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k8epot8e · 3 months

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Train in Vain: Chapter 1

Notes: Never done this before, I've only ever written academic essays for grad school etc. I got the idea for this story on the train the other day. Wanted to play around with Kid's characterization and his relationship with Kil. The amount of space Kid and Killer are occupying in my brain lately is unhealthy and I especially loved the HC I'd seen of them being in a punk band together. I'd originally thought of this as a one-shot, but I enjoyed writing it so much that I will keep going! My plan atm is to upload another chapter by next week. Please let me know what you think! Going to try to improve my dialogue and action sequences. The general idea is that it'll all happen over the course of one night, like an After Hours, or American Graffiti situation. TWs: Reader is a woman. Sexual harassment of reader. Brief mention of an imaginary sex scene. Light violence. Implied drinking and drugs. Implied familial pressure and sexism. Cursing. Minors dni.

On AO3 I gave it an M but it's a lighter M. Here's that link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53565769

Summary:

You're headed out on a Saturday night when some cute punks help you out of a sticky situation. Next thing you know, you're tagging along to their concert. This isn't something you'd normally do, but they're nice to look at and you need a little more spontaneity in your life. Let's see where the night takes you.

The man was slumped against the faux wood-paneled wall of the train car. You only noticed him because of his massive, muscular frame. He was your age, late 20s, but he had a boyish charm about his face that made you grin. A mischievousness that was noticeable even with his eyes closed as he was currently. His hair stood up in a dark red shock like he'd stuck his finger in an electrical socket. He was pale and riddled with piercings, metal spikes jutting out from his nose and ears giving his angular face an even sharper appearance. He wore goggles loosely at the top of his forehead. A punk aesthetic that seemed simultaneously meticulous and nonchalant. You noticed his massive left arm was metallic from the elbow down. An equally large man sat beside him on the seat to his left. The man was blonde with long hair that layered itself in sharp locks down his shoulders. He had an old-school soul patch that softened his sharp jawline and drew attention to the blue paper mask he wore courteously over his mouth. He seemed tired in a way that betrayed his rough exterior. His traps were huge and strained against the collar of his worn blue t-shirt. Seeing their muscular physiques made you hold your breath albeit briefly as you boarded the train and quickly slid into a newly available seat.

It was mid-Saturday evening and you were making your way to a bar in south Brooklyn to meet up with a friend from college. She'd recently had a baby and her husband had been begging you to take her out. She was always so responsible; you'd historically been one of her very few bad influences and her husband loved you for it. Despite what she would say when pressed, she enjoyed the thrilling sense of ease you coaxed out of her typically rigid demeanor. Your relationship was easy. She didn't need to text or call you to make sure you still felt involved in her life. You could pick up right where you left off, be it months or years since you'd seen each other.

This was how you lived most of your life. Your family and upbringing were so exhausting that you felt an aversion to friction of any sort. That didn't mean you weren't responsible, of course you were. You always did what was expected of you or what you thought needed to be done. You were the oldest girl, rebelliousness was a luxury reserved for other people. Despite this, you carved out ways to satisfy your inner hellion as you could. Little rebellions that you could control but still scratched the itch you had to break everything down. You drank too much, but not enough to be a real issue. You smoked too much weed, only once it became legalized. You had a serious problem with authority figures or anyone for that matter who had the gall to tell you what to do. You would never cause an actual scene, but you'd fume for weeks after the encounter, thinking of clever ways to handle the situation in retrospect. You had a smart mouth, and while you rarely used it on high, your colorful vocabulary and quick temper had gotten you in serious trouble a couple of times before. You secretly loved using your words to cut someone down to their core, but only if they deserved it. When that side of you showed, the really mean one, no one could keep up with you. People would stare at you, eyes wide and mouth agape at your ability to so quickly discern what they truly hated about themselves and launch it back in their faces.

Aside from its ever-looming presence, this side of yourself was far away from you tonight. You were excited to see your friend, and shockingly the sun had been out today after nine days of straight rain. You had your AirPods in and were listening to one of your throwback playlists on Shuffle. The Clash rang in your ears, barraging your poor eardrums with excessive volume as the train hitched and swayed down the tunnel.

You let your gaze travel back up to the two large men at the other end of the train car. It struck you that it’d been a while since any man had touched you, let alone one as cute as the guys you were ogling shamelessly. You leered at the veiny forearms of the blonde, thickly folded into a taught cross over his chest. Your libido, ever your betrayer, flashed an imaginary scene in your mind’s eye. A vision of the man's vascular forearms tensed in a wrought-iron grip around the edge of a table in front of you, while he fucked you mercilessly from behind. You imagined what his strong body would feel like pressed against your back. A warmth bathed over your skin, your imagination tricking your synapses ever so gently. The warm sensation quickly shot upwards to your cheeks as you realized that the man was watching you stare at him. His expression wasn't judgemental or surprised, just thoughtful with the faintest hint of a smirk behind his mask. Your face flushed beet red and you quickly shook your head back and forth, attempting to convey to the man that you were not, in fact, ogling him but rather staring into the distance and were abruptly brought back to reality. This pathetic coverup attempt made you feel even more guilty since you knew your lustful gaze had been obvious. You averted your eyes down and to the right, tracing the lines made by an errant shoelace discarded on the floor.

The movement of the train broke you out of your shameful reverie. The driver pulled the break surprisingly hard into the next stop and your body lurched forward with the car. You steadied yourself on the wall to your left and watched as most of the people in your car streamed out of the train car doors. The older woman who had been sitting next to you disembarked and in her stead, a lanky brunette man with a buzzcut flopped down next to you dramatically. He gave you a shit-eating grin as your eyes met his and you quickly looked away.

You thought you felt a gaze from further down the train watching you closely but you didn't move or look up in an attempt to discourage your newly arrived neighbor from talking to you. This evasion failed miserably as he tapped you on your right thigh a little too high for your liking.

“Nice weather today, right?”

“Yep.” You said as you took out your right earbud.

“Where you headed?”

“To see a friend. What about you?” You mentally kicked yourself for engaging with him. Why were you so deferential?

“Me and my buddies are going out. Keeping the party going.” He nodded to a man to his right sitting across the aisle. His buddy was cute, like him, but something about him unsettled you. Something about both of them.

“Cool,” you said as you tried to put your earbud back in.

You noticed how empty the train car was. You and these two guys were the only ones on your end of the car. Why did this guy have to sit right next to you?

“What bar are you going to?” He asked quickly before you had the chance to put your earbud back in, so you stopped, holding it aloft.

“Baratie. It's nautical-themed.”

“Sounds cool. What's your friend's name?” He asked, staring you in the eye.

“Um, Amanda.” You said slowly.

“Hah. Good. I thought you were gonna say a guy's name.” He said and chuckled to himself.

“What?” You asked instinctively.

“I thought you were gonna say you had a date.” He explained. You were still confused.

“What do you mean?” You asked dumbly knowing full well his implication.

“I mean a pretty girl like you should come out with us tonight,” he said, his smile turning more nefarious by the second.

You'd never thought of yourself as pretty, and being called a girl made you feel infantile.

“Excuse me?” You asked not very aggressively

You knew that men generally found you attractive. You didn't know to what extent, but you knew on some level that you were cute. You never felt beautiful, that was a word reserved for tall, model-like women who were pretty in an ethereal sort of way. The women you found yourself watching in restaurants and clothing stores who made your heart skip a beat. They always seemed so effortless.

You were the opposite. You were small and round and angry and everything you did was full of effort. You weren't tiny but you were short. Despite your size, you always felt enormous and awkward. You were always moving out of people's way because you felt so brazenly wide. This feeling came from being muscular. You weren't ripped but you'd always played sports growing up and took every opportunity to carry things so that your mother didn't have to. You were a force of sheer mass and will. Femininity felt out of reach for someone who took up space.

Despite this, men found your willingness coupled with your small stature endearing. Your muscles and general meatiness meant that you had a curvy body which betrayed how seriously you took yourself. Your boobs were objectively huge which made you feel fat. Your large bust in tandem with your wide shoulders and back made you feel like you were going to hulk out of lithely cut women’s clothes. You didn't shop frequently, opting instead to wear t-shirts that swamped you in their width. You had a bit of a belly from your enjoyment of craft beer but generally, you were in good shape and attractive. You'd never admit this to anyone, but you saw the way people looked you up and down in bars.

Self-consciousness flooded your brain as you stared at the man sitting next to you. What did he mean?

“Oh, haha, no thanks.” You replied tentatively.

“Don't be shy,” he said, wrapping his long arm around your shoulders. You could smell minty alcohol radiating from the back of his throat.

“Haha. No, I'm good. Gotta meet my friend.” You said attempting to shrink from his grip.

His hand tightened and tensed on your left shoulder. He leaned his face into your right ear.

“Come on, don't be a bitch.” He cooed, his hot breath making you shiver in his arms.

All the color drained from your face and your heart sank. “Fuck,” you thought to yourself as your brain scrambled for ideas on how to escape.

His friend across the aisle laughed as he pulled you in closer to his body. He discreetly placed a soft kiss on the base of your neck.

“I know you want it.” He whispered. “My buddy and I will show you a good time.” You felt his fingers drift to your inner thigh as he squeezed lightly.

You froze from shock. Your brain descended into a panic as fear wracked your body. You couldn’t move.

Suddenly, the man next to you was yanked into the air and thrown to the floor of the train, his body making a loud thud as he skidded to a stop across the linoleum. The train bounced as your gaze trailed up the strong legs of the man now standing in front of you. It was the masked blonde man from your earlier fantasy. Your shocked expression caught his gaze. There was a silent rage behind his eyes. You didn't know how he crossed the train so quickly to launch your harasser out of his seat, especially in steel-toed boots, but you were grateful for it. The redheaded punk was still asleep, head resting on the wall.

The harasser’s friend, the man sitting across the aisle from you started to yell. He tried to get up in the face of the masked man but was violently shot backward with a swift roundhouse kick. The harasser got up off the floor while the masked man used his inertia to quickly pivot his feet and turn to face the incoming attack. He caught the harasser’s fist with his large left hand and parried with a swift punch straight to the guy’s jaw. You heard the crack of bone when his fist hit the man’s face. The harasser was once again, propelled to the ground, blood spraying from the side of his mouth. You gasped and covered your mouth with your hand in shock. You’d never seen a real fight before.

At that moment, the train car doors opened, and, seeing the chaotic scene, the people on the platform yelled in horror and diverted to other cars. You noticed the redheaded punk was now awake and smirking at his friend’s handiwork, his large arms crossed over his chest. The masked man paused, breathed out calmly, and turned to face you. You held your breath. His right fist was covered in blood, so after a thoughtful pause, he extended his left hand out towards you.

“You okay?” He asked. His voice was steady and reassuring, his large hand extended towards you, palm facing upwards.

“Um. Yes. I’m alright.” You stuttered, still in shock. You looked the man in the eye. The rage from earlier was gone and all that remained was tentative concern. He seemed worried that you would spook at any moment, like a wild rabbit caught against a fence.

Sensing no malice in his gaze, you gingerly placed your hand in his. It was calloused but warm and reassuring. He clasped your palm and helped you to your feet with surprising gentleness.

“Well I doubt we have much time after that performance” the redheaded punk spat from down the car, standing from his seat. His booming voice filled with deadpan amusement shocked you out of your daze. You looked around, people were whispering and looking at you through the train’s windows. You saw the station cop start to hustle down the platform towards your train car, “Hey! You three!” He yelled as he picked up his pace. “I've got an assault on a train down here” the cop barked into a walkie-talkie on his right shoulder.

The masked man put his hand on your right shoulder and looked at you, “Sorry, about this, but we gotta get moving.” In one swift motion, you were gracefully floated from the ground. The masked man draped your body over his left shoulder like it weighed nothing and held your legs snug to his chest. The redhead laughed raucously as they dashed out of the train car with you in tow. The masked man and the redhead ran side by side as they picked up speed, busting through the emergency exit door and darting up the station’s long walkway to the street. The yells of the station cop echoed into nothing as you emerged up, into the cold night air. The two men didn’t stop running until they reached an alley two blocks away. The masked man lowered you gently to your feet and they both hunched over to catch their breath.

“Kil, I’ve never seen you manhandle a chick like that” the redhead howled.

You tensed.

“Kid, you heard the cop, she was gonna get detained. I had to get her outta there.”

“How fucking gallant of you, asshole. What are we gonna do now? That wasn’t our stop.” The redheaded man finally caught his breath and stood up to his full height. He was huge, even taller than you’d originally thought. The masked man was broad and taller than you but the redhead had to be at least 6’5.

“Um excuse me. I’m here too.” You said looking from one to the other. On hearing this, they both turned and looked at you.

The redhead furrowed his brow at you, “Yeah, we know. You got us into this mess.”

Your jaw fell open. “How is this MY fault you’re the ones who basically kidnapped me!” You said incredulously.

“Yeah, if my buddy hadn’t saved your ass you’d be in a holding cell all night being questioned by Paul Blart.” The redhead shot back, his intense golden eyes boring into yours.

“Kid, knock it off. You know it’s not her fault.” The masked man waved dismissively at the redhead. “My name is Kil. Sorry for escalating things. Just thought you needed a hand.” The masked man reached his hand back out to you.

You took his hand and shook it lightly. “No, I appreciate it. Thank you.”

Kil shot a thumb at the redhead, “This ray of sunshine is Kid.”

Kid crossed his arms over his chest and averted his eyes from yours. “Pleasure.” He mumbled.

“He's not that bad when you get to know him,” Kil added. “We’re in a band and are meeting up with our mates for a show later.”

“Oh that’s cool,” you said, “what kind of band?”

“Punk, genius” Kid tsked and gestured towards his outfit with his metallic forearm.

“I didn’t ask you, ginger” you snapped back. Out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw Kid’s lips shoot up into a reluctant smirk.

“Like Kid said, we’re a punk band. You’re welcome to come to the show if you’re interested, but I’m not exactly sure how we’re getting to the venue anymore.” Kil answered.

All of the commotion had made you completely forget about your own plans. “Shit!” You yelped and dug for your phone in your purse. The screen lit up and you find a text from your friend. “Hey I’m so so sorry but Lulu is coming down with something from daycare. I don’t think I’m gonna make it out tonight. Rain check?” You frowned at your phone. You’d wanted to see your friend tonight but hoped her daughter would feel better.

“So are you coming or what?”

You looked up. Kid was staring down at you, eyeing the message you’d pulled up on your phone. He had an expression in his piercing, golden eyes that you couldn’t read.

You paused to think. You didn’t know these guys, but despite their gruff exteriors, you felt decently comfortable with them.

Maybe it was because you’d already done your hair and makeup, maybe it was because you were still full of adrenaline, maybe it was because you thought of yourself as more rebellious than you actually were, or maybe it was because looking at either one of the men made your insides twist into knots, but for whatever reason you cracked a wry smile and replied,

“Yeah, let’s do this.”

#eustass kid #eustass kid x reader #killer one piece #massacre soldier killer #killer x reader #eustass kid x killer x reader #one piece x reader #one piece fanfic

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army-author · 3 years

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sour rose | jhs

❝ jung hoseok is the only guitarist whom you consider to be a threat. no one else is good enough to rival you. yet, when honest feelings slip to the surface before a competition, you realise there’s more to hoseok than you realised... ❞

➝ pairing: hoseok x reader

➝ prompt: character a and character b have been rivals for as long as their friends can remember. one day, someone catches them holding hands.

➝ genre: fluff; very mild angst; rivals to lovers; punk band au

➝ word count: 1.5k

➝ warnings: profanity; mentions of illness

➝ playlist: ever fallen in love (with someone you shouldn’t’ve?) - buzzcocks ; know your enemy - green day ; basement noise - all time low ; fall - neck deep ; criminal - state champs (yes, i know, i never moved past my emo phase)

You only know one thing this evening, as you stand in the humid street, waiting for your concert venue to open: Jung Hoseok is the enemy.

He’s the only one standing between you and victory.

In an hour, you’ll be up on stage, riffing on your surf green Stratocaster and screaming your heart out, all for the glory of a cash prize, proffered to the best punk band. All the other groups have no chance against you, and your bandmates from Sour Rose. All other groups, apart from Jung Hoseok and his band, Just Dessert.

No one else matches your skills. No one else matches your charisma. No one else matches your attention to detail. Apart from Hoseok. That’s why he’s your enemy. Because you need that cash prize. More than anything else.

“Hey,” you turn hearing a familiar voice, to see Jungkook, Sour Rose’s drummer approaching.

“Hey yourself,” you grin, “How’re ya feeling?”

“Nauseous,” Jungkook admits

You clap a hand on his shoulder, “You’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about. I’ve seen you at practice. You’re an absolute beast.”

Jungkook smiles at your compliment. It often surprises you how shy he is. Place him behind a drum set, with some sticks in his hands, and he transforms, thrashing confidently through complex rhythms.

As you chat, other bands begin to gather outside the music club, all waiting to get their equipment ready before the competition commences.

Your expression sours as you spot the familiar faces of the Just Dessert members. Your gaze automatically snaps to Hoseok – the man who stands between you and your winnings. His black hair is styled, spiked off his forehead, and he sports a colourful t-shirt with his band’s corny logo in gaudy shades of pink. At least he had the decency to pull a black leather jacket over his shirt to spare your eyes, complete with pins and patches.

As he walks up to the door, his eyes catch yours, and he gives you a nod of acknowledgement. He knows – just like you – that you’re the only competition he has. Despite your resolve, you feel a thrill spread through your stomach.

Before you can exchange any words, the bouncer opens the door to the musicians, and you flood into the venue, loosing Hoseok in the throng.

- ✽ ✽ ✽ -

The following minutes are a blur as you catch up with the rest of your band while you check sound levels, ensuring that your amp is setup correctly, and blasting through a few scales to warm up.

Before you know it, the first band is getting on stage, and starting to thump through their song. The drum beat is simplistic; their guitar tone is too generic. You know their performance will not stand a chance beside the song Sour Rose has prepared. It’s only Just Dessert that you are worried about. Another thrill runs through you.

Needing a glass of water to wet your dry throat and steady your nerves, you tell your bandmates that you need to go, before scurrying to the back room where the music club has prepared drinks and snacks for the musicians.

Picking up a plastic cup of water, you take a sip. The liquid has already heated up from the warmth of hundreds of bodies packed into a small venue. It has the metallic taste of tap water.

“Oh, hey.” Hearing a voice behind you, you spin around to find Jung Hoseok sauntering into the back room.

You immediately clam up, fingers tightening on the flimsy clear plastic of your cup. “Hi, Hoseok,” you reply tersely.

“You seem on edge tonight,” he notices as he reaches around you to grab a drink, “Is everything okay?”

“Yep,” you snap, “I’m peachy.” Good job convincing him. Now he knows something is up for sure. You and Hoseok have been performing at the same venues for years – from school productions to charity events at local bars. He knows what your normal is, and this is not it. You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Actually, yeah, no, I’m not so good. I need this win tonight. More than I’ve ever needed a win before.”

Hoseok’s brows pull down into a frown. “Why’s that?”

You hesitate, unsure of admitting weakness to your rival. Yet, as his eyes observe you – eyes so familiar because they’ve been watching you for so long, set on a familiar face in the crowd when you perform on every stage – you find the words spilling easily from your mouth. “My mum fell sick earlier this month, and I really need the cash prize to pay for her medical bills.”

Hoseok considers your words, unusually quiet, then offers you a bright grin. “Well then, you’re lucky that the money’s guaranteed to end up in your hands.”

“What? How can you know that?” you ask.

Hoseok takes a sip from his cup, before setting it down on the table, “Well, from what I can see, our bands are the only ones capable of winning. So if you win, you get the money. And if I win, I’ll give you the money.”

Your mouth falls open at this, and embarrassed, you quickly clamp it shut again. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Sounds like you need the money more than I do,” he nods, “I mean, Just Dessert is planning to spend it on new equipment, which we can always buy at a later point.” He reaches across, and his hand brushes against your fingers, warm against your cool skin. “Your mum’s health comes first.”

Suddenly, you find tears welling in your eyes. You barely cry in front of anyone, and yet, here you are, breaking down in front of the one man you had seen as an enemy. “Thank you, Hoseok,” you wobble out, past your tears.

“Don’t worry about it,” he reaches over, pulling you into a hug that you had not realised that you needed until now. His arms offer craved-for comfort. Your body moulds to fit his as he pulls you closer, rubbing soothing circles on your taut back. He smells of pine and leather. Despite all your misgivings, you find yourself relaxing against him.

“It’s going to be okay,” Hoseok assures you as you pull away from his warmth, wiping your cheeks for any remaining traces of tears. You’re sure that your eyeliner must be smudged to hell by now.

“Fuck, I must look a right mess,” you grumble, trying to carefully wipe at your eyes.

Hoseok inches closer, his hand still on yours, and with his free fingers, he gently wipes at the eyeliner that had escaped your lash line. “There, all better.”

You offer him a watery smile, hoping no more tears will fall. How could you have been so stupid to think that Hoseok was your enemy, when here is is offering you the kindest smile? Another thrill runs through you. Hoseok’s fingers are comforting in your hand; his fingertips are hard and calloused, just like yours after years jammed against hard guitar strings. You squeeze his hand, and hope he understands all the gratitude you intend in the small gesture.

The door opens, ripping you from this quiet moment, and Hoseok’s bandmate Jimin stands in the hall outside. “Hoseok, we’re on in five.” Jimin’s eyes fall to your fingers threaded through Hoseok’s. You quickly drop Hoseok’s hand, as if his skin burnt you.

Jimin doesn’t comment, but you see his eyes widen. Hoseok offers you a reassuring grin, before he walks over, pushing Jimin down the hall. “Let’s go, Jiminie!” You’re left alone to ponder the warmth that Hoseok left on your hand.

- ✽ ✽ ✽ -

“Well, here’s the money as promised,” Hoseok hands you his winnings with a smile. In the end, Sour Rose had missed out on the prize, only a few metaphorical inches behind Just Dessert.

You’re in the back room once more, surrounded by musicians, relaxing after the competition. The water has been replaced by beers and spirits.

You smile, “Thank you, Hoseok. I don’t know how to repay you.”

Hoseok returns your grin, “You don’t have to repay me. I wanted to help. Although… if you’re offering, you could take me out for coffee later?”

“What, like a date?”

He winks at you, and your cheeks turn red as another thrill scurries through your body. You finally understand.

“Wouldn’t people start gossiping if two rivals started dating?” you ask.

“Kind of too late to worry about that,” Hoseok shrugs, “Jimin’s already convinced we’re a couple.”

You flush, “I suppose we’ll just have to make his hearsay a reality.”

Hoseok presses his lips together, dimples popping up on his cheeks as he suppresses a triumphant smile. “I thought you’d never agree.”

- THE END -

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tales-unique · 3 years

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MEMORIES OF THE WEST

Two days. Two long, hot days you’ve been tied to this damn tree. Your mother would be turning in her grave over how easily you’ve gotten yourself caught by the O’Driscolls, even when you knew that they were notorious for prowling the roads leading in and out of towns. Craning your head you look up through squinted eyes to look at the sky through scattered branches, calm and clear, painted a beautiful gradient of orange, red and pink as the sun begins to set. Almost three days now and you’ve had nothing to eat or drink, something that’s starting to take its toll on your body and mind. Your head pounds incessantly and your stomach growls weakly, making you twist in discomfort. The bite of the ropes around your wrists soon stops the movement though and you wince at the sharp, stinging pain left in their wake. At this point all you truly beg for is death, and maybe this time you’ll get what you ask for.

You glare at the returning party as they whoop and holler about their catch, turning their horses in circles in excitement while you stare wantonly at the deer they have. They catch you, of course, and one is quick to dismount and get right up in your face about it. “Got a problem, girl?” He’s a mean man that reeks of sweat and bad tobacco, the scent so sour you recoil as far away from him as your punished body, and the tight bindings, will allow you. “I’m starving!” You hiss, but it’s pitiful and he laughs. “Too bad. Ain't enough to go around.” “Liar! That’s a whole damn deer you got there! Please, I’m starving! I jus’ need a little!” Your hunger makes you desperate and he knows that. The grin he gives you is dirty and makes your skin crawl, twisting your body to try and get out of his reach. It’s futile, and soon dirt-smeared hands are roughly grabbing at your waist to pull you back in front of him. “Y’hear that boys?” He calls out to the others, laughing as they whistle while hitching the horses, “little thing is starving! Tell me girl, whatcha willing to do to get a meal, huh?” You turn your head away as he leans in close, fighting the urge to wretch. The feel of his hands sliding down to your backside, the heat of his breath tickling your ear and cheek, makes you want to vomit. “C’mon now,” he coos at you, “dont’cha want to eat? All I ask for is a kiss!” Despite his forceful coaxing and your limited range of movement you continue, by some miracle, to evade his crusted, cracked lips. Then, all hell breaks loose. All at once there’s the thundering of horses hooves on the dry dirt, bullets screaming through the humid air, warm splatter on your face. A hole right through your would-be rapists head, his wide eyes mirroring yours before he falls down at your feet, lifeless. You stand, rooted to the spot just as the tree firmly pressed against your back is as the others scramble to form some sort of meager defiance, but they’re no match. It doesn’t take long. Like fish in a barrel. The O’Driscolls barely had time to reach for their pistols before they, too, were gunned down. The horses, spooked, whine and stomp from where they’ve been hitched and you’re glad that they’re not hurt. One of the riders seems so too as he gets down from his own mount to inspect them. His figure is hazy from the dust but you can tell he’s tall and strong and attractive. You’re sure that he’s talking, too, but you can’t hear him. The ringing in your ears is too loud. Gunshots. Blood pumping. Adrenaline. You hazard another look down at your feet, the man's lifeless body draining out before you. His blood stains your shoes. You spit on his back. Good riddance. “Hey! Are you okay?” The voice, suddenly clear, startles you and you quickly flick wide eyes to another man approaching you. The second rider? He’s well dressed and attractive too, but you’re not about to swoon at his feet. “Get back!” You shriek, fear spiking. He stops, startled, while quickly holding his hands up in surrender. “Easy there, amiga, I won’t hurt you,” he states slowly. You don’t believe a word of it. Instead you try, in vain, to pull your hands free from the ropes so you can flee. He sees this and hurries over to you, cursing under his breath at the wounds you’re inflicting on yourself in your haste. You don’t care. You try to fight him; kick him, elbow him, even snapping your teeth at him in a bite that doesn’t quite reach. You don’t trust him. You can’t trust him. Pressure releases from around your wrists and you stumble sideways, suddenly free, the ropes cut by an intricately decorated and expensive-looking knife that somehow manages to miss your flesh. Now you’ve fallen onto the ground face to face with the dead man with a bullet hole through his head, the force of your struggling having caused your fall down. Ignoring the stinging, open burns to your wrists you quickly scramble to your feet. Hair stringy with stale sweat and fresh blood, clothes smeared and ruined, delirious with heat and adrenaline, you still try to run. Hands firmly planting themselves on your arms stop you before you’ve even started and you yell out, wanting to pull away but your body doesn’t respond properly. Short, jerky movements but nothing that actually helps. White hot panic floods your empty stomach as you realize you’re too weak and that the adrenaline isn’t enough anymore. You suck in a deep breath, eyes beginning to sting despite your best intentions. You will yourself not to cry in front of the quiet man before you, but again you fail. You whimper, trying desperately in vain to wriggle free. You babble pitifully, incoherently, with a quivering lip and glossy eyes; childish. But his dark eyes are kind, even after what he’s done, and he slowly lets you go, only to catch you when you stumble forward. “You’ve been out here too long,” he mutters, voice low and comforting, “heat, starvation, you’re weak. Come on.” He gently guides you to his horse, much to his partners annoyance. “Charles, what are you doing? We can’t take her with us!” He argues. “Can’t leave her, either,” Charles counters as he heaves you onto the saddle where you clutch at the saddle horn for dear life. The two men then lead the hitched horses, consolation prizes for the few minutes of trouble, as well as take the deer that had been caught. “Or do you want her death on your conscience, Javier?” Charles grunts as he tightens knots and secures ropes, eyeing his partner expectantly when he’s met with silence. The well dressed man, Javier, grumbles something you can’t hear and mounts his own horse, Charles following suit, coming to sit in the saddle behind you. “Didn’t think so,” he chuckles, low and smooth, and you lower your head to stare at the saddle horn gripped tight in your hands. You don’t say a word. Would it even matter if you did? It’s not like you’re in a state to challenge them, so you allow yourself to fall into unconsciousness lulled by the sway of the horse and the sounds of night insects rousing from their sleep. When you finally come to you take a look at your surroundings. Trees. Tents. Campfires. It’s larger and you feel your heartbeat quicken. You want to run but you can’t, you’re still on Charles' horse with the large man pressed in behind you, arms either side as he handles the reins. There are more people here, men and women alike, and you shrink back against Charles instinctively. “Where are we?” You ask hoarsely, throat scratchy and dry. “Home, for now at least,” Charles answers, pulling his horse over to a hitching post while Javier does the same. He barely disturbs you as he dismounts, helping ease you off the saddle and onto shaky legs. “Dutch won’t like this!” Javier grouses as he too dismounts his horse, allowing it to wander to a patch of grass to graze. Charles doesn’t answer, instead leading you towards three women sitting around a campfire. They’re having a hearty conversation when you’re put upon them, feeling awkward under their shocked gazes. They talk over each other quickly but the general consensus is who the hell are you and why are you here. “Ladies,” he lifts his hand to quiet them, the other gently squeezing your shoulder, “I hope you don’t mind taking care of our friend here? She’s had a rough couple of days.” You swallow, looking down at yourself. Bloodstained. Stinking. Traumatized. Rough doesn’t come close, you think. “Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Charles! Bring her here!” One of the women growls, ushering you to sit by the fire despite her anger. Probing hands go to touch your head, the side where your hair hangs limp with blood, but you pull away quickly. “Ain’t my blood,” you murmur and the women all share looks before the first, already stinking of whiskey, giggles with a snort. “I’d hate t’ see the other guy!” It’s an attempt to lighten the mood and you force a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes and they notice. “I’ll go get you something to get clean with, a wipe down will do ‘till we can get you a real bath,” another offers in a soft voice, kind and smiling warmly. You watch her put the book in her hands aside as she gets up, eyes trailing after her. “That’s Mary-Beth,” the blonde introduces, “I’m Karen and that there’s Tilly,” she motions with a half empty bottle to the young woman opposite you. “Just what happened to you, anyways?” Tilly asks, leaning in from where she sits on a log, “Yeah, you look half-dead!” Karen adds, scowling when Tilly sends a glare her way. “I...” You cough, gladly accepting a bottle from Karen and tipping it back without so much as a thank you. Manners be damned, you were so thirsty! The alcohol burns down your throat and your eyes sting with tears but by God it was a welcome flood. Karen cheers while Tilly shakes her head, rolling her eyes. As you gasp for air Mary-Beth returns with a bucket of water and a rag, setting them down by your side. She’s also taken the liberty of bringing you some food. It’s nothing fancy, a small bowl of leftover stew and a crust of bread, but you gratefully accept and begin your ravenous feast. It’s definitely a sight for them to behold, but you are starving so they can excuse your table manners. In between shoveling spoonfuls of stew you listen to the argument you’ve caused, Charles and Javier’s voices are known to you while the others are new. They aren’t happy that you were brought to their camp, but Charles argues that you were in need and he wasn’t going to leave you traumatized and starving on the roadside. You smile to yourself, thankful that at least he cares. “Dutch is always so mad these days,” Tilly whispers as she moves to sit next to you. You spare her a glance before turning to look over your shoulder. Dutch, you assume, is the leader of this band of societal misfits. He points accusingly at Charles, then over to where you sit, and back again, while others interject to add their piece. “C’mon, I’ll help with your hair,” Tilly distracts you, turning your head away from the fray with warm hands. She fishes a rag from the bucket, ringing it out while giving you a small smile. Mary-Beth is assessing your wrists, no doubt thinking up a way to ease their soreness. “It’ll be cold, so don’t squeal now!” Tilly laughs and you bite your tongue when the water drips down the side of your face when she starts dabbing at your scalp. Mary-Beth giggles behind her hand at your scrunched up face and Karen starts to sing, merry with alcohol and new company, and by the time the bickering has ceased you’re looking as clean as you can be with just a rag and a bucket of water. Done with your hair and leaving you to wipe your face and neck, Tilly starts rummaging through her chest, sizing up old dresses so that you can change into fresh clothes. Mary-Beth takes the chance to wrap up your wrists with bandages after wiping them gently with a damp, soft handkerchief, apologizing when you wince or hiss. “There! This one should fit, and the colour looks good too,” she smiles, folding the dress up, as well as some other bits and pieces for you, including a pair of shoes not stained with blood. You hastily wipe your hands dry on your ruined dress and take the offered items. They feel freshly washed and soft despite the course material, nothing like the grubby dress you wear now. “You’re too kind,” you smile nervously, half expecting this to be a fever dream and you’ll wake up any minute tied to that damn tree with crows picking at you. It’s not a dream. Tilly tells you to bed with them for the night once you come back from changing, making room on their bedrolls so you can at least sleep comfortably. You’re surprised that Dutch and the others haven’t come over yet to force you out, but she assures you that it can wait until the morning since everyone needs sleep. In truth, you’re thankful for it — that way they’ll all have clear heads when they decide what to do with you. As you settle down you spot Charles walking to his own bedroll and offer a smile when he looks your way. He smiles back and bids you goodnight with a small tip of his head, and for once since your kidnap you actually feel comfortable enough to sleep among a band of strangers.

#RDR2 #Red Dead Redemption 2 #RDR2 Imagine #RDR2 Imagines #Red Dead Redemption 2 Imagine #Red Dead Redemption 2 Imagines #Arthur Morgan #Arthur Morgan Imagine #Arthur Morgan Imagines

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king-of-freaks-and-fools · 3 years

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all righty lets go fanfic time

wrote this a few days ago... lmk what you all think!

the storms that break us may not always be the ones in the sky

WARNING: She-Ra Season 1 General Spoilers Includes: implied Catradora, angst, fluff, missing scenes It never stormed in the Fright Zone. Sure, there were a few times where the wind picked up and parts of deteriorating buildings collapsed, but it was never enough to be called a storm. The thick, heavy smog that hung over the rusted wastelands kept the rain and thunder away. Which was a good thing, or the power grid would have been taken down many more times than it should have. But today was different. "Hey, Adora." Catra popped out from behind the doorframe, grinning at the sweaty, muscular cadet. "Catra!" The blonde leapt back, blue eyes flashing with fear for a moment, before subsiding to mild annoyance. "Do you have to keep pulling that trick?" She wiped a few beads of sweat from her forehead, and tossed the armor into a bin at the corner of the room that stank even worse than the time Kyle puked on the benches after training. That had really smelled. "You know you love it." She stuck her tongue out at Adora and swatted her arm lightly with her tail. "C'mon, loosen up a little!" "Loosen up? No way. We've got too much to work for. If I loosen up here, soon enough it'll follow me onto the battlefield and I'll be done for. Taken out by one of those ruthless princesses with one swipe of their stupidly shiny swords." Adora tied her belt tightly around her waist, and redid her ponytail, tugging back any strands of hair that might have gotten loose during the training session. The magicat sighed dramatically, and then grabbed Adora by her wrist, dashing out of the room and dragging her through winding hallways, ignoring her stubborn attempts to get her to stop. Adora might have been strong, but Catra was clearly more agile and if she could keep Adora slightly off balance, she could easily drag her around. "What on Etheria are you doing?" Adora shrieked, desperately trying to tug her hand out of Catra's grip. "We should be back in the barracks by now, not running around through the halls." Catra's response was to snicker and start to run even faster. "You'd better quiet down or she'll catch us." She chided Adora, not needing to mention who 'she' was. Every cadet in the Horde knew the name of the powerful dark-magic sorceress, and to mutter it aloud was to summon her from the Black Garnet chambers where she spent her time. "You started this!" Suddenly, Catra came to a sudden stop. The two of them stood in front of an exit that lead to the roof, their favorite spot in all of the Fright Zone. The magicat leapt onto the flimsy railing and crouched there, smiling at Adora through hair tossed around her face by the stiff breeze. "What did you want to show me?" Adora cocked her head. "Look around, dummy." A laugh that sounded almost as rusty as the structures that surrounded them reverberated from her throat. Catra grabbed Adora by the shoulders and tugged her over to where she perched upon the railing. "See those clouds in the distance?" She said softly into the cadet's ear. "Watch them." Something warm spread across Adora's chest as she leaned into Catra, watching the clouds that grazed the top of the buildings in the distance. They had more of a bluish tinge to them than the typical reddish-gray ones that blanketed the Fright Zone, and were taller, too. It almost looked like there was a dark curtain underneath them, making the edges of the Fright Zone even harder to see than they usually were. Something even seemed off about the atmosphere around them, with an odd lack of hums and explosions. Catra looked over at Adora, who was looking intently off into the distance, and felt a chuckle rumble up from her throat. She really was intense about everything she did. Suddenly, Adora grabbed her wrist. "I saw something!" "Oh, yeah?" "Yeah! It was bright and really quick, and looked sort of like a line? It reminded me of the stun batons a little... except it wasn't green." Her brow furrowed. "That's what I was telling you to look for." "What is it?" "Some sort of electrical bolt, I think. It comes from the clouds, and sometimes it hits stuff, causing explosions." She glanced at Adora. "Do... do you like it?" "Like it? Catra, I love it!" Her face was alight with happiness. "It's really, really cool." "Oh! um... t-thanks. I guess." She mumbled, blushing. Another heartbeat passed, and then she mustered up the courage to open her mouth again. "Want to stay a little while and watch it?" She'd said it quietly, and as Adora didn't respond for a few seconds, she worried she hadn't heard her. "Adora?" "Hm?" Adora tore her eyes away from the landscape. "Oh, yeah. That'd be... nice." She smiled softly at the magicat. "Cool." Catra shifted into a more comfortable position, and Adora moved over a little closer. Something warm flickered in Catra's chest, and she gently curled her tail around Adora's back. Adora leaned her head over onto Catra's shoulder, and they watched the dark gray clouds grow closer and closer. Adora glanced over at Catra, the warm feeling spreading through her chest again. She moved her hand over the slightest increment, so their pinkies were touching. Adora was unsure what Catra's reaction would be, but certainly didn't expect her to begin purring. Not wanting to spoil the moment, Adora stayed quiet instead of poking fun at Catra like she usually would. Catra didn't say anything either, just continued to purr. A gust of wind buffeted the two of them, blowing their hair away from their faces. A strange scent, something tangy and almost earthy, was carried along with the wind. Catra glanced up, and noticed the clouds were gathering above them, too. She glanced over at Adora, and opened her mouth, about to tell her they should go inside. Something small and cold fell right onto Catra's nose, and she yelped. Her tail frizzed up, and she lost her balance, tipping too far forwards and feeling her feet and hands loosen their grip on the railing. She unsheathed her claws, attempting to dig them into the bar. But they missed. Cold air rushed between her fingertips, and stung her wide-open eyes. Suddenly, a hand grabbed the back of her shirt and tugged her back, so far that she toppled off the bar and hit the roof with a thud. The chill of metal brought her to her senses, and she groaned, adrenaline leaving her body so fast she felt empty. "Catra? Catra, are you okay?" Adora leaned down, so close that Catra could smell her sweat. "Ugh, get off me, idiot." She sat up and as she pushed her hair out of her face, another small, cold droplet hit her. Another fell, and another, and then another, until it all came pouring out of the clouds above them. The two cadets stared at each other, getting wetter and wetter by the second. "Shit!" Catra shoved Adora off her, and leapt up. "Shadow Weaver is going to KILL us!" "We'd better hurry in, then." Adora stood up, not even reprimanding Catra for swearing, and the two of them hurried back toward the entrance. As they were about to get inside, something incredibly loud sounded all around them, and Catra yelped, clapping her hands to her ears, tears forming in her eyes. Her heightened senses had come in handy many times, but now they only proved to be a nuisance. The sound felt like a burning spike stabbed through her head, and her ears rang so loudly she couldn't hear the rain anymore. She knew her tail must've frizzed up to an enormous size, and she fell to her knees, squeezing her eyes shut. Someone's hand landed on her shoulder, and Catra sprang forwards, slicing at whoever was there. The person fell down with a heavy thud, and she cracked her eyes open to see who it was. The white uniform shirt and blonde hair tied back sent a heavy stone through Catra's stomach. Adora. She'd hurt Adora. Adora who sat in front of her, blood blossoming from a cut on her cheek. "No. No no no." She stumbled backwards, tears threatening to spill at any moment. She wasn't sure what scared her more: the fact that she'd hurt Adora, or the fact that she was going to cry. She turned away and clenched her hands into fists, ready for Adora to either throw a punch or run off. But that didn't happen. Instead, Catra felt Adora's hands take hers, gently. She turned around in surprise, and noticed a smile on her face. "It's okay." The words sounded far off, like Catra was underwater. "I'm not mad at you, Catra." "You should be!" She tried to pull her hand from Adora's grip, but she was too strong. "It was a mistake. You were hurt." Adora said simply, moving a little closer. "And it doesn't even sting that much." "But..." "C'mon, Catra, we'll go patch it up and then head back to the barracks." She didn't even wait for a response this time, just gently tugged Catra down the hallway. If Catra had really wanted to, she could've pulled away this time and left, but she didn't. She just followed Adora, all the way back to their bedroom, never letting go of her hand. - - - - - Later, Catra would stand on that very same rooftop, with no Adora to pull her back if she fell. The same kind of clouds as before were gathering above her, and the wind was picking up even more so than last time. Catra tried to push those thoughts away, tuck them into a box she kept at the back of her mind reserved just for memories with Adora. She wished she could just forget her altogether, but the box would have to do. Adora... holding her hand like that, so gently, so caring. Adora... taking her hand again, begging her to come with her, to join the Rebellion. Adora... with that stupid hopeful smile on her face as Catra paused for a moment. Adora... who'd watched her as she walked away into the smoke. Adora... Tears formed in her eyes and Catra finally let them spill, mixing with the rain as it soaked her again. Sobs wracked her body, and she stared down the flashing lightning as if taunting it, daring it to hit her. She tilted her head back and screamed to the sky, letting her burning anger tear through her throat, letting her claws scrape through the metal bar, and letting the wind rip away her words and toss them into the churning sky.

#catradora #catra #adora #shera #SPoP #fanfic #fanfiction #look i tried #i want to write angst but i just fucking cant #catra needs a hug #she wont take one from Scorpia though #first fanfic #did i mention catra needs a hug

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amxwolf · 3 years

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Here is why conventional healthful-thinking is not working on Millennials.

Have you ever had that terrifying dream where you are stuck in a dark forest or sketchy alley, frantically running for your life from some kind of feral monster or mad man? Most of us can personally recall at least once being roused from sleep in a cold sweat because their brain had spent the last few hours perfecting the latent image of a made-to-order nightmare. While that experience is certainly not exclusive to Millennials (rather quite the opposite), the waking reaction or at least how it is processed later by this roughly categorized group of mislabeled people is unique to say the least.

For years now, people in marketing have been fervently dissecting and attempting to recreate what has been loosely categorized as "Millennial Humor". And in all of their efforts to connect with this flock of black sheep, the grand majority of them seem to be missing a key factor in the psychology at work here. For all the unwarrantable bilge that modern advertising haphazardly cobbles together, only a small percentage of the nonsense is seasoned perfectly with the secret ingredient. What is this singular spice? Well, while indulgent to profess and speculative, from someone "sitting in millennial class”, it's obvious: A touch of salt.

Never will I sit here and cry to the general public about how unhappy I am that the modern advertising industry is just not scratching my itch for the wares it’s peddling, but I think it's important for us now to look at how this systemic lack of understanding is reaching beyond the world of subliminal profiteering. Society has other significant quality-of-life effecting systems that are also missing the mark when trying to aim and reach out to help this specific group of people. Puns aside, "a touch of salt" as I quipped, is flavoring the lives of a lot of people in their mid to late 20's and early 40's. And the most frustrating and difficult to reconcile attempts that I personally have made to better myself, have been those that were guided by people who just cannot seem to put their brain into that salty head space.

For example, trying to focus on and internalize a well-organized medical presentation about the encompassing negative effects of stress or insomnia and its seemly simple solution of just "changing your thinking", is about as easily digestible as a two-decade-year-old fruitcake for someone who is imprisoned daily by the symptoms of chronic stress. While I may sit there and give listening (ironically) "the old college try", the sound quickly turns to fuzzy white noise the deeper the lecture dives into positive thinking.

You see, Millennials are not generally fluent in positive thinking. More and more of them seem to be speaking a very distinctive dialect of realism, which incorporates a robustly cultivated sense of sarcasm and a somewhat grim shade of hopelessness. A lot of millennials grew up with a laughably poetic twist on "Growing Up" and "Being Successful", which in turn has colored their day-to-day interactions and created this defeatism-culture. Millennials will openly joke about their death as a needed release, their eulogy as a retirement card, or emotionally decompile themselves over something simple like saying "you too" in a situation that doesn't warrant it.

A good percentage of Millennials were old enough to understand the destructive consequences of the most recent housing market disaster on a very personal level; At an impressionable age, watching their own parents, who may have worked excruciatingly hard at the expense of any number of personal or family goals, lose just about everything resonated in a way that cannot be unheard. Then add the borderline criminal and unscrupulous "sheep-shearing" that became common place when the generation was herded off to college, trade school, or other form of career-building education. Not to mention the fact that upon completing said programs, a proverbial "step-in-the-right direction", a substantial number of these "hopeless wanderers" were faced with yet another barbed-wire hurdle when the job market in countless fields were oversaturated with potential employees. Many positions had not been vacated as they normally would have been with the age of retirement being stretched further and further down the road due to increased cost of living and financial demands; the finish line or lap marker was just not getting any closer. To add insult to injury, Millennials, sometimes unbelievably hardworking, are frequently being listed as perpetuators of the clashing reality we have today. This being what the modern media is calling "The Great Resignation"; a dubious combination of a labor shortage amidst an unemployment spike fueled by uncompetitive wages left unchecked, the government's inability to reel in the situation, and a general devaluing of laborers overall.

Oh. And also, we were killing the diamond industry at the same time. Or was it simultaneously the marriage and divorce industry? Wait! I think it was cinema? Or no....maybe it was fabric softener. For a complete dissertation of all the things Millennials brutally murdered over the last two decades, perhaps I'll include a link below if for no other reason to drive my point home.

You have this group of people who are conditioned to endlessly swimming upstream, against the current, with nothing but chastising and bitterness to listen to. So, when it comes to something universal like learning to "sleep better" or "problem solving", the indifferent but somehow time-honored approach of saying "it's as easy as just taking control" is over time if not immediately rejected as dissonant information.

These people don't feel like they have control; some of them feel like they never had any to begin with.

Why is this a problem?

Our society is not developing a taste for "salt" at a pace in which it can prepare social-sustenance for its population. We're not getting any younger, and neither are the generations in front of us.

Millennials are already, by some definitions the mass-population of workers, voters, and other titles that we've yet to embrace. And our lack of interest is not because we do not have a passion for positive change (even on a global scale). Millennials have voiced over time that they feel they are the silent majority amidst a group of people who will not give them breathing room and don't respect the validity of their opinions and ambitions. And it is by no means restricted to one region or country on this planet. This is a global phenomenon.

I could spin a vast yarn about the political ramifications of continuing to exclude the Millennials from the metaphoric Counsel of Elders, but I'm more concerned about the neglect that is spreading elsewhere. We need our leaders in the medical and social fields to really respect and dig deep into how to incorporate "Millennial Thinking" into their treatment and development plans. A large amount of the global population is going to need carefully tailored treatment for things as old as depression, bi-polar tendencies, or schizophrenia as well as newly discovered mental encumbrances like imposter-syndrome.

While “positive-thinking” may have been easily cultivated in the past, we may need to start from a more negative approach and build from there to educate and treat a group of down-on-their-luck millions. Pumping drugs into a populace is not going to permanently patch the leak either, so there truly is precedence for a rehashing of how we should prioritize mental health in modern society.

Stop spending so much time and energy assigning blame to modern technologies and social norms. Are these going away? No? In that case, those things are much like our other daily stresses that are unavoidable. Yes, you can change your nightly routine to de-stress the same way that you can change a job or a daily commute, but there needs to be a fundamental shift in accountability divvied to circumstances out of a person's control rather than scolding them for not being able to manage it.

Do I have all the answers? No.

But this was less about offering a solid a solution and more about opening a dialogue. A starting point.

So yeah. I've had that dream of being chased through the woods by a life-leeching alien. It felt very similar to being sucked dry of my pitiful wages for an education that was at the time, barely panning out. Even now, as a 32-year-old, slightly more successful version of the starving student I've become, I still feel as though my rat race will end when my heart gives out; and all I can hope for is enough money when I drop to cover the ambulance ride to the over-crowded emergency room and a large pit to rot in. But I just hope that the generation behind me has the benefit of a system that understands how to create and sustain “Millennial Inspired” social structures that will allow them to flourish in what little we can leave behind for them.

Also, could you pass the salt?

#rant #millenials #heavy thoughts #random thoughts #seriously though modern mental medicine is a joke

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the-wlw-cafe · 3 years

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[E]nnui - a 2BA2 fanfic

Warnings: Self-harm, self-destructive behaviour, heavily implied suicidal ideation - there’s comfort in there too I swear!

Read it on ao3 here!

Another piece of her skin had come loose near her hips. It had to have happened a while ago, judging by the dust and dirt clinging to the adhesive on its underside. She hadn’t noticed it back then, being occupied with fighting for her life, the misery, the toil and pain and the war . But now, after the end of it all? Nothing would take her mind off it. She’d catch herself absent-mindedly tugging at the loose piece every now and then, or rather, Pod would catch her and admonish her in his usual robotic manner.

Alert: Continuing to irritate the area will cause further damage to unit A2. Proposal: Stop.

And he was right, of course, but that just made her want to throw a brick at him all the more.

(She also hadn’t noticed when she’d switched to referring to Pod as he instead of it, but he didn’t call attention to the change and she’d rather die than admit she th ought of him as anything but an annoyance.)

Well, Pod wasn’t here now. Being assigned to two units, he usually split his time between monitoring 2B and herself, or sometimes the pods just headed out by themselves to do God knows what. Maybe there was a part of A2 that wondered what they were up to, a part of her that might have been curious enough to ask about it lifetimes ago, but now? The task of having to ask and listen to a reply seemed insurmountable.

Shit, she really needed to trash something. Before, whenever such thoughts threatened to overtake her, she’d simply pick a fight with the first machine she saw, rinse and repeat until she was too exhausted to continue on or move or even think. But of course even that was taken from her as the machines were gone now. Not physically gone, of course, they were still dotted throughout the landscape, but they were empty. Just vacant shells, unmoving, staring off into space.

“They’re among the stars now”, 9S had said, as if that would explain anything. A2 hadn’t had the energy to ask for clarification. They kept their distance from each other anyway, since being in the other android’s presence dredged up emotions and red hot flashes of pain pain pain she no longer had a release for.

The sound of tools scraping and metal being torn and bent drifted to her from way down below. She came up here often now, to the window where she’d first awoken again. It was a long way down, and not for the first time she wondered whether the pods had placed her there intentionally. A second chance, and an easy way to refuse the gift. Again and again she found herself drawn to this spot, looking down until the instincts she was programmed with to keep her body safe flooded her system with dizziness that forced her to back away from the window. She used to feel so far away from everything here, but apparently, the real world had forced itself even into this space. The resistance had begun scrapping the empty machines down for parts, and even though she’d tried to help them initially just to have something to do, once she was actually faced with one of the shells, still faintly whirring with the machinery still ticking away in the rusty chassis but at the same time nothing going on inside, she felt like vomiting. An echo of the time she’d shared a mind with 2B, she supposed, she’d looked into the machine’s unseeing eyes and seen Pascal, seen the children, and she just couldn’t…

With an abrupt sting of pain she realized she’d been doing it again, finding that loose piece of skin and mindlessly tugging, only this time, Pod wasn’t here to tell her off. She gritted her teeth against the sting and began pulling, watching with an almost morbid fascination as the skin peeled to reveal more of the black exoskeleton underneath –

“Stop that.”

The sudden interruption startled A2 enough to actually obey, letting go of the abused patch of skin as if it had burned her. She turned towards the newcomer, one hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of her sword she no longer had a use for. She relaxed incrementally when she found that it was 2B who’d snuck up on her, her hand uselessly coming to rest at her side. She wasn’t at ease, she figured she hadn’t been at ease since the day she was fabricated, but something about the combat model seemed to calm her – a sentiment she would have laughed at weeks ago, given the many times 2B had been sent to execute her only for A2 to destroy her again and again, each time coming closer and closer to defeat as 2B profited from combat experience while her own body degraded. But there was no way of sharing a mind, memories and decades of pain with another person without retaining some familiarity after the fact.

It was difficult to see the unfiltered version of 2B she’d experienced through her memories in the carefully schooled expression of the android in front of her. The version A2 had experienced loved fiercely, cared deeply, and was hurt beyond measure, but the 2B she saw now let almost none of that show. Calm, collected. The very model of a YoRHa executioner. A2 didn’t have to ask why 2B still saw the need to guard her expression so thoroughly. After all, it was the same reason why A2 cleaned and sharpened her weapons every day with more care than she’d ever afforded her own body, or why 9S had taken to painstakingly record ing all of his memory, each minute detail of e very day he experienced with pen and paper and was keeping this treasury of memories hidden under his pillow.

“You need maintenance”, 2B stated, taking tentative steps closer and, when A2 didn’t object, sat down beside her. She didn’t look at her, instead fixating on some point in the distance, beyond the grey husks of concrete buildings leaning heavily against each other, as if they might collapse at any moment. Her voice betrayed no emotion, but the faint golden glow of the lunar tear tucked neatly above her ear said otherwise, said it’d suit your stylish looks, said thank you for the flowers, said desert roses are beautiful, aren’t they. The grief A2 felt upon these echoes flashing through her mind might as well have been her own. They’d both lost so, so many people, and yet they were still here, alive even after having literally died. It was almost funny. Almost.

“Nah, I’ll be fine”, A2 said, “I’ve survived this long even with machines looking to destroy me at every turn, I won’t fall apart now.”

2B made a non-committal sound, and a long stretch of silence followed. A2 had to stifle an irrational urge to laugh, because for two people who literally had their minds melded at some point, they sure were bad at communicating. But the silence continued, gaping, deafening, and a strange anxiety rose in A2, a compulsion to fill it with something, anything, even though she knew that no words could ever do justice to the things she longed to express, the things that bubbled and churned inside her like a vile acid she needed to expel.

“I miss it.”

A2 was almost surprised that she had spoken. She might have been inclined to believe it was a hallucination caused by one of the many glitches she’d contracted over decades of neglect of maintenance, if 2B hadn’t turned to look at her, head slightly inclined to the side, encouraging her to go on.

Well, shit. The rat was out of the bag now, or whatever the humans used to say, so there was no point in backing down. A2 leaned against the wall with a heavy sigh, craning her neck to stare at the webbing of cracks along the ceiling, because making herself vulnerable was hard enough without looking into 2B’s face and seeing whatever pity or disdain she might be too slow to hide.

“I mean, the fighting. Always being on the move. Never having a moment of quiet, never having a moment alone with your own thoughts. I was so busy surviving that I didn’t have the time to ask myself why I was surviving in the first place. I think it was spite, mainly”, she added with a mirthless chuckle that sounded hollow in the empty room. “But now, with YoRHa gone and the war over, there’s nobody left to spite, and that leaves me with…”

She didn’t voice the nothing that was on the tip of her tongue, but it hung over them like a heavy, suffocating blanket nonetheless. Truly, how selfish was she, to prefer the never-ending suffering of the war over this peace, this chance for Anemone and her people to build something new, something substantial. She didn’t dare to open her eyes and face whatever 2B must be thinking of her, and this was new too: She cared now, cared what others thought of her, because now she ha d people with opinions to care about.

And yet, the silence continued, the tension reaching a fever pitch until A2 could be ar it no longer. She braced herself and turned to face the combat model once more, no matter what she –

Oh.

2B’s gaze was trained on the horizon once more, but she’d placed a gloved hand over A2’s own, her thumb rubbing comforting circles over the exposed exoskeleton.

A2’s core temperature spiked with embarrassment as she cleared her throat. “Yeah, I…I can’t actually feel that, sorry”, she huffed. “I don’t know how it is with you newer models, but my more delicate sensors were located directly under my outer skin and I lost that ages ago. So, yeah, it’s gonna take nothing short of shoving my hand between two moving gears to actually generate some feedback.”

“Oh. I’m…sorry”, 2B murmured, removing her hand to clench it in her lap in a demure gesture that was so unlike her it made A2 feel even worse. She’d never felt self-conscious about the state of her body before. She’d been frustrated, sure, when she found her capabilities steadily decreasing the more time she spent on the run, but she’d never felt so outright ashamed that she could hear her black box whirring in her ears, but now that her deficiencies had been brought into such stark contrast against 2B, perfect, pristine 2B -

“A2.”

2B’s firm voice pulled the attacker model out of her spiralling thoughts. 2B’s eyes were focused on the spot on her hip where she’d been subconsciously scratching at the loose patch of skin again. A2 clenched her blackened fingers into a fist, fighting against the overpowering compulsion to just rip it.

“You need maintenance”, 2B repeated, with more insistence than the first time.

“Are you still on about that?” A2 groaned, running a hand through her hair.

“You’re literally coming apart at the seams!” 2B hissed, and there was fervour there, a real concern.

“Don’t I know it”, A2 said, throwing her head back and barking out a laugh that was devoid of any happiness. She just wanted this conversation to be over, she wanted 2B to stop wasting her concern on her, she just…wanted everything to stop.

Another pause, and then…a sensation, a touch, ever so lightly, ever so softly, a pair of lips against her cheek. The contact lasted a second at the most, before 2B pulled back an inch, her face still so close that A2 could feel her breath ghosting over her skin as she spoke her next words.

“Can you feel this?”

A2 didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to, not when the staccato beat of her pulse and the stuttering of her breath spoke volumes. 2B slid closer to her now, sitting directly next to her so close close close that their thighs were touching and A2 could feel it and shit, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been touched with care, like she mattered, like she deserved any of it. Pressure was building in her throat and she clenched her fist tighter until she could hear the joints of her fingers cracking. And still, she leaned into the contact, closed her eyes and held onto that moment while it lasted.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing”, 2B said quietly. A2 couldn’t guess how much time had passed, how long they’d simply been leaning against each other.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about”, A2 lied without any conviction. She had no doubt 2B would be looking right through her.

“Refusing maintenance. Coming up here every day.”

A2 opened her eyes as an errant breeze blew in through the window. She squinted against it. It was a long way down.

“Anemone is worried about you. I – we all are.”

“Well, you’re wasting your time”, A2 bit out, her voice tight against that god-damn lump in her throat. Too much, it was all too much. She had to go, go…somewhere, anywhere. Away. Away from people who looked at her, saw right through her, right down to the very core of her as if she was made of glass. She made a motion to get up, but 2B grabbed her wrist and tugged her down harshly.

“A2, you deserve to be cared for.” 2B’s voice was still so quiet, but as unyielding as the concrete beneath them. “You deserve this”, she said, one hand coming to rest against A2’s cheek. The touch was nothing but gentle, and yet it felt scalding. She batted it away.

“You of all people should know how it feels. We’ve killed, more times than we could count, more times than can ever be forgiven, it’s the only thing we were made for and the only thing we’re actually good at, and you’re telling me I deserve anything?”

2B shrunk back as if she’d struck her, and immediately a cold wave of guilt washed over A2 and settled deep and heavy in her core. She knew 2B, she could still feel the disgust and self-hatred emanating off of her whenever A2 had addressed her as 2E, they’d shared the pain of killing her closest friend over and over and over again. A2 reached out, to touch 2B, to hold her perhaps, but she thought better of it. She wasn’t made for gentleness. Everything she touched fell apart.

“I’m sorry”, she mumbled, her words falling pathetically short.

“Appreciated”, 2B said through gritted teeth, her fingers clenched into the hem of her dress so tightly her knuckles were turning white. She was close enough to touch, and yet they were miles apart. A2 had broken them miles apart. She had broken them apart, and she had no idea how to fix this divide. She wasn’t made for fixing.

“Shit, 2B, that was a fucked up thing to say to you, I’m-”

2B silenced her laughable attempts with a single, stiff wave or her hand.

“You’re right.”

A2 immediately opened her mouth to protest, to silence whatever nonsense she’d put in the combat model’s head, but then she met her eyes, cold steel blue more fiery than ever, and any words she might have said wither ed on her tongue. She was fixed to the spot, unmoving.

“And if we really are one and the same, A2, then you’ll understand why I can’t bear another death.”

It was too much, it was far too intimate. A2’s first instinct was to deflect, this was her they were talking about, she’d hardly be missed by anyone, having outlived almost all who might at some point have cared about her. And 2B, especially 2B, whom she’d killed dozens of times…

Unbidden, the ugliest memories reared their head, flashes of deep, oozing slashes in 2B’s body as her teammates stumble over themselves in retreat, flashes of loosing herself in B-Mode when she couldn’t keep up with her opponent anymore, only coming to again when her form was beaten, bloodied and almost unrecognizable. The same nausea she’d felt when asked to dismantle the machine husks rose in her again, that feeling of wrong wrong wrong and she couldn’t stomach it, not even the thought of it…

This time, she caught herself. Her hand halfway to her hip, she froze, biting her lip to distract from the urge to just tear at pieces of herself. 2B noticed, of course she noticed, placing a hand over the damaged area. It was tender, and though every fibre of her being cried out that she didn’t deserve it she didn’t deserve it she didn’t deserve it she swallowed them down. Laid her hand atop 2B’s. Threaded their fingers together.

She watched 2B fail to hide a soft gasp, and it made something within her lurch in delight. She gave 2B’s hand a gentle squeeze, wishing now more than ever to be able to feel the warmth of her hand radiating through the smooth satin glove.

It was a stupid reason. It was as good as any other.

She allowed herself to rest in this moment for a few seconds longer, then she slowly rose to her feet, groaning under the aching of her stiff joints. How long had she been up here?

“Come on, let’s head back before Anemone sends out a search party”, she said, pulling 2B upright, and when she was standing, A2 was struck to the core when she saw her smile. It was a subtle, understated thing, barely even visible, but shit, if she could make 2B smile like that one more time she knew she’d be worth something more than the scrap metal she was made of.

She took one last look out of the window over her shoulder. She could barely stomach it – it was such a long, long way down.

Feeling 2B’s hand in hers.

Making her smile.

They were better reasons than spite, she decided.

#nier #nier automata #a2 #2b #working title of this fic was freddie projects their depression onto robots

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spirit-of-the-void · 4 years

Text

Gunpowder and Flower Petals (Dante x Reader Fanfic) Chapter 3

Author’s Notes: I formally apologize for the long hiatus everyone. I was depressed and anxious after having some doubts in my writing, and then got roped into a long commission....I’ll do my best to keep this updated

A huge thanks to @meliapis for making the new cover picture for this story!

Chapter 3

~Calloused Palms and Delicate fingers~

Opening the shop in the morning went on as usual.

You woke up bright and early, getting in a shower and some toast for breakfast before bouncing cheerfully downstairs. Unlike the previous morning, Clover followed each footstep, black tail flicking back and forth as she searched out a nice patch of sunlight to lounge in. Meanwhile, you breezed through each task with ease, pleased to find all the previous day’s seedlings fully grown and ready for trimming. Magic made quick work of those, your mouth babbling forth cheerful praises and kind words to the new bulbs and buds as more were planted in the place of others. A cycle, one that came and went every day without fail. Going smooth enough that there was time to spare, leaving you free to tidy up the front shop and loosely braid your hair. Soft, delicate--peppered with mini carnations and tiny clovers, in honor of your lovely familiar soaking in the morning sun on her belly fur.

You giggled when the cat blinked slowly at you, whiskers glowing with bright light as the shop door was unlocked and sign flipped to “open”. Customers usually wouldn’t come in for another half hour or so, but that was fine. Mondays were generally slow anyway, so you didn’t expect many people to stop by minus the occasional regular or newbie looking for a last minute gift. After ten o’clock, there would be no other orders either, only one being scheduled for a restaurant to pick up some time after nine. Various assortments, mostly lilies. You looked at Clover, realizing this was probably why the cat was more comfortable hanging around the shop that day. Low amounts of people, lots of sun, plenty of time to get attention from their owner. Typical. You shook your head, causing a few stray petals to flutter out onto the floor.

Since the morning was slow, you attempted different tasks to keep yourself busy and distracted from wandering thoughts. Yesterday was flower crowns, today was grinding roots and leaves into salves. They were sold on the side as natural remedies, and they definitely worked for their intended purposes. Balms to soothe pain, powder to sprinkle on a pillow to aid sleep, cream to help with dry skin. It was one of the few things your mother managed to pass along before she died, your mind awash with memories of those times. Her smile, showing you just how to use a mortar and pestle while lightly channeling magic. It was cathartic, a walk down memory lane and a reason to smile.

Thinking of her always made flowers bloom in your hair.

By the time that restaurant came to pick up their order there was quite a few buds in your silken locks. They didn’t comment on it, seeming to be in a bit of a hurry as the boxes of flowers were loaded into their truck quickly and efficiently. Papers signed, payment given, customers on their merry way in a matter of minutes. You both preferred it this way and felt a twinge of disappointment--it was nice to have things done and ready at a fast pace. Satisfying even. But once they were gone you were left in the shop by yourself, minus Clover sleeping soundly in a patch of sun as it warmed the fur on her belly. Mondays were oddly lonely, leaving you to drift around the shop repeating small tasks over and over in an attempt to stave off boredom. Trim the roses, arrange bouquets, praise seedlings, make flower crowns--it left your thoughts free to drift in and out of focus, only snapping back when the occasional customer popped in for some flowers.

It was normal. But wasn’t normal was the new addition to your thoughts--Dante.

How could you stop yourself from thinking about him? You sighed softly, fingers playing with the locket resting on your chest as his face kept making an appearance. Maybe you were just easily swayed by ruggedly handsome men? His white hair, slightly unshaven face and soft eyes...Ah, there it was again. The lonely feeling was worse today because each moment passed with you hoping the mysterious man might return. Maybe you were reading too many romantic books, head spinning webs and stories where none belonged. A handsome stranger comes into your shop, rough around the edges and seeming to carry a deep sadness...what a love story that would make! Problem was that your wistful mind kept hoping so desperately that it was yours.

“I’m losing my mind, Clover,” You mumbled to the cat, who most certainly wasn’t listening, “Maybe Mrs. Davenport was right--I need to get out of the shop sometimes.”

Clover gave no indication that she had heard other than a flick of her ear, eyes still closed and fur shiny in the sun. You sigh, head resting on your hands as you watched that same sunlight make dancing patterns on the walls every time a car passed. These feelings of attraction came with a strange guilt, one you wanted to shake. How rude was it to daydream about someone who simply came in to get their roses? To convince yourself that there was more to the encounter? He did ask me out to coffee, didn’t he? You tried to reason through the doubts with that, but maybe he could have meant it in a friendly manner? Overthinking again, panicking, mind left to wander in the quiet calm of a monday morning. You let out a light groan, a scattered pile of petals falling from your curls with the spike of stress. Too many maybes, there to make you regret not setting up a day more.

What were you going to do?

“Clover,” You practically whined, head now resting on the counter as you stared at the wall in a daze, “If only you could speak...I need someone to tell me what an idiot I’m being.”

The cat didn’t like you berating yourself. This caused the furry creature to blink her eyes open, glaring at you from the floor before she stretched and sprung to her feet. She was on the counter moments later, one paw firmly pressed to your forehead in a sign of disapproval. Message received loud and clear--she didn’t like you calling yourself an idiot.

“Sorry sorry…” You mumble, making a face when she rubbed her fur all over your poor nose. Thank god you weren't allergic.

Regardless, Clover settled down nearby on the counter edge, staring with round eyes while her tail flicked back and forth. You knew she wanted to help, but there wasn’t much a cat could do in a situation like this. To offer even that silent support was more than you had for a long time, already used to not having friends after going through school alone. Children and teenagers strayed away from the strange and unusual, and you had a reputation for yourself early on. That girl is strange, I heard she can grow flowers in her hair--What if she collects animal skulls in her spare time? Does she do blood rituals? Can she curse us if we do something wrong? Witch rumors spread fast, so you kept that to yourself for a long time. No friends, no relationships ...just the flowers, and focusing on the skills your mother left behind.

Maybe that was why the idea of going on a date was so exciting, so...nerve wracking.

You just didn’t want to be alone anymore. The Davenports were lovely, but their new home was an hour drive away. They didn’t want to be close to a city after the Redgrave incident a while back, which you could fully understand. Both stopped by whenever they could manage, and you to them, but...those times between left a lasting effect. It felt so selfish to want more after all the wonderful things you had been given, but...was it so wrong to want companionship? You had gotten lucky, raised by two wonderful human beings who didn’t have to help you, but chose to anyway. They took your mother’s role seriously, buying books on witchcraft and being supportive in any way they could after the incident at school...The Davenports gave so much, and you would never forget that.

You would be fine. You just needed to get past these lonelier days.

So lost in your drifting thoughts, you didn’t notice someone pass by the open store front at all, not even when Clover’s eyes flickered to that area with interest. They stood at the door for a few moments, as if gathering their thoughts before the bell jingled to sound an entrance. Yet you still didn’t notice at all, focused on those patterns on the wall. Thinking about your mother, the Davenports, school and the kids who ridiculed you there. It wasn’t like you to not pay attention, used to greeting each and every customer to make them feel welcome and see if they needed help. But you were oblivious to the tall man entered through the glass door, staring at you in surprise and raising one white eyebrow as he took in you slumped over the counter, looking glum. What a sight that must have been, seeing the cheerful girl from yesterday so troubled and moody.

No, you didn’t notice him at all. Not until he was standing right by the counter, deep voice jolting you right out of daydreaming and bringing the previous days excitement back in a burst.

“You alright, sunshine? Lookin’ a bit cloudy today.”

Oh.

You jolted upright with a gasp, petals scattering all over the counter as you swung around to stare up at the white haired mystery man himself. Sure enough, Dante stood tall and handsome, completely real and solid as he met your gaze with a light grin. Oh goodness, he was dressed differently today--still casually, but a little more clean cut. His stubble had been trimmed neatly, and now he wore a grey button up tucked into black jeans with that red leather jacket slung over his shoulder. The sight of his white hair pulled back in a messy attempt at a ponytail sent your heart into overdrive, orchids blooming and dropping a considerable amount of petals from your hair onto the pile already forming at your feet. You immediately tried to hide them in your hair, flustered and panicking a bit despite how absolutely relieved you felt.

There goes the loneliness, here comes the absolute sheer excitement and nervousness with him being in the shop again.

He called you sunshine. He remembered. He’s here.

Calm down, you’re being ridiculous.

“O...oh…!” You tried to get your voice under control, but failed, cheeks already feeling far too warm as you stood straighter and stammered, “H...Hello again, Dante…!”

The rugged male seemed surprise as well, tilting his head a bit as he cleared his throat. You noticed him nervously run a hand through his hair, almost like he didn’t realize it was in a ponytail--the action pulled a few strands loose.

“Didn’t mean to startle ya, “ He chuckled, the sound both warm and a bit off, like he wasn’t sure how to progress at all, “Shocked you remember me, to be honest. I uh...didn’t make the best first impression.”

Something about his awkward disposition was oddly...cute. Relaxing, even. Dante kind of reminded you of a nervous boy asking a girl to a school dance for the first time. Maybe you were reading too much into it, but he seemed just as nervous as you, but better at hiding it. Trying to keep his cool. Reading people was a hobby you kept up on while working in the shop, so his cues and mannerisms were starting to make more sense. That hand through his hair, the way he kept shifting from one leg to another, clearing his voice...He looked a bit embarrassed, to be completely honest. No better than you, which was comforting and endearing all the same.

His words made you smile softly, some of the anxiety melting away as you replied with firm honesty in your tone, “I disagree...you were very kind and understanding, it made for a lovely first impression. Of course I remember, Dante.”

This seemed to relax him a bit too, his stiff posture losing some of its edge as he let out a hefty sigh, “Maybe, but I do owe you an apology though. I uhhh... I realized later that I hadn’t actually given you a day when we can have coffee or...anything.”

Oh. You blinked, staring at his blue eyes despite him looking away, scratching the side of his neck and looking slightly guilty. Another nervous habit. Cute. He must have realized belatedly, like you, that no date had been set up for this impromptu interaction that had you so nervous.

A smile tilted your lips, followed by a soft, embarrassed giggle as you admitted, “I kind of forgot to ask about a day too...I...I got too excited and didn’t realize till later…”

Admitting that felt strange, almost like you were giving away too much. It was awkward, but in a way that seemed oddly correct.

Dante certainly didn’t mind. Hearing about your excitement made his blue eyes finally meet yours, surprise and relief mingling on his expression like it somehow took a weight off his chest. You didn’t really know what you looked like to him in that moment, but Dante was absolutely enchanted. Flowers blooming in your curls, cheeks pink with honesty and excitement...it shot several arrows through his already nervous heart, sending it into overdrive like a caged bird seeking to be freed. Thank god he decided to come back, that he didn’t chicken out and listened to the others.

“That was all on me, sunshine,” He chuckled, leaning against the counter and plucking a few petals from its surface. You flushed more at his closeness, watching him rub the soft floral between his fingers, “Thinkin’ I got a bit too excited myself. It was pretty rude of me to just...ask and bounce like I did. So how ‘bout I make it up to you and take you out today, if you’re free?”

Today? So soon? It was everything you wanted and more.

You couldn’t help but notice he smelled nice today--he was close enough that a warm scent reached your sensitive nose, bringing traces of what must have been a men’s soap brand or cologne. Both this and his words sent a little thrill down your spine, heartbeat pounding in your chest even as Clover looked on with curious eyes. She seemed to be keeping her distance for now, sizing Dante up even as he looked at her with a hint of interest in his own gaze. Focus, you needed to focus--The man had asked you a question. But the sight of him trying to cover up his nervousness by turning his attention to Clover was only making you more flustered.

We’re both a mess. An absolute mess.

Dante extended a hand to let your familiar sniff, purposely allowing the small cat take her time instead of petting her outright. Clover already knew about Dante after you talking to her about it. But...her reaction to sniffing him really put you off. Clover was usually a very mild mannered cat, she behaved and liked everyone she met. With Dante, however, her little nose scrunched up in obvious distaste, ears flat against her skull and a low growl emanating from her throat. You blinked in surprise, watching Dante immediately retrieve his hand and look ruefully disappointed. Not surprised, like he somehow expected this outcome. He didn’t try to reach out again, making an apologetic face to you as she let out another low growl.

What in the world was that? Your familiar immediately slunk her way around you in a very protective manner, ears still down and eyes not leaving Dante for a second. Why was she so angry? You got nothing but honesty from Dante when he spoke, and there were no bad scents or energies. Mind you, there was something a bit off about his aura, just a twinge of something from him that felt familiar. But...no violence, no bad intentions. Your senses didn’t lie, not when it came to something this important. Perhaps Clover was just feeling a bit territorial or jealous? Having a stranger coming into your life might have been scary, or maybe it was due to how upset you were the previous night due to not knowing if he would come back?

“Clover!” You scolded, picking the cat off the counter and tucking her against your chest, “Don’t be mean, that’s so unlike you…!”

The cat snorted in your face, ears flicking and looking quite perturbed. Her gaze kept flickering over to Dante in a fierce glare, letting out light growls as Dante shifted back a step, getting the message loud and clear.

“Don’t worry about it,” He chuckled, seeming ruefully as he stared at Clover’s fluffed up tail, “Cats don’t like me too much--never knew why.”

That last part of his sentence...it was tinged in a bit of untruth. He knew why cats didn’t like him--but whatever it was, the man was reluctant to tell you why.

Perhaps that should have made you wary, should have made you hesitate. Clover was your familiar, and her judgement was important to you above all other things. But this lie, seeing the almost sad way his eyes drifted away only served to make you very curious, stirring that part of you that sought adventure and wanted to know more. Past attraction, wanting to know what rested at the core of this strange man who seemingly stumbled into your life. You paused, staring at Clover’s scrunched up face imploringly for a moment, gathering your thoughts. If anything, going out to a coffee was the safest you could get--you could pick the place, somewhere public and talk for a bit. If there was any indication of danger, you could leave. Easy as that.

You wanted to know him. Wanted to know what made Clover not like him.

I’m sorry, Clove. I have to try, I have to know.

“I can close the shop down early for the day,” You said decidedly, looking shyly at Dante while he blinked in surprise, “It’s slow on mondays. Do you mind waiting here while I take Clover upstairs and get changed?”

Something akin to eagerness flashed in his eyes, but he tried to keep his tone neutral as he replied, “You sure? I wouldn’t want to barge in on your work day or anything.”

That was the fun part about owning your own business--you got to set hours and make choices. There were no more deliveries and business would be slow at best, completely absent at most.

A soft smile tilted your lips as you stepped out from behind the counter, shaking free a cloud of petals as you turned up the closed sign on the door. All the while Clover growled softly, tail doubled in size with her anger. She wasn’t liking this situation at all, especially not with you ignoring her warnings and still going out with Dante.

“It’s perfectly fine,” You reassured the man and her at the same time, slipping past him to head upstairs, “I’ll be down in five minutes...I know a lovely bakery nearby that serves coffee and tea, we can go there for lunch.”

Somehow this relieved Dante, like he hadn’t actually decided where you both would go. He nodded, running a hand through his silver hair again in a nervous gesture, “Sounds good, sunshine.”

That nickname made your heart beat faster, cheeks flushed as you hurried to the back room and up toward your apartment. Petals drifted in your wake, a few more orchids blooming in your excitement. Lord, you were so out of control at that moment it was ridiculous. This was your first date, the only one you had ever gone on in your whole life. No dating in high school, so busy with the shop afterwards that it never came up. But now...what were you supposed to do on a first date? Could you hold hands? Was that too much? So many questions were buzzing around your skull that you weren’t sure how to process anything.

All the while, Clover meowed naggingly as you entered the apartment, seeming distressed as you set her down on the table. She followed, eyes watching and little mouth working overtime as you changed into something cute--a pink sweater tucked into a high-waisted, black pleated skirt. Would pink thigh highs and boots be too much? You settled for tights instead, and brown laced boots to go with it. There was still that part of your brain worried about Clover’s reaction to Dante, but you wanted to try trusting your instincts for once.

So many years you spent letting fear and worry keep you to yourself, working in the flowershop alone. A lot of that time was spent letting others make your choices for you, content on just doing what was expected of you and safe. But now...you wanted something exciting, wanted to try and listen to instinct for once.

You paused, taking a deep breath and holding your mother’s locket firmly between your fingers. She would never let you get hurt, never lead you astray. There were no bad feelings from Dante, and until there were you would rather take a chance than play everything safe.

“I’ll be okay, Clover,” You promised the cat, finally looking down at her body weaving between your feet before plucking her up into an embrace. She stopped meowing as you did so, looking incredibly worried even as you kissed her snout, “Just trust me, okay? I don’t know why you’re so spooked, but...I want to take a chance. If something is up, I’ll come right home. Promise.”

The cat still hesitated, ears pressed back and eyes wide with worry. But she didn’t meow again as you set her down, grabbing your small purse and keys before heading for the door. Cell phone carefully tucked away, everything in its place. Just in case, you brought a packet of particularly potent seeds, ones that could sprout into vines if you needed to make a quick retreat. You never ever assumed Dante could hurt you, or even want to, but...Mrs. Davenport taught you to be cautious, and you didn’t want to be too trusting.

Clover was sitting by the door as you closed it, like she was ready to wait until you came back. Hopefully she wouldn’t do that, but you gave her a small wave anyway as the wooden surface separated you both from view. Her dislike of the white haired male was definitely disappointing, you wouldn’t deny that. There was still a mystery to uncover, however, and going out on this little date was something you wanted more than anything. It felt so foolish to think this way--like those girls you see in movies who end up ignoring warning signs and going out with serial killers.

But...Dante’s aura was gentle with you. It was sad, filled with trauma he seemed to keep bottled up. The colors were warm and bright, tinged with something you didn’t understand--but you wanted to.

So you gathered your courage... and made your way downstairs.

Dante was still waiting there when you arrived, seemingly trying to fix his messed up ponytail. That leather jacket was now on his body, a stark contrast from the neutral grays and blacks of his outfit. He didn’t notice you return, eyes down in concentration as his long fingers slid back the white hair with a black hair tie in tow. Something about it made your heart beat faster, flustered all over again at the way his grey button up shifted around his chest muscles and waist. Oh dear…maybe you didn’t have the nerves for this? Sent blushing and nervous just at the sight of him doing something so normal, like a flustered school girl.

No backing down now.

You took a deep breath, nervously tucking a curl behind your ear and trying to will each flower to stop blooming in the loose braid you still had. The orchids had a mind of their own and practically blasted your feelings to the whole world, it was so embarrassing. So...honest.

Dante looked up at the sound of your boots clicking on the floor, breath catching as he took in your appearance with unabashed awe before trying to make his expression more collected and neutral. You looked like a fae in his eyes, ethereal and gorgeous in the sun’s dancing patterns. The flowers in your hair, the way your braid curled over your shoulder with the occasional curl escaping to cling around your face….you were a vision, and he was having trouble gathering himself together at the sight. How was he supposed to not act like a stammering, bumbling mess around you now?

He needed to remember what Trish and Lady told him. Open all the doors for her, tell her she’s pretty, but that’s not the most important thing about her. Remember to listen, to talk about her and yourself. Be a gentleman for fucks sake.

“Welcome back, sunshine,” He greeted you, lips quirked in a half smile as he stood straight and stepped away from the counter. There was a hint of nervousness in his eyes, a chuckle escaping his lips as he added, “Just gonna warn you now, I’m gonna be a whole idiot today walking around with you lookin’ that gorgeous. I’m already forgetting how to make complete sentences.”

He was trying to use humor to cover up his awkward compliment, which was charming your socks off while also sending your heart pounding away. I’m such a mess. I’m such a MESS--one complement and I’m practically a puddle at his feet.

You flushed pink, looking down as you stammered, “I...I highly doubt that...but...you look very handsome today. I’ve never been on a date before so...I might be an idiot too.”

Were you supposed to admit that? Maybe not. But Dante didn’t seem to mind.

He let out a sigh of relief, walking toward you and staring ruefully at your flustered face. You felt a twinge of surprise when he held out a hand for your to take, showing you those calloused, scarred fingers you felt the day before.

“Then we have something in common,” He admitted, scratching the back of his head with the other hand, “This is honestly the first time I’ve tried going on a date with anyone...I’m a bit of a disaster, sunshine.”

Somehow, that both surprised you and didn’t. He was so handsome and warm, but...there was tragedy in his life. It was something dark and heavy, weighing the poor man down and you weren’t doubting that, not with what you could sense. But...you were a bit of a disaster too, and you had your own secrets tucked away where no one could see. Dante was an adventure, and something about him drew you in like a moth to a flame. So you took his hand gently with your fingers, enjoying the way he sucked in a surprised breath and a hint of flush made its way across his cheeks. It would seem some of his reactions were very honest, especially when your fingers curled around his and squeezed. Warm...very warm, and oh so gentle with you...he squeezed back.

His expression was so cute.

You smiled softly, tugging him towards the door as you replied, “That’s fine with me...I’m a bit of a disaster too, so try not to worry too much. We can learn together, slowly if you’d like.”

This was only the first date--both of you had all the time in the world to decide how this would go. Maybe after learning about him, or seeing how he acted in public would make you change your mind. Maybe you weren’t compatible--but learning that would be part of the fun. And there would be no better way of doing it than having a nice lunch at Alex’s bakery, with people you knew and faces around who had your back. But Dante didn’t seem to be a bad person, nor did he seem to have bad intentions. There was only a quiet, nervous eagerness from him as he opened the flowershop door for you, still holding your hand as you locked it tight for the day.

The waiting mid-day sun was warm on your face, like a soothing caress as you turned to smile at Dante. Your cheeks immediately flushed, however, at how handsome he looked with the light glinting off his white hair. Lord, he was a beautiful man, and the world seemed determined to show you. The thought made you suck in a breath, trying to gather any courage you could muster while tugged his hand to signal movement. He fell in step easily, tucking you hand around his arm like a gentleman would.

Do not get too attached yet. It’s only one day.

“I think you’ll like Alex’s bakery,” You hummed, the wind rustling your curls as you walked the familiar path, “His sweets are great if you like that--and they have a wonderful dark roast and many different exotic teas.”

“Sweets are good,” Dante nodded in approval, eyes lighting up at the prospect, “To be honest I wasn’t sure if you liked coffee, sunshine.”

A sweet tooth then? That was pretty surprising for a man like him, not that you would say that.

Instead you smiled, staring forward as you responded softly, “What’s your favorite sweet, Dante?”

You expected him to think about it, or maybe rattle off something like chocolate or some cream filled pastry. But instead he grinned, his answer quick and smooth as he turned to meet your gaze.

“My favorite? Strawberries.”

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#devil may cry #devil may cry five #devil may cry 5 #dmc5 #dante devil may cry #dante x reader #flowershop fic #flowershop OC

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weforgotthatwearethestars · 4 years

Text

No Memory is Gonna Save You Now (part 1)

I’ve written a thing!

While out on patrol, Peter looses most of his memories. Through the kindness of strangers, his friends, and his family, he learns exactly what those closest to him mean to him.

It’s basically just amnesia trope plus starker (don’t like don’t read please) 😊

Also here on Ao3!

Tags: amnesia, temporary amnesia, team as family, canon-typical violence, fluff, angst, happy ending

He wakes up to dark green and sodium light and pain.

Sitting up, he groans and tries to sort out his limbs. The legs get folded under because they’re annoyed no matter what it seems. The spine gets hunched around the aching ribs and generally unhappy organs. One arm, the left one, is doing all the leveraging while the right one seems to be the only thing properly screaming. The neck is rolled while the head is dropped to inspect the screaming arm.

He groans as he finds that the right arm is much more sticky-red than the other is as only the fingers on his left are coated in it. Gingerly, he rolls the sleeve back and finds -

A list.

Tower

Loby

Fri

Lab

Tony

Idly, he thinks, lists are written on your skin, not carved in, right?, and I’m pretty sure I put that there based on the blood.

“Oh, by my lucky stars, it’s you!”

His lungs are working double time, his heart quadruple, while his ribs twinge and his stomach rolls, whole body buzzing with something .

Also he seems to have become well acquainted with a tree.

“Oi, love, you’re alright? I didn’t mean to frighten you so bad.”

Without much thought, his hands let go and his body unfurls while his feet hold him in place on the branch. He comes face to face, though the wrong way up, with a lovely girl, curly brown hair, shining blue eyes, and a frown. No, wait, smile if he was on the ground. She giggles as she flaps one hand, the other holding a plastic cup and squeals, “I can’t believe I’m meeting Spider-man! Heather’s never gonna believe me!”

“Whose Spider-man?” he hears someone ask.

But, no, not quite hear, because it was also feel, and not just the vibration but the movement of the words-

I said that.

That’s what I sound like?!

He hits the ground with a thud and a flare of pain while she snorts and laughs near involuntarily. With another groan, though this one is mixed with a chuckle, he gets up. Sorts his limbs enough to lift himself from the ground, right way up this time. He’s taller than her, broader too, but she is excited and happy and practically bouncing where she stands.

"I know you probably get this alot but could we get a picture together?" she asks and she looks so bouncy that he doesn’t have the heart to ask her why would you want a picture with me ? Instead he smiles, nods, and chuckles in a way he hopes doesn’t sound as awkward as he feels. They bend close as the girl taps the screen into giving her the front facing camera. Then they’re posing and she says “Smile!” and he sees himself for the first time.

The large white lenses are a little startling, but the red, blue, and black, the detail of webbing and the obvious care taken to make the whole thing look like a second skin, comforts him in a way he wouldn’t know how to express. The suit, what it represents, is important and good and makes him feel like he can do just about anything.

The girl grins down at the photo, humming happily and swaying a little. He comes to realize that she’s been glassy-eyed and floaty the whole time and maybe, “Are you drunk?”

She fixes him with a pout while she rolls her eyes and replies, “It’s not like I’m smashed, mate, just tipsy.”

“Um.” he replies as he shuffles his feet a bit.

He knows he should find this ‘Tower’ place. It’s the first thing on a list that is carved into his arm and since he doesn’t seem to remember his face or his name (at least what this person thinks is his name) the list that’s carved into his arm seems like a good place to start.

But....he can’t just leave her here in the dark and the trees and tipsy (possibly drunk).

She looks up from her phone to take note of his pensive stance before she seems to roll her eyes with her entire being.

She sighs loudly as she turns and says, “Well, I suppose I should be glad that chivalry isn’t completely dead.” while walking into the night.

With little hesitation, he follows.

She chats idly as she follows a map on her phone and he learns that she’s an exchange student (from the UK) in college, misses her girlfriend (Heather) terribly, and is finding New York less and less confusing by the day (when sober). There’s a shriek and a groan to their left and he is too proud of himself for doing more than jump and gasp a little.

“Where the hell have you been Millie! We thought you were dead!” comes quickly and sharply from a guy in a crop top and spiked heels, while a girl in a floral button up and stompy boots rolls her eyes and drawls, “She coulda killed any junky who’d’a jumped ‘er.”

He smiles at this and hangs back while the girl, Millie, throws her arms around the two with a strong laugh and says, “Oh, my loves, did I worry you? I never knew you cared!” The guy shrugs her off with a smirk and a huff while the girl catches Millie and pulls her in a little tighter than is probably strictly necessary. “And look!” Millie says with a wave in his direction, “I had a knight in shining armor to escort me back!”

Her two friends turn to look at him as he sheepishly waves back and says, “H-hey.” Her two friends also want pictures and while the guy thanks him profusely, the girl gives him a purposeful nod and he tries hard not to disappoint. Eventually though, seeing them all safe in each other’s hands, he figures he better be going.

“Back to Queens?” the girl, River, asks with a raised eyebrow. He rubs at the back of his neck with his left, less mangled arm and says, “No, ah, I’m actually heading to a - uh -a ‘Tower’ but I’m not, well, exactly sure where it is.”

They all blink at him a bit before Millie burst into giggles saying, “‘A’ Tower. A-avenger’s ha ! Love , this is precisely why my Heather loves you!” Her friends seem to catch on because the guy, Michael starts laughing with Millie while River just sorts and rolls her eyes. He simply stands there and laughs a bit with them because, well, laughing is nice. And, apparently, he likes it when people laugh at his jokes, even the unintentioned ones. Who knew? I sure didn’t .

Before his laugh goes hysterical, he stuffs it down and says that yes, he really does need directions. Yes, his suit is very fancy but it seems to be having some issues. Yes, of course , that’s how he got hurt. And, no, he does not spend too much time in Queens he’s just a little turned around here, thank you very much.

They give him directions and wave him off, seeming generally none the wiser that he has no idea where Queens even is , much less why he’s associated with it so readily. Maybe it’s another city , he thinks, since this one is what Millie called New York .

The walk is long and dark in patches while others are brightly lit. Sometimes there are people and sometimes there’s not but it is never, ever silent. He can hear things from what he thinks must be quite far away, as sometimes he turns a corner expecting someone talking or a car reving or a bird cooing only to be surprised that it’s not right there but much, much further down or simply not there at all. It’s disconcerting, but not as weird as his feet. Sometime’s, as if they have a mind of their own, his feet will stick to the sidewalk and refuse to let go. Eventually he realizes that he’s the one doing it, somehow! And since, it seems, that sticking is easier than not-sticking, he finds a box that doesn't look terrible, rips off two pieces, sticks his feet to them, and tries not to think about how he’s decently sure humans don’t do that .

He keeps walking.

Eventually he turns a corner and realizes River’s sarcastic addendum of, ‘you can’t miss iet’ was true. It’s giant , oddly shaped, and has a huge ‘A’ on it ( oh! ‘A’ Tower! Ha, I get it now! ). Looking at the list again he starts to think, O k so, Tower, done. Now ‘Loby’ probably means the lobby of the Tower but does ‘Fri’ mean friday? Does this mean I need to be there on friday or before then? Maybe I have an appointment? Wait, what day is it anyway!?

Needless to say, he was panicking a little.

But, regardless, he didn’t really seem to have anywhere else to go, no other direction but this one.

So, to the ‘Loby’ it is.

Inside is just as intimidating as the outside. There are metal detectors and barriers but past those is a large desk with a single security officer on their phone. Everything is made of metal, glass, or white, polished rock of some kind. Marble, maybe?

He adds ‘not an interior designer’ to his List of Things he Knows Now.

He wanders forward, hesitantly, as the guard stands.

But before the guard can tell him anything, “Hello, Spider-Man. Boss is waiting in the lab for you.” as the elevator doors to the right side of the large desk open to an empty car.

The disembodied voice is female, almost lyrical, and incredibly unnerving. Though, it would seem, not to the security guard, as he simply waved, smiled, and sat back down at the desk. As he debated whether or not he should listen to the voice in the walls one of the metal detectors lights up green and he figures there probably isn’t much arguing with the voice anyway.

So he walks through the detector and as he passes the desk he pauses and asks, “Hey, man, uh, could you tell me what day it is?”

The man looks truly confused but answers, “Thursday, sir.” all the same.

He grins then switches to a thumbs up when he remembers the mask and chirps, “Thanks!” before getting into the elevator. The doors close and the car starts to rise.

“Um, hello?”

“Yes, Peter?”

“I - ” he starts confused but then waves away that line of questioning. Later , he thinks, there’s a list to sort through and the ceiling-lady could be wrong . “So you mentioned ‘lab’ earlier and I was hoping maybe you could tell me if I’m supposed to be there on friday or not?”

There’s a slight pause then, “You do have lab time schedule with the Boss at noon -”

“Ok then I should just come back then could you bring me back d-”

“No, Boss wants to see you ASAP.”

“No, but -!”

“I can’t disobey -”

“No, stop! Stop the car! I - !”

The elevator lurches to a stop and he crushes the hand rail in his frantic scrambling to stay upright. “I have a list! In my arm!” He half yells out as he pulls the sleeve up at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. “It says: Tower, Loby, Fri, Lab, Tony, and Tony is underlined, in case you can’t see it. So I think Tower means this building, Loby means the lobby of the building, and Fri must mean friday and if you say I have an appointment -!”

“I’m F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

He’s stunned for a moment then, “What?”

“My name is F.R.I.D.A.Y., Female Replacement Intelligent Digital Assistant Youth.”

He blinks, blinks again, then “That is a really weird name.”

She almost sounds smug when she says, “Blame Boss, he’s the one that named me.”

That gets him grinning. He likes ceiling lady. Add that to the List of Things. Well, Friday, not ceiling lady.

Whatever.

“Ok… I guess that counts? So, you’re bringing me to the lab?”

“If you let me move the elevator I can bring you to Boss’s lab right now.”

“Heh,” he huffs embarrassed, “yeah, no, that’s good. To the lab is good.”

The elevator begins to move again and he tries desperately to contain his excited bouncing. He got a good feeling about this Tony person. The name is underlined on his arm, an already painful task made even more painful just to get a point across.

Hopefully, he won’t be mad about the hand rail he crushed.

“Hey, Friday? Is this ‘Boss’ guy going to be in the lab you’re taking me to?”

“Yes, Boss is in his lab right now. He’s been looking for you since earlier this evening.”

The car comes to a stop and the doors slide open, so he steps out and looks around. It’s a long, drab hallway with only a few doors, all slidey and reinforced with metal.

Did I accidently wander into a prison?

“Boss muted me,” Friday says with an air of annoyance, “so I can’t announce you but I’ll open the door.”

A door slides open, sniffling and whirring drifting out into the hall. Paired with the hiccuping breaths and the annoyed huffs, it’s obvious that someone is crying or at least extremely frustrated.

Another thing to add to the List of Things , he thinks as he walks toward the doors with a lot less hesitation, incapable of not helping people .

He gets to the door to find a sad and sorry sight, though the lab itself looks amazing. There are tools and machines and projects on the tables, the floors, the walls, even hung from the ceiling! It seems to range from complex mechanics to advanced biochemical and he wants to sink his teeth into everything without ever coming up for air.

The only thing that stops him is the gorgeous man and adorable arm robot.

The robot is obviously trying to comfort the man, whirring as it rolls back and forth with a glass in its hand. The man is someone to be concerned over, though. Besides the fact that he’s the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen (not that he’s seen all that much), the man seems to be very upset. There are holograms projecting charts, video, and raw data of all kinds displayed around him in a somewhat haphazard way. But he’s sat, hunched over, trying and failing to collect himself as he bats the concerned robot away.

“Um, hi?”

The man runs a quick hand roughly over his face as he sits up, squared-shoulders and stern frown, as he booms, “What the hell a-!” and stops. The man’s eyes go wide and his jaw drops but he doesn’t move any further than that.

“I, uh -” he starts, stops from nerves and second-guessed thoughts, then continues as the man continues to gape, “Ms. -um- Friday let me up. She said that her boss wanted to see me and I’m actually looking for - well, it’s kinda- Gah !” The man is faster than he looks because he’s across the room and throwing his arms around him before he can really think to stop him. He hugs back mostly to make sure he doesn’t get bowled over but the beautiful man.

“ Never scare me like that again, Peter! Lovelace , I have heart problems ! You can’t just disappear off the face of the universe like that!” the man says, loud and angry but there’s a tremble in his words and in his arms that speak to how worried he was.

But he can’t focus on that, as he’s held tight and squished close by the man, because, “Is that my name? Peter?” The man pulls back, gripping his - Peter’s, it would seem - shoulders but holding him out to gape at his face.

“Wh - I - yes, of course your name is Peter. You should know that, why don’t you know that?” The man whirls away, back to his holos to swipe them all away and bring up loads of new ones. Peter stands there, a little confused. He takes the lab in a little more, itches to get into a project but he still doesn’t feel like he has permission to do so.

Peter refocuses on the man instead and decides to say, “Friday is annoyed you muted her.”

The man’s head whirls back up to him, first confused, then it all seems to click before, “Unmute, baby girl. I’m sorry about that, really.”

“It’s ok, Boss.” Friday responds immediately, sounding content and maybe a little fond around the edges.

“So you’re ‘Boss’?” Peter asks as the gorgeous guy goes back to his frantic work.

“Yeah, I’m in charge here. My lab, my rules.” the man replies distractedly. With what Peter reads as a clear dismissal, he goes poking around.

Besides , he thinks as he starts to wander, now, Friday will say something if I’m doing something truly stupid, right?

It’s an unknown amount of minutes before he’s interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. His immediate response is not to see who it is, though. It’s one thousand percent to jump up on the work table he’s in front of and land in a defensive position, facing the hand that was touching him. It turns out it’s just ‘Boss’ (I should really ask his name. Or maybe just what I call him. ).

“You ok there, Pete?” the man asks, part amused, part concerned. Peter feels himself blush but tries not to get too concerned over it, since he’s still wearing a mask.

“Y-yeah, sorry, uh, didn’t mean to do that. Heh.” Peter stutters out.

The gorgeous guy smiles a little fondly up at Peter then asks, “Need a hand?” as he holds a hand up to him. Smiling, Peter takes the hand gratefully and hops down. “Peter, where did you get the cardboard from?” Peter looks up only to find the man looking down, so he follows his gaze to the cardboard he’d had on his feet until five seconds ago.

Peter smiles sheepishly at the other man and says, “Yeah, ah, I kept sticking to the ground so I just stuck them on my feet? I can kind of, um control the sticking but I’m not very good yet.” The other man is giving him such a complicated look that Peter decides to try and change the subject. “So, um, wh- ah, well, ok - what’s your name? I’m sorry I should probably know this, too, but I don’t. I don’t really remember -”

“Anything.” the other man finishes with a grimace.

Peter shrinks in on himself further, not sure why but hoping desperately that he hadn’t disappointed the other man. “I talked to Strange. He said he took all of your memories and put it into this.” the man says as he holds up an I.D. card between two fingers. Peter takes it, glances at the picture but quickly focuses on the name underneath.

Peter Parker.

“He didn’t have time to separate everything out so he just….took everything.” he continues on with a flap of his hand, whirling around to key something else up. The holos flicker on around his head as the man asks, “Baby girl, scan Pete’s brain. Full front to back, anything we can do. And shut his modulator off, that thing sounds wrong when you talk.” There’s a beep from his suit and - maybe that’s why I sound so weird .

“On it, Boss.” Friday chirps as the holos begin to flash on around him. The man seems to be complaining about someone or something when something else catches Peter’s eye. He grabs the holo, adjusting it around so he can read it. He expands and manipulates it in a way that feels natural to him so he tries not to think too hard about it as he starts to see - no, that can’t -

“I’m part spider?!” Peter’s voice startles himself just as much as the other man, stopping mid rant, buried in holos, to look over at Peter with an incredulous look on his face.

“I tell you a wizard took all your memories to keep a hive mind of aliens from scrambling your brain and that’s the thing that you’re focusing on?”

“That explains the sticking, I guess. And the get-up.” Peter murmurs as he continues flicking through what must be his own lab results over the years, ignoring the man’s question just as his own had been ignored. “I wonder, does that explain - ha!”

Peter pulls up a video labeled ‘strength eval.’

It starts with the gorgeous man explaining to a younger guy (a lab tech maybe?) how much different weights are and how he intends to combine them on to one, reinforced, barbell. The whole thing looks like gym equipment got swallowed by a forklift and even more hydraulics, but if they’re testing superhuman strength, it would make sense that the superhuman would need something more than a normal human’s gym equipment to lift and spot them.

He expects that the video may cut to someone else, someone more….familiar to him but, instead, the person Peter assumed was a lab tech lays out on the weight lifting bench. It clicks, just then, as the gorgeous man on the video starts telling the younger guy to be careful and don’t push himself and this is just to get a baseline so no -

That’s me , Peter thinks.

Peter sees what must be himself go through several variations of weights until they’re all piled on the bar and the guy, himself, in the video, is laughing a little as he lifts it like it's nothing . “Ok put the 10 ton weight down, we’re done.” says the gorgeous man in the video, sounding half-way disbelieving.

“But I can lift more, let's try -”

“Pete, we don’t have more. I thought 10 tons was over kill !” and then the two dissolve into laughter and the video ends.

Peter looks over at the man, who’s looking right back, face serious but a little lost all at once.

“You really don’t remember anything do you?”

Shaking his head, Peter glances around, finds a stool to collapse on, then does just that.

He rolls his sleeve up again, turns his arm to show the man as he says, “This is all I had when I woke up. I didn’t know where or who I was, just…. that everything hurt. Especially this arm. When I looked at it…. I found the list.” Placing it back in his own lap, Peter stares at the skin, healed too much to be anything but accelerated. He chuckles, “I ran into this girl. Apparently her girlfriend is a big fan of Spider-Man. Or...me, I guess. I - I thought maybe she’d got me confused with someone else but then, when I asked where a ‘Tower’ might be, they pointed me here. Then, when I got here, in the lobby, Friday knew me and had me come to the lab. I thought m-maybe, whoever ‘Tony’ is, that they’d be here. I thought that they’d fix this because -”

Peter cuts himself off with another chuckle, wetter this time, “I know this sounds stupid but it’s underlined .” He looks up at the man, who’s walked a little closer to him with a face that says he may be in just as much pain as Peter is. “That’s gotta mean something. Right?”

They are silent for a moment, as the man inspects Peter’s arm with reverence and fear swirling in his eyes.

“Yeah, underoos, it does.” the man finally replies as he puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder, something shifting in his posture, on his face, in his head.

“I - My name is Tony Stark. As far as I know, I’m the only Tony you know.” He’s got a fond smirk on his face, eyes shining with determination now as he holds out his hand and continues, saying, “And you’re right it does mean something.”

Peter takes and shakes Tony Stark's hand, a little mechanically. But his smirk is infectious and he feels himself smile, faintly. “It means I’m going to fix this. And I promise I won’t stop until I do.” And Peter, to Tony’s credit, feels better about this whole situation than he can ever remember feeling.

It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.

***************************************************************************************

Sooooooooo, what do you think??? 😅

Please let me know! I’ll be posting every weekend on here and Ao3 until the end!

Like, reblog, or just send me a message, I’d love to here what you think or even make new friends 🥰 Thank you!

(part 2 coming later tonight as I posted this chapter last week on Ao3 do to tech issues)

#amnesia #temporary amnesia #team as family #fluff #angst #happy ending #starker #tony x peter #peter x tony #ironspider

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randomimperialcitizen · 4 years

Text

The Tool For The Job An Ork short story

A small piece I thought would be a humorous example of Ork antics.

The thumping of artillery could be heard clearly in the distance. The Ork camp was far enough away to be safe from the reach of the guns, but only just. The wily brutes unwilling to be far away from the action. The Ork camp, or what passes for one amongst their kind, was a shoddy thing. A loose collection of scrap sheds and wilting tents. Their pattern was ever shifting as they were erected one day and cannibalised the next. Dirt roads were busy with traffic as scrap engines hauled mobs of Orks towards the next battlefield. On the edge of this mess was a two story structure making its home on the edge of the dusty wasteland. It was little more than an overgrown shack. Its walls were strips of an old tanker hull patched together and a roof of corrugated steel. Despite its slap dash appearance and rickety engineering, it was one of the most permanent structures of the camp. The shack was the main dispensary for grog. The main source of drink amongst their kind. To call it potable is generous, but the greenskins thrive on the caustic alcohol. Most Orks were smart enough to know that you don’t mess with the grog. And those dumb enough to start tearing down the walls got a belly full of bullets.

The shack was a riot of activity. The noise was deafening as each ork struggled to shout over the others. It was crowded as well, with every available space filled with a mismatched collection of furniture. In one corner a mek slouched on a dilapidated sofa nearly flattened from use. On the second floor, a freeboota captain is passed out, a stack of chipped shot glasses balanced precariously on a dainty coffee table made of fine wood and silver gilding. Gretchin ducked and weaved between the jam-packed tables. Grog sloshed onto their shoulders as they hauled overlaiden trays over their heads. There was little time for specific orders. The grots simply threw down their load on the driest tables and scooped up any loose teeth left out. If an ork wanted something fancy they could fight their way to the bar and pester someone in charge.

One group was having a particularly interesting conversation. With a table made from a train axel by the window, it was a good place for lunchtime chatter. Today they were having a particularly deep and meaningful discussion of orkish philosophy.

An ork in the colours of the speed Freaks drops his weapon on the table. A good three feet of pipe with heavy cogs welded on for the head.

“Dis is da only choppa ya need.” The speed freak declared, tapping his knuckles against his prized weapon for emphasis. “Ya zoomin along yeah? All ya need do is give em’ a wallop and pop goes der ‘eadz! Noth’n feels betta dan getting dem just roight.” The chair creaks dangerously as the red ork leans back. “Made dis beauty meself. Didn’t cost a single toof. Dats da best part, ya just need a stick wiff somethin ‘eavy and ya good to go!”

“Bah!” another ork chimes in. This one was from the Snakebite clan judging from the tattoos and piercings. He leaned back in his chair with his arms folded, obviously unimpressed. “It doesn’t even chop,” he complains. He sticks his arm out, gesticulating with an upturned palm. “How can it be a choppa if it don’t chop?!” With this the snakebite leans forward and slams his own weapon on the table, spilling grog everywhere. It was the stereotypical axe of the orkish culture. A short steel haft with a brick of iron hammered out into the rough shape of an axe head. “Dis is a choppa, good an proppa. Any lad with some know-how can get ya one wiff just a pocket o’teef. Dis will kill anythin. And if it don’t, ya haven’t hit it enough! Every Ork should ‘ave one uv deez. If ya don’t, you’ze aint a proppa Ork!” He finishes his statement slapping the table.

Such a statement would typically end in a brawl to defend their Orkish pride. But the group had known each other for awhile now and were familiar with their friend’s puritanical rants. Now his inflammatory statement merely elicited a chorus of tired groans and a few eye rolls.

“Woah now, we all love somethin good an’ choppy.” The next ork in the circle chimes in, soothing the cantankerous Snakebite’s ire. This one was a Blood Axe kommando, his arms and face smeared with tiger stripes of blue and purple grease. “If you go at one o’ dem beakies or spiky ‘umies wiff dat, you gunna be hackin away for a day and a ‘alf,” the Blood Axe laments, waving at the axe at the table. He scoots forward on his improvised stool, leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner. “What you need is wunna deez.” The bloodaxe slides a broad machete out of a leather scabbard. A simple piece of hardened steel hammered out into a straight backed blade. “Don’tcha worry, it’s good an choppy. But it’s stabby too. Real good when face’n dem ‘ard humies. Da pointy end is wutchya want for finaglin’ past all dem ‘ard bitz.” The kommando wiggles the blade around in the air, pantomiming the act of sliding the blade between his invisible quary’s ribs. “It’s everyfin an Ork needs.”

The circle of Orks hummed and hawed. None of them wanted to agree. It was a good weapon. Lethal and flexible in its uses. But a kommando’s recommendation to quietly go for a kidney? Quite un-orkish. But none of them could really come up with a decent argument. There is one member of the table who didn’t seem fazed. He was full of confidence with his toothy smirk. He was a big Ork. His bulk exaggerated by the gaudy, yellow amour he was wearing. He rattles like a sack of coins from the obscene volume of stolen medals tacked onto him. All the hallmarks of a member of the Bad Moons clan.

He wags his finger at the table.

“I got a treat for ya,” he offers.

He reaches down beside him, coming back up with a bulky chainsword. It was short and bulky, with a chunky engine block and a fat guide bar with a gap toothed chain wrapped around it. A strip of scrap was folded over as a back plate and a spiked guard added to the grip. It was an oversized and unwieldy deathtrap of a contraption, all painted in garish yellows.

“Now dis,” he says while he hefted the weapon. “Is da killiest choppa a lad can ‘ave. It slices, it dices and all dat good stuff!” The Ork was hitting his stride now. Speaking with jovial enthusiasm and becoming more animated in his sales pitch. “Dis bad boy will chop anyfin! Humies, beakies, creepy crawlies, whateva! And da best part? It’s flashy too and every Ork haz gots to be flashy.” He pats his prized weapon likes its a prized fighting squig. “Worth every toof,” he finishes.

“Oh, zog off,” the blood axe cries out. “Does it look like we’z made o’ teef?”

“Wut? Not my problem you ain’t got da teef,” the bad moons Ork deflects casually.

“He’s right,” the speed freak chimes in. “If I got dat much teef, I’m gettin sum snazz for me bike.”

“Or a new squig,” mumbles the snakebite.

The bad moons ork was losing his patience now.

“If ya don’t wonna spend da teef, why don’t ya get a stick like that git?!” The yellow clad points an accusatory finger at the speed freak.

Like all ork communications the polite conversation was quickly turning combative. The piece was quickly falling apart and devolving into a shouting match. Angry orks began pointing fingers and denigrating each other’s choices in weaponry. The snakebite accused the blood axe of being un-orkish and the bad moon called the snakebite a backwards simpleton. Amongst all this the evil suns ork was of the opinion that they were all self important snobs.

As their endless bickering dragged on a new ork entered the shack. A giant shadow filled the doorway. Too large for the crooked frame the colossal ork had to enter sideways, shuffling his bulk past the threshold. Once through the doorway one could truly appreciate his size. It was a monster of an ork, easily a head taller than any other ork in there and twice as wide. This was an ork nob, the biggest and meanest of the orks. The floorboards creaked and faintly trembled underneath the tread of his boots. With armour bedecked in chequered black it was plain to see that he was a member of the Goff clan.

Unfortunately for the squabbling orks the big goff heard their murderous debate. A discussion pertaining to combat? Of course a goff’s opinion was needed. He lumbered over to the table. Too busy arguing, the gang of ork didn’t noticed the mountain of muscle towering over them.

“You’z all wrong, ya gits,” the big ork growls.

The group all turn to look up at the giant brute. The black clad nob shouldered his way to the table. Leaning over, he drops his hand on the scuffed tabletop. More drinks are toppled over from the weight of the massive paw. It was a calloused mitt covered in a decades worth of scars, the smallest finger missing a joint.

"Dis. Is da killiest ting out dere." He spoke with a confidence born of experience. “Ya put anyfin’ in dis hand, it’s da killiest fing out dere’. No matter wot.” He looks around the table as his orkish pride infected the others. “It can be ‘ard. It can be choppy. It can be stabby or just proppa nasty! It’s all killy cuz you’z an Ork!”

The table cheered at the oratory skills of the orkish noble. He leans in, in a conspiratorial manner.

“Don’t you worry bout da teef. Cuz dis’ll get ya all da teef you need,” The Ork nob says while pointing at his fist. “Yeah just need a good buddy and…”

He whirls around and plants his meaty fist square in the bad moons’ face. Bits of ork ivory fly through the air as the yellow Ork tumbles to the ground. The big Goff scoops up the Ork teeth scattered across the table.

“Drinks for dese good lads. I’m payin!” He holds up the first full of teeth, yelling back to the bar. The tables cheers again, even the bad moons boy joins in groggily, raising a fist from the floor.

Another long night filled with grog.

#warhammer 40k #orks

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cryptidofthekeys · 4 years

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Finally, I finish The Sniper OC- Im actually super proud of this one go figure-

Name/Title: Hunter F Redding and his title well, it should be obvious- he is The Sniper (the F in his name stands for Flanagan ...listen man its the best fitting name I liked for middle names so shh) | Nicknames: Hunt/Redd | Gender: Male | Age: 40s/50s | Height: 7'8" | Hair Color: Dark Brown (he's usually wearing a black cowboy-ish looking hat so you won't see the top of his hair too much, its a m e s s anyways, if he takes the hat off- well, it'd take him AGES to actually even fix his hair and get his hat back on p much) | Eye Color: Pitch Black and Gray (oh yeah this bab got heterochromia! also its mostly bc of the meaning behind the colors/shades of Black n Gray ya know) | Appearance: He usually wears some dark colored clothing to work along with either a dark brown or black vest (both have got a buncha pockets n places for the bullets ya know oh and both have like one prominent design on it and that would be the sniper patch located on the right side of the vest over the breast n such ya know, its on the same side as the dark brown one as well), he has those things on his back that he keeps two of his kukris in (listen im too tired to be descriptive, you know what im talking about anyways- wow I can be descriptive for the vest tho sjkdfks), his pants are mostly like punk pants that have chains hanging down and of course he has combat boots as well, when he's NOT on duty, his clothing mostly consists of dark colored tank tops, crop-tops, etc- and he usually wears some loose pants as well, the combat. boots. s t a y. b i t c h. (he also wears a black glove on his right hand that has some spikes on the knuckle area both to work n just casually) He has a BUNCH of scars, cuts, bruises usually, and lots of bullet wounds as well although he doesn't care bout hiding them, its just scars, he's not ashamed of them- if anything- to him its just proof he's still here despite all that's happened, he also has a short boxed beard oh and instead of JUST f a n g s- ALL of his teeth are s h a r p. | Personality: Tired 24/7, SOMETIMES- okay 99% of the time- just- s t r e s s e d, he's a bitch bastard by nature but he isn't evil or malicious, aside from his snark and salt he can be suuper chill, like a stoner even sometimes dsjkdfs, if your the enemy then he won't hesitate to slaughter you of course BUT if your just getting on his nerves he'll probs just threaten you with a bullet or worse, piss- he's threatened to throw the Jarate at Amour for n o apparent reason even (there's that bastard part), he loves to mess with Amour the most out of anyone because he gives the b e s t reactions, he won't mess with Hedwig TOO much though and for... m a n y reasons, can be a p lazy bastard when he's not actually working, will literally be like a cat in lay around and if you even t h i n k about disturbing him while he's lazing about he WILL destroy you, can be p cat like in general actually- May or may not be gay you'll n e v e r know with this man, he's a mystery in some of the things he says and does, he d o e s know a certain s o m e o n e though is definitely gay, I'll let'cha guess on that one h e h- and to wrap this up, truth be told- he DOES care for his teammates deep down and would absolutely defend them when need be, he might mess with them a LOT more than need be and might cross a boundary or two sometimes but he does care, and they know it ....they just don't bring it up so he doesn't bring out the jars or the kukri. (tl;dr: Tired 24/7, does this man sleep? We may never know... 99% stress, bitch bastard by nature but not evil or malicious, salty n snarky but can be chill- almost stoner-like sometimes, d o n o t pester him- he WILL throw piss at you, loves to mess with Amour the most bc of his reactions and for ahem- multitudes of reasons, kinda cat-like? Lazy when not working, he does take his job seriously tho and certain situations of course, might be gay? might not... you figure it out and he'll have to kill you, deep down he cares for his teammates for sure, can be p harsh n cold to the enemies- that's when his REAL snark/sass/salt kicks in for sure and its easy to tell) | Side Facts: Okay even when he's not working- I know I said he lazes around a lot BUT, he DOES do plenty of things in his spare times, he loves to try and make n e w weapons- its mostly knives n things like that but its one of his favorite hobbies truth be told, he takes p r i d e in his weapons and he's made 99% of them himself as well, he has absolutely made Amour a few knives here and there, Amour definitely uses them on the battlefield as well, Hunter can confirm this bc he's seen him using the weapons through his rifle's scope. Other than making weapons, he'll listen to some music, his tastes in music is VERY various- it always depends on the mood he's in, if he's angry then its hard rock sounding songs or anything like that, when he's sad- its mostly sad sounding songs, etc ya know- when he's just fine n stuff its just all kinds of music mixed into one- he doesn't have a specific genre in general n such- He mostly hangs out with Amour which is obvious by now, when he's not working you better believe he's at l e a s t lurking near by Amour- he always likes to strike when its least expected- or well, he TRIES to- given Amour IS a Spy- he's not very easy to sneak up on, but Hunter has managed to do so a FEW times ...he never lets Amour live those times down either much to the poor Spy's annoyance- He finds it hilarious how bent out of shape Amour can get when threatened with one of the jars, he has absolutely chased the poor Spy around their ENTIRE base until Hedwig got irritated and sat the both of them down, despite Hunter being a good bit taller than Hedwig- somehow, that Medic managed to pick the BOTH of them up n sit them down forcefully- he also made Hunter apologize ...o r e l s e for threatening to throw that d i s g u s t i n g jar at the other, after all- Amour's clothing isn't EXACTLY very cheap- but also that's just, disgusting in general- he doesn't want near that gross mess. Oh yeah btw the reason he's so tired all the time is bc his sleeping schedule is SUPER poor like yes, he DOES lay around a lot but he stays up almost all night, sleep isn't a thing that comes easy for him- somehow though he manages to keep himself up and completely focused when it comes to work or making knives, he really has no choice- he's GOT to keep on his toes even if it can be difficult a l o t- he can't let himself fall asleep during the job or making knives though, its not safe ya know- and his stress can ALSO come from being that tired n stuff as well.

Bonus Fact: Do you think this man knows what soap, baths, ANYTHING hygienic is? Hahahaha b i t c h n ah, he is a very stinky dirty mans- absolutely DISGUSTANG- like jfc dude take a s ho we r or s o m e shit ...jUST BRUSHING YOUR TEETH DOES N O T COUNT-

#tf2 #tf2 sniper #team fortress 2 #two tf2 ocs finished!#team fortress 2 oc #tf2 sniper oc #here's the final bab- im super proud of this motherfucker- even if he is stinky

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shy-violet-soul · 6 years

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The Edge of Okay

Characters: reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Rating: Teens+ Summary: A weary warrior fights an unseen battle, trying to hold herself together and hide her pain from the brothers.

***TRIGGER WARNINGS***: anxiety/panic attack, self-harm, graphic descriptions of injuries

A/N: For all of us who struggle with an invisible mental illness. For all of us who don’t want to hurt ourselves, but just want it to stop. For all of us who have trouble seeing our own amazing courage. For all of us who claw our way back from the scary edge. This one is for us.

If you need help, please reach out! You are precious. Here’s a link of contacts.

A very big thank you to @thesassywallflower for being my beta once again. I so admire your writing talent, my friend, so your feedback, suggestions, and praise always mean so much to me. THANK YOU!

(image credit: Olga Zavgorodnya via www.fineartamerica.com)

“I’m okay.”

Of all the lies I’ve ever told, that one is the biggest.

My body is a relief map. Rough and raised on the space where my left thumb meets my hand - machete callous. Painted blue on my right rib cage - bruise from an upright player piano a vengeful spirit slammed into me. Thready and crooked - new part in my hair beside my ear from a too-close-call with a wraith. A fretwork of pink raised ridges, whitish blobs, and silvered indents - an atlas to past mileage.

You’re okay, I tell myself, not even feeling the frenetic bounce of my knee anymore. Fingers cold, I trace the newest mark on my skin, up and down, up and down. Sam’s gotten pretty good at stitches - they don’t look as much like Frankenstein work anymore. The still-tight scars lay pink and healing where they webbed up from the inner knob of my right collarbone to my ear. My fingertips can still feel the tiny spots where the stitches laced me back together. Stupid, lucky lacerations. They’re easy. I mean, getting filleted like a mackerel by a demon was a bitch. But hey - stitches work. Fluids and food restore. A whiskey or three cures a lot.

Up and down, up and down, I trace the lines that tell me I’m okay. That my skin is knitting back together, and my blood is staying inside where it belongs. Physically, I’m well on the mend. It’s just my brain that’s a mess.

It started when I was in high school. I thought everyone got chest pains studying for calculus exams, or nausea over a required oral presentation on European folklore. Eventually, after being found wedged between two sections of lockers hyperventilating about an essay I’d forgotten, my parents insisted on getting me help. Enter Dr. Bass and an answer: General Anxiety Disorder. I’d hated the idea of medication, but I’d hated the constant panic attacks more. It took a while. A long while. But I finally figured out how to co-exist with the anxiety. It took even longer to stop feeling ashamed of my invisible illness. I succeeded, mostly. The rest of the time, I trained my face to lie. The official I’m okay robot, complete with appropriate facial expressions.

Then, you know - parents dying and monsters and real angels and crap. Dean and Sam patched me up, showed me the ropes, and I never looked back. Who has time for panic attacks when you’re busy torching wendigos?

You’re okay, as fatigue burns the back of my eyes, puffed and scratchy. I haven’t slept more than a couple of hours at a time in days. Sam remarked on the beautiful bags under my eyes the other morning.

“Sleep is for the weak,” I’d winked at Dean, slapping a smile on. I can’t let them know.

You’re okay, the refrain as I count the skipped heart beats and feel the chest pain tighten. Black eyes and a cackling smile flash in my mind, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to shake the image away. I can beat this.

You’re okay, while I swallow sticky around the need to hyperventilate at the memory of my blood running warm down my neck, then cold and clammy. I can’t do this.

Up and down, up and down, my fingers rub the crooked lines a little too hard. A raw pinch, a reminder from the tender skin that it’s still healing. The sensation washes up into my head, and for a moment, I don’t feel the awful suck. For a moment, my knee stills and the fatigue ebbs. For a moment, I get a breather from the silent suffocation. Temptation brings a tremble to my hands, wet to my eyes, and I yank my hand away, tucking both fists under my legs. Exhaustion sags my edges hard, and I can’t hold up my head anymore. My kneecaps dig into my cheekbones, my lungs shudder as I remind myself that’s not the answer. You’re okay. Frantically, I try to grasp at past coping techniques, and flail away the lies.

I’m not weak. I’m not a failure. I’m not broken.

But the ‘nots’ feel heavy in my head, and everything’s too hot and too cold. I want to run five miles and lay down and never move again. My clothes are too loose and too tight. I want pizza but I feel like throwing up. It’s all too loud in here, and too quiet, and I would give a lot - almost anything - to make it all stop.

A sob croaks its way past the dryness, wheezing around a weak gag into the blaring silence of the library. My fingers reach up, up to the table’s edge and press forward till I feel them. The feel of the plastic containers both relieves and terrifies me. I’m clinging to a new and scary edge I’ve never seen.

“Hey.” The deep rasp squeezes my throat shut as I sense Dean’s warmth beside me. I can sense him crouch down, one hand resting on my arm. ��Hey, are you okay?”

The weight within me presses, hard, and I feel something crack. Oxygen is hard, all of a sudden, and the panic spikes, black dots in my vision. One hand fumbles towards him, skittering one of the plastics a bit. But I’m too tired to hold him, and oh, God, I need to hold on to someone. As if from under deep water, I drag my head up to look at him, but my face is too tired to lie. I’m too tired to lie.

“No.” I try to swallow, cotton all the way down till my stomach hurts. “No, I’m not okay.”

***************************************************************************************

She thinks she’s hiding it well. Maybe from someone else, but not me. You don’t have to be a Sherlock to see she’s not sleeping. Her face is washed out, and we could go shopping with those bags under her eyes. Always alert, she’s gone from awake and aware to outright jumpy. I’ve teased her for her diet in the past, which she affectionately dubbed ‘the Winchester hybrid’ - a steady mix of my junk and Sam’s rabbit food. You couldn’t keep a mouse alive on what she’s tried to fool us with.

I get it. She damn near died. I took a great deal of pleasure in ganking that demon. Blood was freakin’ everywhere. Thanked whatever deity for Sammy’s dinner plate hands holding her neck together till we could get her sewn up. Damn. I’ve seen blood before. I’ve seen my little brother slashed to shreds, held his broken bones in my hands. You never get over that. Doesn’t matter how many times. It keeps me up at night sometimes. That cold, quivery awfulness that hits your gut and won’t let go. Makes you feel like you’re licking a battery or some shit. Sam thinks I got my awesome headphones to drown him out. Sometimes, but mostly I just need to get out of my head. Try to block out that crap with some classic electric guitar. And beer. You just...figure out how to live around it.

Seeing her blood all over - I don’t know why, but it was so much worse. Felt like I swallowed the damn battery, I was so juiced up. My gut felt cold for days. But she got better. Stitches work. Fluids and food restore. And a whiskey or six helped me catch a little shut eye without the memory of holding her neck together while Sammy sewed.

Cuts? Those are easy, though. Gimme a dislocated shoulder or a gash, I can fix that five ways from Sunday. It’s the dying I see happening in her eyes that kills me. I can’t fix it. Not with dental floss and boosted painkillers or ice packs. What the hell can a chewed up hunter do to help her? I just wish she’d quit tryin’ to hide it. Jody throws around the word ‘PTSD’ like it’s something new, but it’s not. This fear? The panic? All hunters live with it. If they don’t, they’re either liars or sadists. She’s gotta know she’s not alone. Time for me to sack up and tell her.

She looks so damn small. Pajama pants with Bambi and Thumper printed all over and a Captain America hoodie are swallowing her. The blanket from her bed is flopped around her, and she’s stuffed herself so small into one of the leather chairs, it makes my back hurt to look at her. Hair’s a mess, lips all chapped, and salt stains on her face. But her eyes...goddamn, my chest hurts just looking at her pain.

“No. No, I’m not okay,” she croaks, her fingers knocking against something on the table before they’re shaking on my arm. Everything in me wants to hold her tight, but I don’t. Not yet. I ease down on my knees beside her. Squeeze her arm a bit while I prop my other hand on the chair beside her shoulder. Close so she knows I’m here but not caging her in. Hoping she’ll come to me when she’s ready.

It works. She breathes like she’s been underwater, then her hands are tight fists in my sleeves. My throat squeezes shut when she looks up at me, like she’s begging me to understand. Oh, honey...I raise my hand and brush some hair from her eyes. Keep my movements slow and light, my gaze soft and open on hers.

“I’m here,” I whisper, watching her eyes fall shut and tears dribble from the corners. She leans toward me, resting her forehead against mine. One hand on her head, the other still on her arm, I hold her. We just breathe like that for a minute. When she leans back and slides her eyes towards the table, I follow her gaze and my heart stops.

A line of prescription bottles are rowed up near the edge of the table, one tipped over where she must have hit earlier. A couple with one of her aliases on them. The other a high-powered painkiller that I know she stopped taking a week ago. I have to swallow twice as I rub my thumb against her arm. Do not sound judging. Keep your cool.

Fresh tears are rolling down her face when I look back at her face. I reach to hold her hands, a little shocked at how cold she is.

“What did you want those to do for you?” Kept my voice soft, so afraid I’d spook her.

“I - I -” A sob cuts her off and she reaches for me. My whole body loosens with relief as I pull her down on my lap, into my arms, and away from this edge it feels like she’s dangling from. Her face dives for my shoulder and she just cries.

****************************************************************************************

“I don’t want to die, I don’t!” My tongue feels stuck and heavy as I try to rush the words out. My nerves feel like they’re on fire. I can feel each heart beat in my temples as my blood pounds panic through my veins like a firehose. I’m so terrified of seeing disgust in Dean’s face, but I’m more terrified of this edge I’ve ended up at. I can’t stop the words from pouring out. The nightmares of black eyes and horrid breath in my face. Blunt nails scratching my skin when he squeezed my throat. The scathing, sliding bite of his knife down my neck, and the certainty I was going to die. It all comes gushing free like something cut loose inside of me.

As the black spots swirl around me sickeningly - comfort. Slow, like a signal light from way off, I feel it first - hard arms holding me. Big shoulders shielding me. Warmth bleeding into me. Soothing whispers start to piece-meal into my ears.

“It’s alright. I’m here. I’ve got you, don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

The words, the truth there actually hurts me for a second, and I squeeze his shirt tighter in my hands below his collarbones. I scrunch myself smaller under his chin, and my lungs stutter as they try to suck in more air.

Minutes pass. Maybe days, I don’t know. Panic attacks will do that to you. The lies are quiet for a moment, letting that bubble of truth float its way to my brain.

“I don’t want to hurt myself.” He needs to know that. I need Dean to know that.

“What do you want?” His words rumble, soft but soothing, against my cheek. I couldn’t stop the dribble of tears that leaked fresh from my eyes, and the weight of that water felt too heavy, so I closed my lids beneath it.

“I...I just...I’m tired, Dean. I just want to sleep.”

“Do you want to go to my room and lay down?”

The thought of being in a small room makes my skin crawl. “No,” the whisper forces its way out of my throat. “I like it here.”

Dean didn’t say anything. With the storm of panic passed, I feel wrung out, cold, and weak. I barely track Dean moving an arm for a reach or two. Then, he’s easing me back onto my butt. It steadies me to focus on his face as he’s grabbing around me. His eyelashes, the freckles on his cheekbones pull me in until I feel my blanket against my shoulders. Numbly, I watch Dean’s hands as he cocoons the blanket around me. His fingers feel warm and rough on my face as he cups my cheeks. The sensations ground me, and I’m able to breathe a little deeper for a second. When I open my eyes, Dean’s looking down at me. He offers me a smile that’s crinkled eyes and soft reassurance.

“There. Now you’re a burrito of tired.”

************************************************************************************

The chuckle she gives is sorry and sad, but I’ll take it. My hands look too big and rough against her face, but her eyes close and her shoulders try to let go when I stroke one cheekbone with my thumb. Screw it. I ease her against my chest and stand up, holding her tight. The main lights of the library click off - Sam got my text. I clock him hovering in the kitchen doorway, giving me a ‘two minutes’ sign. His puppy dog eyes look worried as I plop us down in one of the leather armchairs. It takes me a second to get her situated where we’re both comfortable. As soon as I stop moving, I notice how she’s shaking. But her skin isn’t as cold as it was, and I feel her ribs expand with the first deep breath since I found her. Feels like I can breathe a little deeper now, too.

Pretty sure Sam conjured up a kitchen spell or something, because there’s no way it’s been two minutes when he comes trotting back in. I roll my eyes when I see that instead of the one piece of toast I asked for, he’s got a pile as deep as his stupid hair. But, I smell her private stash of cinnamon-sugar in with the toasted goodness - good job, little brother. The plate slides onto the table next to us, and a bottle of water plops down with it. I feel her eyelashes tickle against my neck when she opens her eyes.

“Hi, Sam.” God, she sounds tired.

“Hey.” Sam squats down on his heels, reaching to tug the blanket up a little higher around her shoulders, then strokes her head carefully.

You good? he asks with a lift of his eyebrows. Yeah, I tell him with a bob of my chin. The breath she pulls in is slow, now, and it’s got more O2 behind it when it sighs out warm against me. I rub my right hand against her back, up and down, up and down. My left hand slides up into her hair and I start to drag my fingertips against her scalp. Her shaking slows down to almost nothing as she sags against me. Her fatigue is contagious, and I feel my eyes growing heavy as I let my gaze drift. Those damn pill bottles are ready to remind me, though. That edge that almost pulled her under.

This battle may be on hold, but the war ain’t over.

*****************************************************************************************

For the first time in days, I feel warm. My elbows and knees still feel trembly, but I feel loose instead of wound tighter than a spring. Dean’s slow breathing moves underneath me, letting me rest against the swell and fall of his chest. Leather and laundry soap reach me, a comforting cloud above the tickle of cinnamon-sugar. The chair beside us creaks, and I hear Sam’s boots against the floor as he gets comfortable. Dean’s hand rubbing my back, up and down, up and down. My stress-singed senses settle amid all this, grounded and grateful.

The memory of that scary edge, though…

“I didn’t want to hurt myself.” I wanted them to know.

“What did you want?” the calm question.

“Sleep. I just...I’ve been fighting and fighting and I’m so tired. I just didn’t feel like I could fight anymore.” I’d be ashamed if I wasn’t so exhausted. These two warriors had literally been to hell and back, and I was whining about being tired. Dean’s arms tighten around me, and the sandpaper-y rub of his chin feels good.

“But you are fighting. Look at you. You didn’t do anything. That’s fighting.”

I want to believe him. But my gut is too quivery for hope yet.

“It doesn’t feel like fighting. Feels like failure.” Bone-deep tired pulls heavy on every muscle, and I close my eyes as I snuggle in closer to the anchor Dean offers.

“Sure as hell ain’t failure, sweetheart. Looks a lot like a tough as nails hunter kickin’ it in the ass and swingin’ for all she’s worth.” The words sigh a deep breath from me. I don’t know what to say anymore. “I know you’re tired. But you just gotta keep fighting.”

That same stupid flicker of anxiety that’s my own evil pilot light wavers in my gut, and I swallow around the desire to cry all over again.

“And what if I can’t? Keep fighting?” Dean sits quiet for a minute. I knew it. I am hopeless…

Then, he presses a kiss to my forehead, stirring warm against my hairline. “Then, you come get us. We’ll fight for you. We’ll make sure you’re okay.”

My mind lies still - no nightmares to tear through me at the moment. The arms around me like a buoy, letting me catch my breath as I back away. I know that scary edge is still there. But now...I feel like I see it from a different view, one where I can see the corners. The other edge where I can learn how to coexist with this invisible monster again without my face telling lies.

It feels like the edge of okay.

#supernatural #spn #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester fic #sam winchester fic #dean winchester #sam winchester #reader #spnfanficpond

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not-close-to-straight · 6 years

Text

Lord of Thorns (Five)

Wade and Peter meet! I pretty much love this chapter.

MASTERLIST HERE

**********************

Peter woke up on the forest floor, shivering in the snow.

Snow?

Peter ran his hands through the wet flakes, staring around in confusion because snow wasn't right. It was only August, there shouldn’t be snow for another couple months.

Where did the snow come from?

Shaking his head, wincing when pain zinged through his skull, Peter sat up slowly, looking around for Phillip.

“There you are, boy.” he called to the nervous horse softly. “You alright?” The horse nickered uneasily and Peter clicked his tongue comfortingly. “It's alright, Phillip. Stay calm for me, beauty.”

It was slowly coming back to him-- the deer that had jumped out of the brush, startling Phillip and sending him skittering towards the edge of the trail.

The way the ground had started giving out, and with a shriek from the horse they had tumbled backwards and over a cliff Peter hadn't even realized was there.

He didn't even remember hitting the ground, but it had been later afternoon when they had seen the deer, and the stars were out now, which meant he had been unconscious on the cold ground for hours.

Peter checked Phillip out quickly, running trembling hands down the horse’s legs, checking for breaks or sprains, any cuts or bruises that would cause lasting injury.

“Oh, you only threw a shoe, huh? That's lucky.” Peter breathed a sigh of relief, pressing his head to the warm body. “I can't ride you with a shoe tossed, but that's alright. Let’s see if we can get out of this snow, come on.” he looped the reins loosely through his hands and started walking down a barely there trail, just able to watch his footing with the light of a shockingly full moon.

“Alright, big guy, we're fine.” Peter talked soothing nonsense to the animal as they walked, trying to keep them both calm.

A check of the saddlebags showed he hadn't lost any of his food, and the slim book of poems was still wrapped tight at the bottom. The packets of cremes and medicines were there as well, safe and snug in their bags and Peter patted the horse again, knowing that they were very lucky indeed to have survived the fall with very little trouble.

Phillip was prancing nervously, too young to be comfortable with new circumstances, since he had never actually been off the farm. He was only four or five years old, beautiful and fast, but not useful on the farm as a workhorse.

May had let Peter keep him only because delivering the colt had been one of the last things Ben and Peter had done together, and Peter loved the animal desperately.

“Okay, we are just gonna walk until we find some shelter, alright?” Peter stroked Phillips neck reassuringly, tucked his riding coat a little tighter around himself, and pulled the hood up and over his hair to keep the chill away.

Together they headed down the path, with Peter talking quietly about everything they passed to keep Phillip steady, and his own mind off of how hopeless the situation seemed.

Peter didn't know how long they walked, or where the hell they were even walking too, but his feet were hurting and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open when seemingly out of nowhere, a castle was looming out of the dark, huge and foreboding in the moonlight.

Peter sucked in a quick breath and the horse nickered uncertainly, nudging at his shoulder.

“I know, Phillip.” Peter said quietly. “I'm a little scared too, but we can't stay out here all night, and I don't know how to get back home, so we got to give it a shot. It won't be as bad as you think.”

He took a deep breath and walked the horse through the gate, glancing uncomfortably at the gargoyles lining the path, at the sharp spikes and harsh edges of the castle.

He had never heard of a castle in the woods near the village, or at least not a real castle.

The tale of the Lord of Thorns said his castle was lost in a wintery woods but that was a child's tale, a myth, a legend from generations past.

Wasn't it?

Peter stopped Phillip in front of a stable, frowning at the light in the window and the fresh hay that seemed to be just waiting for a horse, waiting for them.

“Phillip, what is this place?”

*************

“Hello?” Peter pushed open the doors of the castle, unnerved when they swung open so easily, then slammed shut so loudly behind him. He shivered a little, but still pushed the hood back from his face, taking another step into the space. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

The entire place was dark, the impressive ceiling of the foyer arching so high, Peter couldn't even see the top. There were candles burning in niches in the wall, but they did nothing to pierce the gloom.

The stables had been ready to receive visitors, the doors had opened at barely even a touch-- really the doors had opened as if someone had been standing behind them, but there was no one in the foyer, no one in the stable, just no one anywhere.

There was an unsettling sense of emptiness in the castle, not abandonment-- emptiness, as if it should be full of life but just wasn't and it made Peter distinctly uncomfortable.

But then, voices, to his left and Peter whirled around.

“Hello?” He called again, but no one was there, and no one answered his call. “Hello! I'm sorry for intruding...?”

Silence and Peter swallowed nervously. “I'm lost in the woods! Is it alright-- I just need to rest for just a moment, I don't mean to intrude--”

Through a doorway to the right, a fire seemed to roar to life and Peter startled, flinching against the surge of brightness.

“Is anyone there?”

Silence again, and Peter moved cautiously towards the side room, peering around for any hint of movement at all.

“Oh, thank god.” He breathed, seeing the huge fire roaring in the grate and an over stuffed, over sized chair with a blanket lain over it.

“Hello?” He called just once more, just one more time to try and figure out if anyone was actually there at all. “Could I warm up here in front of the fire for just a few moments?”

Peter edged closer to the chair as he spoke, but he didn't hear any voices--or what he thought was voices--again, so he sat slowly, sighing in relief and gratitude as he sank into the soft cushion, feeling warmer already.

“Just going to sit here for a minute. Just going to--” worn out from the day, from the fall, from the walk, from everything, Peter was already drifting off to sleep before he finished the sentence.

*****************

There's a boy in the castle.

Wade twitched in irritation, knowing better than to look over his shoulder, knowing that no one was really there.

At first he had thought that the voices were those of his servants, that maybe the witch hadn't banished them entirely and maybe he just couldn't see them. It would explain why things still happened around the castle-- food, fires, cleaning.

But then after the years had rolled on and on and on, Wade had decided the voices he heard were in his head, that he was just going mad.

Just another part of his curse. First his beauty, now his mind.

It was fine.

Sir. Again, louder, more insistent this time. There is a boy in the castle . He came in from the cold. Go to him.

Wade shot to his feet, grabbing a hooded cloak, and nearly running down the stairs, anger sparking in an instant and pulsing through his body.

After so many years of solitude, some boy had the nerve to intrude upon him, to walk into his castle. How dare he? How did he even find this place? Why did the doors open to him, the cursed place welcoming a stranger into its halls?

Wade was going to snatch the brat and throw him right out into the cold and--

--and--

--oh fuck. Oh fuck, he was so beautiful.

Wade jerked to a stop, his throat convulsing as he swallowed hard, staring at the boy curled up and sleeping in his chair.

He is beautiful .

The voices reiterated his thoughts, and the boy twitched in his sleep as if he'd heard them, prompting Wade to step farther away from the fire, farther into the shadows so he could watch for just a little longer.

It had been so long, so long, since Wade had even seen another person, much less one that looked like this, that he couldn't turn away, couldn't find the anger that had burned so hot just a moment before.

The boy was thin, too thin for such a long frame and Wade could see the ribs rising and falling beneath a baggy shirt. The cloak hanging off him was worn, but the hood was falling back to show thick brown hair that begged to be touched, and sweet red lips that made Wade clench his fists.

The legs were long, the patches of skin showing looked perfect and smooth, any flowers hidden beneath his clothes, but oh Wade wanted to see more.

Go to him. The voices demanded. Say something.

I wouldn't know what to say.

“Is someone there?” The boy stirred then, blinking deep brown eyes as he tried to orient himself. “I'm so sorry for sleeping, I was just--”

“Who are you?” Wade interrupted, his voice deep and hoarse from disuse. “What are you doing in my castle?”

The boy jerked fully awake, searching the shadows with wide eyes. “Who--Who's there? Show yourself.”

“Why are you in my castle?” Wade countered, voice rising in annoyance at being questioned, at having demands made of him.

No one made demands on him, not when he was a Prince, certainly not now that he was... this.

Calm, master. Calm, he is just a boy.

“I just… lost my way.” The boy stood then, unfolding beautifully long legs and Wade's eyes dropped helplessly to watch.

Christ, he's gorgeous.

“I fell in the woods, my horse and I.” he continued, stepping towards where Wade stood, peering into the gloom, obviously trying to see him. “And when we came to the castle, the doors opened and I thought to rest for just a minute.”

He moved even closer, one more step and he'd see Wade, and for the first time in years, Wade felt a twinge of fear over being seen, being stared at.

He drew his cloak tighter around himself, stepped deeper into the shadows, forcing a hard edge to his voice.

“So you thought to enter my castle uninvited? To help yourself to my fire? To warm yourself in my chair?” There was the anger again, that bit of fear turning towards rage because the boy was young and beautiful and why couldn't he have been someone who could help instead of someone who just reminded Wade of everything he had lost?

“I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was trespassing, I just needed a warm place to--”

“The price of trespassing is prison.” Wade threatened, unable to curb his bitterness. How could this boy be so innocent in such a cursed place? “Is life in my dungeons worth this?”

“Please.” The intruder licked his lips nervously and Wade wanted to scream because he couldn't look away. “Please, mercy--”

“Mercy.” Wade growled, the word alone turning him to furious, memories of that night rising up in his mind. “ Mercy is not a word I understand.”

****************

Mercy is not a word I understand.

Oh god please---

Faster than Peter thought possible, a big reached out and snatched at him, hooking onto his cloak and dragging him away from the chair, away from the fire, towards the door.

“Oh god, please.” He begged, almost running to keep up with the giant strides, trying to get a look at his jailer. “I'm not even sure how I ended up here I was trying to get to see my Aunt and somehow I lost my way and--”

“Quiet!” the man snarled, nearly running up the heading up so many stairs Peter thought his legs really might give out, but he scrambled to keep up anyway, banging his knees on cold steps, turning one corner after another in the dark until he knew there was no way he'd ever find his way out again.

Finally the man in the shadows stopped and Peter realized in horror they stood in front of a jail cell.

“No.” he shook his head. “No, you aren't really going to put me in there? I was only trying to get warm! Put me back into the woods but don’t--”

He cried out when the man tossed him inside the cell onto the stone floor, the door slamming shut with a heart stopping clang.

“Now you can think about what you've done.” The deep voice said. “And perhaps you won't be so hasty to help yourself to what is not yours .”

“You're going to keep me here?” Peter starting shaking as the cold of the cell seeped into his bones, driving away the few bits of warmth he had found in front of the fire. “I don't even know what I did wrong, I don't even know who you are!”

“It doesn't matter who I am.” For the first time, there was a hesitation in the deep voice. “It doesn't matter.”

“I should at least know who is keeping me captive.” Peter said, gathering courage from the uncertainty in his captors tone, even though his words were shaky. “Who are you?”

When no answer came, he dug for even more courage and straightened up to ask. “Who are you? Come into the light so I can see you.”

There was silence for a horribly long moment, and then the rustle of clothing, and Peter shut his eyes against sudden flare of a torch.

And when he dared to open them, he wished he had kept them closed.

“Good Christ.” He whispered. “Oh fuck-- oh my--”

Peter could only stare up and up at the man, at the sharp blue eyes that glared down at him from an almost six inch height difference.

Thick arms were folded over an even thicker chest, and even though the man wasn't wearing a shirt, it wasn't all the bare skin that held Peter's attention.

No, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the thorns.

They were thick and jagged, not so much inked onto the mans skin as they were imprinted, the edges raised and red and painful looking.

They came up from beneath his trousers, circling his waist and rising towards his chest, spreading over his shoulders and traveling down his arms to in between his fingers, hooking up over his collarbone as they inched towards his neck and a bare scalp.

He looked like a nightmare, like a horror story, like the scary tales they told the children at night to make sure they behaved, to make sure they stayed out of the woods.

“Good Christ you're real .” Peter choked out. “Oh god. Oh god, you're real!”

“What does that mean?” The man snapped. “What do you mean, I'm real?”

“The Lord of Thorns.” Peter was suddenly lightheaded, and dropped to his knees on the cold ground. “You're real. All the stories-- oh my god.”

“Is that what they call me?” He bared his teeth in an awful smile, and pulled the cloak back up around his head and body, securing it tightly and hiding the thorns. “The Lord of Thorns?”

Peter's mouth worked, but he couldn't even form an answer, his breath coming shallow and fast as he headed right towards a panic attack.

“What a wonderfully appropriate name.” the man laughed quietly and it was very nearly the worst sound Peter had ever heard. “What a wonderfully appropriate name for a monster that lurks in the woods.”

And then he was gone, the sound of his steps echoing across the dark stone, the prison going black as the light disappeared as well.

Peter was left alone in the cell, staring blankly at the wall, trying to wake himself up from what was so obviously a nightmare.

But morning came and Peter knew he wasn't dreaming.

The Lord of Thorns was real, and he was trapped in his castle.

Suddenly all those sweet, love story versions that his Aunt May had told him seemed horribly, horribly wrong.

#ncts fics #spideypool #beauty and the beast

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sandersdelinquents · 6 years

Note

I was thinking of doing some fanart for your au,,, what character would you prefer and what are their outfits like? Thanks!

I’m squealing thank you so much????

To be honest my fave is Logan, but here’s a list of some basic outfits the boys might wear on a general day:

Roman: The most extra of course, his hair is always done up and has glitter in it, and more often than not a face full of make up, eye liner sharp enough to kill a man, and lips cherry red AF. He’s always wearing a bold red leather jacket, perhaps faux but no one notices. He tends to wear black and a lot of spikes. His favorite shirt is a dark deep red one with what could be considered claw marks going across the front. He wears red shoes, only red shoes, whether they be heels or flats or running shoes or boots. Only red, but many different shades of it. He also wears skirts, some short and some long, all with rips on the sides so he can show off his legs if he wants. Likes the flowey ones.

Patton: Wears black, but it’s background almost compared to his color. Wears a mess of colors no matter what. Blue yellow, pink red, green. There’s always a splash of color somewhere that doesn’t need to be there, but he puts it there anyway. Blue bracelets and yellow headbands and green ribbons and that weird purple thing on his other wrist that’s fuzzy? A color for all his friends. He likes those black jean jackets with the sleeves torn off for whatever reason and always wears a satchel bag filled with Emergency Supplies. He wears what’s comfy but functional.

Virgil: The standard black and purple hoodie, never leaves the house without it. Tends to slip off one shoulder but he does that on purpose. Black combat boots up to his knees and black jeans that if they weren’t covered by his boots would show off a crap ton of rips in them. Sometimes converse in purple. Only wears pants that show off his butt and small amount of curves. Sometimes yoga pants. Typically wears a tank top in either black or purple but on the odd occasion will wear a shirt that tends to have a bunch of rips in them, for aesthetic of course. Black lipstick, black as his soul and eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man twice. Usually has a cigarette on him. Hickeys everywhere.

Logan: Before hanging out with the group, tended to wear brown khakis or plain jeans, sometimes suspenders if he felt it fit his outfit, but always the tie, blue or grey. He wore polo’s of different shades of blue all the way up to white and down to black. after hanging out with the group, he tends to lean more black, wearing jeans more often and dirty shoes. His favorite outfit is actually one they all picked out for him, a dark blue and black and white flannel, half way buttoned with the sleeves rolled up, a black tank top underneath, still the tie around his neck but very loose, and ripped jeans in black. They coo’d over him for hours after that.

Dee: This boy is a mess. His jacket is torn up and ripped but he loves it, won’t leave it anywhere, the spikes are falling off in places but he’ll still fight. He wears a bunch of the same because he doesn’t own a lot of different things. His shoes are gross and old and he’ll still kick your ass in them. He wears jeans that are holed up and not for aesthetic and shirts with ripped collars. Tends to wear dark clothes because he doesn’t want people to see the dirt. Because of Roman and Virgil, wears eyeliner as well. He has a bunch of chains, and at least one pocket knife on him at once. Most likely to fight, gloves, and bruises constant.

Remy: Comfy clothes, jeans that have been washed too many times and well worn sweats, sometimes yoga pants because Virgil told him they are glorious. Plain dark t-shirts that he bought purely based on how they feel, and a soft worn jacket that is patched and has patches on it all over the place. he has one for everyone important in his life. He wears comfy shoes all the time and fuzzy socks. And for some reason is always wearing sunglasses.

Emile: Perhaps the most suitably dressed out of all of them. Tends to wear white and pink and pastels, with a hint of black to them, kind of opposite Patton. His pants are generally black and sometimes he’ll wear the other’s jackets if they’ll let him. He doesn’t wear graphic tee’s a lot but sometimes he’ll wear something with a plain logo on it for a show he likes. He wears a bunch of beanies to represent his favorite shows, collects them. Steven Universe, FMA:B, Avatar, Pokemon, literally any good slightly nerdy show ever.

–

I wanted to try and find a way to answer this question with fic, but it was difficult. To make up for it, a fic of the group picking out the new more delinquent outfit for Logan will come out soon. Thank you!

#roman sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #logan sanders #deceit sanders #remy sanders #emile picani #sanders sides #outfits #not fic #please tag me in all your art always #the group

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avengers-nextgen · 6 years

Text

The Rise Of The Lost XVII

The first thing Sage did when she came out of her coma was throw up.

“Good morning to you too,” Enzo smiled. “How’re you feeling?”

“Horrible.”

“Makes sense. Here,” He held out a paper cup of water awkwardly, “I figured you’d be thirsty.”

“Uh, thanks.” Sage nodded to him before taking the cup and sipping at it. She remembered a fact that drinking water too quickly when dehydrated resulted in nausea. “Did you stay here all night?”

“No,” Enzo shook his head. “Alex put me to bed. Though my neck is still stiff and sore.”

“Right,” Sage nodded, setting the cup aside. “I guess we have a lot to talk about.”

“Yeah,” Enzo laughed nervously, “we do.”

— — —

“A party?” Piper arched a brow having been released from the medical wing the next morning in tip top shape. “I mean, I like parties, but shouldn’t we wait?”

“If we wait something will find a way to ruin it,” Pepper laughed, “happens every time. Besides, your father’s gotten very talented at throwing grand last minute parties. Isn’t that right dear?”

“Oh yeah, uh-huh.” Tony winked at his girl’s as he held a phone against his ear, “yeah, I’m going to need about a dozen three foot long subs. You can do that? That’d be great. Thanks again. Yeah, just deliver them here I’ll send someone down to pay you. Alright, bye.”

“That’s a lot of food.” Piper whistled.

“Have you met the people that live here?” Tony laughed. “Come on kid, I need you to help me with invitations.”

— — —

“Rise and shine beautiful children of royalty!” Nathaniel slid open the curtains in Siyanda’s room to let an excessive amount of golden light flood in. “Sleeping beauty and Rapunzel have to prepare for the big party this evening!”

“Party? What party?” Siyanda yawned slinging Thalia’s arm over her face to hide from the sun.

“Yeah, Tony’s big on celebrations. Apparently there’s new important guests coming too!” Nathaniel turned to face his younger friends with his hands on his hips looking like a stern mother. “Which means we need to make a good impression ladies!”

“Right.” Siyanda nodded half heartedly.

“Thalia isn’t even awake is she?” Nathaniel sighed. He was certain the Asgardian could sleep through a hurricane.

“Honestly I don’t think anyone can wake her up on purpose.” Siyanda laughed finally sitting up.

“Wish I had that as my super power. I’m a light sleeper.” Nathaniel pouted.

“I could always knock you on the head.”

“Nah, I like to remain concussion free.” Nathaniel smiled cheekily.

— — —

And so the forces were gathered and everyone began to mill about in an attempt to meet Tony’s expectations. Siyanda was in charge of putting up new window drapes, Nathaniel was taking care of the drinks, and Alex was mopping the floor with Piper.

The two girls had come up with cheaply made mop shoes and were now doing break dancing across the floor as a form of cleaning. It was amusing when Piper moon walked back and forth.

James was told to clean windows, Scout did the dusting, Orion changed the lights, and Thalia was setting up the large speaker system with Tony. She mainly did the heavy lifting aspect.

Enzo was there for moral support and slight criticism if something was off center. Everyone seemed to take a general liking to him. He was surprisingly spunky and curious with a very different emotional spectrum than his sister.

Meanwhile Pepper was in full CEO mode making sure everything was as organized as possible, Nat was guarding the food from Steve and Bucky who kept trying to sneak bites of it, Bianca got stuck reading Russian IKEA directions to put together a new set of chairs, Clint was somewhere in the rafters and no one knew why, and Vision was with Wanda making phone calls to guests.

— — —

“Talk about a work out,” Piper breathed walking down the hall with Alex. The two had finished their mopping duties and were eager to escape the party preparation madness.

“I think that’s my new favorite way to clean,” Alex laughed. Piper rolled her eyes and took the silly mop shoes from Alex before running off to put them away in the cleaning closet.

Alex paused tucking her hands in her pockets before deciding at last to head to the infirmary. There was one person not involved with the party going and she was determined to change that.

Along the way Alex spotted Thor leave the room behind, and her anxiety spiked ever so slightly. Her steps were a bit faster as she strode down the hall until she finally stepped into the sterile hospital room.

Alex’s concern was affirmed when she heard soft sniffles from up ahead and spotted a familiar girl sitting on the edge of a cot with hunched shoulders and a lowered head. “You’re going to miss the party.”

“I’m not going.”

“What do you mean you’re not? Come on, you saved everyone! You have to be there,” Alex approached carefully but she made sure her footsteps were loud enough for Sage to hear. Alex knew very well how jumpy the sorceress could be, and sneaking up wasn’t a good idea in this situation.

“I’m not going!” The firmness in Sage’s voice only heightened Alex’s concern. Approaching carefully, Alex spotted thin red lines running with little drops of blood along pale arms. Her heart sank.

“Sage,” Alex sighed, running a hand down her face. The other girl looked at her with red bleary eyes still wet with tears.

“Sorry.”

“I know.” Alex was surprised to hear a genuine apology in the other girl’s voice. “Let’s get you patched up.”

“The doctors can-“

“The doctors can wait. Come on. Besides, your brother really wants you to go to the party. He’s put a lot of effort in the decorations. He’s trying to make a good impression with you.” Alex remained relaxed in her posture, she needed to seem as none threatening as possible for the moment. Sage said nothing as she stood seeming to realize this was less of an invitation and more of a demand.

Alex lead her down the halls at a slow pace-not wanting to up Sage’s already high anxiety with the idea that they needed to hurry. “Wash up, you can use my shower. I’ll steal some of my brother’s clothes. You’re about the same size. There’s towels in the cabinet under the sink.”

“I don’t want your brother’s clothes,” Sage mumbled.

“I know, but it’s the best I have unless you want to wear Tony Stark’s jeans.” Alex arched a brow and fought the urge to smile at the look of repulsion that flashed across Sage’s face at the mere idea of weary Tony’s clothes.

James reluctantly offered up one of his outfits and Alex gave him a big hug in thanks much to his happiness. When she returned to her room she set the clothes on the bed and told Sage to knock when she was finished dressing.

Scout meandered down the hall humming something that sounded like Mozart and Alex only smiled to herself. He was a very interesting boy and she loved the little dork.

A light knock called back her attention. Opening the door Alex gave Sage an approving nod seeing that she was already looking a bit livelier. The next step was bandaging the wounds which didn’t take long. Alex was an expert at this point considering her best friend Piper was exceptionally injury prone.

“There,” Alex used a small piece of medical tape to push down the end of some gauze, “does that feel better?”

“Yeah,” Sage nodded inspecting her arms.

“When’s the last time you had a hair cut?”

“No idea,” Sage shrugged.

“Thought so. Luckily for you, I cut hair all the time. In fact, everyone here is very good at it. We don’t get much time to go to any haircut place so we all help each other out.” Alex smiled, “One sec, I’m gonna get a few things.”

Alex returned with a stool, some towels, a couple of combs, and other necessary items. Sage slumped onto the stool and blew a loose strand of hair from her face.

“Okay, how short?” Alex asked.

Sage contemplated the question for a moment. It’d been a long time since anyone had bothered asking for her opinion, let alone about something as silly as a haircut. “I don’t know. Do what you like, I guess.”

Alex nodded and after a bit of thinking herself set to work. The bathroom was quiet for a long time except the slight hum of the clippers. “What’d he say to you?”

“Who?”

“Thor.”

“Oh,” Sage pursed her lips, “nothing unusual. Just that I was dangerous. That I should have died years ago. Maybe I should have died again. He’s really just tired of seeing me alive, I guess.”

“Did he really see you just to say all of that?” Alex frowned.

“No, I actually wanted to talk to him.” Sage admitted in a quiet voice. Alex did her best to contain her surprise. “I figured maybe I’d give him another chance like I did with Thalia. That maybe I finally proved myself to him. Obviously, I just made things worse.”

“But you saved his daughter!”

“Yeah, but he said none of this would have happened in the first place if it weren’t for me.” Sage shrugged, but Alex saw the light leave her eyes. The poor girl sitting in front of her had no confidence at all anymore, Sage couldn’t even pretend to be egotistical like she used to, and it was all because Sage had taken so much verbal berating- she didn’t care anymore. “He’s not wrong you know.”

“Maybe, but you did something good. Something I don’t think anyone saw you having the potential to do.” Alex set aside the clippers and picked up Nathaniel’s handy little spray bottle. “I thought it was pretty amazing. Of course, you scared half of us to death. Not to mention the only reason Pipes survived was because you let Tony escape. You’re a good person.”

“That’s the thing, I’m really not.” Sage grabbed the spray bottles from Alex and carefully set it aside before turning to look at the blonde. “Just because I did something good doesn’t mean I’ve completely changed. I’m still the same person I’ve always been. My mother always told me, ‘your father’s not good or bad. He’s human. And though he may not do the right thing I still love him. I don’t expect him to change.’ I’m not going to be someone else spontaneously overnight and everyone expects that.”

“I don’t.” Alex noted. “People are different, and I know you’re already planning on leaving.”

“Does that disappoint you?”

“A little. I think Enzo could really use your help here, and I think it’d be nice having someone else around, but I also know you have to find your own path. Everyone does.” Alex gave Sage a small smile and set back to work.

— — —

It took some convincing from Enzo but Sage decided to stay for the party. She found it surprisingly hard to say no to him. There was something in him she found refreshing, something she didn’t have the heart to ruin.

Alex helped once more to pick out an outfit Sage was comfortable in, something that fit the fancy occasion, but something that wasn’t incredibly flashy.

“I never asked you, but why are you doing this?” Sage frowned adjusting the sleeves of the collared shirt. “I don’t understand why you care so much.”

Alex sighed, “I’ll be completely honest with you. No judgment okay?”

“Fine.”

“You need help, Sage. You can’t keep going down the path you’re on. I’m not talking about being good or bad but I’m talking about self care. Hurting yourself, suppressing feelings, and suicidal thoughts aren’t healthy.” Alex paused trying to judge the other girl’s reaction. “I don’t think you’ve ever had anyone tell you how to properly handle certain things. It’s okay to ask for help, and I want to help you.”

“You know,” Sage tilted her head slightly, “no one’s ever bothered to help me before.”

“If you’re willing to accept help then you can be happier, at least a little bit. It won’t bring your mother back, I wish I could, but it might help you heal.” Alex awkwardly held out the brown jacket.

“You’re different.” Sage frowned taking the piece of clothing and carefully putting it on.

“I am?”

“In a special sort of way,” Sage nodded heading for the door to let Enzo judge the outfit. “No matter what I do or how any of us turn out, you mind promising me something?”

“Sure.” Alex nodded.

“Don’t ever change.”

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