, Riley, stop giving my patients names.” Sarah gives Riley the evil eye and slaps him on his upper arm.

”Sergeyevna, you’re on your own this morning, I need to borrow Aaisha for some drilling.”

Mila and Aaisha look at each other. Kadeem loves his job, but most of all he loves a good drilling. Well, there goes that calm morning; making eye contact over the patients, joking around, singing along to the radio and Aaisha’s regular 11 am stretch, combined with: ”I’m gonna go down to the juice bar, you want anything?”

”Fine.” Mila replies to her superior in white.

”And please, tone down that bluntness today, will you?” Kadeem pleats. ”We can’t have more body builders leaving the clinic crying. Everyone is bad at dental health and everybody knows it, you don’t have to tell them.”

”I thought that was my job?”

”Our job is to dig around their mouths, smile and tell them to floss properly. And charge for doing so.” Kadeem turns to the coffee machine, which is the start of his first, dreadful choice of the day; milk, or no milk. ”Frankly, I don’t know how you seem to get them to come back every 6 months.”

”Witchcraft.”

”Really?” Kristian puts his head to his side and grins at her. ”Thought it was your radiant, bubbly personality?”

“Nope, that’s Cooper and Cassidy.” Kadeem says, without taking his eyes off the coffee machine. “Sergeyevna is like me. It’s in our culture.”

Yeah, the much well known, yet tremendously rare Moscow-Russian and Shiraz-Iranian-culture. Mila smiles a little. As soon as it became clear to Kadeem during her first interview that she was a relatively fresh immigrant, he became overjoyed and felt an almost unreasonable bond with her. Sure, they are both honest and forthright, but that’s more likely a personal trait. Otherwise they are like night and day. But she likes him, he’s a good boss. And his wife makes a hell of a baklava, not to speak of the kletcha.

As the clock strikes nine they simultaneously leave the break room and heads for their offices and treatment rooms. Mila turns on the lights, cranks up the radio and looks out of the window with her cup of coffee steadily in her hand. Another workday. She puts the mug down at the counter as she hears steps approaching. In the next moment, Vanessa appears in the door, followed by her first patient of the morning, Mr. Hardin.

“Mr. Hardin, nice to see you again.” Mila gives her patient a bright smile and takes his hand, gives it a firm shake. “How are you doing?”

She makes a gesture to offer him to sit down in the actually quite comfy dentist chair. She has taken quite a few naps in them after her lunch break since she started working at the clinic.

“Same old, same old.” The man with thinning hair sits down and shrugs at her. “At least I got the health.”

“I’m glad to hear.” Mila replies. “How’s Irene? Must be busy times now?”

“Yeah she’s got her ass full- sorry.”

“No worries. I bet.” Mila takes a seat in her rolling, saddle chair and rolls up to the computer, where she starts to fill in the patient file. ’Hardin, Mark. Regular checkup. Tartar removal’. Same old, same old. “So, just a checkup today.”

“Correct.” mr. Hardin says. ”How’s the kid? Juri, wasn’t it?”

“Yup, indeed.” Mila replies as she takes two pale blue rubber gloves from its box. “He’s doing well.”

“Is he walking yet?”

”More like running.” Mila focuses on the framed photography on the wall, picturing a tropical beach with clear blue turquoise water. Holy crap, he’s growing up so fast, she thinks as she pulls the gloves over her hands. “He’s been on the run for awhile now. Just as I was apparently.”

“They grow fast.” Mr. Hardin shakes his head, as if he can’t believe the basic biology of humans, and leans back in the chair. “But you’re young and healthy. That’s good. This virus, huh?”

“Yeah it’s really strange- Scoot, please.” Mila instructs her patient before continuing to check the tray on her cart, making sure all of her tools are in place. “Great.”

“Both New York Presbyterian and Mount Sinai West are soon overrun. I mean, if that doesn’t sound serious I don’t know what does. Irene’s working double shifts at Langone here in Brooklyn and they still seem to get more and more deaths each day. I think the death toll was, about 70 yesterday, and that’s just Langone. Must be like, 300 in New York alone.”

“Mhm, it’s horrible.” Mila replies monotonously, while scrolling through the x-ray of Mr. Hardin’s lower row of teeth from his appointment the year prior. She’s been trying her best to live life as normal as possible despite the deadly virus. Life has to continue, somehow. “Do you have any issues with sensitivity? Pain?”

“No, just tartar. Like, a lot. Irene found these small pieces in the sink-“

“We’ll fix that today.” Mila says quickly and gives her patient a radiant smile. She doesn’t need, or want, to hear what poor Irene Hardin found in the sink. She’s got a pretty good clue. “You’ve quit smoking yet?”

She turns and looks at Mr. Hardin, who’s shoulder goes up to his ears. He transforms from his regular, very accountant-self (because that’s what he is) to an ashamed puppy in the clinical chair. Mila shakes her head at him, smacking with her tongue. Mila turns to the radio and increases the volume of Angus Young’s voice wailin “You’ve been thunderstruck” to the more than famous guitar tapping.

”Ah. This is why I like going here.” Mr. Hardin says with a smile and points at the radio. ”I listen to NYC Rock in the car, every day.”

“Okay mr. Hardin, let’s rock and roll.” Mila pulls the sterile face mask over her nose. It smells clinical and plastic. She grabs the probe and the mirror and smiles with her eyes at mr. Hardin from underneath the mask.

She starts to work. It’s a regular day. Not too hot, not too cold. The sun is shining into the office and Angus Young continues to blast out that they’ve been struck by thunder, about a billion times. The only thing that looks like its’ been struck by something is her patient's teeth. What on god’s earth is he doing during the nights? Chewing bricks?

”Mr. Hardin, are you tense?” Mila asks.

”Howch do choo do chiiit?!” Mr. Hardin manages to utter, with both wide eyes and wide open mouth. ”Schee, chish isch wchy I gcho cher! Ycho are likche a cheraphchist-”

Mila sighs and removes the tools from his mouth.

”No, Mr. Hardin. You grind your teeth, bad. They look awful. Stop it or you won’t have teeth left.”

”Oh.” He replies and swallows, then bursts into a smile again. ”But you see, this is why I go to you and not that crappy Family smile clinic down in Brownsville, that Irene goes to. Honesty, blunt honesty. I like that.”

”Good to know.” Mila says and signs at him to open his mouth again, to let her continue working on that tartar. ”Not everybody does. I once made one of those body builder’s cry because I scolded him for not brushing his teeth right.”

Yeah she was pretty hard on that poor guy, but honestly, his gums looked like minced meat. Mr. Hardin smiles as best as he can with his mouth wide open.

The next song is by The Hellacopters, which makes her smile once again underneath the mask. She saw them perform, one of their last appearances, with Darya a couple of years ago. But suddenly, in the middle of ”-hey boy, you understand. Say your prayers, or you'll be damned-” the song’s interrupted by the breaking news-jingle.

”We’re interrupting with some disturbing news from downtown Manhattan, where chaos has erupted outside Mount Sinai’s hospital.”

Mila pauses in a movement and glances at the radio.

”Police have been called to the morgue where the-”newscaster seems to be groping for words, as if he himself does not believe what to say. “The dead seem to have woken up.”

It is only thanks to the slightly sticky gloves, which hug around the tools, that Mila doesn’t drop them in Mr. Hardin's mouth, at that proclamation.

”Police began firing shots as the bodies- patients, began to attack civilians and medical staff.”

Mila returns to the tartar, but she can’t focus entirely on Mr. Hardin’s hardcore tartar infestation, even though it’s an astonishing collection; if Aaisha hadn’t been asked to help Kadeem out, she’d been sitting on the opposite side of Mila, and her big brown eyes would have been bigger than usual by excitement. It’s surely a dentist thing only, being excited by tartar. Mila tries her best to stay focused, but her mind drifts off to the radio and the rise of the living dead, where the ’on the spot’-broadcaster now interviews a doctor from Mount Sinai.

“-at least ten former patients, declared dead during the week, escaped the morgue and attacked people on the street. Dr. Berkowitz, head of ICU, can you explain what just happened?”

”I don’t know.”

“Were the patients in a coma?”

“No.”

”Dr. Berkowitz, did you or any of your staff, by any chance, make a mistake?”

”No, as I said, they were deceased. Dead.”

”You’re sure?”

”Yes, ofcourse.”

Mr. Hardin makes a gesture with his hand and Mila removes the tools from his mouth.

”Turn up the volume.” He says and rises on his elbows.

Mila obeys, reaches for the radio and turns the volume wheel up a notch.

“How do you explain the situation, then?” the interviewer asks, now louder than before. He sounds more and more irritated, or afraid, Mila can’t really know the difference. “Dead patients suddenly... awakes?”

“I can’t.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Berkowitz, we have to- We get disturbing breaking news from Weill Cornell Medical Center that- what!?” The interviewer exclaims, as if he can’t comprehend what he’s hearing from the third party in his ear. ”Okay, ehrm- we get news that a similar incident occurs right now at Weill Cornell. I repeat, Weill Cornell. Police have been dispatched to the spot and civilians on the street have taken shelter in nearby shops and restaurants. It’s been confirmed that eight- no, nine, people have been injured and a woman has deceased, by severe blood loss. I repeat, one woman is dead and lying in the street. According to eyewitnesses- Neil, you sure about that?” The interviewer asks. “Sorry. Eye witnesses claim that the woman, and I’m sorry about this, is being eaten by the deceased. If you’re in the neighborhood, do not go outside, I repeat; do not-”

Both Mila and Mr. Hardin stare at the radio under complete dead silence. The tools are frozen in her hands and her heart beats hard inside the grey scrubs.

“I gotta-” Mr. Hardin swallows. “I- I need to call Irene.”

“Yeah..” Mila replies. A rush of sickness runs over her. Is the room suddenly swaying, or is she just, overwhelmed? Is this real? She casts a glance at Mr. Hardin, who climbs out of the leaned back chair, still with the pale blue plastic sheet around his neck. “Yeah, go ahead.”

He leaves the room. Mila hears him talk on his phone outside the door. Should she call someone? Her mind wanders to Juri and mama first. With trembling hands Mila picks up the phone from her pocket, unlocks it and goes into the messages. She changes the alphabet to cyrillic starts dictating a text message to mama. In order not to worry her beloved mama more than necessary, she simply writes: ‘Good morning mamochka. How are you today? Love you.’

She presses ‘send’ and then finds her way to the contacts, where she quickly finds ‘Jim’. Signals are heard. She spins in her chair, faces the window. He picks up the phone at the fourth dial.

“Cricket.” Jim greets her. His warm, amazing smile is felt through the phone and instantly calms her soul.

“Thank goodness.” Mila sighs and massages her forehead. “Hi.”

Jim chuckles on the other end. She can see him clearly in front of her. Black suit and white shirt. He’s just had a haircut and said bye bye to the ponytail. Tall, handsome beyond comparison. Probably with his tenth cup of coffee of the day in his hand. It’s a miracle he can keep his cool with that much caffeine in his system.

“Hi.” He replies softly. “What a pleasant surprise. Does milady want to hire a personal security guard?”

She can’t help but smile like an idiot.

“I can offer a very favorable package price.” Jim continues. “Annually. How about ... ten years? Initially.”

“Yeah, I’ll think about it.”

Through the phone, she can really picture how one of Jim’s eyebrows starts to go up, towards his forehead. Usually she plays along with his shenanigans and jokes, but she can’t. Not now.

“You’re on speaker or something?” He asks.

“No. No, sorry. I’m not.” Mila replies and sighs. “Have you heard?”

“Nope. Or, depends on what I’ve missed. What's the talk of the town?”

“You’re nearby a tv or a computer?”

“I’m in the office. Hold on.” Jim starts tapping on the computer. Mila hears the rustle of the buttons in the background. “Oh. That’s-” Jim pauses and reads. “All of them died of the virus?”

“Apparently.”

“I’d say it was a mistake by the hospital, if not- but...” he pauses. “‘New York Times reports that it’s more than twenty patients. Could be more.’ What the-”

“What’s happening?” Mila asks, can’t conceal her feel of discomfort.

“Dunno.” Jim says. “Hey, I can get off work by-” he pauses, as to looking at his watch. “I’ll pick Juri up earlier, in about two hours. I’m sure he’s fine but, just in case. We’ll fix dinner.”

What have I done to deserve this guy, Mila thinks inside her head.

“I love you.”

“You love me for my incredible mashed potatoes.” Jim grins through the phone. “Love you Cricket. It’s gonna be fine.”

Taglist: @lonewolf471 @twdeadfanfic

#daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #twd #daryl fanfiction #daryl x oc #daryl dixon x oc #jersey on my mind #twd fanfiction #twd daryl #twd fanfic #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead fandom #the walking dead fanficition

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thewhumperinwhite · 4 years

Text

Guardian Angel, part 4

Part One / Part Two / Part Three

(I’m gonna make a masterpost for this one later today cause I’ve got.... Some Plans for this one)

@whumpitywhumpwhump

TW for: religion/Christianity, including probably some mild blasphemy; mild body horror (reanimated corpse); referenced seriously ill parent.

----

The priest seems like a nice enough guy, based on the not-even-two-minutes of interaction Karim has had with him. He’s also looking at Karim with deep concern and not moving from his seat in the front pew, so at this moment he’s Karim’s least favorite person on earth.

“I can’t tell you why I need it,” Karim says through gritted teeth. “I just need it. It’s an emergency.”

The priest’s frown deepens, and Karim fights back a frustrated groan. “What emergency are you having that you think holy water will help with?” the priest says, in the kind of calm voice you use for children you think are idiots.

“None of your business,” Karim snaps, because he’s way, way too stressed to come up with a convincing lie, and not crazy enough yet to think this guy with his carefully-ironed cassock and his uber-sensible wire-rimmed spectacles will believe the truth.

The priest sighs and removes the glasses, slowly, like a teacher who thinks you’re making them tired on purpose.

“Young man,” the priest says. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t bless water and just give it to you. The Church sanctions the use of holy water for a limited number of purposes. Now.” He looks at Karim with an over-exaggerated kindly-old-man expression. “I’d be happy to accompany you and help you with whatever emergency you’re facing.”

Karim scowls, and points behind him toward the back of the sanctuary. “You can’t pretend it’s a, a controlled substance or something, you’ve got a big bowl of it just sitting back there.”

The priest looks over Karim’s shoulder. At the end of the sanctuary’s center aisle there’s a big glass bowl nestled in the top of a carved wooden stand. He looks back at Karim, looking patiently disapproving in a way Karim hates down to his bones.

“The font is intended to remind parishioners of their baptism when not in use,” he says, a bit more severe, and then his face softens and he turns to face Karim fully, folding his hands in his lap. “Young man, I’m happy to help, if something is frightening you. I understand there are many things you might wish for holy protection from. Tell me, what is it that’s got you so upset?”

Karim stares at the man for a second. Then he says, “Oh, fuck this,” and turns on his heel to run.

By the grace of God— who he can apologize to later, if he thinks of it— the bowl that comprises the top of the font isn’t secured to the bottom, just like he hoped. It’s heavy, but now that he is actively sprinting out of a church he’s filled with enough adrenaline that the weight seems very manageable. A little of it slops over the front of his hoodie when he spins to shove the door of the church open with his butt, but it’s still more than half full by the time he skids to a stop next to his mom’s car, awkwardly repositions the bowl— it’s way too big to hold securely, but by some miracle he doesn’t drop it, maybe that means God is fine with it after all— and pulls the car door open by shoving the toe of his sneaker under the handle and yanking it towards him.

“What the Hell are you doing?” the priest squawks from behind him, and Karim laughs hysterically.

Whatever else this is, it’s a much better distraction than stealing his mom’s car ever would have been.

Art half-sits up in the back of the car, his eyes widening when he sees Karim holding an entire baptismal font balanced on his knee. “The fuck are you—?”

“What do I do with it?” Karim yells, because they don’t have time for this.

Art blinks at him at the same time that he hears the church door slam behind him, which means the priest is only the length of the parking lot away now.

“Wh— fuck, here,” Art says, and he leans forward, grabs the edge of the bowl with his good hand, and tips the bowl toward himself. Karim follows his momentum, pouring the entire contents of the font over Art’s ruined arm and leg, and incidentally also soaking the rest of him and practically flooding the backseat of Karim’s mom’s car, which he doesn’t have time to think about at the moment.

Karim slams the back door, turns, holds up the empty font, and sets it down on the asphalt next to the car, and blurts, “Thanks Father!” before he spins, throws himself back into the driver’s seat, jams the car into gear and peels out of the parking lot literally as fast as the car will go. He looks up once to see the bewildered form of the priest, holding the bowl and staring after them, and then he grips the steering wheel hard, feeling laughter bubble unstoppably up out of his chest. He can feel the hysterical edge to it, but he doesn’t try to stop it; this is the best he’s felt in—well, in six months, at least.

He hears Art laugh, too, from the back, though he mostly sounds confused, and meets his eyes in the rearview mirror, grinning. “Did it work?”

Art laughs again, breathing hard, and his answer sounds a bit strained. “It’s— in the process of working.” Karim can hear some deeply unpleasant cracking sounds from behind him. In the rearview he can just see Art stretched out on the back seat, his neck a tight painful arch, exposing his scarred throat. “Fucking— hate this part,” Art mutters.

Karim catches his breath, though his stomach hurts pretty bad from laughing. “You need me to pull over?” he says, trying to watch the road while also craning to see if he can see what’s happening any better in the rearview.

“No no, it’s—ah—it’s fine. I’m—” Art laughs, bitterly. “Used to it.”

Karim frowns at the rearview, where he can see Art’s eyes squeezed shut in obvious pain, and once he’s put another three blocks between them and the church, he pulls into an empty parking lot and turns around in his seat.

“Jesus,” he says, wincing back immediately.

Art’s leg seems to be almost done knitting itself back together, but Karim does get to see about three seconds of the bones snapping back into place. Art collapses back against the seat, panting.

“God,” Karim says. “I’m— um. I’m sorry, dude. About hitting you.”

Art waves his newly-repaired arm dismissively, then lets his hand drop onto his forehead, where Karim can see the cracks where he hit the windshield have closed up, too.

They’re a bit harder to see, now, lit by street lights at an odd angle, but it doesn’t look like the scars on his throat and arms have gone anywhere.

“‘sfine,” Art says breathlessly. “You’re lucky it was me, actually. Would’ve killed anybody else.” Pushing his hair out of his face, he cracks one eye to squint at Karim. “What the fuck were you going so fast for, anyway? And is this— what, Farah’s car?”

Karim jerks backward hard enough to honk the horn with his spine, making them both jump badly. “You know my mom’s name?” he blurts. That’s the most terrifying thing Art has said so far.

Art raises an eyebrow at him, like that’s funny. “I know Farah, yes,” he says, smirking. “You could not pay me to try and steal her car, to be honest. What the fuck—is—” He trails off, the smirk sliding off his face, and he sits up, running his hand through his hair and no longer looking at Karim. “Wait,” he says, apparently to himself. “2009. Shit.” Then he turns his head and looks at Karim like Karim has just turned into a hurt puppy before his very eyes. “Your father,” Art says quietly, and Karim feels his stomach muscles tense painfully, like he’s waiting for a blow. “I’m sorry. I forgot about that.”

Karim looks at the dead boy, and his ears immediately start to buzz a little.

“Is that why?” Art says softly, looking at Karim with his dead eyes full of pity. “Are you—”

“No,” Karim snaps. Art blinks, surprised, and Karim shakes his head, stiffly. “That’s not what we’re doing. I don’t know you from shit, and I’m not talking about this.”

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting—more pity, maybe, or else a fight—but Art nods immediately, saying “Okay, right, yeah, absolutely,” so fast he trips over the syllables. Karim watches his shoulders relax, like he’s grateful for the out, and it soothes a little of the knee-jerk that was building bitter at the back of Karim’s throat, too. “Absolutely, dear, whatever you need.”

Karim breathes out, trying to come down from his immediate defensive position, and then he shakes his head, slowly. “Hold on,” he says. “Hold on, you—you noticed the year right off,” he accuses, frowning at Art, who jumps guiltily. “I said it was 2009 and you—swore, or something, like you knew it was bad. You must have known about,” he swallows hard, makes it come out, “about m-my dad from the beginning, or… you…”

He trails off. Art is looking away, chewing on his cracked and colorless lower lip. When he looks back at Karim, his face is hard to read—somewhere between discomfort and nervousness and maybe guilt, too.

“What?” Karim says, alarmed.

“It’s, um. It’s gonna be kind of a big year,” Art says.

#whump #original whump #guardian angel au #undead whumpee #painful healing #religion tw #christianity tw #catholicism tw #time travel whump #art: this is gonna be a bad year for you #karim: uh yeah my dad is dying #art: ...oh yeah huh that too i guess

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gods-and-pawns · 3 years

Note

All flower asks for Cimmerian.

Cimmerian:

O-oh jeez, that’s...a lot of questions, huh? Well, better let’s get to it then.

Alisons: Sexuality?

I’m polysexual.

Amaranth: Pronouns/Gender?

Trans man. He/him pronouns, please.

Amaryllis: Birthday?

December 1st. I’m a winter baby.

Anemone: Favorite flower?

Uhm, sunflowers, probably.

Angelonia: Favorite t.v. show?

If I have to be honest, I don’t really...watch TV all that often. But uh, anything they air on Animal Planet, to be honest. Do you remember that old TV show about the life of meerkats? Fucking loved that shit.

Arum-Lily: What’s the farthest you’d go for a stranger?

That...really depends. I wouldn’t go too far, after all, I don’t know this person, but basic respect and kindness are always a given. I’m not a hero either, I wouldn’t risk my life for them. So, I’d say most of the time, just small favours.

Aster: What’s one of your favorite quotes?

Literally fucking anything that leaves Vincent’s mouth once he gets a little tipsy, this man lacks filter when drunk and it’s fucking great. I know you probably expected some quote with deep meaning, since I have a major in English, but I am very sorry to disappoint.

Aubrieta: Favorite drink?

Pain drink is going to be Whiskey, but anything a little bit fancier then it’s Pina Colada. I like sweet things.

Baby’s Breath: Would you kiss the last person you kissed again?

Yes, absolutely, zero hesitation.

Balsam Fir: Have you ever been in love?

Hm...unfortunately...

Baneberries: Favorite song?

........Two Trucks by Lemon demon. Don’t judge me, it’s a fucking great song.

Basket of Gold: Describe your family.

Hm, well, they were great, really. Very caring and loving...Yeah, this question is making me feel sad.

Beebalm: Do you have a best friend? Who is it?

Uhhh...I’m gonna say it’s either North, Tiff, Han or Bright. I’d say Foster too, but...I don’t know, we kind of had a falling out because of our work. It’s hard to meet up.

Begonia: Favorite color?

...I’ll give you one guess.

Bellflower: Favorite animal?

Toads, love these fat boys.

Bergenia: Are you a morning or night person?

Definitely morning. Not that I like waking up early, but I definitely function better in the mornings.

Black-Eyed Susan: If you could be any animal for a day, what would it be?

A hognose snake, they have very cute noses.

Bloodroots: When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?

A teacher, of all things. Mostly because I thought teachers got free summer too. Then I went to high school, saw what little shits my peers were, and immediately changed my decision.

Bluemink: What are your thoughts on children?

I love kids! I always wanted to be a father. Unfortunately, with being nearly 40 now and swarmed with work...I don’t think that’ll ever happen.

Blazing Stars: What are you afraid of? Is there a reason why?

Cars, because of trauma that I’d rather not get into. And, uh...I have apeirophobia. It’s...stupid, I know, many people would probably like to live on for forever. But for me, it’s just...it’s horrible. I don’t even know why. I guess it has something to do with existential dread.

Borage: Give a random fact about your childhood.

I had a lot of adoptive siblings and cousins, we were always close, and would always get into trouble together. I was raised on a farm with woods nearby, you can imagine I had a lot of opportunities and places where I could get hurt at, and I did. I was a stupid and reckless kid.

Bugleherb: How would you spend your last day on Earth?

Oh man, that’s a loaded question...Honestly? I’d like to reach out to my family, spend my last day with them.

Buttercup: Relationship Status?

Taken~ By two wonderful, cute men.

Camelia: If you could visit anywhere, where would you want to go?

Oh, there’s a lot of places I’d like to explore, probably too many to list. As long as it’s as far away from civilisation as possible, I’m good.

Candytufts: When do you feel most loved?

I like to be held, I love hugs, they make me feel safe and loved. Preferably under a warm blanket with my partner or partners, late in the evening, the rain falling outside and the room is nearly completely dark as we cuddle...

Canna: Do you have any tattoos?

I used to want to, as a teen, but unfortunately no...I did see some people tattoo over their burn scars, and I’ve been thinking about it, but considering how large my scars are it’d cost a lot, be very time consuming and most likely painful. So I don’t know, but I’m considering it.

Canterbury Bells: Do you have any piercings?

Used to have a few as a teenager, now I only have one in my right ear.

California Poppy: Height?

I’m 5′9′’.

Cardinal Flower: Do you believe in ghosts?

In ghosts? No, not really.

Carnation: What are you currently wearing?

I’ll let you guess.

Catnip: Have you ever slept with a nightlight?

Sure did, I still sometimes do when my nightmares get the best of me.

Chives: Who was the last person you hugged?

Jackie.

Chrysanthemum: Who’s the last person you kissed?

Northy, obviously~

Cock’s Comb: Favorite font?

My heart tells me Comic Sans, but my brain’s telling me to shut the fuck up and pick a normal font.

Columbine: Are you tired?

Always, 24/7.

Common Boneset: What are you looking forward to?

Autumn, we’re close to Summer and god damn it didn’t even start but I’m already over it.

Coneflower: Dream job?

I’m pretty content with my current one, but uh...maybe something less stressful? Probably a book author.

Crane’s-Bill: Introvert or extrovert?

Introvert, definitely.

Crown Imperial: What’s the farthest you would go for someone you care about?

Honestly? I’d probably give my life to them. It mostly depends on the person though, and how much I care about them.

Cyclamen: Did you have a favorite stuffed animal as a child? What was it?

I had a ragdoll elephant named Mr Trunk. Still do, actually, he’s one of the few things I took with me when I started working here. He’s now sitting on my bookcase at my apartment.

Daffodil: What’s your zodiac sign?

Sagittarius.

Dahlia: Have you done anything worth remembering?

I don’t think so, no.

Daisy: What do you feel is your greatest accomplishment?

Well...I guess overcoming my trauma counts as an accomplishment?

Daylily: What would you do if your parents didn’t like your partner(s)?

Well, first of all, my biological parents are dead and my adoptive ones think I’m dead. But, if that weren’t the case, I don’t think Ma and Pa are the kind fo people who’d try to get between me and my partners. I feel like if they were legitimately concerned for me or had deep worries about my partner, they’d talk to me about it. So, nothing too dramatic.

Dendrobium: Who is the last person that you said “I love you” to?

...I’d rather not talk about them.

False Goat’s Beard: What is something you are good at?

Does writing shitty slashfics count?

Foxgloves: What’s something you’re bad at?

Do you want a list or something?

Freesia: What are three good things that have happened in the past month?

Well...I started dating Jackie.

Garden Cosmos: How was your day today?

Tiring, so the usual.

Gardenia: Are you happy with where you’re at in your life?

...It could be worse, honestly.

Gladiolus: What is something you hope to do in the next year or two?

...Uh...if my relationship with Karlos and Jack lasts...well...uhm...God, don’t tell them I said that, alright? But...getting married seems...nice...

Glory-of-the-Snow: What are ten things that make you happy/you’re grateful to have in your life?

My friends. They’re great, I don’t know where I’d be without them. Especially Tiff, they do so much for me...don’t tell them I said that, they don’t need any more of an ego boost.

Heliotropium: What helps you calm down when you feel stressed?

A good book, audiobook or ASMR and a scented candle in an otherwise quiet room usually does the trick.

Hellebore: How do you show affection?

Usually through words, I didn’t get that damn doctorate for nothing.

Hoary Stock: What are you proudest of?

My work, I guess? My writing? Wait, no, I just remembered my longest work of fiction is a crackfic about mythological characters- I take that back.

Hollyhock: Describe your ideal day.

Just having an entire day to myself, no need to do any work, no stress, no deadlines.

Hyacinth: What do you like to do in your free time?

I take care of my pets and plants, read books, write.

Hydrangea: How long have you known your best friend? How did you meet them?

Oh man, it’s been a few years now. Uhm, my longest friend in the Foundation is Foster, we met in high school, but like I said we’ve had a bit of a falling out. Then it’s Tiff, I met them when I first joined the Ethics Committee. I met Karlos and Bright a few years later, and I’ve known Han for the least amount of time, but it’s still been years.

Irises: Who can you talk to about (almost) everything?

Uhm...Hm...Probably Tiff or Karlos. Han too, he’s a good listener.

Laceleaf: How many friends do you have?

A few. On top of the previously mentioned ones I’m also quite close to Clef, Kondraki and Light.

Lantanas: What’s the best compliment you’ve ever received?

Literally, any kind of compliment either of the O5-1′s or O5-11 gave me. Do you have any god damn idea how fucking hard it is to impress the Ones? And Ten...well, he’s just really nice and I appreciate him.

Larkspur: What do you think of yourself?

Anyway, next question!

Lavender: What’s your favorite thing about yourself?

I have great fucking puns and if anybody says otherwise, they’re fucking wrong.

Leather Flower: What’s your least favorite thing about yourself?

Do you want a list?

Lilac: What’s something you liked to do as a child?

Exploring, I guess it never really changed, I like spending time in nature, I just never have the time to.

Lily: Who was your best friend when you were a kid?

........Probably one of my siblings.

Lily of the Incas: What is something you still feel guilty for?

A lot, but let’s not talk about that.

Lily of the Nile: What is something you feel guilty for that you shouldn’t feel guilty about?

Jesus Christ, what’s with these questions?

Lupine: What does your name mean? Why is that your name?

I had to look it up, and apparently, Jeremiah means “Yahweh will exalt”. I had no idea my name actually had a religious meaning. When I was born I was named after my grandma, and when I was changing my name I decided to kind of keep with the theme and named myself after my grandpa. He doesn’t know, actually, I never came out to them, but I like to think he’d be happy that I named myself after him

Marigold: Where did you grow up? Tell us about it.

Like I said before, in a small rural town on a small farm. Not much to talk about, really, I was a typical kid that grew up on the farm. Always got in trouble and always hurt myself doing stupid shit.

Morning Glory: What was your bedroom like growing up?

I was quite a tomboy and I loved cows, so just imagine a room with walls painted to resemble a pasture with cows on it and cow-themed furniture. Handmade too, by my grandpa and Pa, of course.

Mugworts: What was it like for you as a teenager? Did you enjoy your teenage years?

I uh...I’d rather not talk about it.

Norwegian Angelica: Tell us about your mom.

Ma was a great woman, she always cared for me and my siblings, she treated me like her own kid straight away. Didn’t even batted an eye. Never made me feel weird or wrong for liking “boy things” like other adults outside of our family. She was quite fiercely protective of me too, quite a mama bear, I must say. A strong woman, could probably suplex a bear.

Onions: Tell about your dad.

Pa was...well, Pa was just wonderful. He didn’t even hesitate for a second to take me in when his sis and my biological mother died. He was the first person I saw when I woke up at the hospital. He always made sure I was happy and taken care of. He taught me how to hunt and fight and play soccer and football. He was always very loudly supportive of me. I cannot express enough just how much I’m grateful to him and Ma.

Orchid: Tell about your grandparents.

They were very kind, your traditional old couple. I loved granny, but I was always closer to my grandpa. He taught me how to fish, I could always confide in him. He’s a great guy. Granny was wonderful too, I remember I always helped her out in her garden, she’d always scare me with potato bastards- I mean potato beetles, sorry, old habit- I fucking hate these motherfuckers. I love all animals, except for these ones. Potato bastards can suck a dick.

Pansy: What was your most memorable birthday? What made it be so memorable?

[Heavy sigh] My 4th birthday, my older brothers decided it’d be a fun idea to pick every potato beetle they could find from granny’s garden and throw them at me as a “birthday present”...........You know, I think I just realised why I hate these beetles so much.

Peony: What was your first job?

My first official job was in the Foundation, they hired me right when I finished college to help contain one anomaly, then I just stuck around and worked in Human Resources. I don’t think working small chores in our neighbours’ farms for some pocket change counted as a job.

Petunia: If you’re in a relationship, how did you meet your partner(s)? If you’re not in a relationship, how did you meet your crush/how do you hope to meet your future partner(s), if you want any?

I met North when he started working as a junior researcher in the same Site as me. Bright, I knew for longer for uh...obvious reasons, but I first met him in person during a disciplinary meeting. I also worked as an Ethics Committee Liaison in Site-19. You can imagine our relationship wasn’t the best at first.

Pincushion: How do you deal with pain?

Die.

Pink: Where is home?

Well, that sure is a deep fucking question. At this point...I don’t know, honestly.

Plantain Lilies: If you could go back in time, what is one thing you would stop/change?

...It’s...let’s not talk about that.

Prairie Gentian: Who is someone you look up to? Describe them.

No way in hell I’m telling you, he could read this blog.

Primrose: Describe your ideal life.

Living in a cottage in the forest or mountains as a fairly famous writer, with a spouse and a few kids.

Rhodendron: What is something you used to believe in as a child?

Soulmates. Then I grew a brain.

Ricinus: Who’s the most important in your life?

...So anyways.

Rose: What’s your favorite sound?

Uh, so you know how I listen to ASMR? Probably tapping.

Rosemallows: What’s your favorite memory?

Any kind of holiday with my family, we’d always get together and celebrate.

Sage: What’s your least favorite memory?

Let’s not talk about that!

Snapdragon: At this moment, what do you want?

...Hm...Well, I am kind of hungry, I guess after this I should go eat something.

St. John’s Wort: Is it easy or difficult for you to express how you feel about things?

I think I’m kind of...intermediate on that scale. Generally, it’s easy for me unless it’s something very personal.

Sunflower: What is something you don’t want to imagine life without?

...yeah, another question I’m skipping.

Sweet Pea: How much sleep did you get last night?

Not a lot, I’m quite tired today.

Tickseed: What’s your main reason to get up every morning?

Work, I guess? Mostly just routine.

Touch-Me-Not: How do you feel about your current job?

Fucking stressful and exhausting, but it could be worse. That’s talking about my chairman position. But my work on Project X? I like it, one of the more pleasant jobs I had at the Foundation.

Transvaal Daisy: What’s your favorite item of clothing?

...Yeah, just take a guess.

Tropical White Morning Glory: Describe your aesthetic.

Cozy, dark and gold.

Tulip: What would be the best present to get you?

...That’s a bit personal, actually.

Vervain: What’s stressing you out most right now?

The sheer amount of these questions, Jesus fucking Christ.

Wisteria: How many books have you read in the past few months? What were they called?

Unfortunately, I don’t have time for books lately, I did listen to a few audiobooks though. Also, I’m planning to revisit the Warrior Cats books because nostalgia and I need to know what the fuck is happening with these cats lately.

Wolf’s Bane: Where do you want to be in life this time next year?

Hopefully not dead.

Zinnia: Give a random fact about yourself.

Uhhh...hm...I’m petty, but you probably knew that already.

#asks #cimm.txt #ask game #ooc: ill get to the rest later this shit drained me horribly and i need a break

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kuvvydraws · 4 years

Note

I'm not sure if you've answered this question already, but I'm honestly very curious- why do you write fanfiction? I certainly enjoy it as much as you and have written a few things of my own, but I know it can be quite a personal topic for many writers. If it's too personal for you, don't feel any pressure to answer, but it's always interesting to see the writer's perspective outside of the story they've written :). I hope you understand what I'm trying to say-

Hey!

I actually enjoy the words and the rush your brain gets when they join without effort to create a reality.

Now, let me break that down XD

I've always had a book in my hands as far as my memory goes. My dad used to read to me when I was very little and from the second I could do it on my own, that was the best thing ever (yes, that means when I was punished for doing some shit, my books were taken away and I had to sneak them into my schoolbag and read in class like a heathen).

Not only I enjoyed books but I always found myself wanting to partake in the stories, and my brain was always running with the words and the scenes. (I discovered during my teenage years that brains have different ways to process thoughts and mine did it in words, so writing just sort of came naturally to me at that point in my life).

I discovered ffnet when I was 12, I think, but I had tried my hand at original works (that is, about five or six starts of different novels that never saw the light) and some "fanfiction" (about Nightmare Before Christmas because I had a big ass crush on Jack and I unassumingly created my first xReader ever) without knowing what the hell I was doing.

I just knew I wanted to write stuff and I did as much.

The thing is, I introduced one of my friends, who also loved to read and write, to ffnet, and we started writing together. The first thing we wrote was a Sesshomaru x OC fic, the second one was a Sasori x OC fic, and we dipped out toes into some Kuroshitsuji x OC...... all of them handwritten stories we promised we would type in a computer eventually (we didn't, they were horrible [I still have the notebooks we used for each of them and they are cringey as fuck]).

But we wrote for ourselves and we were happy like that.

So we were rampant and wild and having the best time. Back then I still wrote in Spanish (because I hardly knew any English and I didn't care for it), and I remember mixing Spain's Spanish with the ones from South America because obviously the percentage of writers in ffnet who used a different "dialect" Spanish was huge if you compare a single, tiny country with a whole continent.

At the same time I wrote with my friend, I wrote for myself. Naruto, Kuroshitsuji, Bleach, Hetalia.... And I met so many people, nice people, who loved my works (they were random fics, all of them x OC because I didn't know x Reader ones were a thing -they weren't at that time, and x Reader are harder to write in Spanish because all the words and pronouns are gendered one way or another-) and I got so much enjoyment from sharing them.

The thing about books I love the most is the fact that you can convey so many emotions with a few symbols, and you can create worlds out of ink and you can change views and inspire others. So, if none of my dumbass teenage novels were to roam the word, I still could share, in a free, open and fast way, my words with others.

Again, I was going to write them with or without posting them because I found -and still find- great pleasure when a scene creates itself in your brain and all you have to do to make it real is to write it down. (Sometimes my brain still does this and even when I'm daydreaming, my imagination is "written, described and dialogued" as if someone was reading a novel out loud. It makes writing so much easier).

And then I got hate.

I somehow had managed to miss all of the fandom drama that's so toxic in the internet because I didn't bother to interact with anyone in the fandoms beyond the reviews they left in my fics, and ffnet has a -sort of- specific search engine to help you find whatever you want, so I could never willingly find the "problematic stuff" because I was literally not trying to find it.

The hate comment I got was anonymous and very specific about everything that was wrong in a particular fic I had just updated -from plot and characterization to grammar and continuity-, and later on I discovered it came from a couple of authors who shared an account and who I admired greatly for their works. Turns out they were out for blood and hating on every fic that had updated that week and that had any members of their OTP shipped with some other character. (It was a Hetalia fanfic, I was writing SpUK and they were pro FrUk, if anyone is interested).

I was contacted by some other authors asking about this because they had gone through the very same thing -same specific hate, same hate comment- and I remember not giving a fuck.

I was 16 when I got the hate, writing for fun and trying to find a way to go through my shitty highschool days without falling into the black out of depression that haunted me. I remember not wanting to write anything anymore, leaving a fic I was very invested in writing to gather dust and rot in the forgotten folders of my computer because every time I tried to get on with it and progress, it felt wrong.

That thing I said about words just happening? It stopped. My brain was silent as a grave and trying to get my words out became painful. I remember struggling to even write regular project for my school.

I kept reading, of course -it was my only comfort and I really, really didn't want to give up on it-, but I abandoned the fandoms I enjoyed so much before. My new focus became the sci-fi, and I remember being hooked on Predator. Imagine my joy when I discovered there were thousands of works from that fandom! I was extasic.

Problem? They were written in English.

I didn't know shit about English besides being a language I was supposed to handle in school, memorize the unreasonably spelt words that were pronounced illogically regarding the fucking spelling and the stupid ass irregular verbs.

But I learnt English because I wanted a hot piece of alien ass XD

Back to the topic of fanfics, I still roamed ffnet, keeping 15 tabs open and reading until 5 am... But now there was a world of possiblities in front of me because of course everyone on this goddamn Earth writes in English.

So, for the next years I did that, and my words didn't come. It was fine, tho, because I had so many new things to read.

It wasn't until fall of 2018 that I dabbed into the idea of maybe considering to perhaps give writing a try again????? I was neck deep into Undertale -still am, I'm a shameless skeleton fucker and there's no cure for that shit- and its many AU's and somehow I had managed to avoid fandom wars again, so my brain started toying with words... The same way it worked with novels: I got myself into the fics other people wrote (this is so much easier to do with x Reader fics, and I'm so happy about that and the massive boom they had just when Undertale came out, you can't even understand it).

So I kept doing my shit and daydreaming about skeletons and ribs and ecto-stuff for a very long time. It was kinda reassuring and nice to see other writers projecting on their x Readers so much because that's what I had done before.

And then Good Omens happened.

As I've said before, I actually discovered Gomens back in 2012 and it is, to the date, the worst translation to Spanish I've seen in my entire life to this date. And, despite it, I fell in love with it.

Now, barely in 2019, my dad gets Amazon Prime and the first thing he fucking sees is the font of Gomens on the screen. I had fangirled hard about Gomens in book version, so much and so annoyingly that I wouldn't leave my dad alone until he gave it a chance. It's the only book my father hasn't finished because the translation is that bad. He hates it.

Yet.

The particular font they use for the show is the same from the book's title. My dad of course recognized it immediately and knew I would want in on the news.

I confess I watched Gomens the show at least seven times before giving it a break because I liked it so much and the novel was so fucking good and it's honest to God the best adaptation I've ever seen to the screen. It's so good I'm fucking sure I was crying actual tears after watching it for the first time because my dreams and all the feelings that book had given me over the years and the many re-reads were "true" and so well done and it reached deep into my heart.

And then, for the first time in six years, my words came back.

Another thing Good Omens has given me, I have to say.

I don't know if I can stress this enough, but just imagine spending six years of radio silence, sending longing stares to the void and hoping to see something yours returning back, something you've lost and you're not sure you're getting back, something you think you don't need or want but that would be nice to have again. If only. You can live without that something, and no one but you cares about it, and it's not that big of a deal and-

Then you see a spark in the dark.

My words came back.

They weren't in Spanish, and it was hard to manage them at first, only being able to listen to them in short bursts over long periods of time.

But they were my words and they were back.

Writing is still hard, and I have a lot of work to do to improve my skills, to get them not only back but to refine them because I'm not writing in my native language and all I know is what I've learnt from other authors and their knowledge. I project a lot on my projects -I don't intend to stop because it's such a relief, the biggest scape from reality I get by doing so; it helps me deal with my problems, it gives me a break and a way to take a breath when I can't keep going...

Fanfics are where I can say what I want to say to the world in the most honest way, and that allows me to be me, and to express myself and indulge in the fantasies I dream about without having to force myself to think of them over and over and over. I can just sit back and enjoy content I know I like without being judged for it.

I can fucking make that content, too.

Writing feels like home, even if sometimes I still struggle, if I can't find my words or the expression is not quite like that in English, or if I can't find the words or if I'm suffering a block... because there's nothing scarier and more free than a blank page ready to be written.

#this is long as fuck #sorry for the trip because damn that's some heavy backstory i just puked #i still have my ffnet account but its been years since I've used it #only for predator and hp content i have to say #i have over 600 bookmarks there but who cares #kuvvytalks about some personal crap

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i-llbedammned · 4 years

Text

Title: Aziraphale’s Perspective

Word Count: 3399

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273104/chapters/57178519

Summary: An account of Aziraphale’s mindset and actions after Crowley rescued him and his books during WWII

Text: It was a foolish notion that compelled Aziraphale the streets at night. He should just go back to his bookshop and have a calming cuppa, reflect upon what just happened by reading a lovely story –perhaps Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and Other Stories as he had just gotten a first edition copy of that. He should make sure all the books were perfectly intact- though he strangely did not doubt Crowley’s assertion that they were. He just wouldn’t lie about something so important. Yes, that would be the wisest choice, surely a choice that would smiled upon by all the angels in Heaven and God herself. Yet, being a flawed servant of perfection he didn’t do any of that. Instead he found himself in the war torn streets, staring at the frightened faces of all the mortals who had just seen him crawl out from the fiery wreckage left behind by the attempted Nazi assassination.

The knowledge that he had almost been so easily discorporated shook him. It wasn’t that a body was exactly hard to get, papers and all that were not impossible to do even if they were tedious. But this body was special. This body was the one he had spent so many thousands of years on this plane with, the body that Crowley recognized as being his and that he had lovingly grow and stretched into a pleasantly soft shape. The new form they would give him – well it wouldn’t be him. It would be like how he was guarding Eden, all tall and muscular with nary a comforting bit of fat on him. No doubt he would be built like a soldier despite his desire to have a bit of cushioning. Even though Gabriel shamed him about it, he liked it because it was his own and Crowley had once said that the belly suited him so… There he was thinking about that blasted demon again. He had not the foggiest clue of why he continually came back to that tempter. Up until a few moments ago he was sure that the demon hated him, he certainly hadn’t made any attempt to contact him after the holy water incident and no doubt was gallivanting around causing all sorts of trouble. Not that, Aziraphale admitted to himself, he had not cause a small amount of trouble himself in those years. One simply had to cause some or else it got terribly boring on this plane. Then even after barely talking to him and saving his life and his books he just danced off. That devilish red-head had just danced off with barely a “bye” or an explanation! It was infuriating. Not that the angel even cared about such things from his mortal enemy, but it was more the principal of it! Despite his small annoyance, he found his heart softening. Why would he do such a thing, the poor soul? Why would someone who had avoided him for hundreds of years now come back just to save him and his books? Aziraphale knew that just walking past the fonts of holy water was dangerous enough for a demon let alone treading upon hallowed ground. The poor dear was probably feeling it a bit after that show of heroism.

That show of heroism that he had made for the angel’s sake and no one else’s.

It was probably nothing, probably just in his mind. The bastard was probably laughing it up back at his flat. All the same, Aziraphale felt like he should check up on him. You know, just to make sure everything was alright. Surely, Heaven could see no harm in simply a show of compassion even towards the damned.

So, after dropping his book bag off at the shop, he made his way towards the flat that he knew the dreaded demon Crowley was making residence in. The building loomed like a gargoyle over the city, flashing in the travelling storm clouds. As he entered into the lobby, the angel’s silver eyes caught upon a bit of wetness glimmering in the lamp light and he bent down to get a better look. Sweet sanguine savior! That was blood! Not just any blood either, judging by how thick and black it was. That was demon’s blood, no doubt in his mind!

Crowley! Despite his better instincts his heart pinged with a deep seated desire to run up the stairs, knock in the door, and run to him. Tell him he was an idiot for putting himself at risk like that all for an angel who didn’t even like him and who he was sworn to defeat! It had to have cut very deep to make that much blood, enough to leak through the wooden sole of the shoe. They probably ached something terrible and pained him a good deal.

With urgency, Aziraphale took off up the stone steps because Heaven knew that the lift never worked properly around here, using his wings to boost him up a few steps at a time when he was sure that the mortals weren’t looking out on the landing. What if he was desperately wounded? What if holy made wounds never fully stopped bleeding on a demon?

As he reached the hallway the angel slowed down his pace. It wouldn’t do to seem like he wanted to be there or that he was in a rush. There was a storm coming and Aziraphale was just passing through and noted that there was a shelter here. Pure coincidence lead him up the steps and to this apartment, not design. Certainly not a concern. He straightened his jacket and tie, trying his best to make himself look presentable as he made his way down the green papered hallway.

The black door was slightly ajar as he approached and gently Aziraphale extended his hand to push it open fully. Any thoughts of trying to seem proper vanished promptly out of his mind upon seeing the fully extent of the damages laid out before him, damages that would not exist if it weren’t for his own foolhardy plan and lack of perception about mortal motivations. “Oh dear, that looks even worse than I thought it would,” the words practically tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them.

With an inward wince he noticed the way that Crowley’s muscles all tensed upon hearing his voice. Even after all these years, it still was like being plunged into cold water just to hear his voice unexpectedly – he noted with a touch of sadness. Despite the circumstances, the angel wished for it to be a truly happy greeting.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley cried sitting up and trying to sling one arm casually over the back of his couch, as if the smell of blood wouldn’t have been enough to alert him that something was wrong. “What are you doing here?”

“I, well,” Aziraphale looked away, unable to bear the terrible guilt that he felt upon seeing the wounds that only existed because of him and this damned ineffable war that he was forced to take part in, “I happened to be in the area and I wanted to check in on you after the whole ruckus at the church. “

It was far more honest than he wanted to be, but then again when talking to Crowley he was always far more honest than he wanted to be. No matter how much planning he did, how much he coached himself on the stories he would tell this demon somehow when he saw the angular face with the jaw made tight by pain the truth just flowed out. Cautiously he took a seat upon the leather chair next to the wounded demon, remembering that the last time he saw so much demonic blood there was a great and terrible fall from grace. The smell of blood still haunted his dreams some nights as well as the screams. Honestly he was surprised that Crawley wasn’t screaming now. Instinctively his eyes began to well up with guilt-ridden tears and the angel tried his best to cover them up with a motion like he was scratching his face.

“Well no need to check up on me, I’m fine.” The words came out cold, but you didn’t spend so many centuries near a being to not be able to tell when they were lying. The avoidance, the casual cold tone of his voice, everything about the demon was dismissive right when things were the worst. The hiss only confirmed that which he already knew to be true, that which he could see in the dark red ebb of pain in a corona radiata around him in the type of sight that only angels of a certain circle could have when they focused.

“You most certainly are not fine.” Aziraphale got to his feet, sounding indignant and pointing at the stain on the demon’s grey shirt, unmistakably dark. It wasn’t like he could gesture to an aura, but stains were physical enough that even a half-blind demon could see it. “I can see the blood!”

“Oh that,” Crowley gave a shrug, “Blood’s in fashion now. War and all that.”

The flippant way that he took a drink from a mysterious wine glass just added to the message. He didn’t need help, from Aziraphale or anybody. Heaven forbid that he be allowed to feel the touch of someone who wanted nothing more than to take away his pain.

Well, Heaven might forbid it but what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

“Let me see the wounds, I can help.” It wasn’t a request, not really. The angel was going to help him. There was no rightness in a world that would let someone suffer so dearly for another without respite. No one deserved such pain, especially not Crowley who had gotten it taking out Nazis and saving knowledge and a life. Saving Aziraphale’s knowledge and life specifically.

“No, you don’t need to. I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.” The casual tone was almost enough to make Aziraphale scream “I can see in your damn aura that you are certainly not fine, you old menace” which of course he didn’t because a proper angel would never do such a thing but the impulse was still there because he was an imperfect angel.

Making his voice gentle he knelt down, supplication in his silver eyes, “You are exasperating. Listen,” The angel knelt down by Crowley’s feet and gently tugged the blanket off, making him hiss. But his feet stayed where they were. They didn’t shift into another form, they weren’t illusioned away to look healthy all of a sudden. That was a degree of trust, the knowledge that he wouldn’t be smote immediately. Progress. “You got these wounds helping me. At least I can help make them better as payment.”

Payment was a system a demon could understand, or at least he assumed that they would. Instead he exploded like a tinder keg being lit up, “Payment?” You don’t owe me payment for anything!” Bright lines of anger lanced through the aura, making Aziraphale’s eyes sting with their intensity.

Instead of looking away, he maintained eye contact lest it be seen as a lack of trust on his part. “Then as a favor to you then.” That was surely the problem, the fact that Aziraphale would have the upper hand in the scales. Leave it to a demon to always be conscious of who had the upper hand, at least that is the speeches they always gave in Heaven about what demons wanted. Truthfully Aziraphale just wanted to give him an out that wouldn’t disgrace him in front of either of their superiors.

“Oh? An angel would owe a demon a favor?” There it was, the smirk that said that everything was okay between them again and that nothing had changed in the centuries of absence. A palpable feeling of relief flooded through Aziraphale despite the circumstances as he let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

But what if Gabriel found out he was showing such kindness towards Crowley. The lining of Aziraphale’s stomach tried to turn itself inside out at the thought of the flames of Heaven trying to burn him alive. “One angel, specifically me, would owe one demon, specifically you, a favor. Yes.”

“Right. Get on with it then.” He barked, which was as kind of a permission as a demon could give.

Using the kindest touch he could, Aziraphale practically peeled the remaining shoe of his companion’s foot. Bits of blood and burst blisters, tendons sticking through the bottom of the soles of his foot – it was all far more messy and grotesque than he had first assumed it would be. It was a bit of a surprise the shoes held it in as well as they did.

”Oh dear,” he mumumured, mostly to himself. Any thought of keeping his suit pristine and white vanished as Aziraphale tried to draw off bits of pain, but there was too much for a simple touch and Heaven would not allow wounds to be made by consecrated ground to be healed with a miracle. “You really burned yourself badly.” Tears welled up in the angel’s eyes, as he thought of how many years he had gone hating the poor creature who had just put himself through so much pain for his sake “I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve these. Not for-“ With a watery grin, Aziraphale broke off. No, no sense in making all the pain worse by projecting his own guilt onto Crowley. That was the last thing the demon needed at the moment.

It wouldn’t do to let such a selfless act go punished. “Be back in a tick.” He assured his hellish companion, trying not to let his gaze linger upon the look of pain etched in every line on the face. Frustrated, he turned off the aura gaze lest it become a distraction.

Heaven had said no miracles, but they didn’t expressly forbid him from making a salve that could take away any pain. In fact they had ruled neither positively or negatively about any alchemical processes.

How convenient.

Drawers were opened, but of course Crowley had next to nothing kept in there that was useful. It wasn’t like he actually used the kitchen in his apartment after all, it was mostly there for show. At least he had the good sense to keep the fridge stocked, even though Aziraphale knew that he didn’t actually consume the food kept there. Some herbs there, some water inscribed with sigils that had been lost three hundred years ago to most men, boil the freshly grown herbs with some fat and speed up time just a touch so that everything could be done quickly. It was a risky move, speeding everything up, and certainly not something that could be done on a large scale but getting the soap to cool was at least a simple, untraceable task.

Bandages came out of the bathroom, kept there for Heaven only knew what foul purpose, and the whole pot of water was brought over as well just for sanitation, with a charm on it so that it would refresh itself without him having to get up and change it.

Thinking of nothing else but wanting to heal the wounds, Aziraphale cast aside the hat and jacket and got to work. Healing was a delicate art, one that needed time and patience of which he had plenty to spare. If anything was done improperly the foot might heal crooked or stay bubbled forever, both of which were intolerable to think of.

It wasn’t til he heard smothered whimpers of pain that it occurred to him that the whole process might still hurt even given the precautions. “It’s alright if you need to cry out, my dear. I won’t judge you. What you are going through is tremendous. I can’t imagine how much it must hurt.” Permission. Sometimes that’s what he thought either of them needed just to break through this awful shell both of them had around each other. Permission to be themselves, unabashedly.

“No. This is fine. Feels like puppies.” Another bluffed lie, but an allowable one. Sometimes a being in pain, even an immortal being such as Crowley, didn’t need their entire worldview stripped away all at once. Sometimes a mask allowed them to be able to be vulnerable even around someone who was supposed to be their mortal enemy.

Heaven protect him and his silly mask of being strong. Aziraphale would take care of the rest.

With a slow, methodical hand the wounds were cleaned ‘til the water ran clear and the flesh was already beginning to reform thanks to the alchemy ingrained within the soap. Bandages were placed over it so that there would be no visible proof of what he had done. When Crowley saw that he was more healed than he should be in the morning it would just be another one of Heaven’s silly little miracles come to roost.

His gaze travelled upwards after the work was done, a tired but satisfied smile upon his face. There he saw Crowley gazing back at him. The angular face seemed placid and a crooked smile danced across his face as he rested one hand on his cheek and the other splayed across the back of the couch. His shirt hung open with a few buttons undone that made him look rakish even despite the full suit and for a brief moment Aziraphale wondered what he would look like with the shirt all the way undone. Why in this light he looked positively enchanting, calm and strong. In this moment Aziraphale saw the mercy in the angel that Crowley used to be.

Neither looked away and for a second it almost seemed like permission. Like he was being the go ahead to make a move, to run his hands through that red hair and place a gentle kiss upon that brown that would show the demon that all had been forgiven and that he could stop suffering because his guardian angel was finally here. To hold him close and let that frail body for once be able to relax rather than constantly be on patrol for the next threat or person to tempt, to be able to collapse and ramble about life, the universe and everything to someone who could actually understand him. The only other immortal being who had been on this rock as long as he had been.

But no. Heaven would not allow such a thing. Sadness tinged his eyes as he remembered how much was at stake and how Gabriel would flay him alive for even such kindness as he already had given. With an effort, Aziraphale looked away from the golden fire burning within Crowley’s eyes. “Good night, my dear.” One last gesture of kindness, a soft kiss above each ankle was all he would allow himself. A selfish gesture of a world and an affection that should not be, but one he had no regrets about acting upon nonetheless. “Get some rest. I’ll check on you some time soon.” “You don’t have to leave, you know. I could get wine and-“ Rushed words and desperation to cling towards a bit of kindness. It broke his heart to leave, but if he stayed Aziraphale knew he would do something stupid and lovely.

“Another time. There’s a war and I have to go put away my books. But I will see you again. I assure you.” Maybe next time he would bring some wine. Crowley seemed to like wine and it wasn’t like either of them couldn’t get drunk without being able to reverse it. People had cordial drinks with mortal enemies all the time, right?

But it wasn’t thoughts of war that he carried with him through the lightly raining streets of London. It was the look of utter peace and fulfillment upon Crowley’s face that shone like a beacon upon him. Trust and vulnerability, something that was rarely seen in anyone’s face. It was like a weight he had been carrying for centuries learning the gavotte was suddenly lifted and forgiveness was right in front of him.

It was hope. Hope for something more, something brighter.

#Aziraphale #crowley #hurt/comfort #good omens #Ineffable Husbands #missing scene #complete fic

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jincherie · 5 years

Text

intermission • i | moonface

• ☽ — pairing: bts x reader • ☽ — genre: crack, fluff, angst, college/uni au • ☽ — words: 3.7k • ☽ — rating: sfw • ☽ — warnings: oc feels regret and gets her first taste of murderous urges • ☽ — notes: this isn’t a full fledged chapter! this is more like.... a little dabble of backstory. in between each chapter, there will be one of these intermissions. they give a little extra info and context not included in each chapter... i hope u enjoy!

— posted; 11.05.2019

When the love letter you wrote and submitted as an assignment is leaked to the entirety of your university, it becomes a race against time to dispel rumours and convince the seven suspected muses of the poem that they aren’t the subject before anyone realises that you are the author. Easy, right? Well… maybe not as easy as you think.

— • masterlist | prev | intermission i | next • —

[first year, semester one]

Coffee. Waffle. Bathroom stop. 10AM Lecture. Food. Class. Food. Booze? No, no booze.

That’s today’s agenda, and to be perfectly honest despite your brief moment of temptation, you’re pretty impressed with how far you’ve gotten into your first semester without turning to alcohol to cope. You’ve remained strong so far, but now as finals are right around the corner and you suddenly find yourself drowning in assessment, it’s getting harder and harder to resist the siren song of the conveniently bottled happy juice.

Smacking a hand to your cheek to snap yourself out of the thought before you start longing for it for real, you ignore the resulting sting and continue your trek into campus. You’re spectacularly early this morning, and while you’d like to take credit and say it was because you’re a morning bird who is on top of her life, the slightly less attractive and kind of sad truth is that you stayed up most of the night completing an assessment and only slept for one or two hours. Well… perhaps closer to one, two is a bit generous. You’re but one woman.

To be honest, the assessment piece you’d stayed up to finish isn’t even due for a few more days—you really wanted to put your all into it though, and you were actually thinking of going the extra mile and adding a cover page. You have a plethora of ideas for it but, regrettably, don’t have the graphic design skills to make it happen, so it seems it’s going to remain just a thought for now.

It’s as you plod into the section of your campus that you like to call your own little square of heaven, that fate decides to slap you in the face with an answer to your unspoken inquiries—quite literally.

You don’t get two steps past the corner of the first building in the food court before your face is suddenly meeting cold glass, the door pane making painful contact with your nose and mushing it so hard against your face you could almost smell the peach fuzz above your top lip.

“OW! MOTHERFUCK!” it’s a primal scream of pain that escapes you, your legs just barely saving your from falling right on your ass. Your eyes tear up from the sharp pain that throbs through your entire face, and when you attempt to crack your eyes open to find the culprit the area is barren and they are shamelessly long gone. So much for being even a little remorseful.

Sniffling and touching beneath your nose to make sure its snot and not blood dribbling from your nostrils, you wipe it on the back of your hand and spin your head to glare at the offending shop door that had caused you so much pain. It’s a combination of wood and glass, and the large, glossy wall-size windows next to it, as well as the glimpses of mirrors and squishy chairs you catch inside, tell you it belongs to a salon. The glass on the door, unlike the window, is littered with a bunch of flyers and posters and an obnoxiously retro open sign. You squint, momentarily distracted from your anger by a pretty A5 page of soft purple with flowers curling along the bottom right corner (astilbe, cornflowers and pink carmellias are what you manage to pick out— and that's only because you spent the past weekend with Sera trying to decode the bouquet of flowers someone left on her car and they're fresh in your mind) and cursive font across the middle. It seems to be a flyer advertising an art exhibition from one of the photography students that you've heard has managed to make a bit of a name for themselves.

You find yourself entertaining the thought of attending for a brief moment, before your attention is torn to the flyer next to it that glares obnoxious peach orange, black and blue background into your retinas. You blink, taking a second to observe it before realising that it's actually advertising the salon right in front of you. There is an attractive male posing dramatically against a hollywood vanity, wearing a princely outfit that has ribbons and tassels and probably isn't all that practical for hairdressing but damn is it something that he looks good in. There's some sappy bullshit scrawled along the bottom to lure hapless, lovestruck young adults who were probably Team Edward in Twilight, but you're not caught up in that. No, you're caught up in the pure genius of the design, the talent of whoever was behind the creation of this poster. As if by perfect coincidence, your eyes flick to the side just in time to catch sight of the same man on the poster inside the salon, a broom in his hand as he tidied up the fallen hair of whoever smacked you in the face with the salon door.

Making a split-second decision, you rip the poster from the door and burst into the salon, nearly tripping on the welcome mat as you do so. The male doesn't even flinch or jerk in surprise at your abrupt entrance— on the contrary, he finishes his sweeping motion and slowly straightens, spinning around with such grace and flair that you realise immediately he must be a theatre student.

"Oh, hello," he greets with the most charming smile you've ever seen.Your heart might have skipped a beat if you didn't by chance glimpse down and catch his toes wriggling at you in greeting from his slides. What the fuck. "You must be my ten o'clock. Come right in, and do hurry. As you can see we're very busy."

Your eyes flick to the rest of the room — there is no one, he is the only other person in the entire establishment — and then to the reception beside you, where the schedule book sits open and desolate— the entire day is saddeningly barren, with not a single time slot filled in that you can see. Brows raised, you turn back to the male. He knows you have found him out, yet he is unwavering in his act. Well, you're not going to break first.

"I'm here for this," you say, slapping the poster down on the counter. The male peers over with raised brows and puckered lips, making a face of realisation once he sees what you've procured for his viewing pleasure. "I need someone good at graphic design— did you make this?"

Perhaps, you think upon seeing the peculiar gleam his eyes adopt, you have made a mistake in entering this salon.

"I can help you out," he says, cocking his hip and leaning on the broom. He lifts his hand to examine his nails. "...For a price."

You don't even dwell on the fact he didn't exactly answer your question, and squint at him in suspicion. "I'm poor. The most you'll get out of me is three dollars and two food vouchers for the sushi place next to the salad bar."

"Food vouchers?" the male breaks character at the mention of food, eyes widening before he catches himself and clears his throat. "Fear not, little gumdrop, I don't want money from you. No, I want your hair."

"My hair," your tone is flat and you feel a bit like the second you stepped foot in this store you also set foot in another realm.

"Yes," he beams, striding forward and extending his hand with all the flair of a female pop idol dance move to grasp a strand that has come loose from where it was pinned. "Your ends... they pain me, they're a cry for help and I'm nothing if not a benevolent god aiding my creations in need. Well, I say ends, but..."

His eyes sweep over the mop atop your head and he inhales through his teeth. "Yeah, we're gonna have to make some sacrifices. But fear not! I'm very good at sacrificing! There's not a customer that leaves this salon that I'm not satisfied with!"

Something about that strikes you as off— isn't it meant to be the customer satisfaction that matters most? Even so, you find yourself considering his proposition like a fool. It's true, your ends are in a tragic state— you've been so busy with everything else in your life that your hair has, admittedly, suffered for it. Now that he's mentioned it, you know you're not going to be able to stop thinking about it, and all he's asking is a haircut in exchange for the graphic design service you're also in need of? Technically, he's doing you two favours.

You ignore the voice in your head that tells you not to trust this too-attractive, slide-wearing hairdresser, and give him a narrow-eyed look. "I let you cut my hair, and you'll offer your graphic design services?"

The male nods distractedly, already discarding his broom and taking you by the elbow to guide you further inside. "Yes, yes, I'll help you with what you need. Now, come sit over here! This shouldn't take too long at all, I already have an idea for what I want."

You send him a dubious look at his wording, wondering once more whether it should be what you want that matters more, but decide since you're essentially getting this for free in the money sense, you'll sit and be quiet. He points you to a chair and you plop down, barely having a second to orient yourself before he's snapping an apron over you and slipping a towel underneath.

The male slaps his hands together, zipping around behind you and wheeling a cart over. "Alright, my name is Seokjin and I'll be your hairdresser today! Sit back, relax, and I'll bring you up from your negative rating status in no time!"

It's hard to ignore the urge to punch him that arises at his words, but ultimately you manage. To pass the time while he goes to work — and also because you don't like watching hairdressers work in the mirror since it often ends in accidental eye contact — you pull one of your textbooks from your bag and begin to catch up on some readings you haven't been able to get through yet. Despite your reservations, you find yourself relaxing easier than anticipated as you read, enjoying the soft brushing and tugging of your hair. He has gentle hands, you note, but still don't bother to look up and verify. You're content to go off of sensations for now.

Unfortunately, it seems you're a bit of a fool, and this is just one mistake of the many you've unknowingly made today.

He mostly hums to the odd tune, but once he does attempt to make conversation with you. "So, Miss Dead Ends, the time has come for me to ask the most important question that can arise in any conversation. Where does your allegiance lie?"

You freeze where you're reading, squinting at the page but not bothering to look up. "What?"

You hear him huff, as though he can't believe you didn't give him the answer he wanted straight away. "I mean, who is your campus ship. Are you team Jihope, or team Namseok?"

For a moment, you sit there reeling. It was like he just asked you something in another language— you have no idea what the fuck he just said. Unsure what to do but panicking because you know he expects an answer, you pick at random one of the two options and throw it out there. "Uh, Namseok?"

Seokjin's movements in your hair still, several beats of silence passing before he eases into motion once more. "I see," is all he says, and from that point on he doesn't attempt conversation again. You feel like you've made a blunder of sorts, but also can't bring yourself to care. It's his fault for being so hard to understand, you suppose.

You sit through each phase of the haircut process, letting him comb, snip, spray and blow dry to his heart’s content. When he eventually drops the hair dryer back into the cart and claps his hands, you finally allow yourself to look up into the mirror. You freeze.

"Ta-da!" Seokjin the hairdresser is clearly more than overjoyed at the results of his hard work and toil. You barely register his voice through your shock. "Thoughts? I mean, I know it's the perfect funky little 'do for your funky little self, but I'm not the type to withhold praise from myself, you know? Let me hear it."

"It's..." you squint at your reflection, hoping that it might have just been your eyes playing tricks on you for what you see looking back. "It's..."

Seokjin waits eagerly in anticipation like a puppy awaiting a treat after performing a trick, beaming at you in the reflection. You balk, feeling your soul leave your body for a moment before it suddenly slams back to earth and you regain the ability to speak.

"It's hideous?"

The male is absolutely unphased and even has the audacity— the audacity— to grin and reach out and pat the hair he's massacred atop your head.

"Actually, my sweet little padawan, it's high fashion." He sniffs, a sympathetic simper curling his plump lips. "But since I know you're one of those... poor folk, I'll let it slide this time."

You sputter, eyes whipping over each detail they can and making you more and more horrified at each new one that brings itself to your attention. The sharp angles, the texture, the layers? You have no idea how he got your hair to behave this way with only a comb and a hairdryer but you're terrified its permanent. You've never been so affronted at the results of a haircut before and you're quick to let him know.

"This is the ugliest haircut I've ever had in my life!"

Still remarkably unbothered by your displeasure, the male hums. "All high fashion looks ugly when you look at it with poor people eyes—here, try on my slides. Gucci should help get you in the zone."

You just about blow your top, unsure whether you're about to scream or cry but accepting it’s probably going to be both. He's really about to step out of his slides to let you try them on when you stand from the seat, ripping the apron from your body.

"I'm not paying for this!" you cry, indignant. The male merely blinks at you.

"Correct. I believe this was the payment, wasn't it?"

You falter for a moment, having forgotten that you'd literally let him do this and signed away your reputation and self esteem without any prior knowledge of whether he was actually a good hairdresser or not. Alright, you're a fool, but at this point that's in the past.

"Alright— I'm going to kill you, but first you're going to do what you promised and help me with that graphic design thing I need or so help me Zeus I will sniff you out like a bloodhound and tie you down to give you a rat's tail in front of a crowd in the quad with your own scissors."

You've stomped over to the damn poster that brought you in here in the first place, and turn only at the sound of his voice.

"Oh, a tsundere? What is it about you tsunderes that you're all drawn to me, huh? I'm collecting you like pokemon at this rate. Oh well, lucky for you I like that sort of thing. Sounds like a date— will you be using rope or leather?"

On second thought, you don't need your cover page that badly. You're going to kill him now instead.

x x x x x x x

Unfortunately for you and the repressed anger that resulted from that whole event, the tall male had been saved from the full brunt of your wrath by someone actually walking in for a haircut. They did a double-take at the sight of you, clearly questioning their choice of salon, but Seokjin managed to swoop in and save his reputation while dragging yours through the mud in the very same breath— which, you hate to admit, takes talent.

"Wack, right?" he'd said to the confused male, holding a hand up to hide his mouth like it would remove your ability to hear what he was saying. "She came in wanting that, and I couldn't refuse; in this salon, we focus on what the customer wants, after all."

You were going to kill him and you were going to enjoy it.

Needless to say, you couldn't have a witness, and the rat bastard knew it too because he used it to his advantage. He whipped up a sharpie from the front desk and scribbled a series of numbers on your hand, telling you to send him what you wanted done. Then he dismissed you with a turn of his back and began guiding his next customer over to the seat next to yours, kissing their ass to kingdom come.

You left, stewing, and made a beeline for the chemist on campus that was the only place you knew that sold hats, even if they’re ridiculously overpriced. You'd rather be bald than walk around with the mess that demon gave you.

You sent him what you wanted done, begrudgingly, because you weren't about to let your suffering be for nothing. But after that, you didn't hear from him and, quite frankly, completely forgot you were even waiting for him to come through with his end of the deal. You blamed the fact that your brain was currently on damage control and trying to repress as much of the memories as possible.

In actuality, it isn’t until the very start of the next year that you even remember he exists.

You’re midway through the morning drama class you elected to take this semester when the doors burst open, a tall figure with dusty pink hair and obnoxiously familiar features striding right in as though this was his home and he’d just returned after a long trip away.

“Professor Kang!” he bellows, making a beeline right for your very suddenly tired looking teacher. You can barely snap your mouth shut at the ridiculousness of the situation you find yourself in. “I’ve missed you, you’ve been well? I know these months we’ve spent apart have been hard but I’m here now—”

"YOU!" you seethe, unable to contain the word as it bursts forth from your chest, absolutely ready to roll your sleeves up and end his career. The male whips around at your screech.

"Dead Ends Girl!" he cries, looking astounded to see you. His eyes zero in on your head and he seems almost disappointed to see you didn’t keep touching up the humiliating cut he gave you after visiting his salon. “Back to poor people looks, I see.”

Your fingers twitch with the urge to wrap around his throat and you barely contain the urge as it spikes with his next words.

“You must be really obsessed with me huh, tracking me down and following me all the way to my class. You really did sniff me out like a bloodhound!”

“Seokjin,” your professor rubs his face, adjusting the glasses slipping down his nose. “You haven’t taken this class in three whole semesters, you can’t keep coming back here? Why must you continue to torment me.”

Seokjin, evidently having found another poor soul to torture (read: you), doesn’t even acknowledge your poor professor. “So why are you here, huh? If you’re here for an autograph, I regret to inform you that autographs are a Tuesday only event. You’ll have to come back on a Tuesday.”

You’re too angry to even bother telling him that it is a Tuesday, about to tackle him to the ground in front of your whole drama class without a single regret. Well, if there ever was a time and place for theatrics, right?

“You absolute dinkleberry, where’s the graphic design task I was promised in return for letting you butcher my hair?! You were meant to do it in a week! It’s been a year!”

Seokjin has the nerve to appear oblivious. “Graphic design task? Listen lady, the most I’ve ever graphically designed is the banner for my nsfw tumblr account, and even then it kept getting me reported. Cons of having a massive schlong, I guess. But graphic designer? That ain’t me.”

You’re about to burst a blood vessel, the few classmates who were close enough in the beginning to see the whole thing going on continuing to watch avidly from the sidelines. Food isn’t allowed in this room but you bet if it was they’d be shoveling popcorn in their mouths with all the ardent desperation and energy of a horse grazing from their palm.

“You said you were the one that made the poster!” you burst, pointing at him in accusation. “You said you’d help me!”

“No, I think I only said I’d help you— and I did! I brought you from a -2 to a solid 3.5 in good lighting! You should be thanking me!”

“You made me look like Sideshow Bob!” you cry, the urge to kill him stronger than ever.

At this, Seokjin is unable to contain the giggle that tears from his throat, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “And it suited you, so well.”

“ARGH YOU ABSOLUTE—!”

Before you can really release the anger that had a whole year to simmer and build, your professor steps in and tells Seokjin to leave and go to his own class before he starts setting up security measures to zap him the second he enters the door. Affronted but not prepared to call your professor’s bluff, the pink haired male begrudgingly listens and leaves, but not before he stops in the doorway and calls over his shoulder, “I’LL BE BACK! JUST YOU WAIT! YOU’VE NOT SEEN THE LAST OF ME!”

You wish you could say that that was the last time you saw him, but the unfortunate reality is that Seokjin lingers like a bad smell and consistently rocks up to your class to both torment your professor and you in one go in the lessons following. Two birds with one stone for him, you suppose. It becomes an unfortunate routine.

You still haven’t received that damn cover image.

[please consider supporting us if you enjoy it, and pls let us know what you think! thank u for reading!]

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redfoxwritesstuff · 4 years

Text

Of Dust and Ashes (Chapter 20)

Happy Friday! Did you all miss Dust last week? I realized while editing this that I left y’all hanging for a extra week to find out what happened to the baby. Oops? Can y’all forgive me?

Masterlist Ko-fi

Chapter warnings: Weather exposure

Clint Barton x ofc

Chapter 20: Too Late?

There was a tension in the air as they stood, watching the caravan make their way down the road. The roaring of engines and crunching of ice filled the air. There sound of sobbing coming from the crates carried over the snow like a haunting song. Neither dared to speak more than needed for fear of drawing attention to themselves. It didn’t need to be spoken for they both feared that if the caravan saw the gate would be opening they would turn around and fall on them.

The breeze carried strands of Dee’s hair across her face, tickling her nose and cheeks. She tucked the strands back behind her ear and darted her eyes to where Clint stood, stock still and knuckles white where he gripped the truck door.

The sky was gray with heavy clouds above them. It trapped warmth for the world below them and Dee prayed that warmth was enough to keep that baby alive until they could get to her. Fat white snowflakes fell as they watched the tail of the caravan farther down the road now, making slow and steady progress. They took the nightmares of what was their society with them.

While she watched the retreating figures, her mind wondered. If she were to be honest with herself, there was a part of her that didn’t want to go. A small part of her was scared. The jagged shard of fear pierced deep into her, cutting straight to the bone.

It wasn’t that she was afraid to leave and go outside the gates. It was what they may find if they were able to locate the baby that scared her so much.

This wouldn’t be the first time she’d tried to save a baby. The memory was even now burned in her mind. The way the little body looked, bloated and leaking fluids onto the too big bed haunted her dreams, played to the soundtrack of screams. Could she survive going through that again?

At least this time the body would be fresh, she told herself but that did nothing to help the fear lodged deep in her stomach. There were many creatures within the forests. She was well aware that dogs ran these woods, hungry and only beginning to learn the ways of their ancestors. Many would leap at the chance for an easy meal.

“Let’s go.” She nodded at Clint’s word and they slipped into the truck. “Friday, gate.”

~~~~~<3

“Keep your eyes on the lookout.” Clint commented, driving slowly.

It was easy enough to follow the tracks the caravan had left through the snow. They’d been driving for over an hour and all they found was dirty tracks, gray and brown from wheels mixing ashy snow, dirt and settled.

“There.” Dee pointed. Part of her, a small part of her doubted if she should have said anything. The bundle was small and still.

Surely it was too late. Surely the baby was already gone. Surely it was better to leave it and go home.

Clint threw the truck in park. The cab jerked and slid a few short inches along the ice before coming to a stop, much like her heart. Although she had her fears, her doubts all left her mind the moment she had the door opened. Her heart took over, much to the dismay of her mind. Snow crunched under her boots as each step came rushed, faster than the last and carried her closer.

Her hands shook- though from cold or fear, she couldn’t say. Trembling fingers reached out for the bundle of rags, brown and dirty. They were still- so still and her breath locked in her chest. As Clint came to her side, there was a whimper from the bundle. It was such a soft sound that it was almost lost on the wind.

“Oh my god.” Dee whispered.

“She’s alive.” Clint sounded as shocked as she was. “Get her out of the snow, I’ll get the heat cranked in the truck.”

The baby was wrapped in many layers of scrap cloth. When Dee uncovered the child’s face, she was cool to the touch. Small fingers and tiny lips had a blue tinge to them. It took everything she had to not shove the child in front of the hot air from the vents. Instead she shed her coat and held the bundled babe to her chest.

“What do we do now?” Dee whispered, feeling relief as the small bundle began to squirm more a little more each passing minute. It began to squawk more as the truck rolled down the snow covered road. “We’ve got a baby- now what?”

“Formula.” Clint answered, turning down side roads.

“And you happen to know where some would be?” The baby in her arms started to coo and whine. “We’ll also need something to diaper her with.”

“She need changing?” Clint glanced over as Dee worked the layers of dirty cloth off the small body. “How old do you think she is anyway?”

“Not yet but she will. God, she’s so skinny.” Dee was able to get a closer look at the almost naked babe with the scraps of cloth away. She was still far too cold but as she warmed, she seemed to be coming to life. “She’s probably a few weeks old?”

“Shit.” Clint grimaced as he looked over at her. “God, are they always so skinny at that age?”

“No- not that I remember. The belly- it’s not…” She shrugged, poking at the little belly. It lacked all the soft plumpness she had remembered from her own children.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve taken care of a baby.” Clint offered.

“How old is your youngest?”

“He is- was three. Just over three years old.” His jaw worked through the tension.

It had taken time but he could finally talk about them, his family, though for only short spells. It still pained him to dwell on them. In some ways, the kids hurt more.

Laura knew he was human but to the kids- he was a hero to them. To them, he could do anything. Failing them hurt more than anything else in the world.

“I’ve got you beat. Frankie was seven. Would be eight now.”

“Between the two of us, we can manage a baby for a bit- right?”

“For how long?” She whispered. “What are we going to do with her, Clint? Do we name her? Do we- fuck, is she ours now? I can’t- I can’t do that Clint. Not right now. Not with how the-”

“Hey, hey.” His strong arm rapped around her bicep and gave a squeeze. He squeezed again and again until she turned her panicked eyes to him. “We’re going to take care of her for now. And we’re going to get her fed and warmed. Get her hydrated and in clean diapers and clothes. We’re going to get her situated.”

“Then what?” Tears gathered in her eyes. “I can’t-”

“I know. I can’t either- not right now. We’re going to get her situated, then I’m going to get her mother.”

“What about King Jacob?”

“I’ll kill him if I have to.”

“I want to go. I want to help. I need to help.”

“Dee- she’s a baby. She can’t be alone.”

“But-”

“Tell you what. Let’s see how she does. If she’s stable than maybe you can take the bow and we’ll figure something out. But I do not want you anywhere near the action. You’re job would be to protect her and watch my back from the distance.”

“Clint-”

“But only if she’s strong enough.” He didn't even want to give her that much. It was an agreement he had no intention of following through on. Dee was his to protect and to allow her into battle, even removed from the action was more risk to her than he would allow. He wouldn't fail to protect another person in his life, not again.

“Okay.” She gave up as Clint pulled into a rural clinic parking lot. It was tucked deep into the forest and easy to miss. The snow around the clinic sparkled and was undisturbed. Windows and doors were intact. It didn’t matter if she liked it or not, the conversation was settled for now.

“Do you think your jackets tight enough to hold her?” Clint asked, cutting the engine.

“Maybe, yeah. With the blankets. I don’t want to drop her.”

“I don’t want to advertise that we’ve got her. You never know who’s watching.”

Dee arranged the babe into the valley between her breasts, inside her shirt. She was still cool to the touch, far cooler than she’d like. Cold fingers flexed and short nails scratched at her skin. While the baby had perked up and started to fuss with all the moving around, she quickly settled with the contact.

Clint threw his quiver over his shoulder and gripped his tactical bow in one hand. Dee tossed her quiver and bow over her shoulder, hoping she wasn't going to have to use it. Knowing that there were others in the general area that were less than friendly put them both on edge.

The font doors were locked, not that it was at all surprising. Dee allowed Clint to lead them as he searched for a way in. She followed close behind, keeping the baby nestled against her chest between them. She did her best to move in a way that no one would have any reason to expect there was a baby in her jacket but it was hard. The tiny body kept wanting to slide down.

There wasn’t any signs of other people but that didn’t do anything to calm their nerves. Clint checked the back door and found it locked as well. There were no lights on inside, no signs of life at all.

“What are you doing?” Dee asked as he knelt in the snow, flipping the cover off a generator.

“Checking to see if the gen is full.”

"Why?"

"If it's full, chances are no one's here."

“And?”

“It is.” He stood, dusting his hands off on his pants. “Doesn’t look like it’s run in a long time.”

“Not since?” She didn’t want to finish what she was going to say.

“I’d say no. Not for a good while even before, maybe. I’m going to try and start it.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Dee asked as he brought it to life.

“Calculated risk. I’m going to pick the lock and we’re locking the door behind us. Get her warmed, check her out, feed her and hopefully find her some clothes.”

Dee watched as he pulled some pins out of his wallet. With sure fingers, he made quick work of unlocking the knob. “What if there’s a deadbolt?”

“Than I say fuck it and break the door down? Or break the lock.” It turned out they didn’t need to worry about it.

“Who’s there?” Came a timid voice from inside. “I’ve got a gun. I- I know how to use it!”

“My name is Clint. Her name is Dee. We mean you no harm.”

“Then why are you trying to break in?”

“We’ve got a baby with us.” Clint gave Dee a look when she gave away their secret. “We thought the clinic was abandoned. We were looking for supplies to help her.”

“Go rob someone else.”

“We can trade.” Clint offered. “We’ve got some cans of food.”

“What do you want?”

“Formula.” Dee offered. “Bottles, if you have any. Some clothes for her? Blankets.”

“Just breast feed it- it’s better that way anyway. Save formula for those who can’t.”

“Bold of you to assume she can.” Clint snapped. “We’re not about wasting supplies.”

“So her supply hasn’t come in?” The woman asked through the door.

“It’s not my baby. She was abandoned by King Jacob’s caravan, separated from her mother.” Dee pressed, not wanting to give Clint a chance to get testy with the woman behind the door. “We’re trying to save her life. She was half frozen when we found her and she’s so small. She’s got no clothes, no diaper and I don’t know when the last time she nursed was. She’s so small. Please- Please help us. We’ll give you food, whatever food we have in the truck- hell you can have it all.”

There was silence. Clint and Dee looked at each other as seconds felt like they stretched on into minutes then hours. Snow fell around them. The exhaust from the generator wafted up to the sky. White puffs of breath dissipated in front of their faces.

It felt so wrong to be just standing there, waiting. They felt naked and exposed, locked out of the clinic. They were beginning to worry that the woman wasn’t going to let them in. They worried that they’d have to break the door down and go to war to get formula for the baby. Then the sound they had been waiting for reached their ears. They almost missed it, the sound of the deadbolt was that soft. There was one more click and the door opened.

The woman inside was small and thin. Clearly, the time since the decimation hadn’t treated her well at all. Her blue eyes were sunken in and ringed with dark circles. Blemishes marred her too pale skin. They looked perhaps worse than they were, the red being in such stark contrast to the rest of her face.

Her wavy blonde hair was a matted mess, held back in a low ponytail. It was clear she had been young, full of life when the decimation happened. The new world seemed to have sucked the life out of her in the last few months.

“Hurry, get in here.” They didn’t wait for a second invitation.

“Why haven’t you been using the generator?” Clint asked as she closed the door behind them and locked it.

“I couldn’t start it.” She admitted. “I’m not sure how the pipes haven’t frozen yet. I guess I just got lucky.”

“You’ve been living here without power?” Dee asked, thankful for the slight warmth in the building. It wasn’t cold inside but it wasn’t warm either.

“I’ve been using the fireplace to cook what food I could stash. I try not to use it during the day. Don’t want to draw attention to myself. I had a run in with King Jacob’s followers a few weeks ago, before the snow started. I was lucky to get away.”

“Why here and not a house or something?” Dee asked as Clint looked around.

“What’s the heat in here?”

“Woodstove and natural gas. I haven’t been running the natural gas- the systems don’t work good without electric.” She directed her attention once again to Dee, “Dr. Ross kept the in house pharmacy stocked. We had to upgrade security a while ago, bullet proof windows and break in resistant doors. It seemed safer and had a functional kitchen until the electric shut off.”

“Clint made quick work of getting the heat going. While the natural gas furnace kicked on, he had to light the pilot light to prevent the clinic from filling with toxic fumes rather than warmth. He’d mentioned that it should have kicked on automatically when power was restored but didn’t. It didn’t surprise him, things tended to malfunction and not be repaired when you’re this far from the town.

Dee carefully toted on a few bags of canned food. The cans lived in the truck, kept so when Clint was exploring, searching for food and supplies he would have something to eat. Under the seats were some bags of pasta.

It wasn’t much at all but it was more than Sasha, the nurse had to eat in a long time. She wouldn’t be able to survive on it alone but Clint and Dee knew she didn’t have to. Now that they knew she was there, they could run her supplies as needed. Any medical professional was a thing to support now when so many had been lost. They had no intention of giving up enough to make their own prospects of survival questionable even in the slightest. Still, they had surplus that would likely see them through the winter and beyond even should they give some away.

The garden had done well enough and the freezer was fully stocked with frozen vegetables. Inside the shed, Clint had rigged up heating shortly before the first frost. At first, he had been simply pulling the trailer greenhouse inside during the nights to keep the plants alive a bit longer.

Then, shortly after rigging the chicken coop for the winter he stopped in a farming town a good 200 miles south of the farmhouse. It was getting harder to find chicken feed but the chickens didn’t seem to mind as larger and larger portions of their diet became produce scraps. It was still a jackpot when he found large bags of feed.

It was one of the most productive supply runs he had in weeks. He’d returned to the farmhouse after having been gone for the better part of a day. Dee had been sick with worry when he rolled up. There was no way she could miss the proud smile on his face that typically was the first sign of a hair brained idea that would make their lives better.

It took a day to install grow lights in the shed. When the plants within the greenhouse began to thrive, giving them a supply of fresh berries, lettuce, celery and tomatoes through the frosty fall he wasted no time in expanding the operation. As he was able to track down large, deep pots and potting soil, Clint slowly filled the shed with plants to grow through the winter. Squash, beans, peas and peppers were lined up in neat rows, just sprouts at best but in time, they would grow.

They could use surplus to trade and since they were locked behind a secure gate, they were safe. In large pots, small twigs seemed to reach for the ceiling and Clint hoped that by spring thaw he would be able to plant the trees outside, giving them apples, oranges and pears.

Now that surplus would hopefully save a baby’s life and buy them the loyalty of a nurse. Canned food was a convince for them, not a necessity. Sasha wasted no time in opening a can of green beans and picking long green sticks out of the can and eating them. She drank the juice and reached for another can.

“Wait- be careful.” Dee rested her hand on Sasha’s too thin arm. “We’ve got more food- at the house. It looks like you’ve done without for a while, if you eat too much too fast, won’t you make yourself sick?”

“You’re right.” Sasha sighed. Warmth was pouring from the vents now, quickly warming the room. It was still cold but at least her fingers no longer ached. “The baby?”

Dee looked to Clint for confirmation before working the zipper of her jacket down. Inside was the little bundle, tucked inside her shirt and sleeping against her chest. She fussed when moved and it didn’t take long at all for her to work herself up into a fit, though Dee wasn’t surprised at all given how hungry she had to be.

“And she’s not yours?” Sasha asked, wiping down a scale with disinfectant before turning and grabbing a stack of thin blankets from under a counter. It was fascinating, watching the woman shift and training begin to take over.

~~~~~<3

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ashtheshortstack · 4 years

Text

take my scars & make them stars - ch 2

Rating: M Ship: Kristoff/Anna Chapter Two

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Sick Fic, Cancer Fic, Chronic Illness, Chemotherapy, Modern AU, Coffee Shop AU, Fluff and Angst, Fluff, Eventual Smut, Angst with a happy ending, Mutual Pining, Mentions of Character Death

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Anna had already decided she would be stopping by Arendelle Roasts after her treatment today and prayed Kristoff would be working again this time. She wouldn’t dare tell Elsa. Her sister had insisted on tagging along but since Elsa hadn’t been feeling well, Anna used it as an excuse to tell her to sit this one out.

Was it horrible for her to use her sister’s health issues as an excuse so she could go talk to a guy? Yes. Absolutely. But Anna had a life-threatening disease that could easily take her out. She only had one life to live and if involved flirting with a big, burly, blonde barista… how could Anna resist?

Anna glared at the I.V. drip. It was taking far too long. Did it always drip that slowly? How did Elsa have this much patience when she accompanied her? Usually, she would feel a bit drained after a round of chemo, but Anna had to keep her energy up. For… reasons.

Her toes tapped on the carpet as she stared at her book in her lap. The words on the page jumbling together as Anna simply almost went cross-eyed at the font. Her brain was nowhere near focused enough to process the English language. All she could think about was what she would say to Kristoff when she saw him. Honestly, she hadn’t planned this idea out at all. What if she got tongue tied!? She didn’t have Elsa to help her out of this one.

Maybe, this was a bad idea. Going home was probably the better option, right? Who was she fooling? Like she told Elsa: no man would willingly date a bald girl with no boobs. Anna didn’t think she was really anything to look at before all of this, let alone now.

She slammed the book closed, groaning as she pulled out her phone instead. How would she know that Kristoff was even working again? It wasn’t like she knew his shifts or anything. If this stupid chemo didn’t hurry up she really would lose her mind.

Why had he noticed her in the first place!? Well, she knew why she garnered the attention of others, but his attention was different. Why didn’t he look at her like everyone else had?

She had to know why. Desperately desired more knowledge about him… Elsa had gotten her to admit she found him to be attractive. Almost looked out of place for his career choice. She idly wondered if this was just a temporary job for him… She remembered how broad his shoulders were, the messiness of his blonde locks, his hands—God, his hands—were so much bigger than hers. The touch of his rough skin had startled her when she handed over her sister’s credit card. What would it be like if she held his hand? Would his fingers engulf hers?

…And she was way off base here. There was no indication from him that he was interested in her like that. She couldn’t even bring herself to admit having tiny crush on him… She was a grown ass adult, dammit! She couldn’t be fawning over some—some… guy she saw in a coffee shop. Anna wasn’t that desperate little girl who desired the love of a prince charming anymore. She’d been there, done that, and learned that lesson.

But still. Yes. Maybe—Maybe, he was cute. But that was okay. She could admit someone was cute. Didn’t mean she wanted to date him. Or—sleep with him?

Wait. No.

Stop.

Not going there.

Anna shook her head, clearing her head of such thoughts. She knew what men desired. And she certainly wasn’t it. Not anymore. Her body was weak and scrawny. At times, she barely even felt like a person herself. Besides, ever since starting chemo her sex drive was zilch. Of course, she hadn’t told anyone that. Elsa wasn’t one to discuss such topics. And like hell she’d tell Gerda. It was embarrassing enough to lose her libido. Talking about it would be much worse.

She couldn’t help it though. Her attraction to Kristoff did elicit some thoughts in her mind. He was just so different than Hans. Or any other man she’d found desirable in the past. Since when did she like thicker men with big hands and probably bigger—nope.

Anna felt her face flush, mortified. No. Nada. She would not—could not have such thoughts about a man she had just met. Why did her mind keep wandering to improper territories? She tried to reason with herself. She hadn’t been—intimate with anyone in a while. She’d been going through treatments almost three months, she left Hans after her diagnosis five months prior… And she stopped sleeping with him when their relationship was on its last threads. That had to be why. A completely reasonable explanation as to why she’d be thinking about Kristoff in that way. About how it may feel to be wrapped in his arms and—

Dr. Mattias opened the door.

Thank God.

“Good afternoon, Anna,” he began as he started in the room. “How are we feeling today?”

Sighing, she smiled at him as he took a seat on the stool across from her. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You look awfully flushed.”

Her hand went to her cheek, feeling the heat on her skin. “Ah—I-It’s a little hot in here, I guess.”

Dr. Mattias eyed her a moment. He could usually see right through her. “Do we need to adjust the thermostat?”

“No! It’s fine. Just—I’m fine.”

Humming, he wrote on his clipboard in hand. “Okay… What about symptoms? What have you been feeling?”

“Fatigue, mostly. I’ve been tired all the time. Sometimes I lose my breath if I’m too active and need to sit down,” she told him before pursing her lips. “The mouth sores are pretty bad.”

That got him to look up from his writing. “Mouth sores?”

“Yeah. I have a lot of ulcers. I’ve been sticking to soup and liquid foods to help the pain. Solid foods haven’t really been my friend. I-It feels like I’m eating bits of glass. I can’t—I can’t really taste much either. But all of that is normal, right?”

With a sympathetic nod, he took more notes on his paper. “Yes, those are definitely side effects I’ve seen from treatment before. I would suggest getting a mouth sore rinse. Should be near regular mouth wash in a store. It won’t prevent more from appearing, but it’ll at least relieve some of the pain from the ones you already have. There’s nothing we can really do about loss of taste, but most patients have their taste return once in remission.”

Anna nodded in understanding. “That’s great! So, I won’t be like this forever?”

Dr. Mattias smiled at her optimism. “Most likely,” he paused, giving her another glance and cleared his throat. “Anna, I need you to be honest with me. If the pain becomes too much, a feeding tube is always an option.”

He hadn’t meant for the statement to jar her as it had, she knew. But it did anyway. Silently, she gave a nod, unable to look him in the eyes.

“I’m not trying to scare you—by any means. However, the last thing I want to put you through is unnecessary suffering,” he explained.

“I understand.”

o~o~o~o

Arendelle Roasts wasn’t too far from the hospital. That’s how Elsa had discovered the quaint coffee shop in the first place. It was only about a ten-minute walk. Anna could make it, she knew. Despite being a little drained and sore, she would be fine. She had stuck around the hospital for a bit anyway, got a small healthy snack, and met with the counselling group. It gave her plenty of time to sit and gather herself.

Starting her walk, she would see if he was there before she strolled in the doors of the shop, thankfully. The large windows showed the entire inside of the establishment. Anna tried to be casual when she looked for him. She smiled despite herself when she saw him behind the register. There was someone else with him today, and she worried a bit that maybe the other guy would try to take her order.

But… mustering up her pride, she walked in the door anyway. The bell chimed over the doorway, making the boys look up. Kristoff seemed stunned to see her and said something to the other guy quickly before shooing him.

“A-Anna,” Kristoff sputtered as she reached the counter. He glanced behind her. “No Elsa today?”

“O-Oh.”

Shit. She knew she’d forgotten something. A lie to tell him as to why she was here. He was looking at her expectantly. Anna knew he’d probably buy whatever she told him, but what made the most sense?

“Well, Elsa’s sick today and couldn’t come out today. S-So, I thought I’d bring her a latte back home.”

Kristoff smiled at that with a nod. “S’mores. 12-ounce, right?”

Blinking, her jaw went slack. He remembered what she had ordered for Elsa. And it had been almost two weeks since she last saw this man. Again, he was looking at her. Shit, she was slow today. But he never gave her any sign he was annoyed or irritated. He just—just waited patiently.

“Y-Yeah. That’s right.”

“Got it,” he said and started towards the machine. Anna pulled out her card, fingers quivering as she waited. God, she kinda hoped he would touch her hand again. He was so warm last time.

When he returned with the cup, she went hand him the card, but he held up a hand to stop her. “I’m off the clock. Consider it on the house.”

Anna gaped. “Wait, what?”

Kristoff laughed at that. “I’m clocked out. I’ll pay for the coffee.”

“Thank you,” she replied, stunned and awestruck that he made her coffee when he wasn’t on shift anymore.

Do it, Anna. Just do it! Ask him! Ask him to talk! He’s not working! Do it, do it, do it!!

“Since you’re off the clock would you—uh—want to—t-talk? Talk to me? Like hang out? Uh…”

Great. She sounded like an idiot. His eyes widened at her, lips parted.

The other boy came back around the corner before Kristoff could answer. “Ryder,” according to his nametag. But Kristoff’s was wrong… so who knew if that was his name. He smiled. “Hi! You must be Ann—oof!”

Kristoff elbowed him quickly. “12-ounce, s’mores latte. Write it on my tab,” he said swiftly before turning his attention back to her. “And yes. We can stay here, if you’d like?”

Anna nodded quickly, trying not to seem too eager. Smiling, he took off his vest before shooting a glare towards Ryder who just smirked far too smugly. Kristoff ruffled his blonde locks. “I’ll be right back. You can find a table? O-Or it doesn’t have to be a table, obviously, can be one of the couches if that’d make you more comfortable. Or downstairs, or the—”

Ryder cleared his throat.

Cheeks flushing, Kristoff’s mouth snapped shut. “I’ll find you.” He retreated to a back room.

Anna tapped the cup in her hand and took a step back.

“Nice to meet you, Anna,” the barista grinned.

She giggled at that, giving him a curt nod. “Ryder?”

He nodded as customers began to trickle in as the bell chimed.

Anna found a table nestled in the back of the coffee shop. A habit she’d come to develop since her treatments began. The less noticeable she was, the less stares she got. Kristoff easily found her, though, pulling out the seat across from her on the table.

“I’m guessing you can’t be here long?” he asked.

She was confused by that. “What?” she tilted her head, a puzzled look etched along her face.

He gestured towards the coffee with his head. “The coffee. For Elsa. It’ll get cold if you stay here too long.”

Anna sucked in a breath at that. “Oh! Right! Um. No. I don’t have to leave. Cold coffee has never really bothered her, anyway. S-She could always warm it back up if she wanted to. In the, uh, microwave?”

A smirk twitched along his lips. “Okay… If you say so. I would suggest pouring it into a mug before doing that.”

Nodding quickly, Anna agreed. “Right.”

Why was she like this!? She never… well, she’d always been awkward. But with Hans she’d never felt this? It was exciting and new with him since she’d never had a guy look her way before. With Kristoff, however, her heart pounded, words tumbled from her mouth before she could rationally think about it.

How much was of it was Kristoff? How much of it was chemo brain?

She didn’t know.

There it was again. That look he gave her as if he was waiting for her to speak. But instead of thinking she blurted out: “So, what do you do?”

Blinking, he bit back a smile, obviously trying not to laugh as Anna let out a mortified groan and plopped her head on the table. “Don’t answer that,” she muttered.

He did anyway. “I make coffee sometimes.”

Scoffing, more at her stupid question than him, she dared to look up at him. “You don’t say?”

Kristoff hid a chuckle behind his hand. “I’m in doing on the job training for construction on the weekends,” he told her. “I enrolled in some classes over at East too. That’s what else I do.”

Anna perked at that. She could talk about that. “I went to East… before.”

She didn’t need to elaborate. He seemed to understand as he nodded. “What’d you study?”

“English.”

He grimaced with a hiss.

“Hey, it’s not that bad, really. I planned to go to uni and study British Literature, but ya know, life had other plans,” she said with a shrug.

Kristoff hummed in agreement. “Yeah, it tends to throw curveballs, but it’s how you deal with it that matters, right?”

Brows raising, she was a bit shocked at his words. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Sooo… tell me, what about you? Do you do anything?”

Anna shook her head. “I can’t work right now, and I’ve never had a job before.”

He seemed confused at that. “What? You’ve never had a job? How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-one,” she replied before giving him a look. “What about you? How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

She gaped. “What? You’re the same age as Elsa.”

“Wait, really? Did you both grow up here?”

Anna cocked a brow but nodded. “Yes, we did.”

Kristoff humphed, clearly confused as he leaned onto his palm. “I never saw Elsa in any classes in high school. Did you go to academy?”

“Oh! Elsa was homeschooled. And I enrolled at the academy sophomore year.”

“Aah, that explains it. A prep-school girl, huh?” he teased.

Anna had heard that there was reputation for those that went to the private school in the town. Mostly that they were snobby rich kids. Which—well—it wasn’t wrong. She had dated a snobby rich boy. For far too long.

She leaned onto the table with her, resting her chin on her palms. “Got a problem with academy kids, Kristoff?”

He barked a laugh at that. “I graduated five years ago. That is not something I worry over anymore.”

Anna hummed teasingly. “Sounds like you’re still a little bitter,” she chimed, touching her fingers together.

“Because your rich parents could send you to the uppity school? Nah.”

He didn’t know. She knew he didn’t know. But it didn’t stop the words from panging in her chest just a little. “My parents actually passed away. That’s—uh—that’s why I ended up enrolled in school in the first place.”

The panic that set in his eyes made her feel worse for telling him. “Oh, God. Anna—I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean—I tend to put my foot in my mouth a lot so if I ever just—I’ll shut up.”

His hands were clenched on the table, knuckles turning white as he gazed down at his lap. He was so mortified, and it was written all over his face. Daring, she reached out and placed her frail fingers over the back of his palm. She smiled when he glanced up at her.

“It’s okay. It’s—It’s one of the curveballs you talked about, right?”

He released a breath, shaking his head. “God, Anna. What have you been through?”

A sour laugh left her lips at that. “More than I could begin to describe.”

Kristoff shot a glance at where her tiny fingers were touching his. She almost pulled away when he placed his other hand over hers, trapping her hand there. “Anytime you need to talk, I’m all ears. I know what difference it can make to have someone to listen.”

Anna felt her cheeks heat. “I-I… Wow. Th-Thank you. That’s so nice of you. You’re—wow. You’re really nice.”

Shaking his head, he shied away from her. Anna almost frowned at the loss of skin contact but tried not to react. “I’m not,” he chuckled. “I used to be kind of a jerk. I always—I dunno. I used to really hate being around people.”

“Sounds like you have some stuff to talk about too.”

He snorted. “Maybe, but we’ll save that for another day.”

“We will?”

“I-I mean—” he cleared his throat, suddenly finding the creamer on the table much more interesting than her face. “I-If you want to, of course. We could t-talk again. H-Hang out again?”

Anna smiled at that. “Sure, I’d like that.”

She watched as he swallowed thickly. “Could I have your number…?”

Nodding quickly, she pulled her phone from her pocket as he did the same. Exchanging phones, they put one another’s numbers in the devices. She noticed that he had actual pictures of people in his phone. People still did that…? She looked up nervously from his phone. “U-Um… could the picture part wait?”

His brows pinched slightly. “Uh, sure. Is something wrong?”

“Well, I hate to state the obvious, but I’m bald.”

“Oh, really? I thought you just really liked hats.”

“Kristoff.”

He barked a laugh as he plucked his phone from her fingers. “Yes, the picture can wait until you have hair, if that makes you feel better.”

Anna smirked as he slid her phone back to her across the table. “Thank you.”

He stood from his seat. “I… I really enjoyed talking to you, Anna. Unfortunately,” he checked the time on his phone, looking at her with an apologetic frown. “I’ve been here for over six hours, and my dog will tear my house apart if I stay too much longer.”

God… he looked even taller when she was sitting. Anna stood to join him in an instant but regretted the action immediately when the world spun around her. She blinked, swaying a bit but trying to play off the reaction. She must’ve not hidden her distress well since Kristoff grabbed her upper arm to steady her. If she hadn’t been so woozy, she may have blushed or taken notice of how his hand swallowed her bicep as if she were a toothpick. That was for another day, another time.

“Are you okay?” he asked, tilting to see her face.

Squeezing her eyes, she silently willed the dizzy spell to stop. She tried to wave him off, tried to pretend nothing was wrong. This happened sometimes. It wasn’t something new. But in front of someone else…? In front of someone she really thought she may have a chance with? Out in public? That was new. And she hated it.

Anna groaned, grabbing her head.

“Anna, hey, when was your last treatment?”

“Today…” she managed to answer. “Few hours ago.”

His jaw dropped. “And you came here? You didn’t go home?”

Anna couldn’t tell him the truth. Couldn’t dare to admit that she’d come to see him. Swallowing, she grimaced with a shrug. “Uh, Elsa wanted her coffee.”

Kristoff gave her a look before shaking his head and cracking a small smile. “Right… Why don’t you sit back down?”

“No, no. I’m fine. You have to get ho—” Anna retched, bending at the waist as the granola she’d eaten earlier was suddenly in bits on the floor. Bile burned her throat, the taste sour in her mouth. She coughed more, vaguely hearing Kristoff call for his coworker. The world was a blur, she didn’t know how she ended up sat back in the chair, bent over a small, plastic garbage can.

Was the feeling of his palm running along her arm real? She couldn’t be sure. Her body trembled as she emptied whatever contents were left in her stomach into the trash. Her throat ached, eyes watered both from the puking and the humiliation of it all. She’d be lucky if Kristoff ever spoke to her again after this.

“I’ll be right back,” he’d told her as his warmth left her.

She bobbed her head, hugging herself and running tremoring fingers over her arms. People were looking at her now. The “poor you” stare even worse than normal. This sucked. Anna just wanted to live normally for once. Hang out with a guy that was cute… then she blew it. Literally. All over his shoes. Her bottom lip wobbled as she held in fresh tears that threatened to fall.

When she looked up, Kristoff had a mop. Anna watched in a stunned silence as she cleaned up this mess she had created. He’d apparently wiped off his shoes since they were free of any bile. Tears slipped out, then. He noticed.

Offering her a warm smile, he shook his head. “Hey, hey. You’re okay. You’re not the first person to puke in here,” he spoke lightly. “It’s usually coffee which—smells much worse.” Kristoff scrunched his nose.

She listened. His reassuring voice making her heart swell just a little. Anna wasn’t sure if him being so nice to her helped or just made her more emotional. He was meticulous with his mopping before taking the bucket towards the back room. He returned, and after he placed a wet floor sign in the area, he squatted in front of her.

“Do you need a ride home?”

Anna scoffed at him. “Really? You’re not afraid I may puke in your car?”

He shrugged. “So what?”

“You… You are something else.”

She agreed to the ride, though.

o~o~o~o

Kristoff’s jaw dropped when they pulled up to the mansion in his pick-up. “Holy shit, Anna. This is where you live?”

With a little laugh, she shrugged. “Yeah?”

Elsa was out the door. “Anna!” her sister enveloped her in her arms before she was barely out of the truck. “God, you scared me! I thought you had collapsed in the street! Where—” It was then her sister looked past her and saw that it wasn’t a kind stranger that gave Anna a ride home like she’d insinuated via text.

Anna held up the latte. “I got you your latte!” she practically shouted.

Her sister squinted at her, taking the coffee. “This is cold,” she muttered with a frown.

“It’s fine.”

Kristoff was walking around the truck to join them, letting out an impressed whistle. “Wow.” He turned to the girls, offering the elder sister a smile. “Nice to see you again, Elsa.”

Elsa smiled politely with a nod. “Likewise, Kristoff. Thank you for bringing Anna home. I’m sorry if she caused you any trouble,” her voice was stern in the last bit of the sentence, glowering at Anna.

He waved, shaking his head. “No, no!”

“He’s lying. I puked in the coffee shop.”

Elsa gaped. “Anna. You know better than to exert yourself after chemo.”

“I know, I know,” Anna sighed as her sister fretted over her.

“U-Um,” Kristoff started, gaining the attention of both sisters. “I really have to go,” he awkwardly gestured to his truck with his thumbs. “My dog… I don’t even want to know what he’s done to my house.”

Anna stepped towards him. “I’ll pay for anything he’s destroyed. Promise.”

Shaking his head, he looked at her in almost disbelief. “That’s totally unnecessary. I enjoyed getting to talk to you today. If anything, it’s my fault for keeping you so long.”

Kristoff jumped in his truck, rolling down the passenger side window. “I’ll—uh—I’ll text you?”

She bobbed her chin quickly. “Y-Yeah! T-Thanks again, Kristoff. For—For everything today.”

He smiled at that, giving a quick wave as he rolled the window up.

Anna stayed on the front steps of the mansion, watching as he backed out and drove away. Her hands gripped her chest as she felt like she could just collapse in a melted heap.

Elsa’s hand plopped on her shoulder. “You puked in the coffee shop?”

“Don’t patronize me.”

She laughed at that before taking her sister’s hand and tugging her inside.

Anna flopped on the couch, letting out a huff of air, her cheeks puffing out. “I’ll be lucky if Kristoff ever wants to talk to me after this,” she groaned, smacking her palms over her eyes.

“Well, he did bring you home.”

“He wasn’t going to leave a girl with cancer who just puked on his shoes out to dry in the coffee shop. It doesn’t mean he still wants to talk to me, Elsa. I totally messed this up.”

Elsa hummed, tapping a comforting hand on Anna’s thigh. “I think you’re overreacting just a little.”

“Elsa, this is literally the end of the world, I don’t know how else I should react.”

Her sister laughed. “Uh huh.”

Anna pouted in her self-sorrows for a few minutes as Elsa affectionately rubbed her palm along her scalp. They hadn’t gotten to share moments like this as they grew up. It was nice to have it now. Elsa never got to help her little sister through boy troubles, even though it wasn’t the elder sister’s area of expertise. Hans was aggressive. Just suddenly in her life, then suddenly out. Elsa couldn’t stand him, had told Anna as much, but the younger sister wanted someone to love her. And that was that.

She felt like a silly teenager after the whole incident. It was like one of those humiliating moments in teen drama movies. Anna suddenly understood the overwhelming dread one felt when put in such a situation.

When her phone pinged, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Kristoff: would you like to grab lunch with me sometime?

She sat up so fast she nearly threw her equilibrium off again. “Elsa!”

Elsa took the phone, grinning at the message before shoving the phone back into Anna’s hand. “You’re going to say ‘yes,’ right?”

Anna nodded quickly typing out the quick reply. “I don’t sound desperate, do I?”

“Anna.”

“No. You’re right. Just say yes.”

Anna went to bed smiling like an idiot. She tossed and turned in her bed… before burying her face in the pillow and squealing.

#kristanna #kristoff x anna #the queen & her reindeer king #ash writes #frozen fic #anna x kristoff #kristanna fic #tw: cancer #tw: character death #cancer fic #angst #hurt/comfort #mentions of chemotherapy #tms&mts #take my scars & make them stars

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marvel-lucy · 5 years

Text

Kidnapping 101

A case of mistaken identity by some poorly trained Hydra agents

I don’t think I ever posted this on here, only on AO3. But I’m re-reading my old fics and feeling needy for validation so I’m going to repost it anyway, even though it’s two years old :)

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You weren’t supposed to be here. This was not in your calendar for today and you hated unscheduled meetings. You were pretty sure this kind of work wasn’t mentioned in your job description from Stark Industries either. And you had no idea if you could claim expenses for this – how would you code ‘damaged by Hydra during torture’ on the finance system...?

It was possible you were getting a little delirious

Earlier

You were the third person to find out that Pepper was pregnant, after her doctor and Tony. You weren't technically supposed to know, but after the second time you'd gone to look for her when she was late for a meeting, only to find her throwing up in her office's private bathroom, she took you into her confidence.

You'd been working with her for over a year now and right up until this moment you'd have said you were confident in your abilities. You had a law degree, you had a Masters in Business Administration, you had experience, but right now you felt as if you were the lowliest work experience kid, dressed in your Mom's too-big clothes and about to cry.

Pepper was due in a big meeting, right now, and instead she was lying on her bathroom floor, a mess. You'd accompanied her to all the previous meetings and knew the situation inside out but now she'd asked you to go cover for her. Alone.

It should be simple, right? It was a meeting about some new tech that another organisation wanted to link up with Stark on. Most of the details had been thrashed out, this was mostly just a show-around, glad-handing type, with a little bit of legal wrangling over croissants and fake smiles. You’d have a couple of legal assistants with you, you just had to not promise anything while sounding as if you were agreeing to all they said.

So, you grabbed documents, iPad, pen, paper. Straightened your skirt, brushed your hair off your face, plastered on a smile of fake confidence and hoped you didn’t make a deal that ended up bringing down the firm.

Of course, as it turned out, that might have been preferable. You’d entered the room, shaking hands and smiling and thanking them for coming, surprised rather at the amount of muscle in the room – you were used to the Avengers and their multitude of biceps and abs, but you didn’t usually see it in business meetings. Still, healthy lifestyles were obviously catching on. You offered coffee but head Muscleman (shit, you hadn’t caught his name. In fact, you hadn’t even introduced yourself. Too late now, nod and smile nod and smile) wanted to look around, his Muscleminions nodding in agreement. So you set off, chatting inanely, leaving the assistants to set up the paperwork.

Mr Muscle asked to start the tour at the top, saying he’d heard the view from the top of Stark Tower was amazing, so you all squeezed into an elevator and headed up. You tried making small talk with one of the minions, a woman standing next to you but she looked at you pretty blankly and you decided that most of these suits were obviously here to make up the numbers, to impress Pepper.

“So, we’re as high as we can go now, as you can see New York does look pretty good from up here! As new business partners, you will of course be invited to Mr. Stark’s regular parties up…. HEY, what the…. Mmmmmffffff!”

Ms Muscleminion had grabbed you from behind and now had her hand clamped over your mouth. You kicked and struggled but there were far more of them than you, and suddenly one of the others was approaching, needle in hand.“Hail Hydra” he said, as he stabbed the needle into your thigh. You heard the sound of a helicopter approaching and everything went dark.

Next thing you knew, you were in a stereotypical evildoers’ lair. Honestly, you’d think Hydra could afford something other than underground-car-park chic or the abandoned-warehouse-aesthetic. Hysteria was setting in apparently.

You were tied to a chair and had a feeling that bad things were going to happen. Yeah, this was definitely not on your ‘to do’ list for today.You were starting to feel uncomfortable. Your head ached from whatever drug they’d given you, your arms and legs were hurting from being held in one position, you were thirsty and you were seriously pissed off. There was a reason that you were called SheHulk on occasion; you were known for your temper.

The door opened and the man from the business meeting entered again. He pulled up a chair near you, scraping the metal across the floor. Presumably this was supposed to menace you but you rolled your eyes at the cliché.“So, Ms Potts, I assume you’re intelligent to understand you are now our hostage. Mr Stark will, I’m sure, provide us with whatever we desire, to ensure your safe return.” He grinned at you, and you couldn’t help but grin back. Oh god, they thought you were Pepper, this was hysterical (OK, maybe it wasn’t, but you weren’t thinking straight). You remembered realising you’d forgotten to introduce yourself in your nerves about the meeting. And they weren’t the first to make the mistake – even Tony had groped you by accident from behind at a party once, you and Pepper had identical hair after all. And they had been expecting Pepper… You opened your mouth to correct him then gulped and shut it hurriedly. They were not going to keep some assistant alive and healthy when they realised their mistake. You were going to need to play along.

“Tony doesn’t bargain with Hydra.” You eyed the man as your aching brain tried to think about what Pepper would do, what you should do, what they’d do…“Oh I think he will when he sees what we’re capable of, Ms Potts.” He grinned again and suddenly you weren’t feeling like grinning again.

A couple of his goons set up a laptop, its webcam aimed at you. That little part of your brain that was in hysterical mode wanted to ask what the wi-fi reception was like under all this concrete but luckily the rest of your brain was too busy panicking to listen.

All turned on and set up, you could see yourself on the laptop screen. You didn’t look great to be honest, they obviously hadn’t been too gentle carrying your unconscious body; there were scrapes across your face, dirty marks on your suit and your hair – Pepper’s hair – was every which way.

“Mr Stark, as you can see, we have Ms Potts. She is well… for now. That can change. You will find a list of our requirements at the end of this broadcast, along with details for how to contact us. You have one hour.”

You knew you needed to get Tony to play along when he saw this, not let on that you weren’t Pepper, so before they turned off the recording, you quickly spoke.

“Tony, it’s Pep here. Who knew Hydra would want to kidnap Pepper Potts, right…?”

That was all you had time for before a resounding slap around the side of your head silenced you. You bit your tongue as your head snapped sideways and the real fear started.The three Hydra agents picked up the laptop and moved away from you, talking. You listened as hard as you could to their conversation.

“So what do we do? Email it?”

“No, he can trace the signal. Put it on a DVD?”

“What and post it?”

“No, idiot, that’ll take forever. Get a messenger. You do know how to burn a DVD?”

“I can google it…”

Oh. My. God. Apparently you’d been kidnapped by the least competent bad guys ever. Were they… trainees?! How humiliating!

“Look, we have to get this right, go get the DVD sorted, we have to be quick.”

“Yeah, does the one-hour deadline start from when we stopped recording or when he sees it? I mean, what if he doesn’t watch the DVD!?”

Great. Were you going to have to give them Kidnapping 101 just so they could get this right?!

“We’ve got to get that tech before the weekend. Once the General is back, we have to have something to show him or else he’s going to skin us!”

You are kidding, right. This wasn’t just a Kidnapping by Kids, it was unauthorised? What, they were trying to get extra credit on their Hydra Degrees by being proactive? You let out a groan and let your head drop, drawing their attention to you. They shifted and all headed out of the room, presumably to choose their favourite fonts for the ransom note. Jeez, I bet they wrote it in Comic Sans.

Once they’d gone, you were still in the same position. Tied up, uncomfortable, ear ringing still from the slap and the iron taste of blood in your mouth. To be honest, you also needed to use the bathroom, which did not put you in a better frame of mind.

They left you there for what felt like hours, while you wriggled your arms and legs inside their bonds in an attempt to get free. You could feel the bonds loosening – presumably they’d never got their ‘knot tying’ girl scout badge – but when the door opened again you felt yourself tensing up.

“He hasn’t responded. Why hasn’t he responded?!” The larger man put his face close to yours as he shouted and you could see the anger and anxiety in his face. A dangerous combination, he had a lot to prove it seemed and you were the material he had to prove himself on.

The laptop was set up again and the man stood behind you, grabbing your hair tight in his fist and yanking your head back. You let out a gasp of pain.

“Mr Stark. Do you really value your fiancée’s life so little? Would you like her returned piece by piece? You have the phone number you need, ring us within an hour of receiving this, unless you enjoy seeing your Ms Potts suffer”

At that, things took a turn for the serious, as the woman from the lift stepped forward and punched you in the stomach. You jerked forward involuntarily, but yelled out as the grip on your hair tightened. Unable to lean forward to relieve the pain, you gasped, winded. The SheHulk was released however and you started shouting.

“You piece of shit, you fuckers, Tony, blow this whole place up I don’t care!” You shook side to side in your chair, trying to loosen your bonds further, but another blow to your stomach left you unable to breathe again and dizzy from pain.The Hydra agents gathered up their things and left again.

The next time they appeared, after another agonising wait, you had regained your breath but not your temper. Your stomach ached and you were running on adrenaline. You’d managed to work all bar one of your bonds loose and were just working on the last when they reappeared.

“Mr Stark wants more proof that you are alive”. A phone was pressed against your ear.

“‘Pepper’, that you? Can you keep talking for a bit…?”

“Tony darling, I’m cold and sore in this damn underground bunker and I am going to claim so much damn overtime…”

“Enough.” The phone was taken away from your ear. That probably wasn’t enough to trace a call but it depended on how long Tony had been talking to the Hydra idiot before you and how long they talked now.

“You have our list Mr Stark, and the location for the drop… I don’t care if you don’t have all the components, you have to find them… Well I said one hour! Ok fine, two. OK FINE, THREE. You have three hours that should be more than sufficient to gather things from your other base. No you can’t talk to her again. No. Just shut up! OK fine!”

The phone was held up against your ear again.“You doing OK kid? This’ll all be over soon. Sooner than they may expect. Just don’t do anything stupid OK?”

“How can I, they’ve got all the stupid here” You grinned. ‘Sooner than they may expect’ made you think they were on their way.

The phone call was cut off and the man backhanded you across the face, probably for your rudeness. You spat out blood at him and he saw red. Perhaps he could sense this slipping away from him – kidnappers generally didn’t end up conceding so much to their victims, but Tony was good at that.

He went to punch you again but at that point, you really did hulk out. You pulled your arms and legs free from the loosened bonds just as he lunged forwards, and threw yourself sideways. Your legs nearly gave way after being tied up for so long, so you grabbed at the chair for support, then when he came at you with a roar, threw it at his face, stamping your feet and shaking your arms to get the feeling back, and regretting it as the pins and needles started. That just threw you into an even worse mood.

“I. Fucking. Hate. Pins and Needles. You bastard!”. As heroic lines go, it probably needed work, but your adrenaline was racing and your heart was pounding and you were furious. You threw yourself down as he ran at you again, knocking his legs out from under him, then pummelling his face before rolling him over and yanking his arms up behind him.

“Did you really think anyone working with Stark didn’t get to train with the Avengers, you MORON?”

You grabbed at the rope that had tied you to the chair and had him hog-tied within seconds, just in time as the other two came in the door and saw what you were doing. Your blood was up and your legs were working now and it was no great effort to take down two poorly trained and obviously low level Hydra fools, not when you had compulsory training with Captain America and Black Widow three times a week.

“THIS WASN’T ON MY SCHEDULE!!” You shouted as your arms blurred with the speed of your punches. Even with the two of them attacking you, it was no great effort and within a few minutes both were lying on the ground groaning. You panted hard, then looked up at the sound of applause.

Tony Stark, Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson were all leaning against the wall near the door, watching you and clapping.

“You bastards!” You panted, hands on knees. “You couldn’t have joined in?”

“Oh you looked like you were having way too much fun, ‘Pepper’. I know you hate it when I interfere in your business meetings.”

The men walked towards you as Stark spoke, Rogers reaching you first and holding you up. Despite the sarcasm, you could see the concern on their faces at what you might have been through.You leant on Tony heavily as you left the room, leaving Sam and Steve to gather up – and laugh at – the Hydra idiots, kidnapping the wrong person and then getting taken down three against one.

Tony hugged you to him and whispered thanks against your hair.

“You owe me Stark. Overtime, a corner office, and…”

“Some more time off?”

“No, you can call the damn baby after me”

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@melconnor2007@emilyevanston @kittyslove @badassbaker @phoenix21love @lbouvet @bellenuit45 @prplprincez @gingerrootknits @pineapplebooboo @feelmyroarrrr @avengerofyourheart @eyeofdionysus @hellomissmabel @learisa @mitra-k-w @imhereforbvcky @shaddixlife @iwillbeinmynest @amrita31199 @whatsbetterthanfantasy @pixierox101 @edward-lover18 @madcheshire89 @heartfulloffandoms @chipilerendi @kenya-17 @mckorni32843 @amandarosemire @rda89 @nyxveracity @sea040561 @mrsalh32611 @ruinerofcheese @callmebucky-doll @vintagepigeon @bubbasmom @sassycanoodler @ladylorelitany @natcad @thisismysecrethappyplace @mywinterwolf

#marvel fic #fluff #pepper potts #tony stark #funny? maybe? probably not

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